Okay so I'm a big liar - I never spent those sunny beach days writing blog entries, but if you'd been there, you wouldn't have either.
But I stayed up last night to tell you about Scotland.
There are some places in the world that hold a certain mysticism for me. I've read about the Scottish highlands, stuff of fancy and folklore, and I have this picture in my mind blurred by my imagination of what I'd find there. Somewhere at the edges was a kilt-wearing, sword-wielding man on a black steed, but at the very heart of it were wild moors and poet-inspiring heather.
Since Ella has always dreamt of marrying a Scotsman, sword-wielding or otherwise, and I'd just plain dreamt, as travel companions we suited each other very nicely. After purchasing a road map of Scotland we took to the Lowestoft library and spent an afternoon poring over guides and mapping our route. Or at least Ella did. First of all I flipped through the newspapers and then I flipped through the books with pictures of beaches, imagining sun-drenched days and window-wide-open warm nights and then I noisily ate a packet of tic tacs before suggesting we go to the beach or some pretence of being warm because I can't concentrate when I'm cold. As travel companions we suited each other very nicely because by the time that afternoon was over, Ella had planned the whole thing.
As to the nightly accommodation, camping was brazenly put forward but after some serious consideration we decided that erecting tents in the rain might not be as fun as the scouts advertise. Ella's proposal to hire a Wicked Van took care of both our sleeping and travel arrangements, since the van is outfitted with everything one needs for sleeping and creating rudimentary cuisine.
We collected our Doctor Who-themed vehicle from the Dundee train station car park (all the vans are themed in some way, so we were hoping for something cool – since Sunday Night Dinners at the Holmes' often ends with a Doctor Who viewing this was rather appropriate) and after a quick lesson from Glynn on which button does what we were off. Initially there was some minor confusion about road signs, and there was some fuzzy incident involving our van being driven down a pedestrian-only strip.
We travelled west along the A82 to the Weeping Glen (or something of the like)and in the evening light, passing by mountains and riding the water's edge, I could imagine terrible men acting out terrible deeds but since my main concern was whether we should pay more for a loch view, this was a mere passing thought.
Invercoe Caravan and Camping Park was perhaps the fanciest place we bedded down for, unlike the rest, it boasted an undercover area for meal preparation – oh, such a simple thing, an Australian might think. Every town in our country has a park with a sandwich-making shelter, even the towns not worth visiting, even the bloody towns people don't visit. We build a park, someone sticks a roofed building of some variety on it. Scotland builds a park, and maybe someone remembers to signpost it.
We were up before the dawn had cracked craving a cooked breakfast. I'm not sure if our eagerness was at fault, or if the damned cooker was plain damned, but what occurred next was of an extremely alarming nature.
There are some things I know with absolute certainty, one of which is that gas bottles aren't supposed to catch on fire – when faced with a flaming bottle and the real prospect of our tardis becoming airborne, I'm afraid neither of us showed any real talent for fire fighting. It was rather fortunate that two elderly campers swooped to our rescue to save us from probable bankruptcy and singed eyelashes.
The rain fell in earnest (and I do mean this, I'm not just using the word willy nilly; it couldn't have been more earnest in its pursuit to go to ground) as we drove on to Fort William, an uninspiring place that only improved when we found a camping store to replace our deceased cooker. With such poor weather we saw little point in climbing Ben Nevis since visibility was zilch. We were advised by a keen tourist centre attendant to walk on to Shean Falls instead. The rain had lost its urgency, which was most pleasing since we were passing through Harry Potter Quidditch Match Country (honest, the guide book said so). It was a get-your-shoes-muddy route up along a river that broke out into a series of small falls, and after half an hour of steady walking the path rounded a corner in to a large clearing hemmed on either side by walls of rock and trees, and at the far end a reward for our persistence: a grand rushing waterfall. The huddle of tents near the path told us we weren't the first to come this way, but we shared the clearing with just one other walking couple. A wire suspension bridge stood in the way of the falls but that, and the mad mud scramble at the other side, didn't stop us from getting close enough to see the water spitting.
The ferry to Skye from Mallaig was brief – enough time for the sun to fall beyond the sea – and then we were at the foot of the Cuillin Mountains setting up base at the Sligachan Campsite. I'd heard about midges since arriving in the UK. People would mention them from time to time but I always thought they were something that could be fixed with swatting, not so. They're like vegemite on toast, they stick to your skin like they belong there. I didn't have midges in my hair, I had hair in my midges.
It was my birthday the next day and we woke to rain, hard heaviness that pushed us on to Portree where the sky cleared long enough for a loch side breakfast of porridge with freshly-picked blackberries. Despite the day's marked importance, it rained for the rest of it so we cleared Skye, tripped through Hamish Macbeth's Plonkton and made camp at Lochcorron. I use camp loosely since we spent the night in a car park overlooking the loch. We had the most delicious birthday feast at the local pub: pan-seared fish in a rich butter sauce and the stickiest sticky toffee pudding drowned in custard. Then we cleaned our teeth in the bathroom and snuck across the road for bed.
In dawn's light we drove the famous Applecross way, through the mountain cattle pass to snake our way northwards up the coast. We had lunch at Big Sand, a gorgeous stretch of rose-gold, where a seal stopped by to say hello. Minor hitch when the car window mechanism failed but some huffing and puffing worked where the manual failed. That night we made camp just out of Ulapool at Ardmere. I've always considered the art of skimming a boy's right, but that night on the rocky beach I was holding a lucky hand. Not two skims, not three or four or even five, but that special seven. It was marvellous: I raised an arm, soft weight cradled in my palm, then a quick twist and release, and there it goes, its dark shade just visible in the twilight tripping across the ocean's skin. Then, as it tends to do, it began to rain and we retreated to our sanctuary and pulled out our books and head torches. I'm indulging in a Bryson fest and am nearly done with A Short History of Nearly Everything: an excellent read but it's turning me into a paranoid mess. Did you know how overdue we are for an apocolypse?
Out driving the roads the next day, we came across a full car park and felt compelled to stop and see what all the fuss was about. The fuss was Stac Pollac: a mountain with the most satisfying views I could ever hope to see, every way you turn is a rush for the eyes. Ella powered up while I dawdled, camera in one hand - see, this was a big ben and my thinking was that the slower I walked the more chance a big gush of wind would come pass and knock the top off, shortening my climb. We stood there, just looking out across the land, and I don't think Mounty Lofty will ever be satisfying again.
Our guide book assured us there was a campsite at a small place called Sheigra, which looked ideally situated on the map, so we drove till dusk and till the road came to a gate with a sign saying to please put 4 pound in the honesty box. Our muddied track led out to a small cove that we shared with one other campervan, some soggy sheep and the circling sea birds. We climbed the rocky peaks and sat on the top of the world watching the birds until they weren't there to watch any more, then we climbed down to cook dinner under the back bonnet as the rain did its best to get us wet.
The rain stayed overnight and travelled with us the next day as we drove to the top of Scotland, through Durness where we stopped briefly to take in the waters of Smoo Cave – and the most ferocious waterfall I've ever seen and while I may not have seen many in my lifetime, I don't think I'll ever see one like this again – across to the badly named Tongue where we veered right down the long road to Invernesss. Every so often the rain would fade and I could wind the window down to take in the colours of the earth and heather and wild moss and lock them up tight in my memory so that I'll dream about them when I find myself home again.
Out of Inverness we swung east and toured the Black Isle. A romp in Fairy's Glen stretched our legs and then it was back in our van to search for another nighttime resting spot. We found one just out of Inverness at Bunchrew, the best camping spot we encountered for the proprietor told us we could drive anywhere we liked and we did – to the showers, the washing area, the laundromat, back to the bathrooms. We drove muddy circles into that grass.
We spent our last proper morning searching for Nessy before turning to easier finds: we drove south in the direction of Fort William and then swung round specifically to visit the house in Monarch of the Glen, which we saw distantly across the loch. I don't know why we feel compelled to visit such places when they inevitably lack the magic they have on screen. Our last night we stayed at Blair Athol Campsite, whose list of rules spans two pages. We strolled the Red Squirrel Walk and spied a recluse foraging for dinner. Our route took us past Blair Athol Castle, where we dawdled and sighed as the sun lit up behind. The sorry state of our vegetables meant dinner at the pub across the road: comfort soup with warm buttered bread, and a goodnight, sleep tight serving of sticky toffee pudding.
The elusive sun woke us up the following morning and stayed around while we hightailed it back to Dundee to give back our Tardis to Glen. No kilt-wearing, sword-wielding men, but wild moors and inspired heather, and all the world's rain – oh yes.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Friday, October 8, 2010
Two Ladies in London
It had been eight months to the day that I'd last seen Ella – and Adelaide in fact – so you can imagine my dancing feet the day I met with her in London.
We had an empty Islington apartment at our disposal for a week, and we were determined to see all the big city had to offer (yes, I had visited a fortnight earlier but, trust me, it's not the same when you have a fellow explorer). Our first night we spent catching up on those odd 240 days while playing a mean game of scrabble ( the use of an online dictionary meant quite a few words would not be snuff enough for a true scrabble connoisseur but it did mean we finished the game with no letters spare).
It was decided that a picnic in Hyde Park was in order so we met with Ella's Melbourne friends and spent more than a few hours sprawled on the lawns eating and squirrel watching. The first animal sighting drew enthusiastic shouts from the picnic-rug crowd before it was noted that the animal in question was a rather overweight rat-variety rodent. I can't pronounce it a rat with any real surety as none of us agreed on the object in its mouth - apple, bread, or twig. Our sightings were so varied, we may not have seen anything alive at all. Anyway more exciting perhaps was the romantic lunch on the neighbouring hill: gentlemen had arrived with rug, champagne bottle and picnic lunch in wicker basket, and was dashingly dressed in a buttoned up white shirt.
Since we humans have to eat frequently, we met up with our picnic companions at an African restaurant in Brixton, where E and I enjoyed the most satisfying spicy meat with lemon pancake. We actually got to eat with our hands and I'm still not sure if that concept was more fun than the meal. I can't convey the magic of the food in great detail because every time I try to imagine what it was like to roll a piece of meat in pancake my mouth starts to salivate. We danced the night over at Hootenanny's – a live music venue that was, to say the least, extremely cool.
Since vintage-clothes window shopping tends to brighten moods and real shopping was out of the question, we bussed our way to Brick Lane and spent the afternoon imagining what our lives would be like if we wore that dress with that hat and those shoes, and when these imaginings stopped to let hunger in we realised what the time was and made a mad dash to Royal Albert Hall because we had a date at the Proms. A deliciously nice evening even if we did have to lean over at ninety degree angles to catch glimpses of the orchestra. At least we had a wonderful view of the ceiling and the very appealing, if highly unusual, white pie-shaped objects floating in the sky. If I ever go back, I'll buy a standing ticket, which, though the name suggests otherwise, doesn't actually mean you have to stand for the duration of the evening. In fact, one can spend the whole evening on one's back with a pillow, like the fortunate gentlemen in the tweed coat.
Our outing to Brighton was dampened by poor weather (hard rain and figure reshaping winds) but we managed a beach stroll and were able to fit in some free deckchair lounging on the pier before the sun gave up completely and went home. I located a secondhand book shop and for 2 pound scored a beaten up copy of Bill Bryson's Mother Tongue and a homemade bookmark: a 1994 receipt for a kettle. Since we were in a beach-y frame of mind we finished the day with nothing-can-beat-us fish and chips at the marina.
No trip to London is complete without a visit to those grand buildings of free admission. We set about tackling the National History Museum, and spent more than enough time in the children's area playing their games. You'll be glad to note that my spacial awareness is better than that of a four year old. We tracked down Jane Austen's portrait – a tiny weeny sketch of disappointment – were satisfied with Charlotte Bronte and Edith Wharton, and found much to amuse ourselves with the royal family's ancestors and their poor taste in trousers.
If I were to give up my ordinary day-to-day life and move to a castle, I would relocate to Eltham Palace, even if the train ride did seem overly long and then there was the matter of walking up a hill. A great deal of my wish to live here is to do with the palace's Art Deco stylings and my potential boudoir with its curved ceilings and gold-tiled bathroom walls - part of it is to do with the previous owners, Ginny and Steve, who owned a pet lemur and had tea parties on the lawn, but a smaller though equally important part is that anyone who visited me would have to wear blue plastic bags on their feet (as we did) and I think I'd enjoy my dressed up guests with bag-covered shoes.
When I was a little girl I read books about other little girls who went to Sadler Wells, a famous ballet school that churned out the most marvellous dancers the world had ever seen (this was a world that only really cared about ballet and not much else). What I didn't know was that this particular place was in fact real and that it was just down the street from where we were staying.
I didn't read books about shoes but that doesn't mean my love for them is any less great than for those ballet stories, so it was with much delight when I spied a poster for a musical dance production titled Shoes being performed at the Wells and that tickets were a mere ten pound. Even better, Kate Miller-Heidke was singing, and nothing was keeping Ella and me from attending. A night of delights for less than a price of a book is worth some punctuation marks at the very least!!
After much research we discovered that the only way to get into Westminster Abby without parting with money was to attend Evensong. We were five minutes late and it's rather hard to stop you shoe's tap from echoing about even when you're tiptoeing. Signs told us that under no circumstance were we allowed to take photographs but it really didn't matter as the singing was more special than the interiors and that couldn't be captured by photography - I do worry though that my memory isn't a worthy recorder.
