BGTW Travel Writing Competition, first prize: Rebecca Milford

An Offering on a Bicycle

Photos: Jeremy Hoare

It is my first day in Tokyo, and I find myself in Ueno Koen park. I wander through the summertime dusk, past wooden pagodas and delicate flowers that are unfurling their petals in the sultry air. I am alone, and free.

I stop to take a photo of a bush studded with star-shaped flowers, velvet-red and as large as my hand. A miniature plaque has been wedged into the damp earth, with the delicate eyelashes of Japanese text dancing above the printed Latin name of the plant. Both languages are indecipherable to me.

I feel deliciously foreign. The buzz of insects lulls me, and across the path an old man squats with a bamboo cage - inside two white birds shine luminously in the fading light. He looks at me with inquisitive, patient eyes, and then lowers his head to the cage so I am presented with the point of his conical hat. He belongs here amongst the perfumed flowers of twilight as much as the intricate bonsai that line the walkway.

I take another photo with my camera; this time a patch of tiny blue buds. I would never usually take pictures of fauna. This is travel. I am no horticulturalist, but I need to record this moment. Perhaps when I return I'll show my mother, who adores plants but will never come here. I try to imagine not being young; not having the world at my feet. Not seeing life as an endless map to unfurl and place the pinpoint of my existence - me, a tiny golden tack - anywhere I want.

As I leave the park it starts to drizzle - a steady curtain of warm droplets that feel more like an embracing mist than rain. This weather does not assault me in a pelting shower, but nevertheless I am soaked in minutes. I walk on, breathing in the damp-pavement smell that mingles with the scent emanating from a lean-to market stall that sells hot chestnuts.

An old man on a bicycle rides past. His skin is brown and creased like screwed up parcel-paper, and his white beard falls in a waterfall spray to his chest. He watches me keenly as he passes, thin legs pumping the peddles as they will have done for the past sixty years or more. He slows, and then stops, turning to look at me with his head on one side like a curious bird, his black beetle-eyes shining. I pause in my walk. I don't feel threatened; I am intrigued. In England it would be rare to see anyone this ancient riding a rickety bike, and even then the stiff upper lip would surely dictate they roll on, staring straight ahead, thinking simply of home and comfort.

The little old man gestures at me. Is he begging? I open my palms: nothing. He shakes his head and moves his hands again in a complicated spell. I don't know what he wants. He says something in Japanese - something that my last nine weeks of cd-lessons has not prepared me for. Is it a warning? Instruction? But there's a smile on his wrinkled face and he eventually shrugs - I do to, and we're resigned to our separate fates. He rides on.

The evening has darkened, and the buildings on the far side of the road flicker into a technicolour brightness. It's like being in a fairground for adults, reminding me of the glowing lights of each ride - merry-go-rounds; helter-skelter; sky-fire - and the heady electric thrill from the warmth of the bulbs that fills the air and makes skin crackle with static. On my side of the road it is quiet - I am walking on a river bank and down below the water laps seductively against the base of arched temples. Two worlds divided by a grey strip that buzzes with cars. The rain has not stopped.

Then a figure on a bike comes into view. It is the old man. Under his arm is a battered black umbrella - the spokes are bent, and a loose one is in danger of impaling him. The fabric flaps limply in the drizzle like perforated bat's-wings. He stops ahead of me and holds it out, like a lifeline, or a reward. He is smiling, his eyes crinkling into his contoured skin.

It is the most perfect, appropriate gift. The best introduction to a new country - a new culture, where the elderly ride bikes, tarmac separates two worlds, and the Japanese know to always carry an umbrella, especially in the humid summer.

He nods, and we smile, and the language barrier is suddenly, completely void. I know what he is thinking – “Welcome” - and he knows what I am thinking – “Thank you! Thank you!”

What the judges said:

Sarah Monaghan, Award-wining travel writer and Editor of Gabon Magazine

“This is a lovely piece with superbly evocative description and imagery – I love the close detail: the old man’s skin ‘like screwed up parcel paper’ and the ‘delicate eyelashes of Japanese text’. This connection between a young foreigner and the old Japanese man reveals to the young writer both the fleeting quality of life and the dichotomy of old and new Japan. It succeeds in bringing across a nonetheless unscrutable sense of place of Tokyo.”

Will Gray, Award-winning travel writer and Editor of Travel Africa Magazine

“Really enjoyed this piece. Beautifully observed and keenly described with a lovely turn of phrase that’s not overdone. I like the way the author weaves her personal thoughts and feelings into the piece without it being too overbearing. The simple encounter with the old man on a bicycle is skillfully told and adds a nice twist to the piece as well as a rounded ending.”

Amy Sohanpaul, Editor of Traveller Magazine

“A lovely rendering of one of those random encounters that manages to bridge gaps between people from very different cultures. Symbolises an important part of what real travel is about - connections, and does this with real elegance.”

Jon Lorie, Director of Travellers’ Tales Creative Training Agency

“Sweet little story, poignantly told, uses real suspense and a neat ending. Some superb imagery (eg 'the delicate eyelashes of Japanese text', 'his skin creased like screwed-up parcel paper').”

Below: Rebecca Milford

BGTW Travel Writing competion, second prize: Helen Moat

Photos of Zurich: www.MySwitzerland.com

Zurich ghosts

I am 24. I’ve walked out on my provincial Irish childhood, a town torn apart by bombs and bitterness, and wandered wide-eyed into the sophisticated metropolis that is Zurich.

Here I am with my chestnut hair and acorn eyes; a body as lithe and taut as a young gazelle. I quiver expectantly.

Third prize, BGTW Travel Writing Competition: Marsha Hillman

Suburban Jakarta

A man holding a gun should find it easy to hail a taxi but this is Jakarta, Saturday morning. The compound guard turns to me with a clenched-teeth smile, “Only a few more minutes”. Indonesians never like to disappoint so I interpret this to mean, “Not a hope in hell, lady.”

Celebrating new writing talent

March 2011

An article that succeeded in communicating the dichotomy of old and new Japan has been selected as the winning entry of The British Guild of Travel Writers’/Traveller Magazine Competition for Unpublished Writers.

Run in association with Traveller magazine and Wexas, The Traveller's Club, the competition invited unpublished travel writers to pen a winning 800-word travel article with the theme ‘Portrait of a City’ and attracted close to 200 entries.

The winners were announced before an audience of 350 of Britain’s top travel writers, photographers and travel industry professionals on March 8 at the London Transport Museum during the launch party of the Guild’s 2011 Yearbook.