SNCF industrial (in)action - Oh joy!

Friends on Facebook (and there aren't that many of them, I have to admit) might know that, in a manner of speaking,  I've recently put the car "out to pasture".

On seconds thoughts, perhaps winter hibernation would be more appropriate.

I'm tired of driving the length and breadth of the country, inevitably getting stuck in rush hour Paris traffic and/or motorway tailbacks.

Besides, now the days are shorter, I'm not that keen on having to drive when it's dark.

So instead I've had to rely on public transport.

Whoopee!

Now, as I have a fear of flying, and in spite of taking two courses over the years with both Lufthansa and Air France to cope with my anxiety, I try to avoid it if I can.

So my travel options have been limited to...well, the train.

And the least that can be said is that over the past couple of months I've had some less than magical mystery tours courtesy of SNCF.



First up there was an hour's delay on an outward bound trip from Toulouse to Paris.

The usual platitudes were offered in the form of a half-meant apology while on the train and an email to inform me afterwards that SNCF "regretted any inconvenience but as the delay had not been sufficiently long they would not be offering any compensation".

In oither words, even though I hadn't asked for anything, I was being told to get stuffed if I even contemplated the notion of complaining.

All well and good.

Service at its desperate worst.

The return trip proved to be no better with the TGV (now there's a pseudo-acronym surely) coming to a halt several times on its journey from Paris to Bordeaux and then crawling along at its usual snail's pace's to complete the final 210 or so kilometres to Toulouse.

Yep, SNCF has the trains but not the track to serve France's fourth largest city.

Some sort of power failure on the line meant that the train was, "40 minutes...one hour...90 minutes...and finally three hours behind schedule" as the guard helpfully informed passengers.

A few days later there was another email from SNCF once again "apologising for any inconvenience" but this time offering 50 per cent off the purchase of my next ticket.

I would rather have had a flat screen television (I've been living with the current monster for the past 15 years) but that's another story.

Fast forward a fortnight and there I am happily keeping my Facebook "friends" informed (why do I do that? It's akin to posting pictures of food...a practice of which I'm also guilty) of my progress on another Paris-Toulouse return trip.

"Just leaving Bordeaux," I wrote. "And we're ON TIME." Words I should never have uttered, albeit it virtually.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Your attention please," began the announcement over the train's tannoy.

"After an accident at a level crossing at Castelsarrasin, all circulation on the lines to and from Toulouse has been suspended for an indefinite  period. This train will now terminate at Agen. I repeat, this train will now terminate at Agen. Buses will be laid on to allow passengers to continue their journeys to Montauban and Toulouse. SNCF would like to apologise for any inconvenience and thank you for your understanding (as if we had any sort of alternative)."

You could hear the collective sigh...no groan. This was bang in the middle of the school holidays and the train was heaving.

A chance for SNCF to pull out all the stops and prove it really was the master of improvisation when faced with the unexpected.

Yeah. Right.

Picture the scene. Agen. A train full of people disembarking and, even though "information" had been given ahead of time on board the train, there was nobody around at the station to tell them where to go (although more than a few passengers probably felt the grumbling desire to tell SNCF "where it could go").

Bus terminus in Agen

Granted, there was an almost inaudible message over the loudspeaker telling the 400 + to make their way from the railway station to the neighbouring bus terminus.

But apart from that nothing; and just a single member of staff looking on in bemused fashion as everyone shuffled their way past, hoping it wouldn't be long before they reached the promised land of buses.

Some stood in bays looking as they knew what they were doing and where the buses would arrive. But how could they? Nobody had been provided with information because there didn't appear to be any information to provide.

A bus arrived and a section of the crowd surged forwards, only to discover this was a local service and not one of those "specials".

It was far from being an isolated incident as the minutes ticked away and local buses came and went.

"There taking the mickey out of us," one French woman said to me as we watched yet another bus arrive and make its way to a bay followed by a quarter of the train's passengers only to accelerate and leave empty.

"They're taking a lot more than that," I replied.

Finally the first of those special buses arrived and with it, as if from nowhere, a bevy of SNCF heavies...or security guards.

You could tell they would be needed as there was once again a crush to board the bus.

400 into one simply wouldn't go.

"Stand back please and allow those travelling with small children to board first," yelled one of the guards. "There will be several more buses arriving shortly. Stand back."