Our last day was spent at Greenwich where Ella was determined to have her picture taken on the Meridian Line since her favourite Doctor Who character has stood on the very spot. Such fierce determination has nothing on a hundred excited camera-carrying Japanese tourists and with a sad look E turned away from the snaking queue and headed towards the exit. The exit takes you back inside the building where the line is marked in brass on the floor and so I pointed out to Ella that despite the fury of No Photographs signs this was a perfect opportunity for her portrait, and since I didn't mind disobeying rules in the slightest, I snapped.
The final page was high tea in Covent Garden – two girls and a three-tiered tray of cakes. Not a crumb was spared.
We had an empty Islington apartment at our disposal for a week, and we were determined to see all the big city had to offer (yes, I had visited a fortnight earlier but, trust me, it's not the same when you have a fellow explorer). Our first night we spent catching up on those odd 240 days while playing a mean game of scrabble ( the use of an online dictionary meant quite a few words would not be snuff enough for a true scrabble connoisseur but it did mean we finished the game with no letters spare).
It was decided that a picnic in Hyde Park was in order so we met with Ella's Melbourne friends and spent more than a few hours sprawled on the lawns eating and squirrel watching. The first animal sighting drew enthusiastic shouts from the picnic-rug crowd before it was noted that the animal in question was a rather overweight rat-variety rodent. I can't pronounce it a rat with any real surety as none of us agreed on the object in its mouth - apple, bread, or twig. Our sightings were so varied, we may not have seen anything alive at all. Anyway more exciting perhaps was the romantic lunch on the neighbouring hill: gentlemen had arrived with rug, champagne bottle and picnic lunch in wicker basket, and was dashingly dressed in a buttoned up white shirt.
Since we humans have to eat frequently, we met up with our picnic companions at an African restaurant in Brixton, where E and I enjoyed the most satisfying spicy meat with lemon pancake. We actually got to eat with our hands and I'm still not sure if that concept was more fun than the meal. I can't convey the magic of the food in great detail because every time I try to imagine what it was like to roll a piece of meat in pancake my mouth starts to salivate. We danced the night over at Hootenanny's – a live music venue that was, to say the least, extremely cool.
Since vintage-clothes window shopping tends to brighten moods and real shopping was out of the question, we bussed our way to Brick Lane and spent the afternoon imagining what our lives would be like if we wore that dress with that hat and those shoes, and when these imaginings stopped to let hunger in we realised what the time was and made a mad dash to Royal Albert Hall because we had a date at the Proms. A deliciously nice evening even if we did have to lean over at ninety degree angles to catch glimpses of the orchestra. At least we had a wonderful view of the ceiling and the very appealing, if highly unusual, white pie-shaped objects floating in the sky. If I ever go back, I'll buy a standing ticket, which, though the name suggests otherwise, doesn't actually mean you have to stand for the duration of the evening. In fact, one can spend the whole evening on one's back with a pillow, like the fortunate gentlemen in the tweed coat.
Our outing to Brighton was dampened by poor weather (hard rain and figure reshaping winds) but we managed a beach stroll and were able to fit in some free deckchair lounging on the pier before the sun gave up completely and went home. I located a secondhand book shop and for 2 pound scored a beaten up copy of Bill Bryson's Mother Tongue and a homemade bookmark: a 1994 receipt for a kettle. Since we were in a beach-y frame of mind we finished the day with nothing-can-beat-us fish and chips at the marina.
No trip to London is complete without a visit to those grand buildings of free admission. We set about tackling the National History Museum, and spent more than enough time in the children's area playing their games. You'll be glad to note that my spacial awareness is better than that of a four year old. We tracked down Jane Austen's portrait – a tiny weeny sketch of disappointment – were satisfied with Charlotte Bronte and Edith Wharton, and found much to amuse ourselves with the royal family's ancestors and their poor taste in trousers.
If I were to give up my ordinary day-to-day life and move to a castle, I would relocate to Eltham Palace, even if the train ride did seem overly long and then there was the matter of walking up a hill. A great deal of my wish to live here is to do with the palace's Art Deco stylings and my potential boudoir with its curved ceilings and gold-tiled bathroom walls - part of it is to do with the previous owners, Ginny and Steve, who owned a pet lemur and had tea parties on the lawn, but a smaller though equally important part is that anyone who visited me would have to wear blue plastic bags on their feet (as we did) and I think I'd enjoy my dressed up guests with bag-covered shoes.
When I was a little girl I read books about other little girls who went to Sadler Wells, a famous ballet school that churned out the most marvellous dancers the world had ever seen (this was a world that only really cared about ballet and not much else). What I didn't know was that this particular place was in fact real and that it was just down the street from where we were staying.
I didn't read books about shoes but that doesn't mean my love for them is any less great than for those ballet stories, so it was with much delight when I spied a poster for a musical dance production titled Shoes being performed at the Wells and that tickets were a mere ten pound. Even better, Kate Miller-Heidke was singing, and nothing was keeping Ella and me from attending. A night of delights for less than a price of a book is worth some punctuation marks at the very least!!
After much research we discovered that the only way to get into Westminster Abby without parting with money was to attend Evensong. We were five minutes late and it's rather hard to stop you shoe's tap from echoing about even when you're tiptoeing. Signs told us that under no circumstance were we allowed to take photographs but it really didn't matter as the singing was more special than the interiors and that couldn't be captured by photography - I do worry though that my memory isn't a worthy recorder.
Our last day was spent at Greenwich where Ella was determined to have her picture taken on the Meridian Line since her favourite Doctor Who character has stood on the very spot. Such fierce determination has nothing on a hundred excited camera-carrying Japanese tourists and with a sad look E turned away from the snaking queue and headed towards the exit. The exit takes you back inside the building where the line is marked in brass on the floor and so I pointed out to Ella that despite the fury of No Photographs signs this was a perfect opportunity for her portrait, and since I didn't mind disobeying rules in the slightest, I snapped.
The final page was high tea in Covent Garden – two girls and a three-tiered tray of cakes. Not a crumb was spared.
Monday, September 27, 2010
A prologue
Now don't get too excited - this isn't a blog, merely a note to let you know I haven't abandoned my duty. I'm just moving rather slowly these days. I blame it on the weather. The good news is that Ella and I are heading for Morocco, land of SUN, and after a mad stint in Marrakech we have a date with a beach for one full week. That's right, plenty of time to get my head around our recent activities and report back all that's happened this past month. I will leave you with this tidbit: we almost blew up our car.
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Thursday, September 16, 2010
A Free Weekend
After a few days of being back in the real world I decided it was time to reacquaint myself with London. Fadia and John's son, Fred, has an apartment just off Liverpool St Station and right near where Jack the Ripper took his first victim, and since Fred was holidaying for the weekend I was offered the key.
With my Youth Rail Card I managed to procure a first class ticket for twenty pence more than a general seat, which meant I could stretch my legs as far as they would go, which isn't very far but it's nice when nothing obstructs them.
I had in mind a holiday of free activities and was determined to see how far I could take this. Of course, since I'd planned to see Dirty Dancing on the West End, this didn't start till the weekend: I thoroughly enjoyed it but I wouldn't recommend it to anyone but the biggest movie fans as there is better to see.
Saturday morning I made my way to the Portobello Markets with every other tourist who had a copy of Timeout's When in London (it's not really called that but you get the gist). Two miles of shuffling near did me in – and only a almond croissant could revive me – not free, I know, but at one pound you can't go wrong. I did see some shiny silver spoons but they were four lanes of bodies to the left and there was no going near if I wanted to get out alive.
I toured the Tate Modern in the afternoon (discovered under free activities in my When in London), found a lot to enjoy, a lot to puzzle over, and a space on the wall to hang my stick figures.
Sunday I popped over to the Spittlefield Markets since they were just round the corner and decided that the days of unearthing a treasure for a bargain seem to be long gone since the prices there were more hefty than in the neighbouring shops.
The British Museum was next on my list, a place too big and full with artefacts to attempt in one day so I set about tackling the ground floor. Two hours later I was exhausted so made a note to come back one day and attempt the left wing of the second floor, and moved on. I'd read about the Serpentine Gallery in Hyde Park and decided to walk in that direction but was rather disappointed with the current display. Half the photographs were stuck to the walls with sticky-tape; I've progressed beyond sticky-tape when decorating walls so I really feel that galleries should too.
Monday I wound up at Victoria Bus Station where I bought a ticket to Cambridge. This sounds quite spur of the moment but it was always part of the plan.
I arrived in Cambridge just as the rain did and hid under my umbrella while it barrelled down causing the relocation of many ants. I was staying in Jesus College but as I knew only that it was within the town's borders I made for the tourist information centre to see what I could unearth. As a rule, tourist centres are the most useful places for the new kid in town, and it's where I go first, but like with everything else here, it was set up to relieve you of your money. Sixty pence later I had a map and vague directions to the college and a supermarket, where I stopped for dinner supplies. I also ducked into an Oxfam shop and came out with a Harry Potter – the rain had let up briefly but the weather looked rather dicey so it was likely I'd be staying in for the night and frankly Harry never fails to entertain.
Jesus College sits off Jesus Lane, behind a red brick wall of defence. I called in at the porter's lodge to collect my key and ducked in and out of two courtyards to my room. Just before going inside, the skies cleared of cloud and the sun threw a bewitching light on the grounds making me want to dump my stuff as quickly as possible to explore. In my haste I locked my keys inside so had to shuffle back to the lodge in hope that they had a spare.
By the time I'd done a circuit of the college the rain was back in fury so I retreated to my room and by morning was determined that what I needed was to live in a place like this, either that or in a Harry Potter-type school.
The weather was mostly agreeable in the sense that it declined to rain. Since I had no intention of parting with money to take a tour, I removed the route map from the 20-pound-per-person bus tour pamphlet and set out on foot.
Cambridge is a town full with bikes, to the point that there are signs everywhere warning cyclists that they may not park their bikes in that particular spot. Since bicycles don't tend to be put in the eye-sore category I can only deduce that when students are allowed to leave the bicycles in places they do so in such great numbers to obstruct access.
My favourite college is Trinity because they let me wander around the grounds for free, not on the grass mind you, but since everywhere else is charging an access fee I didn't mind sticking to the paths in the slightest. I delighted in doing so and took not one but three turns around the lawns.
Even the Botanical Gardens charged an entry fee of four pounds, money I refused to part with even though I trekked halfway around the earth to get there. I made my displeasure known, eyeing the information board with distaste, and shunning the ticket girl, and then decided to poke my head in people's front yards and view their flowers since I wouldn't have to hand over any money to do so.
This took me up till 4 when I boarded the train back to Lowestoft. My determination to be stingy mostly defeated by pesky little necessities like transport, food and reading material.
p.s. Only a week until I meet up with Ella!
p.p.s. I know this is late coming, and I've since met up with Ella so I have some adventures to share with you but it'll have to wait a week because we're heading up to the Scottish highlands where such things as wireless Internet don't reach.
xxx
With my Youth Rail Card I managed to procure a first class ticket for twenty pence more than a general seat, which meant I could stretch my legs as far as they would go, which isn't very far but it's nice when nothing obstructs them.
I had in mind a holiday of free activities and was determined to see how far I could take this. Of course, since I'd planned to see Dirty Dancing on the West End, this didn't start till the weekend: I thoroughly enjoyed it but I wouldn't recommend it to anyone but the biggest movie fans as there is better to see.
Saturday morning I made my way to the Portobello Markets with every other tourist who had a copy of Timeout's When in London (it's not really called that but you get the gist). Two miles of shuffling near did me in – and only a almond croissant could revive me – not free, I know, but at one pound you can't go wrong. I did see some shiny silver spoons but they were four lanes of bodies to the left and there was no going near if I wanted to get out alive.
I toured the Tate Modern in the afternoon (discovered under free activities in my When in London), found a lot to enjoy, a lot to puzzle over, and a space on the wall to hang my stick figures.
Sunday I popped over to the Spittlefield Markets since they were just round the corner and decided that the days of unearthing a treasure for a bargain seem to be long gone since the prices there were more hefty than in the neighbouring shops.
The British Museum was next on my list, a place too big and full with artefacts to attempt in one day so I set about tackling the ground floor. Two hours later I was exhausted so made a note to come back one day and attempt the left wing of the second floor, and moved on. I'd read about the Serpentine Gallery in Hyde Park and decided to walk in that direction but was rather disappointed with the current display. Half the photographs were stuck to the walls with sticky-tape; I've progressed beyond sticky-tape when decorating walls so I really feel that galleries should too.
Monday I wound up at Victoria Bus Station where I bought a ticket to Cambridge. This sounds quite spur of the moment but it was always part of the plan.
I arrived in Cambridge just as the rain did and hid under my umbrella while it barrelled down causing the relocation of many ants. I was staying in Jesus College but as I knew only that it was within the town's borders I made for the tourist information centre to see what I could unearth. As a rule, tourist centres are the most useful places for the new kid in town, and it's where I go first, but like with everything else here, it was set up to relieve you of your money. Sixty pence later I had a map and vague directions to the college and a supermarket, where I stopped for dinner supplies. I also ducked into an Oxfam shop and came out with a Harry Potter – the rain had let up briefly but the weather looked rather dicey so it was likely I'd be staying in for the night and frankly Harry never fails to entertain.
Jesus College sits off Jesus Lane, behind a red brick wall of defence. I called in at the porter's lodge to collect my key and ducked in and out of two courtyards to my room. Just before going inside, the skies cleared of cloud and the sun threw a bewitching light on the grounds making me want to dump my stuff as quickly as possible to explore. In my haste I locked my keys inside so had to shuffle back to the lodge in hope that they had a spare.
