“Coventry really is at the very epicentre of the dichotomy about how England sees itself, its past and its future. The destruction of the old town is still felt as a loss, a wound which will never heal because the future is so uncertain and the world that has been lost was so reassuring. But this is nostalgia for cricket on the village green, not Wigan Pier which the welfare state sought to eradicate and for which Coventry was a standard bearer. The war was our finest hour and is deeply engrained on the national consciousness. However the post war sense of progress and self confidence is now seen as part of the narrative of failure and decline, the loss of empire.”

Adrian Jones and Chris Matthews aka Jones the Planner, Urban Impressions – Amazing Coventry.

Dear friends,

I now work in NewCity, a splendid place situated in the foothills of the mountains.

From what I have seen and been advised by my colleagues, it boasts a people-friendly design lacking in the coastal metropolis, still thriving but now diminished by flooding.

NewCity is fronted by parks laid out in a straight line. I must tell you there is there is a quite very complex, automated watering system, about which I shall find out more.

The state buildings etc. run along a promenade (terrace?) overlooking this parkland.

‘THIS WAY TO DECENTRALIZATION’ reads my favourite sign.

Brainchild of a sub-committee of architects, planners, politicians, developers and marketers, NewCity was ostensibly built to provide greater (decentralised) high-density housing options at a time when the population is dramatically expanding courtesy of the authorities’ proactive efforts to import labour to plug industry skills gaps.

The asbestos-free dwellings consist of a mix of low-income multis (with names like Glen Brook, Lap Stone, Mull Grave, River Stone etc.) ranging from 20 to 30 storeys and luxury apartments.

NewCity was designed for pleasure living to the extent that it’s being promoted as a spa town for high-flying coast dwellers, some of whom I expect will be inspired to make art based on our unique network of walkways. The bright green railings are must-see.

By way of urban renewal of mountainside suburbs, there are height-controlled ‘Low-Rise’ private apartment blocks with exterior maintenance, concierges, security bunkers, underground parking, LED coloured lighting system, insulation, fitness centres, retail arcades etc. etc. plus mountain views and/or unfettered access to the large expanse of greenbelt land known as CentrePark.

Streetscape improvements are ongoing.

In constructing the towers, the NewCity Housing Corporation agreed to my company’s proposal to incorporate recycled materials salvaged from retired factories and other ruins in flooded zones after the city’s demolition project, as well as the standard pre-fabricated concrete slabs.

Many of these towers are built into the mountainside alongside retail parks in a zone covered by CCTV surveillance systems. Heavy industry remains confined to the suburban ring.

Along with the rejuvenated riverside developments in the ‘old’ city where buildings like historic warehouses have been restored in contemporary design, NewCity’s designer flats mostly house those citizens displaced from now submerged coastal areas and/or retirees and NewCity executives.

Data shows the segregation promotes social cohesion and connectedness in the blue-chip estates, as well as in the anonymous grey blocks. Further east lie the business district of state buildings, conference centres and corporate skyscrapers which is also fronted by sizable tracts of parkland split by a new high-speed coastal motorway, the city road. Unlike the city proper, NewCity places restrictions on car use.

I am employed by the city-based developers of the River Stone project, New World Living Limited, which also project-managed the inner-city New Town estate. On Tuesdays I travel with my team down to the old city where I work closely with a former refugee, Omar Diouf, whose shrapnel-scarred legs contain metal screws and plates from three different continents.

This city, where capitalism thrives and ‘things get done’, now boasts Residence Island, for immigrant workers who are housed in the Hostel for Men and Hostel for Women respectively. This, and other such islands (Airport Island for instance) is linked to the mainland by traffic and pedestrian tunnels, though the ferry system is much expanded also.

The ‘old’ coastal city has dwindled in size owing to the rise in sea levels which left large tracts of lands – whole suburbs – abandoned to the ocean, and created a number of small islands that now sit off the shore of a metropolis fortified by a systems of dams and dykes.

During the deluge, I am told cars and debris floated down the city’s rivers. Flood tourists arrived in their droves to picnic in view of such sights as a giant bull forced up against a railway bridge, its entrails falling out.

I shall tell you more in the future.

Bye for now.