He was right. A few minutes later a couple more arrived: one bound for Toulouse the other for Montauban. Only nobody seemed to be certain which was which.

Both filled up quickly and left.

A quarter of an hour later along came another three and after yet more confusion over their destinations, departed.

That just left 30 or so souls remaining (including yours truly of course) and as happens on such occasions when waiting for a bus, four came along at the same time.

"Bon voyage" chirruped an SNCF guard as he waved off the last of us off into the night. A job done to the best of his ability probably given the tools with which he had to work.

Since then my trips have been relatively uneventful - well apart from the train I was informed three weeks ahead of time would be leaving five minutes before scheduled but when I turned up early at the station I discovered it was 30 minutes late.

Still I shouldn't complain.

Until today that is.

Because with a train booked to Marseille and a long-awaited trip to visit the European Capital of Culture 2013 before it's too late,

I've just discovered that my train is one of those cancelled by strike action beginning on Wednesday evening.

http://www.rtl.fr/actualites/info/politique/article/greve-sncf-les-previsions-de-trafic-7767783242

SNCF even sent a very helpful email telling me what to do (in the nicest possible way). I may still use the ticket on any train from Toulouse to Marseille but won't be guaranteed a seat.

SNCF email

Marvellous. I can take a trip down memory lane to my student InterRailing days complete with rucksack and squat in the corridor for four hours.

Don't think so.

Or I can try to exchange my ticket for one aboard another train that (fingers crossed) will be running. For that of course, I'll have to pay a supplement as the ticket I have is one of those cheapo deals.

Or I can cancel my trip entirely and be reimbursed.

Or I can get the sodding car out of the garage and drive.

Bon voyage.

Qui roule en Renault repart en vélo!

"Who better than Renault to service your Renault?"

So runs the commercial for France's largest car manufacturer.

And even though they charge premium prices, I've stuck with them over the years mainly because...well I am to mechanics what Carla Bruni-Sarkozy is to acting: best left to those who can, is my motto.

Besides, as I recently discovered after my car conked out on the motorway, providing receipts and proof of a regular manufacturer-approved service history can have its upside.

Now you might think that I should have learned my lesson first time around when my (late) diesel-powered Laguna with a newly-fitted turbo gasped its last breath at just 180,000 kilometres.

"Cars are like humans," the garage unhelpfully explained to me.

"Some come to an end earlier than others."

source Ballista at Wikipedia

No it wasn't a reasoning that I accepted, but faced with a dodo-like engine and a pile of metal and spare parts that would fetch only a minimal sum, I managed to "do a deal" and trade it in for something bigger if not necessarily - as it turned out - "better".

An Espace

"Ah. A fool and his money..."

But the Espace IV Phase II (in this case a 2.2 dCi  - and no, I don't have much of a clue what I'm talking about, I'm just copying from the carte grise) seemed to fit the bill: room enough behind to load a heap of Cockers and a Lab when necessary, electronics galore to keep any wannabe boy racer happy and reasonable fuel consumption.

It also felt safe - very safe.

All was well until three months ago when, on my travels and without the slightest warning, I came to a complete standstill.

I mean the car did, with me at the wheel.

Cruising along, I was, at 130 kilometres per hour on the motorway, with thankfully no traffic around and no possiblity of steering as the car rolled along powerless eventually coming to a halt with the gradual use of the handbrake.

The motorway breakdown service arrived promptly, towing my big, sad, immobile lump (the car, not me) to a nearby Renault garage...where the "fun" began.

The mechanics poked, prodded, banged and clanged suggesting that the problem lay (and this is put in the simplest of terms - the only ones I understood) "with the frame that held the engine together."

They might as well have been speaking Gujarati to me (and no, it's not a language I master) and responding to my question as to how a car with a regular service history and not even 115,000 kilometres on the clock could break down, I received an answer I hadn't been expecting.

I had anticipated something along the lines of the lame Laguna explanation, and was surprised instead to be told that this particular model has a pretty good (er...is that the correct word, given the circumstances?) track record for breaking down..

"Take a look at the discussion boards across the Net," I was told.

I did.

"Renault has even set up a special department for customers who have problems with the car."

It was a service with which I would become familiar over the coming weeks.

For the moment though, I gave the go-ahead for whatever repairs were needed, blissfully happy in the expectation of being on the road again pretty shortly.

Then came the 'phone call.

