Welcome to part 2 of my ramblings inspired by my Dad's most recent visit to Dubai. Yes, it was eight months ago at least. See previous posts on why it is absolutely fine to take this long to get round to this. Want to make something of it?! No, I thought not.
I think Dad's last visit was only four nights in total, but considering we had an eight-week-old in tow, we packed quite a lot in to that time. Day 1's visit to the the International Cricket Council Academy towards the southern outskirts of Dubai, came about when Dad happened to mention that his friend Dave, who is basically the world authority on not just cricket, but all sports fixtures globally, had told him that he had heard that English county cricketers would be playing training matches there during his visit.
And sure enough, when I phoned them up, they said yes, Stuart Broad and colleagues would be playing that day, and no, and this is another Peak Dad moment, you do not have to pay to get in, you just turn up, and sit within yards of some of the England players of the moment in an audience of around 40 people. In this picture, those of you who do not know my Dad will see an Englishman of advancing years looking mildly pleased to have found a place to watch cricket. Those who know him well will know that for my dad, that expression of mild pleasure is the equivalent of ecstatic delight. What can I say? I get my deadpan demeanour from him. I believe the young folks call it "resting b***h face" these days.
One thing I would say is that this is probably not for the casual watcher of cricket. Even I, who spent many a Sunday on a rural cricket field as a child, forgot my cricket know-how and committed the cardinal sin of moving while in the bowler's sight line, and I had to say three Hail Bothams at the altar of Geoffrey Boycott for that one. But if you are a committed fan it's a great chance to see some top flight players in action in a relaxed setting. And it's free! Did I mention that? If you beain't from around these parts and you're wondering why I'm so obsessed with this fact, well, there ain't much you can do for free in this part of the world, that's all I'm saying.
There is no cafe on site, but we are not a family that likes to wait long between meals, so lunch was at the handily close Dubai Polo and Equestrian Club. It sounds catastrophically non-kid-friendly, but there is a decent children's menu at the restaurant with things like salmon and mashed potato rather than the usual chicken nuggets. Either way, it is fairly quiet on week days, so no posh polo types will get irritated by your presence. Even if you are not the horsey type, it is pretty pleasant watching the polo ponies trotting about the place (on the pitches and training grounds, not generally through the restaurants).
We have been in Dubai a while now, and while I maintain there is plenty of historic significance to interest the discerning visitor if you know while to look, I find myself increasingly heading out of the emirate to its less high profile northern neighbours in search of culture. Sharjah seems to have a particularly invested in preserving its history, and its museums, for the most part, cost next to nothing to get in.
At the moment, my hands down favourite is the Al Mahatta Museum, which inspired such joy in my dad, that I think it is currently my number one place to take visitors of the older generation in the UAE. There is a little history to my family when it comes to aviation, as my paternal grandfather was in the RAF during and after World War Two. If you scroll down on this page, you will find a picture of him, complete with Biggles-style flying helmet, a very obvious clue to from where my dad and uncle inherited their distinctive noses, and a short record of his career.
Grandad died in the mid 1980s, aged 81, when I was six, so I never get to hear the stories direct from him, but since moving here, I worked out he must have passed through this part of the world on the way to his duties during World War 2. I said this to Dad - and he was, as he tends to be from time to time, somewhat dismissive, until we got there, and he saw the history of the role Imperial Airways played in the region writ large on the aircraft hangar walls.
The museum itself is a traditional building, typical of the region, with a courtyard in the centre to trap the cool air and rooms of varying sizes all around. The (obviously newer) aircraft hangar and the small air traffic control tower are attached to the side. It has now been swallowed up by the city of Sharjah, but you can quickly see from checking out the extensive information boards that in 1932, it was the first airport in the region, and those using it would have landed their aircraft in the barren desert. It later became an RAF base and was used as such until 1971. So far, so English Patient. If the pictures on the wall are to be believed, the only people around would have been a few airport personnel and some locals with rifles balanced on their shoulders.
One of the most intriguing things, for me at least, about this gem of a museum is to think about what might have been. There is a small settlement down the road from Sharjah, you might have heard of it, called Dubai, that is somewhat proud of its airport, and there is a whole socio-economic history which obviously, I am not going to go into here, in how it was that Dubai came to be the city with the huge hub of an airport, when it was Sharjah that was the first place where aircraft landed in the region. I'm given to understand there is a place called Abu Dhabi that is not doing too badly in the airport stakes either.
It's a giant cliche, considering it's a museum, for goodness sake, but for want of a better way of describing it, going to Al Mahatta is to feel a little like you are going back in time, to before the enormous ex-pat influx brought about by oil wealth. The museum is on a back street, not too far from the Mega Mall, but surrounded by not particularly salubrious buildings. You can park inside the compound, although you would not know this until you drive right up to the not particularly welcoming looking security gate. The guard lifts the barrier for you happily enough once you tell him you are there to visit the museum.