The grey Toyota stands parked at the foot of the housing block where it was delivered yesterday following a re-spray and driver allocation. Inside the building a naked man with a swollen jaw stares out from his kitchen window across the city skyline. Some features are invisible but beyond the rooftops of factories and warehouses the peaks of the metropolis break through the reddened morning fog. An engineer by vocation the man frets over the likely reliability of the ‘new’ vehicle. He wonders whether any safety checks were undertaken at the recycling plant and hopes for relatively light run to the airport; all the while sensing a gridlock would buy him time to come to grips with the idiosyncratic control system entailed by merged vehicle parts.

Elsewhere in the city, dew sizzles gently on the heated exterior of a royal blue Mercedes-Benz tow-truck fresh from night-time exertions and now providing shelter to several cats. The truck’s master, a vehicle retriever, remains fully clothed but lies in a deep reverie; his mind stimulated by the previous evening’s deployment to a six-car pile up, followed by visceral late-night broadcasts. Dust enters unimpeded through an open window, disturbing the array of hub caps mounted on the walls. These concrete landscapes are scarred by exhaust emission stacks.

Nearby the firework factory a discarded Daihatsu awaits retrieval. A payroll clerk arrives to work late, coughing up matter in between yawns. Car-less, to walk in the city means to battle alienation, noise pollution, dead-end pavements and swirling airborne refuse. Once a former boss who took pity on his employees’ car-lessness began offering the clerk lifts. Fully aware he expected something in return she complied for a while, feeling the need to retain that job at any cost (besides, the travel arrangement eased her teacher boyfriend’s anxiety).

Like most couples lacking the finances to be assigned to a vehicle, they tried to commute together but realised lone pedestrians are better equipped to avoid reckless driving. This morning the clerk inhaled fumes aplenty but mercifully avoided contact with storm-water drains, electrical wires and vehicles. The ordeal is over until this evening’s return journey.

In the central business district, wind chutes funnel pedestrians into subterranean retail malls and eateries underneath deserted cement squares that slope towards the city’s recreation zone at the harbour front. On the water’s edge open-air street vendors and entertainers stretch around to restricted wharves that service the container terminals and quarries on the far shoreline.

Throughout the city cars make their way to retrieval depots, broadcast facilities, manufacturing plants and corporate headquarters. At the entrance to an underpass a yellow Volvo hovers in neutral at the roadside waiting for passengers to scramble aboard. The bus ebbs from side to side like a docked ferry, such is the frequency with which it is nudged by passing cars. In the airless cabin the driver wearing a long, dark overcoat feels a deep sympathy with his customers most of whom can barely afford the escalating fare but are nevertheless car-less and too frightened to commute without the protection of a metal frame. A thick-set sidekick ensures each passenger pays up in full, by cash or in kind.

Yesterday she was knocked down by a black Mitsubishi four-wheel drive, fell and sprained her wrist. Now the homeless woman finds sanctuary near a motor inn amongst the decaying rubble of a demolished apartment and discarded items from nearby crash victims. Strips of clothing, as well travel cases, stationery and documents; this meagre set of possessions shall be consumed by those who spend the night here beneath the skyscrapers. Nervous, fidgety and with bandaged hands the woman keeps her eyes peeled for any ‘blues’ or sadistic corporate high-flyers brazen enough to make a lunge. Blue-sprayed delivery and retrieval vehicles present the biggest hazard to pedestrians; the excesses and endorphins of the night shift promoting sadism amongst sleep-deprived drivers. But even these opportunistic swerve-drivers generally avoid the city’s vacant lots and construction sites, such is the high risk of scratch and puncture.

Last night the engineer retired to bed hastily after frantically pulling the plug on a television broadcast of motor transport. Fearing for his safety and job security he has inevitably bought re-assignment to a state car. Several weeks ago, when at the wheel of a previous grey, he was ushered by an adjacent bus into a concrete barrier, making a narrow escape. Perhaps a tyre had blown but the yellow beast left the state Nissan with no room to manoeuvre. The engineer had collided with maniacal swerve-drivers many times but you saw those coming if you had your wits about you. This was different; all unforeseen flashes of neon, the piercing cries of scraping steel.