Apparently the problem was bigger than initially thought and lay with the engine, described colourfully by the mechanic as a "pile of shit".

He didn't know exactly what was wrong and would only be able to tell me by stripping it down completely and, even then, there was no guarantee they would be able to repair it.

Oh yes. And I would also have to meet all costs incurred.

In other words I could end up with a heap of not-so-spare parts scattered across the workshop floor and a hefty bill to boot.

Whoopee!

The best thing to do, he suggested, was to ring Renault customer services and see whether the company would be willing to meet some of the costs.

And that's exactly what I did, explaining what had happened (as far as I understood) to the charming lady on the other end of the line and sending her proof of the car's service history as requested.

The days rolled by. I awaited a decision - a point at which "negotiations" become nicely confusing.

While customer services needed an estimate from the garage as to how much it might cost to strip and inspect the engine before coming up with a possible solution, the garage couldn't give one unless I gave the go-ahead for the engine to be dismantled.

And I wasn't going to do that until I knew whether Renault would be willing to meet some of the costs (and how much) for whatever repairs were necessary.

An impasse of sorts.

Around and around, and back and forth this went, until a compromise was found.

The garage would require a one-off payment (at my expense) to dismantle and inspect - while Renault might be prepared to go 50:50 if it transpired that the only solution was a new engine.

More confusion though as I still didn't really know how much I would be expected to cough up.

So, the mechanic worked on how much his estimate might be, depending on what he discovered. 

I remained in almost daily contact with both the garage and customer services until finally there was a quotation - but only an internal one.

I would have to wait a couple more days for a final proposal.

It seemed customer services could only decide whether they would be prepared to honour the original agreement based on a quotation which would, in their words, "be more or less the same as the one I would receive."

"More or less?" I asked?

"What exactly does that mean?" taking note of a promise I had made to myself to stay calm and courteous no matter what.

It might have seemed unnecessarily complicated to all those involved - mechanic, customer services lady and me - but that was how Renault operated.

The "internal quotation" was exactly that and not the final customer bill.

Well that was as clear as mud!

But the charm and politeness of my two companions in this repair (m)escapade, made it harder for me to complain.

So I waited until finally...

Well, I'm not going to disclose how much lighter my wallet will be by the end.

But I've got an agreement from Renault to meet half the costs of a new engine and I've already checked out the potential resale value on Leboncoin.

And this weekend I shall be making the trip halfway across the country to collect a car I cannot wait to sell.

Thank goodness my other car is a Porsche (well it's a Golf actually).

Maybe there's something in the joke "Qui roule en renault repart en vélo."

France's own little bit of Americana - Disneyland, Paris

Here are a couple of questions for you.

What do you get when you put a 13-year-old German boy intent on enjoying himself together with his 40-something (grumpy) Godfather equally resolved to relax on a beautiful Sunday afternoon in Paris?

A) A visit around a museum for a dose of culture?
B) A stroll through one of the capital's beautiful parks to soak up the Spring sun?
C) A trip along the Seine on a bateau mouche
D) None of the above.

The answer of course is D) as His Grumpiness made the mistake of asking his Godson what he would like to do, and there was sadly only one answer.....DISNEYLAND.

Ah yes, Disneyland, Paris - that bastion of US culture planted just 32 kilometres from the French capital and a place that has been packing 'em in for over a decade and a half now.

Just the job for really getting to grips with what makes the younger generation tick.

So join me as I leave planet Earth for a couple of hours and transport myself (plus 13-year-old Godson) to what for all intents and purposes is another world.

First up here's a really good tip.

If, like me you have a rather "delicate" tummy, a fear of heights and a dislike of anything other than being on terra firma, twist the arm (ie bribe) a couple of gullible friends to join you, with the promise that it'll be a "wonderful day out" and you'll treat them to a meal in a posh restaurant later in the month.

It works wonders.

You can insist that "you're doing a photo reportage for posterity" (oh yes, my Godson has to have something in "hard copy"to remember his trip by) and your "friends" can let their locks down and behave like the teenagers they've always wanted to be.

Plus of course you have the added (cowardly) benefit of remaining aloof and superior and decidedly "above" all that nonsense.

Now I could try to give the trip a gloss of the "significant" by pretending it was a pilgrimage of sorts to check out the place where at the end of 2007 the French president, Nicolas Sarkozy, first "went public" about his whirlwind romance with the now first lady, Carla Bruni-Sarkozy, when the couple chose Disneyland as their first "spontaneous" photo op.

