I’m breaking into my Burma blog and my summer silence as quite clearly an event as monumental as that which has taken place over the last couple of weeks can’t be allowed to pass unremarked upon – even by those of us whose sporting days  are long since past.

 I hated sport at school. In races I was inevitably the last. In gymnastics I inevitably fell over. Sports days were to be dreaded and avoided if at all possible. When, at the age of 13, I moved house with my parents, I had to switch schools, swopping  my good, solid no-airs-and-graces comprehensive in Walsall for a snooty, nose-in-the air grammar school in Lichfield.  And with the swop came Lacrosse.  I was usually the one left out at the end after the team captains had chosen their sides (they’d seen me in action) so I ended up in goal. Nobody wanted me as goalie either – I let all the balls in. Netball was no better. I couldn’t even catch the ball. Sports days were worse than exams.

 But to be fair to myself, I wasn’t completely devoid of sporting talent. I’ve always enjoyed swimming and horse-riding (as a teenager I had my own pony).

 I generally don’t watch sport. I don’t understand rugby or cricket. League football generally leaves me cold. It’s only (obscenely rich) grown men playing a game, for heaven’s sake. Its place in the scheme of things has grown out of all proportion. Golf is absurd. Getting worked up about flicking a little ball around,  I ask you!  As for tennis – better keep stumm on that one!

 But the Olympics – that’s different. When, as a child, my Berliner parents took me to see the Berlin Olympic Stadium , where in 1936 Jesse Owens  trashed Hitler’s notion of the superior  ‘Aryan race’ , the Olympics gripped my attention and have never let go their grip.

 There’s a wonderful paradox about the Olympics. Nations compete fiercely with one another, and yet in the end, it’s the individuals we remember more than their nationality. In spite of all the battles, this is not a war, rather, we hope, a promoter of peace. Of course we’re thrilled when Team GB does well, and we take an enormous pride in our athletes and in the fabulous Games that London has staged. But if we pan out and look at the event from a wider perspective, what a celebration of universal brother –  and sisterhood it has been.  Even within Team GB the multi-ethnic mix has been a reason to celebrate, showcasing as it does, all that makes Britain a good country to live in.

 I was lucky enough to witness first hand some of the Olympic events.   I’ve had to pick and choose from my hundreds of snaps so I’ve tried to keep it idiosyncratic!

 First Event – 82-year-old Austin Playfoot, who was also a torchbearer in 1948, lights the last cauldron before London in Guildford’s Stoke Park.

 

Second Event: the Cycle Road Race passes through Ripley. We had to walk a couple of miles to get here, but it was worth every minute. The atmosphere among the spectators was a sheer joy. The cyclists passing through were like a many-coloured meteor  with the blue and white of Froome, Wiggins, Cavendish, Stannard and Millar nicely spaced at the head of the peloton. Pity about the result. I felt so bad for Cav, despite the fact that the French apparently love him as ‘the bad boy of cycling’.  Delighted that Wiggo won the time trial though.  Ever since watching him win the Tour de France I’ve been a fan.

A touch of Patriotic Fervour in Ripley

 Even YT and JB got in on the act!

 

Go Cav! Go Wiggo! 

Here comes the Peloton!

Third Event: Persuaded by persuasive daughter to accompany her to the football quarter-final at Wembley. We had no idea, of course, beforehand, who would be playing, but it turned out to be Mexico vs Senegal. The Senegalese looked splendid, mainly towering over the little Mexicans. But the Mexicans prevailed and won 4-2. Delighted to say they went on to win the gold medal. My first initiation into live footie was a happy one. I enjoyed the atmosphere, the colours and the excitement. The crowd of 81,000 was exemplary and the ordered way they left the stadium and were filtered back onto the tube made me proud to be British.

On the way to Wembley Stadium!

Viva Mexico!

Before the match - Usain on the big screen.

Here comes a Mexican Wave!

The Senegalese national Anthem

Mexican No. 10 Dos Santos plays for Spurs.

Just a couple of showers to cool us off in the heat. But they didn't dampen anyone's enthusiasm.

2-2 at Full Time. The Mexicans huddle in conference.

Well done, Mexico

Au revoir, Wembley.

Fourth Event: last minute tickets for two early morning hockey matches on the penultimate day of the games. We snapped up the opportunity to get into the Olympic Park. I’d never seen a hockey match before and it was rather like football with sticks. Again the colours were magnificent and the whole atmosphere brimmed with celebration. Afterwards we had the whole day to explore the Olympic Park before we headed off to the Proms in the evening to hear Berlioz’ Requiem.  The weather was glorious. The park was extraordinary. I’m not exaggerating when I say I have never, in my whole life, seem such a breath-taking display of flower borders.  Nothing formal, just gorgeous annuals, many of them English wild flowers, in drifts along the river banks and walkways.  Well done, London. You created paradise.