By the time I'd done a circuit of the college the rain was back in fury so I retreated to my room and by morning was determined that what I needed was to live in a place like this, either that or in a Harry Potter-type school.
The weather was mostly agreeable in the sense that it declined to rain. Since I had no intention of parting with money to take a tour, I removed the route map from the 20-pound-per-person bus tour pamphlet and set out on foot.
Cambridge is a town full with bikes, to the point that there are signs everywhere warning cyclists that they may not park their bikes in that particular spot. Since bicycles don't tend to be put in the eye-sore category I can only deduce that when students are allowed to leave the bicycles in places they do so in such great numbers to obstruct access.
My favourite college is Trinity because they let me wander around the grounds for free, not on the grass mind you, but since everywhere else is charging an access fee I didn't mind sticking to the paths in the slightest. I delighted in doing so and took not one but three turns around the lawns.
Even the Botanical Gardens charged an entry fee of four pounds, money I refused to part with even though I trekked halfway around the earth to get there. I made my displeasure known, eyeing the information board with distaste, and shunning the ticket girl, and then decided to poke my head in people's front yards and view their flowers since I wouldn't have to hand over any money to do so.
This took me up till 4 when I boarded the train back to Lowestoft. My determination to be stingy mostly defeated by pesky little necessities like transport, food and reading material.
p.s. Only a week until I meet up with Ella!
p.p.s. I know this is late coming, and I've since met up with Ella so I have some adventures to share with you but it'll have to wait a week because we're heading up to the Scottish highlands where such things as wireless Internet don't reach.
xxx
Saturday, August 28, 2010
The Last Cinderella Days
On Tour
On the notice board in the passage between kitchen and servery is a Mountain Goat brochure with a fifty per cent staff discount sticker. I'm a sucker for discounts and I've had a hankering to see some country beyond Bowness; each room in the hotel is named for a lake and I've been wanting to meet them for a while.
Mike picked me up at 9.25 and, together with 12 tourists from China and a lovely Indian couple, we went exploring. I don't mean to imply the Chinese travellers weren't lovely but since none of them took my photo (the scale to which I measure loveliness) I never had the opportunity to find out. We drove past the largest lake in England, Lake Windermere, which I see daily from the hotel windows and where I have on occasion dipped my toes. Don't be too impressed for lakes in England aren't terribly big to begin with. Next was Rydal (rather small but ideal for swimming, or so I've been told by fellow staff) before we set our sights on Brotherswater (named for two brothers who had the misfortune to drown there some 300 years ago) and Ullswater (which has the worst bathroom in the hotel to clean).
We stopped on Chestnut Hill to see the 4000-year old Castlerigg Stone Circle, its significance lost eons ago but still worthy of daily troupes of visitors - rather impressive for some misshapen rocks.
Guide Mike offered tidbits of local gossip, most of which I lost somewhere after Derwent Water and before Thirlmire, but at the time I was thoroughly entertained and so sure of remembering it all so I could entertain others that I didn't bother to note them down. I'm afraid you'll actually have to trek out to the Lakes and take the tour with Mike.
We had our lunch hour in Kewsick (and had to be back at the bus at 12.45 sharp or would be left behind) and the rain soon followed. It was market day and I found a jar of lemon curd (lemon curd with natural yoghurt is my current staple) to go in my backpack. Part of the tour was a boat ride around Derwent so we piled on board and all made for the cabin to seek shelter from the wet. We stopped along the way to pick up walkers and deposit them further along the shore. Dressed in wet-weather gear, they collectively sneered at our cosy cabin and opted for the seats outside instead, something I was exceedingly grateful for as I had little desire to share my dry seat with a wet walker.
The afternoon ended with a drive through a mountain pass so steep and the road so narrow, that our driver needed to have a break to relax his nerves. Most fun had all day, especially when a stupid sheep decided to wander onto the road causing a traffic jam. I alighted the bus determined to go on another tour, partly to discover why the company had chosen goats as its preferred animal when the countryside is wool-packed with sheep.
On Tour Again
I'd convinced Monika, my Czech friend with a rather limited understanding of English, of the merits of Mountain Goat tours, so yesterday we set off to the Yorkshire Dales. It's hard enough persuading Monika that dogs 'woof' (and in fact I haven't managed this; I can't even translate the Czech version of dogs barking into something you'd understand) so when our bus driver runs off on linguistic tangents – do you know where the words 'junk' and 'crackpot' come from? Because I now do - translating back to her becomes a far more complex journey than mere sight-seeing.
I love the Dales with their wild moors and a sun that shines far longer than it does in the Lakes, and even more I love the oddities we come across like the buttertubes, rock formations twenty-five meters deep where long-ago farmers stored their butter after returning from markets. Can you imagine if they did that today? I certainly wouldn't be going to the supermarket to pay for butter.
I also discovered rockeries, mostly because the bus driver told Monika and I that we had to get off the bus rather than an instinctive urge on my part to see what was behind the wall, but I'm glad I did. I'm assuming you already know what these are so I won't bother explaining - but they were new to me.
The day ended with a visit to the cheese factory in Swaledale where Monika and I sampled all twenty cheeses and ended up buying ice cream instead, which might be of interest to those people who worry about things like sampling and the effect on consumer spending.
A Walk in the Countryside
It's hard seeing beyond the exhaustion of split shifts but I put on my walking shoes the other day and hopped on a bus to Grasmere – the village, not the lake - a place I've become almost familiar with. I ate lunch in the small square opposite the bookshop where I bought a copy of Bluestockings, a curious account of the first women to attend university.
It's a nice feeling, pack low on your back, seeing other walkers crisscrossing farmers' fields ahead of you, walking in twos or threes, or, like me, going solo. You walk across a few paddocks alongside a thin stream, and all around you are pairs of black and white lambs. Then begins a rather mild climb that brings you to a small waterfall and the entrance to the tarn, a stretch of clear water that on a sunny day might have prompted further scrutiny but today with the grey skies beginning to leak warranted no more than a passing glance and a quick snap as I scurried across to the other side. I had more important things on my mind, like retreat.
On my way back, jumping from stone to stone to avoid the mud (such bothersome stuff), six jets flew overhead – and, since I'd been thinking about Meg Rosoff's How I live Now – an excellent wartime story set in the UK – it made me think what it would be like if those jets, rather than bringing curiosity, brought fear. As luck had it, there were some large bushes to my left so had I been wandering about the country side in wartime I could have dived headfirst into their muddy depths and out of sight – the problem with walking alone is that my mind has too much spare time.
A Bite in the Apple
It was the teaspoons that did it.
We got a new set the other day, causing great excitement among the staff. Such explanations as have you seen them? Well, I never. How shiny – they're really much nicer than the old ones could be heard if you were walking past the kitchen. It was the same with the new sponges the week before, and the glass cloths before that.
I couldn't help but get caught up in the fervor. It was when my pen started to note their existence in my diary that I knew it was time to move on. There are greater things in life than new spoons, no matter how shiny they might be - and by gosh, they really were ever so shiny.
My final evening in the Lakes I went with Matt and Simon, and Kathy and Small Jane to Grasmere for a last walk up the Lion and the Lamb, so called because at some point in time a person in the village declared if you squint this way and that it looks like a great lion resting atop a lamb.
It's a steep climb and if you happen to meet a walker descending, there's a moment of confusion as one wonders how to navigate around the other. Since there's no rule book about such happenings I've decided that lone walkers get right of way and have been doing my best to educate the Lakes District's ramblers.
At the top we sat on the Lion (the Lamb's rather small and doesn't offer as good views), looking out at the three lakes of Grasmere, Windermere and Coniston, and predictably it began to rain, water whispers that barely dampened our shoulders but still brought out irritated grumblings and rain coats.
A rather awful pub meal in Windermere completed the day and I returned to Lindeth Fell for the last time.
I'm thrilled about the prospect of being on the move again – I meet with Ella in just under twenty days and we've Scotland in our sights – but, as is the way, it's sad leaving people behind. I've been here just over two months, a bite in the apple, but given the friendships I've made it feels like far longer.
My Cinderella clothes are packed away, I've farewelled the cleaning cupboard and closed the laundry door, glanced once more at the silver spoons and now I'm done and it's time to catch the train back to Lowestoft where I'll be practising the art of sleeping in for a week or two.
On the notice board in the passage between kitchen and servery is a Mountain Goat brochure with a fifty per cent staff discount sticker. I'm a sucker for discounts and I've had a hankering to see some country beyond Bowness; each room in the hotel is named for a lake and I've been wanting to meet them for a while.
Mike picked me up at 9.25 and, together with 12 tourists from China and a lovely Indian couple, we went exploring. I don't mean to imply the Chinese travellers weren't lovely but since none of them took my photo (the scale to which I measure loveliness) I never had the opportunity to find out. We drove past the largest lake in England, Lake Windermere, which I see daily from the hotel windows and where I have on occasion dipped my toes. Don't be too impressed for lakes in England aren't terribly big to begin with. Next was Rydal (rather small but ideal for swimming, or so I've been told by fellow staff) before we set our sights on Brotherswater (named for two brothers who had the misfortune to drown there some 300 years ago) and Ullswater (which has the worst bathroom in the hotel to clean).
We stopped on Chestnut Hill to see the 4000-year old Castlerigg Stone Circle, its significance lost eons ago but still worthy of daily troupes of visitors - rather impressive for some misshapen rocks.
Guide Mike offered tidbits of local gossip, most of which I lost somewhere after Derwent Water and before Thirlmire, but at the time I was thoroughly entertained and so sure of remembering it all so I could entertain others that I didn't bother to note them down. I'm afraid you'll actually have to trek out to the Lakes and take the tour with Mike.
We had our lunch hour in Kewsick (and had to be back at the bus at 12.45 sharp or would be left behind) and the rain soon followed. It was market day and I found a jar of lemon curd (lemon curd with natural yoghurt is my current staple) to go in my backpack. Part of the tour was a boat ride around Derwent so we piled on board and all made for the cabin to seek shelter from the wet. We stopped along the way to pick up walkers and deposit them further along the shore. Dressed in wet-weather gear, they collectively sneered at our cosy cabin and opted for the seats outside instead, something I was exceedingly grateful for as I had little desire to share my dry seat with a wet walker.
The afternoon ended with a drive through a mountain pass so steep and the road so narrow, that our driver needed to have a break to relax his nerves. Most fun had all day, especially when a stupid sheep decided to wander onto the road causing a traffic jam. I alighted the bus determined to go on another tour, partly to discover why the company had chosen goats as its preferred animal when the countryside is wool-packed with sheep.
On Tour Again
I'd convinced Monika, my Czech friend with a rather limited understanding of English, of the merits of Mountain Goat tours, so yesterday we set off to the Yorkshire Dales. It's hard enough persuading Monika that dogs 'woof' (and in fact I haven't managed this; I can't even translate the Czech version of dogs barking into something you'd understand) so when our bus driver runs off on linguistic tangents – do you know where the words 'junk' and 'crackpot' come from? Because I now do - translating back to her becomes a far more complex journey than mere sight-seeing.
I love the Dales with their wild moors and a sun that shines far longer than it does in the Lakes, and even more I love the oddities we come across like the buttertubes, rock formations twenty-five meters deep where long-ago farmers stored their butter after returning from markets. Can you imagine if they did that today? I certainly wouldn't be going to the supermarket to pay for butter.
I also discovered rockeries, mostly because the bus driver told Monika and I that we had to get off the bus rather than an instinctive urge on my part to see what was behind the wall, but I'm glad I did. I'm assuming you already know what these are so I won't bother explaining - but they were new to me.
The day ended with a visit to the cheese factory in Swaledale where Monika and I sampled all twenty cheeses and ended up buying ice cream instead, which might be of interest to those people who worry about things like sampling and the effect on consumer spending.
A Walk in the Countryside
It's hard seeing beyond the exhaustion of split shifts but I put on my walking shoes the other day and hopped on a bus to Grasmere – the village, not the lake - a place I've become almost familiar with. I ate lunch in the small square opposite the bookshop where I bought a copy of Bluestockings, a curious account of the first women to attend university.
It's a nice feeling, pack low on your back, seeing other walkers crisscrossing farmers' fields ahead of you, walking in twos or threes, or, like me, going solo. You walk across a few paddocks alongside a thin stream, and all around you are pairs of black and white lambs. Then begins a rather mild climb that brings you to a small waterfall and the entrance to the tarn, a stretch of clear water that on a sunny day might have prompted further scrutiny but today with the grey skies beginning to leak warranted no more than a passing glance and a quick snap as I scurried across to the other side. I had more important things on my mind, like retreat.
On my way back, jumping from stone to stone to avoid the mud (such bothersome stuff), six jets flew overhead – and, since I'd been thinking about Meg Rosoff's How I live Now – an excellent wartime story set in the UK – it made me think what it would be like if those jets, rather than bringing curiosity, brought fear. As luck had it, there were some large bushes to my left so had I been wandering about the country side in wartime I could have dived headfirst into their muddy depths and out of sight – the problem with walking alone is that my mind has too much spare time.
A Bite in the Apple
It was the teaspoons that did it.
We got a new set the other day, causing great excitement among the staff. Such explanations as have you seen them? Well, I never. How shiny – they're really much nicer than the old ones could be heard if you were walking past the kitchen. It was the same with the new sponges the week before, and the glass cloths before that.
I couldn't help but get caught up in the fervor. It was when my pen started to note their existence in my diary that I knew it was time to move on. There are greater things in life than new spoons, no matter how shiny they might be - and by gosh, they really were ever so shiny.