Upon impact the Nissan’s windscreen shattered then collapsed into the front seats, shards slicing through the engineer’s cheeks and disfiguring his lower jaw. He recalls that all the other vehicles kept moving. The collision occurred in view of two accident cameras and the battered vehicle was swiftly requisitioned.

Pausing to refuel, the bus driver asks himself whether the beleaguered transport fleet that earns him a living offers salvation to the car-less or represents just another layer of exploitation. Either way he needs a job and sitting behind the wheel of a rusty anachronism is about the best an ex-train guard can hope for, outside of waste disposal or flesh collection. It also provides him with shelter when walking home appears too dangerous. Even in the no-man’s land between tower blocks pedestrians are fair game. The dust storms of the past month have made being exposed in the open especially perilous. Tonight the bus will resume combat with the evening traffic on distributors flowing east to the corporate high rises, west to the public housing and north across the water to the elite compound.

On the outer limits of the city all industry has been halted. The homeless (most forced, some by political design) survive by scavenging for parts and siphoning Shell on the black market. Road rage thrives unfettered in these dwindling population centres and is sometimes filmed by state television. There’s a rumour going around that ‘greys’ are crash-tested out here.

Later the city’s workers will leave office blocks behind and ejaculate their vehicles towards ramps, flyovers and tunnels leading to bridges, ring-roads and motorways in a bid to escape the mass car parks as hastily as possible. The reinforced, private cars of north-bound executives and officials shall be at the vanguard streaking clear like a peloton, but most face frustrating delays and shall seek distraction in the colossal 3-D screens mounted at the roadside.

There shall be collisions and casualties. In the aftermath of such violence pink flesh removal lorries shall be held back until to the roads become less congested, but surveillance operators are sure to despatch rescue and retrieval units and firefighters immediately. It’s expected that the city authorities will soon fully deliver on its blueprint for motorways laid on top of the former rail system. It’s probable that only blue vehicles shall be permitted to travel on these roads. The congestion must not be broken, nor shall citizens be encouraged to drive passively.

From the motorway a mangled black Hyundai is carefully being raised onto a semi-trailer, its entrails methodically collected off the road by a young man wearing a jumpsuit. A middle-aged executive whose son claims to kill pedestrians for fun was returning to the office following a breakfast meeting. He feels uneasy even as he is comforted by amiable, blue-uniformed retrievers and firefighters. This has little to do with the fact he’s just caused a fatal accident and the temporary closure of two roads, nor that the retrievers are wielding vehicle components like medieval weapons; rather the morbid thought occurs that if he’d not been able to limp away from his wreck then – as opposed to enthusiastically swapping war stories – the group would have shoved him into the gutter. In the worst case he’d have had a large pink tag clipped to his person.

The retriever’s dreams overlap fluidly but one in particular replays the unabashed glee of a pair of trainee rescue workers. They have managed to extricate both the steering wheel and gearbox from the otherwise twisted and bloodied remnants of a black Honda that just transported a group of besuited executives to their final destination. Perhaps the trainees are in fact firefighters; the retriever will not recall.

The injured executive has managed to arrange for a doctor’s car to attend and he shall soon enjoy a period of convalescence. Prior to his eldest daughter’s hit-and-run he’d been somewhat of an activist. In his early twenties he lived in as part of a community accommodated in one of the city’s metrostations. Now middle-aged he runs a leather seat supply business, greasing his palms with a small percentage of the authorities’ car industry profits. No matter; he has been able to buy private cars for himself and his wife and finance their daughter’s health expenses. In due course both vehicles’ bodywork will be booked in for titanium reinforcement and his daughter shall have another replacement limb.

Somewhere tonight there will be fireworks, a symbol of the city’s prosperity that feeds its citizens’ hunger for regular events. These faux air raids on the metropolis further satiate society’s collective need to let off violent steam and excite sufficiently so as to hasten nocturnal semi-consciousness. The city itself, forever mutilated just that little more, never sleeps. By the time the sun rises the aircraft engines will have deposited a fresh layer of filth, a dust storm will have set in and the displays will be forgotten.

