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.
There is much more to see outside the capital. So I strongly recommend the country as a destination for even the moderately adventurous.
But a few words of caution: if you should find yourself booked into a grand establishment called the Ramee Guestline Hotel, beware the happy hour.
In fact, if you wish to be completely on the safe side, you could do worse than to make moving somewhere else an early priorirty.
Maybe the hotel was having a bad weekend.
We had taken the trouble to arrange ahead for a hotel pick-up car from the airport. Despite scouring the arrivals hall for 20 minutes, and calling out Ramee at huddles of men who might have been drivers, we ended up liftless and seeking respite in the taxi rank outside. This didn't stop the hotel trying, when we checked out, to charge us for the service that hadn't been provided.
Then there was the room. The first one was drab, and had twin beds whereas we had stipulated a kingsize double. And the key card barely worked. Reception instantly moved us to an executive suite; the decor was no better but this was a noble gesture, and would have been nobler still had the key worked any more effectively.
The pool was in what would otherwise have been a courtyard overlooked from hotel rooms outside the breakfast room-cum-Indian restaurant. You would use it for a dip, but not spend too long there. But that is where happy hour was held.
After ordering a second drink, we were urged by the Sri Lankan waiter to order more before the hour expired. We didn't want any more. "Ah, but you must," he said, "because it is only eight rials each for as much as you want in the hour."
Checking the drinks menu, I calculated that our two rounds came to about 10 rials (about ₤14 on my calculation). We had no wish to drink ouselves silly for the next 20 minutes merely to make a profit on the 16 rials for two.
It took a certain amount of negotiation, and consultation with management, but we were in the end allowed to pay for what we had consumed. In the meantime, a glance at the wine list had revealed nothing under around ₤40, even though the wine itself seemed unremarkable I did not get round to asking why this was the case since we had chosen to dine at the much-recommended Mumtaz Mahal, where the menu was rather more impressive and the wine list had prices in touch with planet earth).
In our room at the Ramee, there was a large television set. It seemed to offer lots of channels but, on closer inspection, only two of these, both Indian (which may be appropriate given the hotel group's origins) could actually be watched and heard.
Among the procession of men who came to help us with the dodgy key, deliver a hairdryer and show us how to use the elaborate tea-making machine, someone did promise to have the TV fixed. It didn't happen.
Low level irritations? You may be thinking that. I couldn't help wondering what was Arabic or, perhaps more appropriately, Hindi for Fawlty Towers.
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