My final evening in the Lakes I went with Matt and Simon, and Kathy and Small Jane to Grasmere for a last walk up the Lion and the Lamb, so called because at some point in time a person in the village declared if you squint this way and that it looks like a great lion resting atop a lamb.
It's a steep climb and if you happen to meet a walker descending, there's a moment of confusion as one wonders how to navigate around the other. Since there's no rule book about such happenings I've decided that lone walkers get right of way and have been doing my best to educate the Lakes District's ramblers.
At the top we sat on the Lion (the Lamb's rather small and doesn't offer as good views), looking out at the three lakes of Grasmere, Windermere and Coniston, and predictably it began to rain, water whispers that barely dampened our shoulders but still brought out irritated grumblings and rain coats.
A rather awful pub meal in Windermere completed the day and I returned to Lindeth Fell for the last time.
I'm thrilled about the prospect of being on the move again – I meet with Ella in just under twenty days and we've Scotland in our sights – but, as is the way, it's sad leaving people behind. I've been here just over two months, a bite in the apple, but given the friendships I've made it feels like far longer.
My Cinderella clothes are packed away, I've farewelled the cleaning cupboard and closed the laundry door, glanced once more at the silver spoons and now I'm done and it's time to catch the train back to Lowestoft where I'll be practising the art of sleeping in for a week or two.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
The Rainy Season
I've got lots to say so prepare for a few installments.
Part One
There's a run in the sky above the Lakes District, not unlike the one fraying a hole in my stockings, and it's been leaking water for days. I don't think the English should be allowed to declare a season summer just because the rest of us do.
The leakiest day came when Jayne, my restaurant manager, and I decided to take on The Old Man of Coniston, a sky-high Fell (you get yelled at if you say hill) that you can see from the dining room window, and one I've lost many moments contemplating (fell gazing is an acceptable waste of time, whereas leaning against walls is largely frowned upon). Locals refer to it as Coniston Old Man and it's the highest in the Furness Fells - and, after some quick Googling, the 12th most prominent mountain in England.
Jayne drove us there in her yellow convertible, whipping about the skinny roads like we were chasing the lost sun. If you live in the Lakes District, it is your right as a citizen to own a convertible, without one you are like a Maddy with no book.
I had new waterproof walking shoes and was tied up tight in my pink and grey raincoat (the boys say this raincoat is a deterrent to possible liftgivers when we trek home up the hill from gym as it makes me look like a person who wants to walk). Honey and jam sandwiches neatly wrapped up next to my banana sat at the bottom of my backpack, camera on top.
We parked in the village of Coniston, and began to climb a road so steep I was almost on my knees. Ten minutes later the road flattened and we took a turn leading up to a car park where the sensible walkers bring their cars. It began to rain - light stuff that wet my knees through my pants and made me wish I’d worn shorts.
C-O-M was some way off and water was already puddling on the wide track. A few other walkers were visible in the distance and the odd sheep grazed at ferns. After a steep row of steps the track seemed to vanish, and Jayne, long legs striding to the left, announced she could see the path further up. Some mad scrambling followed and we came across forgotten rail tracks tumbling over the cliff’s edge. We scurried back down the hill, warning a group of walkers off Jayne’s path and righted our course. C-O-M is covered in slate, and there’s a mine still in operation, so much of the walk was spent avoiding injury by sharp rock. Two hours in we came to a lake, a gorgeous pool of water hiding in the hill, and I could only wonder at finding it on a hot summer's day.
It took thirty minutes longer to climb to the top, where a pile of stones awaited us, and with each minute we lost another snippet of visibility. The ladder in the sky widened an inch more and the water almost washed Jayne and I down the mountain. I was wetter than if I'd had a bath. At the top is a tree of stones that grows taller with the arrival of each fell conqueror, and my stone, chosen near the start of our walk, went on top. I think the wind blew it right off again, but somewhere up there in the clouds is a piece of my walk.
Part One
There's a run in the sky above the Lakes District, not unlike the one fraying a hole in my stockings, and it's been leaking water for days. I don't think the English should be allowed to declare a season summer just because the rest of us do.
The leakiest day came when Jayne, my restaurant manager, and I decided to take on The Old Man of Coniston, a sky-high Fell (you get yelled at if you say hill) that you can see from the dining room window, and one I've lost many moments contemplating (fell gazing is an acceptable waste of time, whereas leaning against walls is largely frowned upon). Locals refer to it as Coniston Old Man and it's the highest in the Furness Fells - and, after some quick Googling, the 12th most prominent mountain in England.
Jayne drove us there in her yellow convertible, whipping about the skinny roads like we were chasing the lost sun. If you live in the Lakes District, it is your right as a citizen to own a convertible, without one you are like a Maddy with no book.
I had new waterproof walking shoes and was tied up tight in my pink and grey raincoat (the boys say this raincoat is a deterrent to possible liftgivers when we trek home up the hill from gym as it makes me look like a person who wants to walk). Honey and jam sandwiches neatly wrapped up next to my banana sat at the bottom of my backpack, camera on top.
We parked in the village of Coniston, and began to climb a road so steep I was almost on my knees. Ten minutes later the road flattened and we took a turn leading up to a car park where the sensible walkers bring their cars. It began to rain - light stuff that wet my knees through my pants and made me wish I’d worn shorts.
C-O-M was some way off and water was already puddling on the wide track. A few other walkers were visible in the distance and the odd sheep grazed at ferns. After a steep row of steps the track seemed to vanish, and Jayne, long legs striding to the left, announced she could see the path further up. Some mad scrambling followed and we came across forgotten rail tracks tumbling over the cliff’s edge. We scurried back down the hill, warning a group of walkers off Jayne’s path and righted our course. C-O-M is covered in slate, and there’s a mine still in operation, so much of the walk was spent avoiding injury by sharp rock. Two hours in we came to a lake, a gorgeous pool of water hiding in the hill, and I could only wonder at finding it on a hot summer's day.
It took thirty minutes longer to climb to the top, where a pile of stones awaited us, and with each minute we lost another snippet of visibility. The ladder in the sky widened an inch more and the water almost washed Jayne and I down the mountain. I was wetter than if I'd had a bath. At the top is a tree of stones that grows taller with the arrival of each fell conqueror, and my stone, chosen near the start of our walk, went on top. I think the wind blew it right off again, but somewhere up there in the clouds is a piece of my walk.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
The Art of Housekeeping
I haven't left the blogosphere, but I'd understand if you were beginning to wonder of my whereabouts. I've begun this many times, at the worst moments – and this is probably one I'll regret tomorrow. I've just finished my evening shift. It's past eleven and I'm tired yet wide-eyed, and my feet are too sore for sleep. I work two shifts a day and all my spare time is scheduled to the minute.
(Oh, dammit, it's already another day, so I fear this will seem disjointed and lacking in proper information but if I don't send this now, you'll never get it.)
When I left my brother gave me Dr Seuss' Oh, The Places You'll Go! that has the lines: All alone! Whether you like it or not, alone will be something you'll be quite a lot.
And that's been me quite frequently. When I first arrived in Bowness I felt like that last kid at the school gate waiting to be picked up. Then I met Matt and Simon, two 19-year-old kids from Zimbabwe, whom I want to bring home with me, and now I don't feel alone at all.
I'm living in a pipsqueak room in a tiny four-room cottage, steps away from Lindeth Fell Country House Hotel, my new place of employment. Down the drive and across the road is a field where three ponies are kept and beyond is Windermere Lake. Sometimes when I walk home from Bowness, the sun sits in that perfect spot, and my corner of the world lights up and I could stand face upturned to the warm air for ever.
Bowness-on-Windermere is 2km away and whenever I walk there I encounter tourists; there seem to be more hotels than homes, and every hour ferry boats shuttle the travellers around the lake.
I've been spending my days learning the art of housekeeping. Want your pillow plumped? I'm your girl. Towels draped perfectly over the bathroom rails? Just call my name. Bed turned down for the night? My name's in the dictionary definition. I'm less able with glassware but I don't want to peak too soon.
The other part of my day is spent practising dining room etiquette, which provides countless opportunities to do stupid things in front of strangers. I'll save these moments for another blog but I'm keeping a log in my brain. I've been asked out to afternoon tea by no less than three elderly Irish gentlemen so if you're keen for a date, Ireland's not a bad bet.
In all, I've had six days off – and I've been exploring, map in hand, flag of Maddy ready to mark new territory. I went walking in Beatrix Potter country, freely trespassing farmers' fields and getting acquainted with the local farm life. Signs ask if I can please shut the gate – gate catches here are remarkable specimens: clever, functional and aesthetically pleasing designs where Australian catches are rather boring in their sameness – which irks just a little because if nothing else Enid taught me the importance of closing a gate.
I've visited Ambleside and Grasmere, once home to William Wordsworth, and walked the Coffin route that connects them both. I've been to Keswick and Kendal and today I'll cross off Barrow on the maps I've pinned to my walls.
I have more, so much more, to say – so I'll try again soon. We have rainy days ahead, so I'll have time to update you on the adventures.
Love to you all. I hit the six-month mark a few days ago.
xxx
(Oh, dammit, it's already another day, so I fear this will seem disjointed and lacking in proper information but if I don't send this now, you'll never get it.)
When I left my brother gave me Dr Seuss' Oh, The Places You'll Go! that has the lines: All alone! Whether you like it or not, alone will be something you'll be quite a lot.
And that's been me quite frequently. When I first arrived in Bowness I felt like that last kid at the school gate waiting to be picked up. Then I met Matt and Simon, two 19-year-old kids from Zimbabwe, whom I want to bring home with me, and now I don't feel alone at all.
I'm living in a pipsqueak room in a tiny four-room cottage, steps away from Lindeth Fell Country House Hotel, my new place of employment. Down the drive and across the road is a field where three ponies are kept and beyond is Windermere Lake. Sometimes when I walk home from Bowness, the sun sits in that perfect spot, and my corner of the world lights up and I could stand face upturned to the warm air for ever.
Bowness-on-Windermere is 2km away and whenever I walk there I encounter tourists; there seem to be more hotels than homes, and every hour ferry boats shuttle the travellers around the lake.
I've been spending my days learning the art of housekeeping. Want your pillow plumped? I'm your girl. Towels draped perfectly over the bathroom rails? Just call my name. Bed turned down for the night? My name's in the dictionary definition. I'm less able with glassware but I don't want to peak too soon.
The other part of my day is spent practising dining room etiquette, which provides countless opportunities to do stupid things in front of strangers. I'll save these moments for another blog but I'm keeping a log in my brain. I've been asked out to afternoon tea by no less than three elderly Irish gentlemen so if you're keen for a date, Ireland's not a bad bet.
In all, I've had six days off – and I've been exploring, map in hand, flag of Maddy ready to mark new territory. I went walking in Beatrix Potter country, freely trespassing farmers' fields and getting acquainted with the local farm life. Signs ask if I can please shut the gate – gate catches here are remarkable specimens: clever, functional and aesthetically pleasing designs where Australian catches are rather boring in their sameness – which irks just a little because if nothing else Enid taught me the importance of closing a gate.
I've visited Ambleside and Grasmere, once home to William Wordsworth, and walked the Coffin route that connects them both. I've been to Keswick and Kendal and today I'll cross off Barrow on the maps I've pinned to my walls.
I have more, so much more, to say – so I'll try again soon. We have rainy days ahead, so I'll have time to update you on the adventures.
Love to you all. I hit the six-month mark a few days ago.
xxx
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Just Call Me Cinderella
I caught the bus to London and lost my lucky Japanese coin, won in a game of rock, scissors, paper in Barcelona. An accident on the motorway caused us to detour and we arrived at Victoria Coach Station an hour and a half late – I still had eight hours until my next trip.
It bordered on hot and Londoners wore as little as socially acceptable; I had on jeans and boots and felt like I'd turned up to the party overdressed, some summer clothes shopping was deemed necessary.
The overnight bus ride wasn't awful, and insomniacs would have enjoyed themselves. The sun woke at 3.30 am and there was something special about sharing it with only the driver – seeing as all the other passengers were able to find that position which allowed sleep.
Joy – Dad's sister's husband's sister; my cousin's aunt; my aunt's sister-in-law; or my mum's husband's sister's sister-in-law – met me at the Dundee bus station and took me to her home, Balfour farm. I spent the afternoon catching up on sleep so my stay officially began the next day.
Balfour Farm is a lovely place to stay, a big old house with hide-away rooms you discover days after you've arrived. Scotland is awash with green, and Joy and Sandy's garden is a marvellous place to wander. Sometimes their dog Meg would lead me down through the twisting avenue of trees out back to where the Christmas trees grow. No longer a working farm, their land is leased to a Christmas tree company and if you count them, you'll find 800 thousand trees in regimental lines.
I haven't yet managed to see the Loch Ness Monster or any Scottish monster at all. I have been in the wrong part of Scotland, but that hasn't stopped my efforts and I do feel that had there been a monster to be seen, he would have flown from the depths of the Loch and made a trip to Balfour farm, so I must deduce that there is no such monster to be found. For the record I've spied countless rabbits, one red squirrel, two hare, two deer and various Scottish locals. Joy says deer snack on the Christmas trees but Meg and I only saw one, which ran away to the snapping of Meg's teeth.