The retriever loves his work, takes pride in it. Never does he want a repeat of that afternoon when, distracted by the hideous deaths of pre-pubescents, he somehow allowed his devices let slip a broken grey Mazda. Instead of being safely secured the vehicle plummeted off the side of a suspension bridge, while the retriever received a suspension of his own. How he wished those schoolgirls hadn’t skipped safe-sex class in favour of going up on the bridge to throw stones into the scrapyard; or that the black Saab that caused the collision had at least been written off too.

After his accident the engineer spent the best part of two hours sitting by the roadside; cold, shaken and with blood pouring from his face. Unnerved by visions of passing flesh removalists he punched numbers into his mobile phone and staggered along the gutters to a traffic island awaiting rescue. Most of the physical damage he sustained was cosmetic and the facial scars might heal, though for now the engineer chews and brushes with some difficulty. The Nissan should almost be ready for its next driver.

Having awoken the retriever now soaks his large hands in a sink of steaming hot water. Slowly the skin becomes translucent, highlighting numerous cuts, blisters and callouses on his fingers. In minute or so he’ll grab the keys to his Mercedes-Benz and stride out into the dust, but first he casts his mind back to the thrills of yesterday afternoon’s motor transport. The city is his smorgasbord and today, adrenalin intact, he’s thirsty for fumes, hungry for crashing metal.

The sonic rhythms of acceleration, accompanied by the melodies of sirens and sounding horns, grow louder by the minute. The engineer walks into his bathroom and spits out lumps of brownish saliva. He knows he must depart now if he’s going to get to the airport in time for his shift. After bidding farewell to his family he’ll go downstairs, introduce himself to the grey outside and plunge into this morning’s vehicle procession.

Disco / Feb 2010.

At least that’s how I saw it and though I was a shy, unfashionable greenhorn – wet behind the ears and eager to please (so long as that didn’t mean missing the weekly instalment of Taggart on Friday nights) – I felt vindicated that I’d latched on to the good stuff at an earlier age.

As a teenager treading water in deepest suburbia I took my father’s lead and developed a taste and preference for dark beer over the mouth-watering alternatives (and bear in mind I had not the means to select and pay for my own alcohol) of New or VB, with pressurised cans of Guinness reserved for special occasions.

A touch over a decade later I’d love to write that the only thing that’s changed is that – a tertiary education having taught me to drop the corporate moniker – I am able to utter the single syllable ‘Old’ whenever I’m served at the bar.

But this simply isn’t so.

In my early twenties I’d done the honourable thing and moved to the inner west where I arrived to find the status quo intact. Old was plentiful. However, the onset of the naughties saw a slipping of standards throughout Sydney. Either as a result of publicans’ experimental folly or as a knee-jerk reaction to misguided customer demand, the once ubiquitous Old taps began to decline in number. The decay has become entrenched, with even the tasteful inner west not immune to the negligence; a sure sign of over-gentrification.

Take, for example, Newtown’s once much-loved Town Hall. Where formerly Old was on offer on both levels, first the vile Carlton Black took over upstairs before the rot set in down below. The likes of The Duke, the Alfred and, particularly, the Courthouse also need to get their public houses in order.

When knocking about Newtown (see appendix 1), if it weren’t for the fact that the Sando (which marks a confluence of Old and Dark Ale, no less), the Carlisle Castle and Warren View* still have their priorities right I’d have to drink at the Marlborough********** or schedule time to venture further afield to the Union************ or Lansdowne. Even in Fitzroy, Melbourne (at least when I was there in ’05), it was easier to locate a joint with draught Old (though it must be mentioned that an employee of the Tankerville responded to my enquiry with the gem: “What’s dark beer?”).

The result is that punters are being deprived of the nourishment, mental stimulation and fashion statement only a dark beer can deliver (appendix 2).

“Is that Coke you’re drinking?”

What with young people seemingly besotted with dark spirits and mixers, these days you’re hard pressed to find folks who know what Old is, let alone appreciate its virtues.

“What’s that – Guinness?”

You’re much likelier to hear them registering their approval of a pub’s supply of Golden Ale or Beez Neez than recognising the absence of Old (let alone a pricier dark option such as Dark Ale or Porter).

“What does it taste like – coffee, chocolate?” (Has everyone turned into a sommelier, as well as being an artist?)