You then drive on to what must have once been part of the air field, in front of Al Mahatta Museum itself, which was used as what passed for an airport terminal from 1932 onwards. Then it's to the ticket office, where you pay a ridiculously small amount of dirhams to get into the museum. How I internally roared with laughter when the nice local lady behind the counter asked if dad might like a wheelchair to get around. Visa laws mean there beain't many septuagenarian European ex-pats in these parts, so he must have looked impossibly ancient to her.
Then you cross the courtyard, and into the immaculately preserved aircraft hangar, and there it is, the Avro Anson, the aircraft that very nearly brought my father to tears in all its shining silver glory, taking him right back to his air cadet flights. The phrase, "I don't believe it...." was definitely uttered more than once.
If you can indulge my nostalgia as I make various giant leaps as I attempt to bring together some threads of my family history, my Grandad was someone who was not going to let something like not being able to see particularly well hamper a career in flying. Family legend has it that he sneaked into a test unit the night before he was due to take a sight test and learned the letters on the card so he was guaranteed a pass. He did pretty well for himself, though, rising to the rank of Wing Commander and instructing young pilots at the Central Flying School in Uphavon.
After dad admitted that I was probably right, Grandad did most likely pass through Sharjah at some point, most likely at the former airport in which we were standing, I felt even more affection for Al Mahatta. Grandad was quite ill from dementia and the after effects of a major stroke in most of my memories of him, but I like to think the wanderlust he must have had - shown in a desire so strong to go on adventures in flight and see the world that he cheated on a sight test to make it happen - is something he passed down to me.
In addition to the Anson of my dad's former air cadet glory days, there are the cockpits of two passenger jets, models that have historically served the region, that DB1 had a great time playing in, a vintage air field fire engine and some other models of light aircraft that have made their way to the museum in one way or another.
The buildings around the courtyard are also home to a fine collection of aviation artefacts, as well as a deliciously low-fi section on the history of flying, starting with some rather alarming examples of taxidermy, as well as some heavy promoting of Sharjah's own low-cost carrier, Air Arabia.
If you have time, watch the 1937 documentary film Air Outpost, which gives a great insight into what the tiny airport, Sharjah and the UAE were like at the time. It plays in the tiny screening room towards the left of the courtyard. Trust me, the staff will be absolutely delighted to show you where it is.
I will keep it short, but our final day trip was to Dubai Museum, which is a comprehensive gallop through Dubai history, and particularly popular with DB1 because of the life-sized depictions of local Emiratis going about the businesses of times gone by, pearl diving, date palm growing and so on. A great discovery for those with visitors is the neighbouring Arabian Courtyard, pictured above in the rain, which endeared itself to us thanks to its intriguing British theme cafe, long-serving staff and general feeling of cosyness missing from many larger, grander hotels. It does not look much from the outside, but they offer a discount to pensioners on production of a valid form of ID. Enough said.
Another favourite activity of my Dad's, although we did not have time on this visit, is to ride an abra across Dubai Creek. But that's a story for another day.
I think Dad's last visit was only four nights in total, but considering we had an eight-week-old in tow, we packed quite a lot in to that time. Day 1's visit to the the International Cricket Council Academy towards the southern outskirts of Dubai, came about when Dad happened to mention that his friend Dave, who is basically the world authority on not just cricket, but all sports fixtures globally, had told him that he had heard that English county cricketers would be playing training matches there during his visit.
And sure enough, when I phoned them up, they said yes, Stuart Broad and colleagues would be playing that day, and no, and this is another Peak Dad moment, you do not have to pay to get in, you just turn up, and sit within yards of some of the England players of the moment in an audience of around 40 people. In this picture, those of you who do not know my Dad will see an Englishman of advancing years looking mildly pleased to have found a place to watch cricket. Those who know him well will know that for my dad, that expression of mild pleasure is the equivalent of ecstatic delight. What can I say? I get my deadpan demeanour from him. I believe the young folks call it "resting b***h face" these days.
 |
| DB2 obediently slept through this part of the outing. DB1 is not yet converted to my father's devotional following of all things cricket. Luckily, as we got in free, Dad was content to just pay his respects in the cricket cathedral, watch a small amount, and then pop off for lunch, rather than settle in for a detailed analysis of the Duckworth Lewis method with some fellow cricket anoraks. |
There is no cafe on site, but we are not a family that likes to wait long between meals, so lunch was at the handily close Dubai Polo and Equestrian Club. It sounds catastrophically non-kid-friendly, but there is a decent children's menu at the restaurant with things like salmon and mashed potato rather than the usual chicken nuggets. Either way, it is fairly quiet on week days, so no posh polo types will get irritated by your presence. Even if you are not the horsey type, it is pretty pleasant watching the polo ponies trotting about the place (on the pitches and training grounds, not generally through the restaurants).