I've had a car at my disposal and I'm reminded of when I first got my license and that overwhelming sense of independence. Of course there's independence in travelling solo but it's restricted in that I could only ever go places where my feet or public transport would take me, and it's not like I could say to the bus driver, excuse me, do you mind taking the next right because it looks awfully pretty down there and my map says there might be a castle, or hey, we just passed an entire field of baby bunnies, can we turn around so I can go and play with them (which would have been a complete waste of time because as it turns out baby bunnies don't want to play with Maddy).
In my borrowed car I visited the ruins of Edzel Castle, where there is still a winding stone staircase you can climb three storeys high and gardens just as they once were. I went to the much lauded blue door found beyond the town of Edzel, which opens up on to a sigh-worthy walk along a river where the salmon swim.
A few miles from Balfour farm sit two Iron Age forts on neighbouring hill tops. I climbed both, the air so thick with wind I walked with heavy feet in fear of being blown away. I could see further than the eye's spectrum, the sprawl of the land beyond the distant bens clear in my imagination.
A young couple, friends of Joy and Sandy's daughter, came to stay for a few nights and so we went bike riding, minus Sandy, Saturday morning. I dimly recall relaying to you the hills I came across in Suffolk, mere roughs in the roads compared to the mountains we climbed. I honestly thought I was going to fall in to a ditch, dead of exhaustion. Thankfully, Maree's back wheel was highly susceptible to punctures so I got a few rest breaks.
Later that week I went in search of J.M Barrie's hometown and found his grave; it's a nice plot with a gorgeous view of the town and surrounding countryside. I doubt he appreciates it but I imagine the hoards of visitors do. J.M stands for James Matthew; I wonder if you knew that. I didn't.
Another time I drove through Montrose and up the coast to Dunnottar Castle. Its ruins sit on a cliff's edge, bordered on either side by coves. Mary Queen of Scotts and King Charles II are marked down as visitors. You walk a thin path dipping down to almost sea level and then climb the stairs to the castle's entrance. The size is astonishing; an ambitious build, parts carved into the land's rock. It's the perfect place to explore on a summer's day, and with so many nooks I can't help but want to play hide and seek – a drawback of a solo traveller; I could hide but there wouldn't be anyone to find me and I think I'd get hungry and I wouldn't want to miss out on Joy's stewed rhubarb.
My last day in Scotland came rather suddenly and I spent it at a garden show in Edinburgh with Joy, an exceptionally fun afternoon of flower browsing.
Another overnight bus ride and I'm back in Lowestoft, but only for a very short time. I leave tomorrow for Bowness-on Windermere in the Lakes District where I've got myself a job as a general assistant at Lindeth Fell County House Hotel. So I'll be in Beatrix Potter and Swallows and Amazons country for a while cleaning rooms and waitressing. Just call me Cinderella.
p.s. I did try to put up some photos but the application refuses to behave.
It bordered on hot and Londoners wore as little as socially acceptable; I had on jeans and boots and felt like I'd turned up to the party overdressed, some summer clothes shopping was deemed necessary.
The overnight bus ride wasn't awful, and insomniacs would have enjoyed themselves. The sun woke at 3.30 am and there was something special about sharing it with only the driver – seeing as all the other passengers were able to find that position which allowed sleep.
Joy – Dad's sister's husband's sister; my cousin's aunt; my aunt's sister-in-law; or my mum's husband's sister's sister-in-law – met me at the Dundee bus station and took me to her home, Balfour farm. I spent the afternoon catching up on sleep so my stay officially began the next day.
Balfour Farm is a lovely place to stay, a big old house with hide-away rooms you discover days after you've arrived. Scotland is awash with green, and Joy and Sandy's garden is a marvellous place to wander. Sometimes their dog Meg would lead me down through the twisting avenue of trees out back to where the Christmas trees grow. No longer a working farm, their land is leased to a Christmas tree company and if you count them, you'll find 800 thousand trees in regimental lines.
I haven't yet managed to see the Loch Ness Monster or any Scottish monster at all. I have been in the wrong part of Scotland, but that hasn't stopped my efforts and I do feel that had there been a monster to be seen, he would have flown from the depths of the Loch and made a trip to Balfour farm, so I must deduce that there is no such monster to be found. For the record I've spied countless rabbits, one red squirrel, two hare, two deer and various Scottish locals. Joy says deer snack on the Christmas trees but Meg and I only saw one, which ran away to the snapping of Meg's teeth.
I've had a car at my disposal and I'm reminded of when I first got my license and that overwhelming sense of independence. Of course there's independence in travelling solo but it's restricted in that I could only ever go places where my feet or public transport would take me, and it's not like I could say to the bus driver, excuse me, do you mind taking the next right because it looks awfully pretty down there and my map says there might be a castle, or hey, we just passed an entire field of baby bunnies, can we turn around so I can go and play with them (which would have been a complete waste of time because as it turns out baby bunnies don't want to play with Maddy).
In my borrowed car I visited the ruins of Edzel Castle, where there is still a winding stone staircase you can climb three storeys high and gardens just as they once were. I went to the much lauded blue door found beyond the town of Edzel, which opens up on to a sigh-worthy walk along a river where the salmon swim.
A few miles from Balfour farm sit two Iron Age forts on neighbouring hill tops. I climbed both, the air so thick with wind I walked with heavy feet in fear of being blown away. I could see further than the eye's spectrum, the sprawl of the land beyond the distant bens clear in my imagination.
A young couple, friends of Joy and Sandy's daughter, came to stay for a few nights and so we went bike riding, minus Sandy, Saturday morning. I dimly recall relaying to you the hills I came across in Suffolk, mere roughs in the roads compared to the mountains we climbed. I honestly thought I was going to fall in to a ditch, dead of exhaustion. Thankfully, Maree's back wheel was highly susceptible to punctures so I got a few rest breaks.
Later that week I went in search of J.M Barrie's hometown and found his grave; it's a nice plot with a gorgeous view of the town and surrounding countryside. I doubt he appreciates it but I imagine the hoards of visitors do. J.M stands for James Matthew; I wonder if you knew that. I didn't.
Another time I drove through Montrose and up the coast to Dunnottar Castle. Its ruins sit on a cliff's edge, bordered on either side by coves. Mary Queen of Scotts and King Charles II are marked down as visitors. You walk a thin path dipping down to almost sea level and then climb the stairs to the castle's entrance. The size is astonishing; an ambitious build, parts carved into the land's rock. It's the perfect place to explore on a summer's day, and with so many nooks I can't help but want to play hide and seek – a drawback of a solo traveller; I could hide but there wouldn't be anyone to find me and I think I'd get hungry and I wouldn't want to miss out on Joy's stewed rhubarb.
My last day in Scotland came rather suddenly and I spent it at a garden show in Edinburgh with Joy, an exceptionally fun afternoon of flower browsing.
Another overnight bus ride and I'm back in Lowestoft, but only for a very short time. I leave tomorrow for Bowness-on Windermere in the Lakes District where I've got myself a job as a general assistant at Lindeth Fell County House Hotel. So I'll be in Beatrix Potter and Swallows and Amazons country for a while cleaning rooms and waitressing. Just call me Cinderella.
p.s. I did try to put up some photos but the application refuses to behave.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
BECCLES: 3 MILES
The sun turned up unexpectedly on Wednesday so I set out on John's bike with adventure in mind. Beccles, a quaint town I've seen three times from the window of a bus, is nine miles from Lowestoft, and even though I didn't say it aloud, that was where I wanted to go. My explorer's kit: two maps, one compass, one banana, two chocolate bars (thoughtfully provided by Fadia), one fully-charged camera, one bottle of water, sunscreen and a phone in case of disaster.
First glance at map occurred half an hour into journey. Second glance – five minutes after first glance. This is when the first stranger, an RAA English equivalent, approached with an offer of aid. I'd been spotted both times, nose in map, so he thought he'd better stop before he saw me for a third time, puzzled on another corner. He turned me around and said if I went right I couldn't go wrong.
The lanes here are narrow, wide enough for one car or a wandering bicycle. I saw horses first, fields of them and they looked at me as if to say, isn't it a nice day for a ride. If I don't return home, it's because I've been gaoled for horse theft. I briefly considered a career on a horse farm but that would have been the Maddy who got those riding lessons as a child.
I saw birds, emerald-necked pheasants fleeing from me, one unidentified rodent on an errand and a Peter Rabbit, activities unknown, its ears peaking over the hedge row.
I could smell the blossom trees arching above and the wild flowers growing in the ditch between road and field, mood-brightening whiffs that I wish I could pocket and take home with me. John tells me we are in the flattest part of England but my roads would dip and rise in time to the turn of my wheels. At one point, coming over a hill, I arrived at the motorway with its roaring cars, so I chose a bypass instead that took me over a farmer's bumpy field. I stopped under the lone tree with its shaded log and feasted on my banana. I checked the map, as much for appearance's sake as locating my position because by this time my internal compass had shut down. Back on the bike I kept encountering signs heralding, BECCLES 3 MILES, then half an hour later I'd see another BECCLES 3 MILES. Once I came across a BECCLES 4 MILES, horrid moment, and I began to imagine an ever-changing landscape where towns shifted at whim and cyclists roamed endlessly, lost in a rich green wonderland. All very nice but one must eventually eat.
I did find Beccles, and food, some three hours after I'd set out, so chained John's bike to a seat, cast an eye around to see if there were any potential bike thieves about, and set out to explore by foot. Beccles, though rather small, has, at least, six charity shops – one specifically for cats, which I found (childishly) funny but I'm sure the cats appreciate the effort. I bought a helmet for 2 pound. These aren't a legal requirement here, and it's a delicious feeling riding about with your head free, but my road safety education has obviously left its mark.
As much as I'd enjoyed the indirect ride to Beccles, I didn't fancy riding for another three hours so I pulled my map out again and waited for a local to approach me. This time my rescuer was a man gardening his plot. He gave me three names: Ellough, Hulvar, and Mutford. It so happened that I'd passed through all these places on my way, just not in the right order. Getting back took considerably less time but here ends Dad's dream of his daughter becoming a professional cyclist: a) I'd never complete the course because I'd get lost b) I'd want to stop and get something to eat c) I dislike hills immensely and d) probably most telling, I couldn't sit on a bike the next day.
We were having a sunny streak so at John's suggestion, and Dad's recommendation, the next afternoon I caught the bus to Southwold, a small village on the coast. We took roads so thin the bus sat snug on either side and every so often we'd clip the hedges or prune the trees and leaves would fall in through the open windows to carpet the bus floor and the inside of my handbag. Southwold is a very agreeable town, a place where the clocks tick more slowly, and if you fancied, you could dawdle across the road or stop for a chat in the middle: I've already picked out the cottage I'd like to move in to. The beach is lined with cheery-coloured huts that have bizarre names like Doris, the Goddess of the Wind.
John tells me these sell for forty thousand so I think I'll pass on the wind goddess and make do with the sun and sand.
I found a wonderful antique and collectibles shed behind the high street, but time constraints prevented me from lingering and stopped any rash purchases of tea sets or picnic hampers or 1930s ball gowns (I might have to go back).
Yesterday my adventuring continued, this time with John and Fadia. We drove past Southwold to a small village, Westleton, with a curious bookshop where you're advised to bang the tin with a stick if you want service. We wandered on to the village green and sat with other Saturday afternoon visitors, all of whom were feeding the ducks bread – and fresh bread too! Not even stale bread, Fadia exclaimed – much to the dismay of the sign that read, please don't feed ducks. There was a quartet of ducklings – mother absent – and one of them was a bit of an idiot and kept getting left behind while the others did a ring of the pond, but I couldn't help but worry about it and its missing mother and the possibility of a bird of prey swooping in for a light meal – which John tells me wouldn't be unlikely.
Briefly considered logistics of a duckling travel companion but I'm not good at sharing and I probably couldn't afford to feed it fresh bread daily like it's become accustomed to. Afterwards we went walking around Dunwich, where the coconut-smelling, yellow-flowering gorse bushes grow, and at one point, it was thought necessary to examine the map.
As I was sitting in bed last night, a sound out my window interrupted my reading and going to investigate – I had hopes one of those Farthing Wood animals was tapping on my window for a visit – I saw the sky light up and birds, or bats, fleeing into the night. A fireworks display just for me, or so it felt like as I stood nose flattened on the glass. The day's icing.
Tomorrow I go to Scotland. I travel first to London by bus, then at exactly 11.45pm I shall catch another bus that will deliver me to Dundee at 10.25am, Tuesday morning, if anyone wanted to know the particulars.
x
Monday, May 17, 2010
And Some More Photos
The rococo garden at the bishops' Summer Residenz, unknown town, out of Wurzburg
The Summer Residenz. I wish I had a Summer Residenz.
On the boat trip to unknown town
Wurzburg Fortress
Gardens at Wurzburg Residenz
More Photos!
Mum and a view of Heidelberg
Mum on the Philospher's Walk - see how steep it is? And how far behind I am?
We jump to Freiburg, perhaps our favourite town. I dragged Mum bike riding and this is where she made us have a rest.
Our lodging in Wurzburg. We had our own patio!
Wurzburg Photos
This was the house in Wurzburg I described - see, an upturned wheelbarrow! That wasn't artistic license after all.
The view from the fortress in Wurzburg. This is a church Mum and I always meant to visit and never did on acount of its position on a very high hill
Me sitting on a trough at the fortress
Mum, I bet she won't appreciate this, having coffee and cake - we were sharing that cake - in Wurzburg.
In the gardens of the Residenz
A Jane Austen Moment
I've spent the past fortnight ensconced at number 58 The Avenue, Lowestoft, the most easterly point in England. This is the place where all the winds of the earth are travelling to – my hair can attest to this so don't dare argue with me. Charles Dickens once visited here, the Germans bombed it to smithereens and it used to be a hot spot for the fish. That's all I've uncovered so far.