“Isn’t that stuff really strong?

What’s as bad as the popularity of ‘boutique’ violations like Crown and Hahn Premium is the scourge of imported lagers passed off as luxury items.

Too many inner Sydney pubs have turned their backs on Old drinkers. It’s a sad state of affairs.

Appendix 1) Inner west establishments like the Hampshire***********, Salisbury, Newington, Livingstone, Glengarry, Golden Barley and Petersham Inn are holding up their end. Likewise, the Empire**, Baldie and Annandale each gets a big tick. Don’t know what The Clare thinks its doing but The Rose receives an exemption from criticism because while there’s no Old to be seen, there is at least Dark Ale and, until recently, boasted the delights of Black Wattle. Special mentions must be reserved for Erskineville and Glebe. The former is home to the triangle of Old, in the form of the Erko, Kurrajong*** and bowlo, which makes up for the fact the Rose of Australia is now letting the side down. Glebe’s Friend in Hand, AB, Harold Park, Nag’s Head and Excelsior all keep the flag flying for thirsty Old drinkers.

Appendix 2) A handful of inner Sydney’s surviving venues for guitar-based live music are bucking the trendies. The Annandale and Sando boast scrupled owners who have remained true to the working, indie and middle classes, in preserving  a tap for the dark stuff. So too, until its recent sad demise, did the Hopetoun in Surry Hills. Thankfully, Manning at Usyd was also  carrying the flame at the time of writing********.

*As at February 2010 the Warren View no longer has Old.

**As at March 2010 the pub formerly known as the Empire no longer has Old.

***As at June 2010 the Kurrajong no longer has Old.

****As at August 2010 the Queen’s has Old (having only had Black hitherto).

*****As at October 2010 the Rose has swapped its Dark for White Rabbit.

******As at October 2010 the Courthouse has inexplicably jettisoned its White Rabbit (Dark) for the paler variety.

*******As at June 2011 the Botany View can be commended for its White Rabbit Dark.

******** As at July 2011 am reliably informed that the Courthouse has rectified its error and gone back to White Rabbit (Dark).

********* As at October 2011 the Manning Bar has scandalously removed its Old tap.

********** As at October 2011 the Marlborough has inexplicably gone down a no-Old-on-tap path.

***********As at October 2011 the Union seems to have permanently jettisoned Old, although an ever-changing more expensive dark beer tends to be available.

*********** As at December 2011 the Hampshire has replaced Old with Kent Old Brown.

Who could forget repeat offender/established thesp David Bowie’s folically-inspired turn alongside a young Jennifer Connelly in Labyrinth or (ahem…) rather-a-lesser-singer in the form of Kylie Minogue showing us all (well, a few teenage boys at least ) how tough she really is in Street Fighter: The Movie?

In May of this year and in the context of another pop princess displaying her acting chops/cute hairdo, I explored the phenomenon in the following piece for SBS.

Despite rising to prominence as a 17-year-old in Neighbours Natalie Imbruglia is best known for her established career in pop music. However, at the time of press she’s as much in the headlines for a prominent film acting role as for having a new album in stores for the first time in four years.

To what extent the coinciding releases of Imbruglia’s work represents strategic marketing on somebody’s part I wouldn’t like to surmise, but it’s certainly handy timing and reviewers of Closed For Winter were quick to emphasise the fact Imbruglia was taking a diversion from her day job to take the lead role of Elise in this film (having previously appeared alongside Rowan Atkinson in the  2003 comedy Johnny English).

In doing so, Imbruglia certainly opened up her acting ability to close scrutiny, and this is pretty much what occurred – at least for those reviewers able to prevent their appraisal from being clouded by their shameless gushing over Nat’s cheekbones.

Reviews for Closed For Winter have been lukewarm, with very few able to avoid the question of whether Imbruglia’s acting is up to feature film standard: when this assessment came up in the negative, the implication was that she should really be sticking to her day job; when Nat received the reviewers’ tick of approval, often her presence was attributed as having made the film.