 

 

I feel privileged to have seem the park in full bloom,  and also some of the amazing sporting events. I don’t think I’ll be quite so negative about sport in the future!

Once upon a time there lived in Burma, a flower-eating ogress called Me Wunna. She roamed the forested slopes of Mount Popa, a 1518 m high volcano not far from the holy city of Pagan.

Some two thousand years ago,  a ruler of Pagan, King Thinligyaung, granted refuge to the Mahagiri Nats, brother and sister spirits of the Great Mountain. They made their home on Taung Kalat, a volcanic plug near Mount Popa.

In the 11^th century, another ruler, King Anawrahta, liked to send his Indian messenger, Byatta, to the mountain to gather flowers.  

When Anawrahta  learned one day that Byatta had fallen in love with the flower-eating ogress, he had his emissary executed. Me Wunna, on hearing of her lover’s  fate, died of a broken heart.

Both Me Wunna and Byatta were transformed into spirit Nats,  a destiny that awaited many who died under tragic circumstances.  They too went to live on Taung Kalat with the Mahagiri Nats, and the four of them abide there to this day and are the most important and powerful Nats in the whole of of Burma.

***

All in all there are 36 Nats, with the Buddha sometimes included as the 37^th. All of them are depicted in a shrine at the foot of Taung Kalat.

 

The first sighting of Taung Kalat (which is itself more commonly known as Mount Popa, like its nearby mother mountain), is a dramatic glimpse through the trees. The plug rises 737 metres from the ground. On top,  perched precariously, is a Buddhist monastery.  Snaking up the near vertical slope are 777 steps. 

‘No way,’ I proclaimed as we looked at the view. I was , as you may recall, still somewhat incapacitated by The Incident at Heho. The steps, albeit roofed over, to protect the pilgrims from the searing sun, were clearly beyond my present capability.  Besides which, an acquaintance who had recently visited Burma, had told me that this expedition was the only part of the tour that she disliked. The steps, she declared, were covered with monkey excrement , the climb was daunting and the view from the top was not worth while. So I decided that I’d stay at the bottom along with several other opt-outs in our group. These included the Octogenarians, the Unfit and  the Sensible, to which my somewhat rotund but surprisingly athletic German friends  Margot and Heinz most definitely did not belong.

‘Of course we’re going up,’ they announced as we stood at the foot of the steps and stared heavenwards.  With that, Heinz set off, rapidly disappearing from view. Not bad for a man who’s had a heart bypass.

Margot has a way of getting her way. ‘Just come for the first bit,’ she suggested (it was more of an order). Since she herself has made a remarkable recovery from serious illness, and since I could boast no infirmity except for possible cracked ribs, throbbing knee-bones, sore elbows and extensive bruising, I felt a real cad when I refused. ‘I really can’t,’ I mumbled. ‘I’m in too much pain.’ Quite true but Margot would not take no for an answer.

‘I’ll have to do it all on my own then,’ she said accusingly, giving me a sly, sidelong glance. ‘He’ll be halfway back before I’m at the top.’

She won, of course.  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, I’ll come up the first flight!’

The first few flights were okay because we could keep our shoes on, thus avoiding the monkey business, and there was enough of a plateau between each flight for me to get my breath back and watch the locals picnicking on their way to the top.

 

At a certain point, shoes had to be handed into lockers and from then on it was a worse experience than walking on hot coals (not that I’ve ever walked on hot coals).  Oh, it wasn’t hot, as the roof covered the whole climb. But it was Trial by Monkey Poo (and Monkey Pee). Granted a small army of mopping men were employed to keep the steps clean, but they were fighting a losing battle. Monkeys everywhere, with not the slightest notion of toilet manners.  You had to keep your eyes fixed firmly on the ground and dance your way upwards between the piles and the puddles.

The occasional plateau gave me a chance to protest (futile!) and to comfort myself by taking in the breathtaking views.

 

Margot is cunning.  As the steps got more vertical (and dirtier) she somehow managed to trick me into tackling ‘just one more’. Never mind that I ached all over. Never mind that I viewed each new flight with increased dread. Never mind that I had stepped into the deepest puddle of monkey pee on the whole flight. Somehow- don’t ask me how – we both got to the top. 

And suddenly the world was beautiful again. The view of the forested mountains was stunning. The monastery was charming. The sense of achievement could not have been greater if I’d climbed Everest. 

Of course we were the last down – Margot likes to linger and has her own logical defence. ‘Ridiculous, Frau Grimmbacher only allowing forty-five minutes to do this in… her own fault if we’re late – for not giving us enough time.’ She was right, of course, but that’s one of the disadvantages of being on an organised tour. We sauntered up to the bus some 20 minutes late, and tried to ignore the tight-lipped glares that greeted us as we got on. It had been worth every late minute!