I've become excellent at sitting in one spot – I was rather good at this before I left home, but travelling doesn't allow one to practise this under-appreciated activity. During my sitting time I discovered Special Topics in Calamity Physics (which isn't actually about science, but is a rather intriguing murder mystery), something I think Margs read years ago but I wasn't paying attention. I'm also reading Roger Deakin's Wildwood, since Dad claims it's his favourite book (but he has many favourite books he insists I read so I wonder about his definition of this word or perhaps, like I can be with food groups, he's fickle when it comes to books). There's been a few other books on my bedside table, but none memorable enough for a mention.
I have ventured outdoors on the odd sunny occasion. The weather is unbearably unreliable. I look out the window and spot sun so go hunting for my shoes and before I've laced them it's pouring with rain. Once the sun came and stayed so I went riding down country lanes – I imagined, which shows how narcissistic I can be at times, a bird's eye view of me, a modern Jane Austen figure, cycling through thickets (have doubts about what these are but I'm sure they're in all good English stories), passing the occasional fox (I still haven't seen one; Fadia (whose house I seem to have moved into) claims she saw one the other evening, but, well – I'm the one who watched endless hours of The Animals of Farthing Wood (beloved television show, circa 1990s for those puzzled readers) surely if one was going to appear, it would appear for me. Anyway zoom back in on me cycling, wind-swept hair, setting sun in background - honestly, I wouldn't have been surprised had a Mr Knightly (ha, not so predictable, am I? You were expecting the other Mr) arrived on horseback, or motorbike , and with him, the swelling sounds of a classical theme song. Instead I encountered Postman Pat's red van, which was being used by a family with two dogs. Alas.
I also, and this may surprise some of you, have persisted with running. You may not realise that if I were given the power to remove a word from our vocabulary it would be 'run' and all its various forms, so I say, with a great deal of pride, that I ran 6 km yesterday (I did considerably less today but my toe was sore).
At one point I even went as far as London (not running, I've moved on – keep up, readers). I stayed with my aunt's friend, the very welcoming Jo and her two cats, who didn't seem so impressed by my presence and would sit watching me through the window. It was all rather disconcerting. I went to the V&A, saw a wonderful Grace Kelly exhibition – which wasn't my best decision since it gave me dress envy and led to a rather impractical summer dress purchase in the Camden Markets. I spent hours trawling the book shops in Charing Cross Road – only surfaced with two finds, which demonstrates amazing restraint on my part.
Yesterday John, the other owner of the house and whose bike I borrow – I only just fit as he's very tall – dropped Fadia and me at a car-boot sale. This was rather exciting as I imagined myself digging about and finding that bargain (the one they find on those antique TV shows) – this didn't happen, but I did get a copy of that neat little grammar book Eats, Shoots & Leaves, and a wind-up gaudy Swiss gold watch (I paid 8 pound, which John pronounced too much), but I think it looks very dashing.
I'm currently job hunting; I have my sights set on Cambridge, but I'm not sure the eye-balling is reciprocal. Next week I'm taking a jaunt to Scotland where, if the mood strikes, you might find me Loch Ness hunting.
p.s. What's a blog without a food mention? I'm living with my favourite cook in the world. Fadia's a genius in the kitchen and I'm spoiled at every meal time so I hope you're all jealous of me.
I've become excellent at sitting in one spot – I was rather good at this before I left home, but travelling doesn't allow one to practise this under-appreciated activity. During my sitting time I discovered Special Topics in Calamity Physics (which isn't actually about science, but is a rather intriguing murder mystery), something I think Margs read years ago but I wasn't paying attention. I'm also reading Roger Deakin's Wildwood, since Dad claims it's his favourite book (but he has many favourite books he insists I read so I wonder about his definition of this word or perhaps, like I can be with food groups, he's fickle when it comes to books). There's been a few other books on my bedside table, but none memorable enough for a mention.
I have ventured outdoors on the odd sunny occasion. The weather is unbearably unreliable. I look out the window and spot sun so go hunting for my shoes and before I've laced them it's pouring with rain. Once the sun came and stayed so I went riding down country lanes – I imagined, which shows how narcissistic I can be at times, a bird's eye view of me, a modern Jane Austen figure, cycling through thickets (have doubts about what these are but I'm sure they're in all good English stories), passing the occasional fox (I still haven't seen one; Fadia (whose house I seem to have moved into) claims she saw one the other evening, but, well – I'm the one who watched endless hours of The Animals of Farthing Wood (beloved television show, circa 1990s for those puzzled readers) surely if one was going to appear, it would appear for me. Anyway zoom back in on me cycling, wind-swept hair, setting sun in background - honestly, I wouldn't have been surprised had a Mr Knightly (ha, not so predictable, am I? You were expecting the other Mr) arrived on horseback, or motorbike , and with him, the swelling sounds of a classical theme song. Instead I encountered Postman Pat's red van, which was being used by a family with two dogs. Alas.
I also, and this may surprise some of you, have persisted with running. You may not realise that if I were given the power to remove a word from our vocabulary it would be 'run' and all its various forms, so I say, with a great deal of pride, that I ran 6 km yesterday (I did considerably less today but my toe was sore).
At one point I even went as far as London (not running, I've moved on – keep up, readers). I stayed with my aunt's friend, the very welcoming Jo and her two cats, who didn't seem so impressed by my presence and would sit watching me through the window. It was all rather disconcerting. I went to the V&A, saw a wonderful Grace Kelly exhibition – which wasn't my best decision since it gave me dress envy and led to a rather impractical summer dress purchase in the Camden Markets. I spent hours trawling the book shops in Charing Cross Road – only surfaced with two finds, which demonstrates amazing restraint on my part.
Yesterday John, the other owner of the house and whose bike I borrow – I only just fit as he's very tall – dropped Fadia and me at a car-boot sale. This was rather exciting as I imagined myself digging about and finding that bargain (the one they find on those antique TV shows) – this didn't happen, but I did get a copy of that neat little grammar book Eats, Shoots & Leaves, and a wind-up gaudy Swiss gold watch (I paid 8 pound, which John pronounced too much), but I think it looks very dashing.
I'm currently job hunting; I have my sights set on Cambridge, but I'm not sure the eye-balling is reciprocal. Next week I'm taking a jaunt to Scotland where, if the mood strikes, you might find me Loch Ness hunting.
p.s. What's a blog without a food mention? I'm living with my favourite cook in the world. Fadia's a genius in the kitchen and I'm spoiled at every meal time so I hope you're all jealous of me.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
A Very Long Blog with a Happy Ending
Since I’ve neglected the blog of late, I have suspicions that this will be long.
Heidelberg
At each new city we collect six brochures (one good one in English, the other five utterly useless), three of the same map, and at least two theatre programs in German, which are puzzled over and invariably end up in the bin. This isn’t going anywhere - I’m just setting the scene.
So there we are pamphlet laden, desperately hoping that this hotel will be better than that hotel, packed on a jerking bus with hoards of school children, heading further and further way from the city.
Heidelberg Hotel is satisfactory in every way except that it lacks a kettle. It sits in a peaceful suburb where old ladies of five and eighty cycle along on old-fashioned bicycles, and the only noise is the rumble of the occasional tram as it shunts across the corner intersection to its resting spot.
That first afternoon we tram back to the Aldstadt (tram is much nicer than bus travel since it doesn’t run past any schools), and trek - yes, I do mean trek - the almost two-kilometre pedestrian boulevard, which is lined with all manner of shops, including one selling only Christmas decorations.
We have an early dinner, sharing pizza at a quaint little Italian café in a back alley still lit by sun and then trek back to the tram stop for home.
Since hockey season has started back in Oz I felt compelled to go for a run so took off down the road, looping around the green fields (we‘re practically in the country), down a path lined with blossoms that I shared with a few sheep and a weary-looking goat, and back past the old cemetery, which had more than a few evening visitors.
A large ruined schloss sits atop a hill overlooking the town and as our Heidelberg Card offered free access we went by funicular - cable car - and toured the courtyard and the German Pharmacy Museum housed in the few still-intact rooms, which had a curious assortment of bits and pieces, including the innards of odd-looking animals.
Over the river we tackled the Philosopher’s Walk, a series of steep steps that run back and forth at angles so that you walk far more than you should. We followed a red squirrel, nut clutched firmly in mouth, who was most exasperating in his refusal to hold still for photos. It must be said that more puffing and huffing and resting took place than philosophising and really the walk isn‘t at all conducive to thinking deep thoughts and should be renamed.
We went by boat to Neckersteinach, a small medieval town famous for its four castles - the ruling four brothers had a falling out so each built their own fortress. (Have doubts this would be an achievable solution in my family.) The weather was perfect for boating; the sun illuminated the small mountain villages, monasteries and castles that dotted the hillsides, even the birds were tweeting. Everything was going swimmingly well when the sun decided to depart for the day leaving behind a fast, cool wind and dull skies. We retreated inside our boat and home to our hotel, where we ate pick-me-up corn beef and mood-cheering penne pesto, and thick chocolate with tea from the travel kettle Mum had obtained.
Our last day in Heidelberg was gloriously sunny so we caught a bus up to the King’s Seat and choose trail number five to walk down the mountain through the Black Forest, which was not in fact black at all. Trail five turned out to be rather elusive and we ended up on the better-signed nine, though there was an awful lot of logging going on so five’s markers might have been in the wood piles we kept encountering. We found a suitable-sized rock for an Enid-Blyton picnic of biscuits, holey cheese, smoky ham, tomato, red apples, chocolate and tea. Somewhere, when we weren’t paying attention, trail nine swung a left so we ended up miles and miles from our destination, which meant we probably set a record for the amount of walking done in one day, and really deserve a trophy or even, say, a cash prize.
WURZBURG
Mum’s got a knack for picking accommodation close to the train station and in Wurzburg we only had to walk across the road and we had arrived. At Babel Fish hostel we had a room with its own kitchen and a balcony bigger than the room itself. One of the nicest things about our stay was that we could cook our own meals - there was a food market in the old square where we got ingredients; the Germans adore white asparagus so we got hold of some and had asparagus crepes with prosciutto, and Camembert sauce.
It took us a day to warm to Wurzburg - where all the previous towns had distinctly old quarters, here was a blend of old and new architecture, and in the main square shiny new department stores abutted antique treasures. Yet some long-dead poet once announced that were it possible to chose his birthplace he would have named Wurzburg.
We went for a walk to the large fortress across the river and by chance took a left and found ourselves on a garden path leading up the hill. It was like stepping into Peter Rabbit’s world and I could almost see Ms Potter’s animals behind the flora, more content here than in England. Narrow green hedges ran alongside and every so often there would be an opening where other hedged paths beckoned the walker astray. Daffodils bloomed a rainbow and magnolia trees arched overhead to shadow passers-by. We walked by tiny cottages with neat little garden beds, one with an upturned wheelbarrow - to the other side a path broke off and down, leading to a fountain and more paths. Silver birches stood straight and tall, and one lone squirrel nestled beneath a bush.
I think I fell in love with Wurzburg here on this path, even before I learnt, on reaching the fortress, that the entire town had been levelled in 1945 and then rebuilt - hence the odd arrangement of building styles. The fortress was grand, with high walls and a deep moat running its length - though it looked ancient it had been finished just ten years before. We were there on ANZAC day, a strange occasion as Dad had found in the paper an Australian soldier’s account of bombing this very town.
We kept making new discoveries. The splendour of the Wurzburg Residenz - the bishops' palace - where five great halls with their glorious frescoes and stucco features survived war-time fires by an innovative ceiling design. One day we took a boat ride to an unknown town. We had an hour’s wait for the return trip so ambled towards the zentrum, took a right, then a left, another left and there, behind a high wall, was the most unexpected yet marvellous sight. The bishops’ summer residenz, ignored in our guide book, with its never-ending rococo garden of statues and ponds and perfectly straight lines.
I didn’t want to leave Wurzburg because our next destination was Frankfurt and the last stop before Mum went home.
FRANKFURT
We’d slowed down by the time we reached our final port and spent our last two days poking about. I found a decent bookshop and got Scarlett Thomas‘ latest Our Tragic Universe, which oddly has some connection to what I did yesterday (which I won‘t write about in this blog, but isn‘t, as the novel‘s title suggests, tragic, nor have I, Margot - since I‘m assuming you‘ve gulped this book down, started to see strange beasts; anyway, it‘s not really important, just curious, but I‘ll tell you later). We went on another boat ride - we do like our boats - and enjoyed the warm weather that lingered late into the night. Saying goodbye to Mum was awful but we’ve had a lovely time - and now I’m in England, home of my mother tongue, so everything seems aligned once more.
LOWESTOFT
I had to take a plane and two buses - the first bus I was fifteen minutes late for as my plane’s departure had been delayed; I was so sure it would have left and I had no idea how I was going to get to the next point, but there it was in bay 13 and if I hurried, the man at the information desk told me, I’d catch it. I did and on boarding learnt the reason for its tardiness was an accident on the motorway; all I’d felt was relief at seeing the bus and then I didn’t know what to think - it’s odd to feel such a strong sense of relief when what you’re grateful for might be the cause of someone else’s downfall.