Either way, Imbruglia is certainly not the first established singer to diversify onto the silver screen and neither is she the first to spark a mixed or cynical response. Rather, she forms part of a long tradition of soloists and frontpersons who’ve succumbed to the temptation of becoming a film lead,  be that motivated by a desire to boost their profile and/or fulfil a lifetime’s ambition (not to mention the many who’ve opted for the lower-risk version of a cameo role – yes Meatloaf, you were conspicuous by your presence in Spice World: The Movie).

Cinema archives of the past 40 years are littered with the indulgences of musos, from Mick Jagger’s 1970 one-two of Performance and Ned Kelly; to Madonna’s bold but irregular statements of thespian intent (Desperately Seeking Susan, A League of Their Own, Evita), Grace Jones’ mid-80s action phase (as seen in Conan the Destroyer and A View to a Kill); indie queen PJ Harvey playing Mary Magdalene in Hal Hartley’s The Book of Life; Beyonce adding her lungs to Dreamgirls; and Bjork’s turn in Lars von Trier’s light-hearted romp Dancer in the Dark.

The latter film and central performance make a fine example of how a ‘non-actor’ can divide opinions so greatly: at the time, The Movie Show‘s Margaret Pomeranz judged Bjork’s performance as “never less than totally convincing” in the process of giving the film a five-star rating; co-host David Stratton, meanwhile, decried that “Bjork may be a singer but she’s certainly no actress” and he spared Von Trier’s “almost unendurable” work not a single star.

Not surprisingly, the musicians/actors’ big screen debut has often made or broken their film careers. Several have gone on to become repeat performers on celluloid, whilst others, for various reasons, have notched up just the one cinematic bow to date.

“Watching Ms. Spears sing, dance and act can leave you wondering what is meant nowadays by the concept of talent”, provides a taster to the New York Times‘ scathing review of Britney Spears’ contribution to 2002′s Crossroads.

The unquestionable stand-out is David Bowie, who has appeared in more than a dozen features, ranging from the sublime (The Man Who Fell to Earth, Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence), the quirky (The Hunger, Basquiat), to the ill-conceived (Labyrinth, The Linguini Incident). That The Thin White Duke can boast such a bounty of work is remarkable when you consider that he himself is on record as saying that acting was a more of a joke for him, rather than something he seriously entertained as an ambition.

Looming large amidst proponents of the sound-to-vision phenomenon are the ‘Rap Pack’. Led by the likes of Will Smith and ‘Marky’  Mark Wahlberg (both of whom have forged stellar movie careers off the back of breakthrough turns in Men in Black and Boogie Nights, respectively), this burgeoning group is co-habited by such hip hop luminaries as Ice Cube (Boyz N’ Tha Hood, Higher Learning, Three Kings), Ice T (New Jack City, Ricochet, Johnny Mnemonic), Mos Def (The Monster’s Ball, The Woodsman, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy), Eminem (8 Mile), Queen Latifah (Chicago, The Secret Life of Bees) and, erm, Vanilla Ice (1991′s Cool as Ice).

With star vehicles as popular as ever, the trend shows no signs of slowing. One wonders who’ll be next? Off the top of my head, Lily Allen must be a shoo-in for a film role, and it can only be a matter of time before warbler/activist Bono dusts off his omnipotent dark shades to play the one role he’s been holding out for: that of God himself.

PS: Of course I’m assuming that at some point U2 has a break in its schedule from being the house band of choice for any global event.

A four-hour round trip via bus lay in store for me as I embarked on a daytrip from Zagreb, travelling south to Plitvice Lakes National Park, the tourist drawcard containing the tantalising prospect of a network of some 16 lakes and waterfalls sat amongst lofty mountain peaks.

Though I’d noted that the site went into hibernation from October to February, it was by now mid-March and t-shirt weather, plus the owner of my hostel ensured me the park was open for business. So, unperturbed by the fact I’d been socialising until the early hours on my first night in Zagreb, I set out on a bright Spring morning.

After grabbing a bottle of water to re-hydrate myself I was relieved to make a successful rendezvous with the necessary transport. Following a pleasant couple of hours on the road during which I caught up on some reading, I hopped off the bus in the thickly-wooded national park and followed the sign’s to the park’s main entrance.

I was alone, the silence deafening.

“Hmmm, this is strange,” I thought to myself. “There doesn’t seem to be anybody about”.