But that's old news, and besides, I've already rather admitted that the visit was far from treading on hallowed ground.

There's something decidedly odd about making the drive east from Paris to see rising in the distance the form of what appears to be a fluffy pink castle.

It requires something of a double take to say the least. Can this manufactured chocolate box fantasy image really be perched so close to arguably one of the world's most beautiful capitals?

And in the same country which is stuffed to bursting point with the real thing - chateaux galore?

Ah but this is Disney, where anything is allowed.

The world is just one big dream - or nightmare depending on your perspective - and you kind of know that you've left planet Earth, any semblance of sanity and above all France - not necessarily in that order - once you arrive at the Disneyland toll booth if you're arriving by car.

As you pay you'll receive that gushingly hearty "ENJOY YOUR STAY AT DISNEY. HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY."

Yes the welcome really was that loud

"Onkel Johnny," a voice piped up from behind me. "Why was that man grinning so much and shouting?" it asked.

"And what did he say?"

Ah yes. Only children would dare to utter the thoughts adults might politely keep to themselves.

"He has just been told to be extra polite," I replied, deciding that it was probably better to refrain from adding that it had been something of a shock to my own sensibilities to hear a French person bellowing away such platitudes in an obviously unnatural way.

Once through the admission turnstile (€51 for each adult - "fun" doesn't come cheap - and children over the age of 12 are grown-ups according to Disney) it was off to the first attraction "A ride through Hell in the Dark" otherwise known as Space Mountain 2.

Queues - or standing in line - are very much part of the Disney experience and to avoid too much waiting around twiddling your thumbs, the best advice is to get hold of some Fast Pass tickets which will give you an allotted time for returning and in the meantime you can try out some of the other attractions.

But don't be fooled by the helpful signs that tell you how long you can expect to wait. They're not always entirely accurate.

As we sought refuge at Automania for example, while we awaited our allocated trip to Hell and Back, we sailed past the "75 minutes from this point" marker to join the back of the queue.

An hour later and we still hadn't made it anywhere near the front and Space Mountain was beckoning.

So the party of three (other) adults and one teenager made their way over to where they had started, while the "photographer" was left to snap away at some rather grotesquely dressed dancers.

Similarly as we hotfooted our way afterwards to another area of the park we passed Star Tours with the sign happily announcing "zero waiting minutes".

"Cool, let's check this one out," I enthused, and of course it was only 40 minutes later that we finally boarded the ride with the maniac first-time pilot.

It's rather like being in a flight simulator (I know because I tried one out during a course to overcome my fear of flying) only in outer space.

And here's where I have to admit (in the smallest of letters) that a certain grumpy geezer actually spent the whole time belly laughing madly. A hoot.

Talking of tummies (love the segue) it was time to top up the fuel tank and find some food.

Once again it's a case of Disneyland Paris leaving the visitor somewhat aghast. Remember this is France, a country with a rich gastronomic palate and a culinary tradition of which it is rightly proud

So what did we end up eating at Toad Hall restaurant? Fish and chips! No comment.

Replete and feeling more than slightly bilious, I claimed "photographic reportage" yet again as my excuse for sitting out Indiana Jones, but I managed to record the screams of delight (?) as the rest of the party did a full circle on the Temple of Peril ride.

There were some distinctly paler than white faces that emerged a couple of minutes later, apart from one who wanted to "do it all again."

By this time of course even the other adults had had more than enough of the thrills and spills of Disneyland, and somehow I knew that I owed them big time.

Still there was one final, slightly more sedate ride left, and of course the inevitably long queue for Pirates of the Caribbean.

Even though the warning signs are there that "maybe you'll get wet" that wasn't enough for one still over-excited teenager who ensured that an extra helping of water was flicked over those sitting behind him.

There are of course many more rides and delights to experience at Disneyland, Paris, but as that well worn phrase goes "all good things have to come to an end" (bad ones too).

Back to the car and home.

Oh yes, Disneyland, Paris allows the (European) visitor to feel culturally superior and terribly snooty about the whole experience.

And of course the music is tacky, the parades completely over the top and the dancing ridiculous.

But when all is said and done, what the heck. It's just a bit of fun.