At the moment, I’m sitting on my bed at the Cotter’s house in Lowestoft where out my window I can see a grey sky of thick rain-heavy clouds. And I’m perfectly happy because there’s something about England and rain and the cold that seems just right; I'm sure I read it in a book somewhere.
p.s. It was dreadfully long, wasn’t it? Next time, I’ll condense everything and write something like: all is well, weather’s cold, went walking, sat on boat, saw Queen, run out of things to wear, pondering what to do next, think it shall be sunny tomorrow.
Love to you all.
xxxx
Heidelberg
At each new city we collect six brochures (one good one in English, the other five utterly useless), three of the same map, and at least two theatre programs in German, which are puzzled over and invariably end up in the bin. This isn’t going anywhere - I’m just setting the scene.
So there we are pamphlet laden, desperately hoping that this hotel will be better than that hotel, packed on a jerking bus with hoards of school children, heading further and further way from the city.
Heidelberg Hotel is satisfactory in every way except that it lacks a kettle. It sits in a peaceful suburb where old ladies of five and eighty cycle along on old-fashioned bicycles, and the only noise is the rumble of the occasional tram as it shunts across the corner intersection to its resting spot.
That first afternoon we tram back to the Aldstadt (tram is much nicer than bus travel since it doesn’t run past any schools), and trek - yes, I do mean trek - the almost two-kilometre pedestrian boulevard, which is lined with all manner of shops, including one selling only Christmas decorations.
We have an early dinner, sharing pizza at a quaint little Italian café in a back alley still lit by sun and then trek back to the tram stop for home.
Since hockey season has started back in Oz I felt compelled to go for a run so took off down the road, looping around the green fields (we‘re practically in the country), down a path lined with blossoms that I shared with a few sheep and a weary-looking goat, and back past the old cemetery, which had more than a few evening visitors.
A large ruined schloss sits atop a hill overlooking the town and as our Heidelberg Card offered free access we went by funicular - cable car - and toured the courtyard and the German Pharmacy Museum housed in the few still-intact rooms, which had a curious assortment of bits and pieces, including the innards of odd-looking animals.
Over the river we tackled the Philosopher’s Walk, a series of steep steps that run back and forth at angles so that you walk far more than you should. We followed a red squirrel, nut clutched firmly in mouth, who was most exasperating in his refusal to hold still for photos. It must be said that more puffing and huffing and resting took place than philosophising and really the walk isn‘t at all conducive to thinking deep thoughts and should be renamed.
We went by boat to Neckersteinach, a small medieval town famous for its four castles - the ruling four brothers had a falling out so each built their own fortress. (Have doubts this would be an achievable solution in my family.) The weather was perfect for boating; the sun illuminated the small mountain villages, monasteries and castles that dotted the hillsides, even the birds were tweeting. Everything was going swimmingly well when the sun decided to depart for the day leaving behind a fast, cool wind and dull skies. We retreated inside our boat and home to our hotel, where we ate pick-me-up corn beef and mood-cheering penne pesto, and thick chocolate with tea from the travel kettle Mum had obtained.
Our last day in Heidelberg was gloriously sunny so we caught a bus up to the King’s Seat and choose trail number five to walk down the mountain through the Black Forest, which was not in fact black at all. Trail five turned out to be rather elusive and we ended up on the better-signed nine, though there was an awful lot of logging going on so five’s markers might have been in the wood piles we kept encountering. We found a suitable-sized rock for an Enid-Blyton picnic of biscuits, holey cheese, smoky ham, tomato, red apples, chocolate and tea. Somewhere, when we weren’t paying attention, trail nine swung a left so we ended up miles and miles from our destination, which meant we probably set a record for the amount of walking done in one day, and really deserve a trophy or even, say, a cash prize.
WURZBURG
Mum’s got a knack for picking accommodation close to the train station and in Wurzburg we only had to walk across the road and we had arrived. At Babel Fish hostel we had a room with its own kitchen and a balcony bigger than the room itself. One of the nicest things about our stay was that we could cook our own meals - there was a food market in the old square where we got ingredients; the Germans adore white asparagus so we got hold of some and had asparagus crepes with prosciutto, and Camembert sauce.
It took us a day to warm to Wurzburg - where all the previous towns had distinctly old quarters, here was a blend of old and new architecture, and in the main square shiny new department stores abutted antique treasures. Yet some long-dead poet once announced that were it possible to chose his birthplace he would have named Wurzburg.
We went for a walk to the large fortress across the river and by chance took a left and found ourselves on a garden path leading up the hill. It was like stepping into Peter Rabbit’s world and I could almost see Ms Potter’s animals behind the flora, more content here than in England. Narrow green hedges ran alongside and every so often there would be an opening where other hedged paths beckoned the walker astray. Daffodils bloomed a rainbow and magnolia trees arched overhead to shadow passers-by. We walked by tiny cottages with neat little garden beds, one with an upturned wheelbarrow - to the other side a path broke off and down, leading to a fountain and more paths. Silver birches stood straight and tall, and one lone squirrel nestled beneath a bush.
I think I fell in love with Wurzburg here on this path, even before I learnt, on reaching the fortress, that the entire town had been levelled in 1945 and then rebuilt - hence the odd arrangement of building styles. The fortress was grand, with high walls and a deep moat running its length - though it looked ancient it had been finished just ten years before. We were there on ANZAC day, a strange occasion as Dad had found in the paper an Australian soldier’s account of bombing this very town.
We kept making new discoveries. The splendour of the Wurzburg Residenz - the bishops' palace - where five great halls with their glorious frescoes and stucco features survived war-time fires by an innovative ceiling design. One day we took a boat ride to an unknown town. We had an hour’s wait for the return trip so ambled towards the zentrum, took a right, then a left, another left and there, behind a high wall, was the most unexpected yet marvellous sight. The bishops’ summer residenz, ignored in our guide book, with its never-ending rococo garden of statues and ponds and perfectly straight lines.
I didn’t want to leave Wurzburg because our next destination was Frankfurt and the last stop before Mum went home.
FRANKFURT
We’d slowed down by the time we reached our final port and spent our last two days poking about. I found a decent bookshop and got Scarlett Thomas‘ latest Our Tragic Universe, which oddly has some connection to what I did yesterday (which I won‘t write about in this blog, but isn‘t, as the novel‘s title suggests, tragic, nor have I, Margot - since I‘m assuming you‘ve gulped this book down, started to see strange beasts; anyway, it‘s not really important, just curious, but I‘ll tell you later). We went on another boat ride - we do like our boats - and enjoyed the warm weather that lingered late into the night. Saying goodbye to Mum was awful but we’ve had a lovely time - and now I’m in England, home of my mother tongue, so everything seems aligned once more.
LOWESTOFT
I had to take a plane and two buses - the first bus I was fifteen minutes late for as my plane’s departure had been delayed; I was so sure it would have left and I had no idea how I was going to get to the next point, but there it was in bay 13 and if I hurried, the man at the information desk told me, I’d catch it. I did and on boarding learnt the reason for its tardiness was an accident on the motorway; all I’d felt was relief at seeing the bus and then I didn’t know what to think - it’s odd to feel such a strong sense of relief when what you’re grateful for might be the cause of someone else’s downfall.
At the moment, I’m sitting on my bed at the Cotter’s house in Lowestoft where out my window I can see a grey sky of thick rain-heavy clouds. And I’m perfectly happy because there’s something about England and rain and the cold that seems just right; I'm sure I read it in a book somewhere.
p.s. It was dreadfully long, wasn’t it? Next time, I’ll condense everything and write something like: all is well, weather’s cold, went walking, sat on boat, saw Queen, run out of things to wear, pondering what to do next, think it shall be sunny tomorrow.
Love to you all.
xxxx
Monday, April 19, 2010
Two Corners of the World and Some Very Important Announcements
Before I get down to the adventures, I have a few announcements to make.
First, let’s start with cheese! I think it deserves the exclamation mark or, at least, the German variety does. Wonderful stuff, especially the gouda we partnered with apple for lunch today.
Second, bugs. They’ve arrived in force. I’ve had three blissful bug-free months and the world seemed fine without them - nothing fell apart, the birds went on singing, the sun still rose. Are they really that important?
Thirdly, some of you may recall that fateful day when Margs and I set out and I lost my toy elephant (no need to ask why he was coming along); anyway, would you believe, I found an identical elephant!
And lastly, when I announce, friends, Dad, brothers (Darcy, if you even bother to read this, I still haven‘t had an email from you and now everyone knows this so you‘d better get cracking), that I shall have no Internet access for a while I do not expect you to consider this time-off from emailing me …
KONSTANZ
We arrived in Konstanz by a train that circled the lake and took us past fields of caravans, tiny villages that don’t seem large enough to warrant their rather grand castles (does it not seem unfair that Germany has a trillion castles and Maddy, who is so well suited to the castle life, I’ve heard many people say, has none?), water birds: white swans fishing with necks tucked, ordinary ducks and others with coats grander than anything I own, and bevies of boats that sit still on flat, endless plains of water; we arrived to a warm sun blanketing yellow light across the city and the day couldn‘t be more perfect.
That warm blanket was soon ripped off, replaced by a sheet of rain and grim skies of grey. Not wanting to linger in our average room, we donned coats, and, armed with umbrellas, tackled the walking tour we picked up from the tourist office for one Euro.
Konstanz is an old city and around every corner and under every rock there is a place of note, which might be lovely on a day bright with sun, but with rain rolling off the umbrella on to a map too large to handle well, our combined mood was not cheery.
It was decided rather optimistically that perhaps it wouldn’t be raining on the other side of the lake, so we traipsed down to the harbour and caught a ferry across to Meersburg, a town of five thousand with two castles - an old and a new, which the bishops of Konstanz used as summer residences once upon a time. The rain did finally dissipate so we ambled up the steep cobble-stoned streets to Altes Schloss, one of Germany’s oldest castles, which is said to have inspired the Grimm brothers. Since you can’t move without tripping over a castle I can’t attest to the validity of this claim.
On Thursday we caught a train and then boarded a bus to the Unesco World Heritage site Richenau Island, a place where everyone owns an orchard and a boat and leases space to hives of irritating insects. We walked all over, following the signs of men with walking sticks that led us through front yards, down narrow roads with no footpaths, around old churches - though I seem to have lost track of old - and along the calm waterfront. When two bus drivers wouldn’t let us on their buses, we walked to a café and walked inside to the counter where the proprietor let us have waffles and coffee and seats so we could have a break from all the walking we‘d been doing. Really, I’ve done so much walking, I could retire from it.
FREIBURG
We moved on Friday, and two trains and a rather stressful trek later we arrived at the very awful Hotel Sonne; in fact, it depresses me to describe the awfulness of the place so I won’t - just imagine that hotel you wish you’d never been to and that’s where we were.
Freiburg is just the prettiest little town; blossoming magnolia trees dot the sidewalks, the Dresiam River runs near our hotel and on her banks the locals sprawl, baking in the sun’s glow, and it’s been glowing a skin-warming 22 degrees. A streamlet follows the narrow boutique-and-café-lined streets; it is the Bachle and folklore says that if you step into these waters, you’ll marry a Freiburger.
After visiting the markets in Munsterplatz, where we finally had the famous German sausage, we journeyed to Schauinsland and caught a twenty-minute cable-car ride to the peak. This ride offers up gorgeous views of green meadows and wooded hills, and when you reach the very top, you can look down on the Rhine Valley and across to the still snow-capped Alps. Up high the air was cloudy with remnants of the volcanic ash that has the European airports in a tizzy.
On our return we stopped in the city centre where, like the Pied Piper’s children, we followed the glorious sounds of a gypsy family singing on a street corner. The largest crowd I’ve seen buskers draw was ringed about them, engrossed in the performance. They were so marvellous I wanted to get my extended family together, knock out some of the older women’s front teeth, give the men some walking sticks and cowbells to bang, and set out on a grand travelling choir adventure. Only, other than the odd few, none of us is that musically inclined, and not even in my wildest dreams - and I can’t seem to stop dreaming these days - would we ever sound like they did.
For our last day in storybook-pretty Freiburg, we hired brand-new bikes and set off along the river, riding out of town to green meadows where Freiburgers take their dogs for walks and play strange games with wooden blocks. We circled back and traversed the empty streets; Mum was in charge of directions and turned corners at whim until we’d left the map far behind. We eventually stumbled across a tram track and followed the number 5 back to the centre. Afterwards, we walked across the city to the guide-book recommended Reis Garten, where we had wanton and vegetable soup, so delicious my mouth watered after every bite, and tasty ginger beef with cashews. It was still sunny late in the afternoon when we wound our way back to the hotel to commence packing for the next leg of our journey.
Mum and I are in Heidelberg but my fingers are too tired to go on, so whoever is out there reading will have to wait a few days for the next instalment.
First, let’s start with cheese! I think it deserves the exclamation mark or, at least, the German variety does. Wonderful stuff, especially the gouda we partnered with apple for lunch today.
Second, bugs. They’ve arrived in force. I’ve had three blissful bug-free months and the world seemed fine without them - nothing fell apart, the birds went on singing, the sun still rose. Are they really that important?
Thirdly, some of you may recall that fateful day when Margs and I set out and I lost my toy elephant (no need to ask why he was coming along); anyway, would you believe, I found an identical elephant!
And lastly, when I announce, friends, Dad, brothers (Darcy, if you even bother to read this, I still haven‘t had an email from you and now everyone knows this so you‘d better get cracking), that I shall have no Internet access for a while I do not expect you to consider this time-off from emailing me …
KONSTANZ
We arrived in Konstanz by a train that circled the lake and took us past fields of caravans, tiny villages that don’t seem large enough to warrant their rather grand castles (does it not seem unfair that Germany has a trillion castles and Maddy, who is so well suited to the castle life, I’ve heard many people say, has none?), water birds: white swans fishing with necks tucked, ordinary ducks and others with coats grander than anything I own, and bevies of boats that sit still on flat, endless plains of water; we arrived to a warm sun blanketing yellow light across the city and the day couldn‘t be more perfect.