Despite a smattering of days-old snow on the ground, conditions could be described as ‘very good’, but soon I would discover the ticket and information booths to be closed up. I consoled myself in the prior knowledge that one was required to take a guided tour to access the mini-buses and boats needed to see the various lakes (unless, I guess, you’re both a seasoned triathlete and mountaineer) and that you had a choice of several tours of varying duration.

It occurred to me that I might have to wait until the park’s transport swung by the entrance to embark on my chosen three-hour tour. But once 20 minutes had past I began to suspect the worst.

After much pacing, soul-searching and anguish I decided to walk to the closest lake myself in the hope I might come across a staff member, if not some transport action. No cigar on either front.

I spent a further half hour or so pottering about the edge of what was a beautiful lake glistening in the midday sun. I tried to fight the realisation the park was closed; that I would not be able to see any more than this small, albeit impressive, glimpse of the park.

To compound matters my head had begun to thump; that great friend of man, the killer hangover, had decided to join me on my daytrip. My best bet seemed to be to hike back up to the bus stop and get the next back to Zagreb so as to salvage something from the day. Helpfully, a bus timetable was posted on the wall ticket booth, however it informed me the next bus was due to drive through at 5pm.

It was now around 1pm and I felt faint and breathless, as though a small mammal had relieved itself inside my skull. I needed to eat. There was nowhere from which I could procure food.

And so during the next four hours I tried in vain to make myself comfortable in the road-side bus shelter, all the while ruing that I hadn’t packed any more water, let alone some painkillers, with which to ease my self-inflicted pain that increased by the second. Every ten minutes or so I would wander from the road up an embankment to retrieve some snow to swallow or lather all over my cranium.

When the bus pulled in around 5:30pm, it was to me a rescue craft. Zagreb beckoned.

Back at the hostel I foraged deep into my backpack to find my box of Nurofen. Secondly, I headed to an Indian restaurant in the upper town for some belated sustenance. And, conservatively, I ordered a potato and spinach curry and some rice. The waitress returned to utter an amusing epilogue to my day:

“We don’t have rice.”

A ruined city reborn

(added March 2011; originally published by Open Road, February 2009)

The walkways in central Sarajevo have an eerie difference. Look closely and you’ll see blemishes on the flagstones that could be the fallout from a temperamental artist hurling paintbrushes in all directions.

They are, rather, hand-sized craters caused by exploding mortar shells. Painted with red resin and known as ‘Sarajevo roses’, these potholes serve to remind visitors what Bosnia’s cosmopolitan and resilient capital has endured.

Notorious as the location of the royal assassination that snowballed into World War I, Sarajevo subsequently leaped to prominence through its hosting of the 1984 Winter Olympics and, later, when it was cut off from the outside world amid the conflict surrounding the break-up of the Yugoslav Federation. Around 12,000 inhabitants lost their lives during the 1992-1995 siege, with a further 50,000 wounded.

Another throwback to this darker time is the stretch of underground tunnel located in an otherwise unremarkable domestic home near the airport. The site is now a museum dedicated to the undetected 800m tunnel through which goods (and some people) were sent in and out of the city during the siege.

These days, tourist traffic to the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina is beginning to gather momentum. While Croatia’s stunning Dalmatian coastline remains the Balkan regionís hot spot, and Slovenia’s central European serenity provides a relaxing alpine retreat, Bosnia and Herzegovina can boast a countryside of snow-capped mountains and lakes, together with cities and towns that showcase a unique melting pot of Christian and Ottoman (Turkish) culture and architecture. Word on the street in Sarajevo is that backpacker numbers are rising sharply; and wherever this group goes, the wider tourist market usually follows.

Coming into Bosnia on an eight-hour bus ride from Belgrade dictated that I first pass through Republika Srpska. Although the economic hardship of the Bosnian Serb republic was evident at times, the rocky countryside was stunning; all the more so on this day because of heavy snow. The bus terminated on the outskirts of Sarajevo but, fortunately, it took only a short cab ride into town to reach my hostel, situated in Bascarsija, Sarajevo’s must-see Turkish quarter.