Actually, no, let's correct that - it's not just a bit of fun.

It's clearly a serious business making equally serious bucks - or should that be euros?

Disneyland, Paris is a major employer in the area and a whole infrastructure has developed over the years to support it. There are hotels, cinemas, towns and commercial centres that have been built alongside it.

There's a rail link for both the highspeed TGV service and the local RER.

And in 2002 a second theme park opened - Walt Disney Studios.

Sure there were the initial teething problems when Disneyland first opened its doors on French soil; the workforce issues (this is France after all) political opposition and low attendances. But that all seems to have been turned around.

It's essential for the local economy and there's the added bonus that like it or loathe it, the thing is bringing pleasure to millions.

But perhaps the lyrics of the song "One God" from the British group the Beautiful South best sum up for this particular visitor his feeling of a trip to Disneyland, Paris.

"The world is turning Disney and there's nothing you can do
You're trying to walk like giants
but you're wearing Pluto's shoes."

The Raffles hotel, Singapore - a fellah can dream can't he?

Let me whisk you away for a few minutes to another world and a place that might even be regarded by some as harking back to a bygone era.

Sit back, close your eyes....er maybe not otherwise you won't be able to read what follows....and join me as I recount a recent stopover in Singapore and a stay at Number 1 Beach Road.

That's the address of the Raffles hotel, a place steeped in history (potted version to follow - more detail can be found here) and one of those magical names that conjures up all sorts of romantic images of a gentler, more genteel time perhaps.

Now let me admit straight up that I'm not in the habit of frequenting the watering holes and resting places of the rich and famous - far from it. Because that's what in a very real sense the Raffles hotel is.

It combines luxury with tradition, perhaps a little out of place in these times of financial woes and is definitely the stomping ground of those with probably more sense than money, world leaders and dignitaries, A-list celebrities and the like.

So what, you might wonder, was I doing there? Well it was a combination of factors really.

It's one of those hotels (along with the Old Cataract in Aswan) I've always wanted to visit, and I got the chance last week, partially as a late Christmas present from my nearest and dearest (lucky me) but also as a reward for overcoming my fear of flying and agreeing to force myself on into an oversized lump of metal to fly half way around the world in search of some winter sunshine.

Just one night mind you, and these are some of my impressions as I poked my nose through the door to see how the so-called "other half" lives.

The Raffles is of course rich with history and tradition.

Even though it's rather a throwback to British colonialism (writ large), certainly in terms of architecture and custom, it was in fact founded over 120 years ago by four Armenian brothers, Martin, Tigran, Aviet, and Arshak Sarkies.

It is without doubt a Singapore landmark and has been declared a national monument by the government. Its heyday was probably the first couple of decades of the last century, and it has in its time seen the great and glorious pass through its doors.

If its pristine white walls could talk they would probably have more than a few tales to tell.

The hotel bears the name of the founder of Singapore, Sir Thomas Stamford Bingley Raffles and it survived World War II and the Japanese occupation.

It closed for business two decades ago to undergo a serious multi-million dollar makeover, reopening in 1991. It has also changed hands several times and is now owned by a private international investment company based in Los Angeles.

So much for the past (a reminder once again that you can find out more should you wish to at the hotel's official website here) how about the present?

What exactly do those with deep pockets get for their money.

Well it doesn't come cheap, that's for sure.

Perhaps I shouldn't have (after all I wasn't coughing up the spondoolicks for an overnight stay) but I checked out the rates and GULP they start at something like 690 Singapore dollars (around $US 444 or €335 Euros) for the hotels simplest suites - the hotel doesn't have any "rooms" - rising to goodness knows what at the highest end of the range.

I guess it's a question of "If you have to ask, then you can't afford."

For that you get a warm and personalised welcome when you enter the voluminous lobby and you're escorted to your room - er sorry suite - by a member of staff.

Once there, all the buttons, knobs and doodahs of exquisitely furnished "quarters" are explained, your own personal butler drops by and then you're left to wallow in the splendour.

Now a note on the butler. Of course it's all very charming to have someone around who will cater to your every whim and fancy, but it's also a little disconcerting as such a service is usually carried out by the hotel concierge and unless you're tremendously exigent, you'll be hard-pushed to really find a use for him.

The most I managed was to have him book a table at one of the hotel's eight or so restaurants (I rather lost count).

