Salut!

Happy hours in Muscat

On the night most of my colleagues were attending a staff party ahead of the forthcoming launch of a new national newspaper for Abu Dhabi, I flew to Muscat for a pre-arranged weekend away

The clash was unfortunate, and I am sure the party was special.

But the break had been booked before the event was announced. And I had decided in 1986 and especially in 1987, when I was there previously, that Oman was rather special too.

On the strength of an admittedly brief visit, nothing seems to have changed in the intervening two decades to cause me to revise that view.

The people, a viable mix that includes the Bedouin tradition and elements of Pakistan, India, Zanzibar and neighbouring Arab nations, remain overwhelmingly friendly and welcoming. They drive more sanely than some of my fellow residents of the Emirates and, even in the elegant capital. they are fiercely proud of their green spaces, tidy architecture and dramatic coastline.

The fleeting nature of the trip meant I was able to stray no farther than Muscat and neighbouring Mutrah. On my next visit, I will explore more of the country, as I did 20 years ago.

In what time was available, with the help of an amiable, knowledgeable Omani-Indian guide, Faiz, we covered much ground: the souk at Mutrah, the majestic Sultan Qaboos mosque, the Sultan's palace, the French and Omani museums, the sparkling new Shangri-La resort complex in a superb location carved out of the rocky coastline.

We saw, from a distance, the British ambassador's palatial residence ("he must be one of the luckiest ambassadors in the world," said Faiz) and the Sultan's yacht, which looks unspectacular from the shore but boasts an impossibly sumptuous interior.

Ain't got them sexagenarian blues

Bill Taylor was memorably critical of Salut!'s decision to publish occasional guest columns. So what better way could there be of expressing his disapproval than to write his second such contribution, this time on the importance of feeling upbeat about being 60? Accepted with glee, not least because it - and Bill's apparent struggle, even at 50, to climb a few steps on the Great Wall of China - make Salut! feel young

Turning 60 last month proved to be a non-event. The day dawned and there it was - or there I was. The same as I had been the day before. It finally struck me that with everyone around me taking my age in their stride, I could hardly continue making a fuss over it myself.

The final couple of weeks of being 59 had been rather fraught. The proximity of that seventh decade was daunting. In spite of all the clichés about 60 being the new 40, as far as I was concerned, 60 was 60 and it seemed, for want of a better word, getting on for ancient. A time to start thinking of retirement and pensions. Both of which are such old words. I felt as if the passage from one decade to another couldn't help but make me feel different. But it didn't.

I'd never before had a problem with ages ending in a zero - 50 passed as painlessly as 40. Thirty, I hardly remember. I had a bit of a problem when I hit 39. That was my first mid-life crisis. Or possibly my only one - they've flowed together so seamlessly since as to be hard to distinguish one from another. I quickly learned to treat them rather like a half-tamed horse. The key was not to be thrown but to stay in the saddle and enjoy the ride. And for the most part I have.