I had reason to be anxious, however: I was more or less flat broke after a Croatian cash machine swallowed my bank card a week earlier.

Thankfully, after a find-my-bearings stroll that evening, I got news that a funds transfer had come through. After the dawn-to-dusk excesses in a sun-drenched Zagreb and the hustle and bustle of windswept Belgrade, I relished the chance to recharge my batteries in sparsely populated Sarajevo, which was the most vibrant and interesting urban centre I encountered in the Balkans.

Home to the prominent and ornate Gazi-Husrev Beg mosque, Bascarsija is a spectacularly colourful and odorous maze of narrow lanes crammed with pocket-sized cafes, eateries serving local specialties like cevapi (grilled meat served on a plate) and burek (greasy filled pastries), and the shops of local craftsmen; in particular, the street given over to coppersmiths should not be missed. Rain and snow failed to dampen the aromas of freshly baked bread and grilled meats and did not obscure the backdrop of minarets and snow-topped mountains. Here, with my stomach grumbling, I tasted my first burek (common fillings include meat, cheese, spinach, pumpkin or potato). I went with the potato option (ëkrompirusaí) and became addicted ñ these carbohydrate-filled morsels sustained me throughout my stay in Bosnia.

With temperatures barely above zero, my week in the city called for strategic sightseeing, so I fortified myself with hot food and beverages between daily forays. From hillsides littered with graveyards, to Latin Bridge (where the Serb student Gavril Princip shot the Austro-Hungarian Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie in 1914), to grand old buildings scarred by shelling, reminders of the city’s troubled past are everywhere. Most imposing is the once-sumptuous Bosnian national library, which now lies in ruins following calculated firebombing in 1992. Still operating is the town’s bustling central market, where 60-odd people perished as a result of a mortar attack in 1994, along with the Sarajevsko brewery, which became the city’s main water supply during the siege.

Beyond its historical attractions, Sarajevo is chock-a-block with cafes, bars, eateries and bookshops – which came in handy as I spent several lunchtimes and evenings taking refuge from the elements in these places. But the city’s array of museums also offers a fascinating respite from the cold. I was delighted to discover my visit had coincided with the Historical Museum staging an exhibition dedicated to life during the siege. Here I spent a good couple of hours captivated by the numerous photographs, newspaper reports and propaganda, as well as displays of shell and weapon fragments. The highlight had to be the exhibit of practical everyday items designed by a resourceful population starved of food, water and medical goods.

The acclaimed BBC reporter-turned-author, Martin Bell (one of the most prominent members of the foreign press corps present during the Balkan conflict) believes you never really know a place until you’ve made love or been arrested there. By that measure I cannot really say I know Sarajevo, though I did have a minor brush with the local law.

You see, I’d been conscientiously buying tram tickets from the kiosks provided, but had read somewhere that you could either pre-buy tickets or get them from the driver. At this particular point I wanted to board at a stop that didn’t have a kiosk nearby and fully intended to get a ticket from the driver. But when I boarded this did not appear to be an option. I should have asked someone but preferring to avoid the language barrier, I decided I’d just travel without a ticket.

Next thing I knew, a scary-looking inspector with a glass eye was muttering something to me in Croat-Serbian. I shook my head to indicate I didnít have a ticket. He began repeatedly bellowing “Ticket!” at me, which I feebly countered with, “No ticket, sorry.”

Then a younger inspector with better English took charge. He whipped out a pad, scribbled a hefty fine, and slapped it down in my hand. There was no point arguing…

So perhaps I do have some insight by Mr Bell’s measure. What I do know is that a visit to Sarajevo – with its population of around 300,000, few overt signs of tourism and locals who mind their own business – makes for an eye-opening and hassle-free experience.

Just be sure to buy your tram ticket at a kiosk.

Rather, he brought from home a lunch box (containing a frozen water bottle) from which he dined outdoors on long metal benches.

There he was blinded by the glare of the harsh sun reflecting from asphalt and unnerved by the general surplus of blonde hair.

A short, skinny, pale-skinned fish out of water, the boy sensed the duelling aromas of sunscreen and sweat.

Confronting me were bronzed Weetbix kids with grubby hands clutching footy cards, meat pies and Sunny Boys.