The principle at Raffles seems to be that anyone staying at the hotel is not treated as a guest but as a resident, and such service, attention to detail and all round pampering can at times be more than a little overwhelming.

Spending just one night there of course didn't really give me the chance to experience all it has to offer, the billiard room, the spa, the pool, the splendid gardens or the shopping, but of course no visit to the Raffles - be it as a "resident" or just dropping in for a quick look around - would be complete without trying out the legendary Long Bar and knocking back a Singapore Sling, invented and first served there around a century ago.

Here's the recipe for anyone who's interested.

I had been warned in advance what to expect - a mixture of businessmen, tourists, ex-pats - sat at the bar or at tables overhung with huge wicker fans, music in the background and monkey nut shells all over the floor.

You see tradition has it that as you munch your way through the nuts distributed freely around the place, you deposit the shells - where else but on the floor.

"It's all very British," I had been told by a good friend - a foreigner who clearly must believe it's typical behaviour of my fellow countrymen. But to be quite honest everyone joins in and does as tradition dictates.

So there you go - the briefest of looks at the Raffles hotel.

Time to for me to return to reality and struggle home through the rain and the rush hour traffic.

It was certainly one of my personal "must dos before the Grim Reaper beckons" crossed of my wish list, but would I really have forked out the money to stay at the Raffles from my own wallet?

Perhaps but probably not.

There again, I'm always open to offers to make a return trip there (or anywhere else for that matter) if anyone is willing to sponsor me to indulge myself on wanton pleasure at their expense.

I'll even promise to write about it afterwards.

Well a fellah can dream can't he?

Mealtime in Malaysia

Monday saw the launch of the 100th edition of the Michelin guide here in France, the "bible" for gourmets (and gourmands) with deep pockets and a taste for fine dining around the world

No real surprises as many of the "ups and downs" had already been leaked over the weekend, and as expected only one restaurant joined the guide's crème de la crème three-star club.

It just happens to be a regular haunt of the French president, Nicolas Sarkozy, Le Bristol - a mere hop and a skip (or a bloated belly wobble if you like) from the Elysée palace - his official residence.

Say no more!

Of course while many French - rightly or wrongly - consider France to be the very standard bearer of haute cuisine, or at least the arbiter thereof, with food and drink being high on any region's list of priorities, other countries have more than enough on offer to tickle the taste buds of the curious traveller.

Guilty as charged - a somewhat contrived way of sharing some of the food that passed my lips during a recent food frenzy in Malaysia.

Living in a country which prides itself on its gastronomic tradition, and hailing from one which rather lacks a reputation for culinary excellence, food and eating have always been part of the joy of travelling for me.

Trying out local dishes gives also gives me the chance to gain an insight into the culture - well that's my excuse and although it might be stretching a point a little too far, I'm sticking to it.

So without too much (further) ado, here's a taste of just one meal among many, I had the pleasure or downing last week on the Malaysian island of Langkawi.

Just sitting here bashing away at the keyboard fair whets the appetite as I try to make some sense of the long-hand notes I took immediately after the meal.

Well I could hardly sit there stuffing my face with a computer on my lap now could I? That would surely have been one step down from those sitting through a meal with a mobile 'phone clapped to the ear.

There are a few (for my chops) unpronounceable names, and I only hope the spelling is correct. But I'm sure if I make the odd error I'll be forgiven.

It was a blow-out of reasonable proportions - four courses and eleven dishes (I counted) - suitably named the Malaysian heritage menu.

For starters, l'entrée of course. Not just one, but three separate dishes.

Otak otak udang - prawn cake in banana leaf, Pai tee ayam dan Sayur-sayuran dengan sos cili - chicken pai tee with chili plum sauce and Kerabu pelam - local young mango salad.

The prawn cake won me over immediately - something of a surprise as I'm not usually a great fan, while the plum sauce was rather overpowering and the young mango salad tasted a little soapy - or at least how I imagined a bar might taste if I were actually to try eating one.

Not the greatest of beginnings perhaps, but it left room for improvement.

Next up, Sup makaman laut bersamo tomato - or seafood soup with tomatoes.

Surprisingly the tomatoes weren't as overpowering as I had feared. How come I can never get just the right tanginess when using them in soup?

And the whole dish really came alive when washed down by a cheeky little Australian Sauvignon blanc. That really was something of a treat as of course what's usually available back home in France is.....well......er.....French wine and nothing else.