We have been in Dubai a while now, and while I maintain there is plenty of historic significance to interest the discerning visitor if you know while to look, I find myself increasingly heading out of the emirate to its less high profile northern neighbours in search of culture. Sharjah seems to have a particularly invested in preserving its history, and its museums, for the most part, cost next to nothing to get in.
At the moment, my hands down favourite is the Al Mahatta Museum, which inspired such joy in my dad, that I think it is currently my number one place to take visitors of the older generation in the UAE. There is a little history to my family when it comes to aviation, as my paternal grandfather was in the RAF during and after World War Two. If you scroll down on this page, you will find a picture of him, complete with Biggles-style flying helmet, a very obvious clue to from where my dad and uncle inherited their distinctive noses, and a short record of his career.
Grandad died in the mid 1980s, aged 81, when I was six, so I never get to hear the stories direct from him, but since moving here, I worked out he must have passed through this part of the world on the way to his duties during World War 2. I said this to Dad - and he was, as he tends to be from time to time, somewhat dismissive, until we got there, and he saw the history of the role Imperial Airways played in the region writ large on the aircraft hangar walls.
The museum itself is a traditional building, typical of the region, with a courtyard in the centre to trap the cool air and rooms of varying sizes all around. The (obviously newer) aircraft hangar and the small air traffic control tower are attached to the side. It has now been swallowed up by the city of Sharjah, but you can quickly see from checking out the extensive information boards that in 1932, it was the first airport in the region, and those using it would have landed their aircraft in the barren desert. It later became an RAF base and was used as such until 1971. So far, so English Patient. If the pictures on the wall are to be believed, the only people around would have been a few airport personnel and some locals with rifles balanced on their shoulders.
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| This was the second or third time visiting this museum for DB1, and she was fairly annoyed at Grandad for not following her preferred viewing method of shouting "look at this, now let's go!" |
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| DB1 cheering up again once we got to this more kid-friendly exhibit. What you see here is two people who are very used to things being done their way discussing the best way to pose for a photograph. |
You then drive on to what must have once been part of the air field, in front of Al Mahatta Museum itself, which was used as what passed for an airport terminal from 1932 onwards. Then it's to the ticket office, where you pay a ridiculously small amount of dirhams to get into the museum. How I internally roared with laughter when the nice local lady behind the counter asked if dad might like a wheelchair to get around. Visa laws mean there beain't many septuagenarian European ex-pats in these parts, so he must have looked impossibly ancient to her.
 |
| What does this one do, Grandad? |
Then you cross the courtyard, and into the immaculately preserved aircraft hangar, and there it is, the Avro Anson, the aircraft that very nearly brought my father to tears in all its shining silver glory, taking him right back to his air cadet flights. The phrase, "I don't believe it...." was definitely uttered more than once.
If you can indulge my nostalgia as I make various giant leaps as I attempt to bring together some threads of my family history, my Grandad was someone who was not going to let something like not being able to see particularly well hamper a career in flying. Family legend has it that he sneaked into a test unit the night before he was due to take a sight test and learned the letters on the card so he was guaranteed a pass. He did pretty well for himself, though, rising to the rank of Wing Commander and instructing young pilots at the Central Flying School in Uphavon.
 |
| The Avro Anson |
In addition to the Anson of my dad's former air cadet glory days, there are the cockpits of two passenger jets, models that have historically served the region, that DB1 had a great time playing in, a vintage air field fire engine and some other models of light aircraft that have made their way to the museum in one way or another.
 |
| At Dubai Museum, Bur Dubai. Another bargain of a museum. |
The buildings around the courtyard are also home to a fine collection of aviation artefacts, as well as a deliciously low-fi section on the history of flying, starting with some rather alarming examples of taxidermy, as well as some heavy promoting of Sharjah's own low-cost carrier, Air Arabia.
If you have time, watch the 1937 documentary film Air Outpost, which gives a great insight into what the tiny airport, Sharjah and the UAE were like at the time. It plays in the tiny screening room towards the left of the courtyard. Trust me, the staff will be absolutely delighted to show you where it is.
I will keep it short, but our final day trip was to Dubai Museum, which is a comprehensive gallop through Dubai history, and particularly popular with DB1 because of the life-sized depictions of local Emiratis going about the businesses of times gone by, pearl diving, date palm growing and so on. A great discovery for those with visitors is the neighbouring Arabian Courtyard, pictured above in the rain, which endeared itself to us thanks to its intriguing British theme cafe, long-serving staff and general feeling of cosyness missing from many larger, grander hotels. It does not look much from the outside, but they offer a discount to pensioners on production of a valid form of ID. Enough said.
Another favourite activity of my Dad's, although we did not have time on this visit, is to ride an abra across Dubai Creek. But that's a story for another day.