On to the main course - four dishes - they definitely needed to be eaten in the correct order from the least to the most spicy. Thankfully the waiters were on hand to offer guidance.

So bearing that in mind the course kicked off with the Siakap merah goreng tradisi dihidang bersama sos liman kasturi or deep fried snapper with dried herbs, the mildest of the four, and then moved on to the Daging kurma - coriander spiced beef, deliciously tender and rather heavy on the coriander.

But really no complaints on that front as I could eat the stuff until it comes out of my ears.

The Sayuran segar bersama herba masala or masala vegetables went down a treat, which just left the spiciest of the lot requiring some attention, the Ayam merah dimasak dengan jintan or chicken braised with tomato, chili and fennel seeds.

Actually there was nothing to worry about even for this wimp of a palate as it wasn't overly "hot" and had a pleasingly distinctive and lingering aftertaste.

Nasi berperisa oren - orange rice and Papedum lada hitam - black pepper papadum accompanied all four dishes as did another Aussie wine - this time a Shiraz.

Finally pudding or dessert - not exactly my favourite as I don't have much of a sweet tooth and perhaps harbour too many childhood memories of British school dinners and "afters" (prunes and semolina - yeeurk).

So when I discovered that we would be served Kuih loyang dan bebola ais limau kasturi or
steamed banana pudding in banana leaf and crispy fritter with calamansi sherbet, I wasn't exactly brimming with excitement.

But again I was pleasantly surprised and the portion was not a gut-busting size.

All right so the meal might not have been the stuff of worthy of Michelin's three stars, but it sure left one person happily replete and convinced that through his tummy he had experienced some of the culinary delights of another culture.

And all that without the belt-adjusting bloated sensation often felt after a heavy and rich meal back home.

Langkawi rain forest - a five star natural luxury

Ready for a natural history lesson - of sorts?

I'll try to keep it short, although I'm not making any promises as it's not exactly easy to condense such a vast and vital subject into a couple of hundred words.

But here goes.

It comes off the back of a recent trip to the Malaysian island of Langkawi, which bills itself as "brimming with culture, mysteries, legends and an abundance of natural scenery".

It was, the travel agent promised us when we booked last-minute, the "perfect getaway with guaranteed sunshine at this time of the year and wonderful beaches."

And as plans to search for some winter sun in the French Caribbean had fallen through after a series of strikes and protests in both Guadeloupe and Martinique, it seemed the perfect alternative - with the added bonus that we might actually "learn" something rather than sloth it out all day on the beach.

Langkawi, the Jewel of Kedah is in reality an archipelago of 99 islands (plus five other temporary ones) with the largest being Pulau Langkawi with Kuah as the capital.

It's where all the "action" takes place.

Actually there's not really a great deal of that in the sense that might be understood in Bali or Phuket, the main competitors in the region in terms of tourist destinations.

Unique treasure

"While the others have the nightlife, surfing and culture," explains tour guide and conservationist Irshad Mobarak, "Here we have something quite unique which has to be treasured and preserved."

And that "something quite unique" comes in the form of one of the world's oldest rain forests and the mangrove swamps.

In 2007 the whole of the island was designated a World Geopark status by UNESCO and that has played an increasingly important role in maintaining the delicate balance between the influx of tourists, which began in the late 1980s, and protecting the environment from our intrusive wanderings.

The government has encouraged a more eco-friendly type of tourism, and although there are more than 70 hotels on the island, a programme has been put in place to make both locals and visitors aware of the need to protect and preserve the treasures the place has to offer.

Mobarak and his colleagues are probably at the forefront of that effort being made to "protect and preserve".

A former banker, he has spent the best part of the past two decades heading up a team of guides aiming to show visitors around while "trying to educate and get across the beauty of the rain forest in a way that helps people understand."

This gently spoken but clearly impassioned spokesman for wildlife naturalism quickly draws the listener in and reveals some of the rain forest's marvels while at the same time drumming home the need for preservation.

"It's the gift of the gab," he freely admits to one morning session of walkers on hearing they're from Ireland. "I have Hogan blood in me too and can tell a good tale."

It's not true though, he can't just "tell" a good tale. He casts a magical spell over the listener as he makes the place come alive in a setting which offers five-star luxury in terms of appreciating what nature has to offer.

Neighbours from hell

One moment he has us all with our necks craned towards the sky as he explains how a pair of kites became the "neighbours from hell" for nesting eagles when they moved in to their territory a couple of years ago.

"The kites have moved on now," he tells us. "And hopefully this year the eagles will be able to raise their young without being constantly pestered. They didn't breed last year."

The next moment he's going into raptures to explain the extraordinary measures undertaken by the tailorbird to build its nest using spiders web to bind together a leaf to provide a suitable "home".

And then he's mimicking the cry of the mighty hornbill, describing its majestic flight and explaining how at the moment we'll only see the males as the females (they're monogamous) are quite literally holed-up within the nest rearing the young.

During a night walk led by Peter, one of Moborak's colleagues, I innocently ask what the constant racket I've been hearing all day is.

"It sounds as though there's some building work going on in the neighbourhood," I say. "It can't possibly be 'nature'."

"Cicades," comes the answer. "Whose song is being sung by the males rubbing parts of their abdomens together (I'm paraphrasing)."

Breeding by (prime) numbers

And then comes Peter's magical explanation of the insect's life and breeding cycles.

"They stay buried in the ground in their immature form for a number of years," he tells us.

"It can be one, three, five, seven, eleven or thirteen years - depending on which group an individual belongs to - always a prime number thereby confusing some likely predators whose lifecycles simply won't be able to cope with such complexity."

He goes on to explain that when they emerge from the ground, it's for one to two weeks of what has to be the noisiest "love song" ranging from "classical" in the morning, "pop" at lunchtime to "heavy rock" in the evening, as every male goes about attracting a bevy of appropriate beauties.

Once the act is done, the female will lay her eggs before dying.

The male will continue his reproductive "warblings" for just a few days longer, before he too dies. Adults mate and reproduce ensuring the existence of a future generation they'll never get to see - a cycle that is repeated and has been honoured by cultures throughout the centuries as a symbol of everlasting life.

Phew - and I had always thought that cicadas were just noisy tropical grasshoppers.

Taking flight

We quickly learn that the rain forest is not just a place where birds take to the wing.

In Langkawi it's also home to flying foxes (apparently a kind of bat - I didn't get to see any) squirrels and even snakes.

And that's all topped off by the flying monkey or otherwise called flying lemur - the colugo.

Although they're not true lemurs of course, which are native to Madegascar - the colugo has recently been confirmed as a "missing link" between two different types of species Peter explains excitedly.

"What had previously been thought of as a rodent has in fact been reclassified only last year as a primate."

Learning from mistakes

A good reputable guide will not take you tramping through the inner heart of the rain forest, destroying and disturbing nature as you go.

Instead they'll stick to the very edge, which will still give the curious more than enough to hear, see and smell.

The same is true of the mangrove swamps. The previously common practice of throwing food for eagles or monkeys is not just discouraged, it's banned. But the mistakes of the 80s and 90s are proving difficult to reverse.

The omnivorous macaque monkeys for example now expect to be fed and line up on the rocks as boats pass by. During a stop at the bat cave, visitors are warned that if the macaques appear they could become aggressive and intrusive as they search for titbits.

"It's an uphill battle," admits another guide. "There's now official certification for those accompanying tourists, and those working illegally are encouraged by others to get the appropriate training," he adds.

"But even though there are regular patrols to ensure that animals aren't being fed, the old habit of getting animals up close to keep the tourists happy and enable them to get some great 'snaps' for the full on experience, is an all-too-tempting one, especially if the guide wants some extra tips at the end."

Eco-tourism

Tourism has not only arrived in Langkawi, it's very much part of island life now.

It has boosted the local economy and brought with it a degree of development to what was before a small agricultural community - a fact that Mobarak and his colleagues fully acknowledge.

Their job and the responsibility of the government is a delicate juggling act and there's little doubts that they have their work cut out to overturn past bad practices.

"The mangrove swamps are a vital element of the environment," Peter explains at the end of our four-hour tour.

"They're the breeding ground for sea food and we need to protect them," he adds.

The hope as far as Mobarak is concerned is through conservation work and carefully organised tours, there'll be increased awareness of just how precious the rain forest and mangrove swamps are.

"I like to consider myself a conservationist first and foremost, and it's great to see the reaction people get from understanding nature", says Mobarak.



Oh dear. That wasn't very short was it? Apologies.