That warm blanket was soon ripped off, replaced by a sheet of rain and grim skies of grey. Not wanting to linger in our average room, we donned coats, and, armed with umbrellas, tackled the walking tour we picked up from the tourist office for one Euro.
Konstanz is an old city and around every corner and under every rock there is a place of note, which might be lovely on a day bright with sun, but with rain rolling off the umbrella on to a map too large to handle well, our combined mood was not cheery.
It was decided rather optimistically that perhaps it wouldn’t be raining on the other side of the lake, so we traipsed down to the harbour and caught a ferry across to Meersburg, a town of five thousand with two castles - an old and a new, which the bishops of Konstanz used as summer residences once upon a time. The rain did finally dissipate so we ambled up the steep cobble-stoned streets to Altes Schloss, one of Germany’s oldest castles, which is said to have inspired the Grimm brothers. Since you can’t move without tripping over a castle I can’t attest to the validity of this claim.
On Thursday we caught a train and then boarded a bus to the Unesco World Heritage site Richenau Island, a place where everyone owns an orchard and a boat and leases space to hives of irritating insects. We walked all over, following the signs of men with walking sticks that led us through front yards, down narrow roads with no footpaths, around old churches - though I seem to have lost track of old - and along the calm waterfront. When two bus drivers wouldn’t let us on their buses, we walked to a café and walked inside to the counter where the proprietor let us have waffles and coffee and seats so we could have a break from all the walking we‘d been doing. Really, I’ve done so much walking, I could retire from it.
FREIBURG
We moved on Friday, and two trains and a rather stressful trek later we arrived at the very awful Hotel Sonne; in fact, it depresses me to describe the awfulness of the place so I won’t - just imagine that hotel you wish you’d never been to and that’s where we were.
Freiburg is just the prettiest little town; blossoming magnolia trees dot the sidewalks, the Dresiam River runs near our hotel and on her banks the locals sprawl, baking in the sun’s glow, and it’s been glowing a skin-warming 22 degrees. A streamlet follows the narrow boutique-and-café-lined streets; it is the Bachle and folklore says that if you step into these waters, you’ll marry a Freiburger.
After visiting the markets in Munsterplatz, where we finally had the famous German sausage, we journeyed to Schauinsland and caught a twenty-minute cable-car ride to the peak. This ride offers up gorgeous views of green meadows and wooded hills, and when you reach the very top, you can look down on the Rhine Valley and across to the still snow-capped Alps. Up high the air was cloudy with remnants of the volcanic ash that has the European airports in a tizzy.
On our return we stopped in the city centre where, like the Pied Piper’s children, we followed the glorious sounds of a gypsy family singing on a street corner. The largest crowd I’ve seen buskers draw was ringed about them, engrossed in the performance. They were so marvellous I wanted to get my extended family together, knock out some of the older women’s front teeth, give the men some walking sticks and cowbells to bang, and set out on a grand travelling choir adventure. Only, other than the odd few, none of us is that musically inclined, and not even in my wildest dreams - and I can’t seem to stop dreaming these days - would we ever sound like they did.
For our last day in storybook-pretty Freiburg, we hired brand-new bikes and set off along the river, riding out of town to green meadows where Freiburgers take their dogs for walks and play strange games with wooden blocks. We circled back and traversed the empty streets; Mum was in charge of directions and turned corners at whim until we’d left the map far behind. We eventually stumbled across a tram track and followed the number 5 back to the centre. Afterwards, we walked across the city to the guide-book recommended Reis Garten, where we had wanton and vegetable soup, so delicious my mouth watered after every bite, and tasty ginger beef with cashews. It was still sunny late in the afternoon when we wound our way back to the hotel to commence packing for the next leg of our journey.
Mum and I are in Heidelberg but my fingers are too tired to go on, so whoever is out there reading will have to wait a few days for the next instalment.
Monday, April 12, 2010
From Munich, with Love
It’s our last night in Munich and for the past hour we’ve been packing, and I’ve been discarding. Living out of a backpack is easily the worst thing about travelling. Mum thinks she’s cracked the code to fitting as many things into a pack as possible, and the result is a funny parcel of clothing but it does work and my zips seem happier.
Since I’ve a book I really want to get to, I’m going to rush through the events of the last few days.
Friday: We arrive in Munich and 500 metres later, we’re out our hotel (memorable for its buffet breakfasts). Three-hour walking tour follows; midway through tour a cyclist stops to tell us our guide is telling us lies, which is plausible but less fun. Dinner we have at a traditional beer hall. Mum shows reluctance but we are served delicious goulash soup and she is won over (which bodes well for future dinners).
Saturday: We trek a very long way to Nymphenburg Palace and take a turn around the rooms (which involves much peering over guard rails, and Mum being yelled at in German for using the flash I forgot to turn off). In the afternoon we track down an uninspiring flee market and learn a lesson in trusting Internet sources. Visit English bookshop (one purchase) and the proprietor recommends a Thai restaurant around the corner for dinner, where we baffle the waitress with our request for two plates.
Sunday: Art museum day - I learn that Germans have funny tastes in paintings but excellent ideas about design. After pretzel and banana lunch on a wintry cold bench, we stroll through the botanic gardens, where the river there has a man-made wave and the mad German surfers, of which there are ten, take it in turns to surf this wave. I drag Mum to a guide-book recommended pub where we have Bavarian potato dumplings with smoked ham, onion and scrambled eggs.
Monday: hopping-say day.
We have no Internet at Konstanz, our next destination, where we’ll be until Friday if anyone is curious.
Love to you all; have almost vanquished cold so next post shall be more thrilling, I promise - in words if not deeds.
Since I’ve a book I really want to get to, I’m going to rush through the events of the last few days.
Friday: We arrive in Munich and 500 metres later, we’re out our hotel (memorable for its buffet breakfasts). Three-hour walking tour follows; midway through tour a cyclist stops to tell us our guide is telling us lies, which is plausible but less fun. Dinner we have at a traditional beer hall. Mum shows reluctance but we are served delicious goulash soup and she is won over (which bodes well for future dinners).
Saturday: We trek a very long way to Nymphenburg Palace and take a turn around the rooms (which involves much peering over guard rails, and Mum being yelled at in German for using the flash I forgot to turn off). In the afternoon we track down an uninspiring flee market and learn a lesson in trusting Internet sources. Visit English bookshop (one purchase) and the proprietor recommends a Thai restaurant around the corner for dinner, where we baffle the waitress with our request for two plates.
Sunday: Art museum day - I learn that Germans have funny tastes in paintings but excellent ideas about design. After pretzel and banana lunch on a wintry cold bench, we stroll through the botanic gardens, where the river there has a man-made wave and the mad German surfers, of which there are ten, take it in turns to surf this wave. I drag Mum to a guide-book recommended pub where we have Bavarian potato dumplings with smoked ham, onion and scrambled eggs.
Monday: hopping-say day.
We have no Internet at Konstanz, our next destination, where we’ll be until Friday if anyone is curious.
Love to you all; have almost vanquished cold so next post shall be more thrilling, I promise - in words if not deeds.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
The Sounds of Salzburg
Mum and my cold arrived at roughly the same time so I can’t have been a very good child.
I was at the airport to collect her at 9, and after we’d dropped off her bags at the hotel (did you notice the missing ‘S’!) we set out wearing our adventure caps. Just down the street, a block on from the ice cream parlour with two kugels for only 1.50 euro (a bargain as if you keep going a kugel is more expensive and the more kugels the better, I say), is Mirabell Garden, made famous by the scene in the Sound of Music, where Maria is teaching the kids to sing - Salzburgers detest this movie, which is a shame as I had hoped to see a few re-enactments; I think there’s a lot of money to be made here - so Mum and I posed for the obligatory photos, and told a wonderful water-colourist that we‘d return to buy her paintings, and then promptly forgot our promise. We pressed on, across the river and up the hill to the fortress, Festung Hohensalzburg, which we detoured around (entry cost was ridiculous) instead wandering the park’s paths behind, winding our way in a full circle.
Thursday morning is market day in Salzburg, so we mingled with the locals, emerging heavier for the brown paper bag of strawberries, a chunk of seeded rye bread, walnut and capsicum dip and an almond pastry cake tucked away in our bags. We purchased Salzburg cards, which gained us free access to a handful of places and meant we were in for the busiest of days. In an effort to squeeze all we could from these cards, we visited Salzburg Museum, caught a cable car to Festung Hohensalzburg, actually went inside said fortress - hugely impressive being the largest of its kind in Europe, perused the catacombs in St Peter’s cemetery, took a very slow but picturesque boat ride (the river is 17cm shallow in some places) then bus ride to Schloss Hellbrunn, a 17th century baroque villa built to relieve boredom and monotony through use of trick fountains that squirt water on passers-by. Mum and I were more excited by the rotunda from the Sound of Music than the fountains, which we found tucked away in an out-of-the-way corner. It was locked, so neither of us could jump from seat to seat in homage to that song.
By this time my cold had taken over and I was about ready to be guillotined, so we stopped by an apothoke, and I bought my first German medicine. Brilliant stuff and felt better almost immediately after taking. This meant a trip to the grocery store where Mum found tiny bottles of cheap French wine and other goodies for pre-dinner snacks. Dinner was Italian - Mum’s reluctant to try German fare, but I mean to make her in Munich, which is tomorrow by train. Here in Salzburg we’ve had average food, which is unusual as I couldn’t praise European meals enough.
We’ve had gorgeous weather in this city normally known for it’s rainy days, but weather reports tell me our luck is about to run out as rain is predicted for the coming week. Our umbrellas are at the ready.
Love Mad & her mum
xxx
I was at the airport to collect her at 9, and after we’d dropped off her bags at the hotel (did you notice the missing ‘S’!) we set out wearing our adventure caps. Just down the street, a block on from the ice cream parlour with two kugels for only 1.50 euro (a bargain as if you keep going a kugel is more expensive and the more kugels the better, I say), is Mirabell Garden, made famous by the scene in the Sound of Music, where Maria is teaching the kids to sing - Salzburgers detest this movie, which is a shame as I had hoped to see a few re-enactments; I think there’s a lot of money to be made here - so Mum and I posed for the obligatory photos, and told a wonderful water-colourist that we‘d return to buy her paintings, and then promptly forgot our promise. We pressed on, across the river and up the hill to the fortress, Festung Hohensalzburg, which we detoured around (entry cost was ridiculous) instead wandering the park’s paths behind, winding our way in a full circle.
Thursday morning is market day in Salzburg, so we mingled with the locals, emerging heavier for the brown paper bag of strawberries, a chunk of seeded rye bread, walnut and capsicum dip and an almond pastry cake tucked away in our bags. We purchased Salzburg cards, which gained us free access to a handful of places and meant we were in for the busiest of days. In an effort to squeeze all we could from these cards, we visited Salzburg Museum, caught a cable car to Festung Hohensalzburg, actually went inside said fortress - hugely impressive being the largest of its kind in Europe, perused the catacombs in St Peter’s cemetery, took a very slow but picturesque boat ride (the river is 17cm shallow in some places) then bus ride to Schloss Hellbrunn, a 17th century baroque villa built to relieve boredom and monotony through use of trick fountains that squirt water on passers-by. Mum and I were more excited by the rotunda from the Sound of Music than the fountains, which we found tucked away in an out-of-the-way corner. It was locked, so neither of us could jump from seat to seat in homage to that song.
By this time my cold had taken over and I was about ready to be guillotined, so we stopped by an apothoke, and I bought my first German medicine. Brilliant stuff and felt better almost immediately after taking. This meant a trip to the grocery store where Mum found tiny bottles of cheap French wine and other goodies for pre-dinner snacks. Dinner was Italian - Mum’s reluctant to try German fare, but I mean to make her in Munich, which is tomorrow by train. Here in Salzburg we’ve had average food, which is unusual as I couldn’t praise European meals enough.
We’ve had gorgeous weather in this city normally known for it’s rainy days, but weather reports tell me our luck is about to run out as rain is predicted for the coming week. Our umbrellas are at the ready.
Love Mad & her mum
xxx
Friday, April 9, 2010
Bits and Pieces
Part One
I’ve had a lazy time in the mountains, my existence punctuated by the odd walk with Wally and dinner. Climbing the hill behind the Ginger Monkey and looping around takes an hour if I dawdle, which I often do to throw planks of wood and rocks - Wally has odd tastes. There have been only six guests other than me, and only four at one time. This means I have had a room to myself, an unexpected pleasure.
My hosts, Sean and Jess, are unusual. You would swear that Sean is Irish, but his pronounced accent is a by-product of learning English in the company of Irish folk. His passport says he’s Israeli, but while I was there his mum received a letter that might change this. Because he’s been away travelling for five years, the government want to take away his citizenship. We live in a world, a time, fixated with borders. So where does a person with no borders fit in? He’s still puzzling this over.
Jess, an Oxford graduate, works for a company called Oxbridge, which employs Cambridge and Oxford alumni to write essays for students. They produce ‘model essays’ and there’s some contract the students sign to keep it above board, but basically it’s a service enabling people to buy degrees. You wouldn’t believe the pay, though, or the scope Jess writes about. She says she hardly retains any of it, but after hearing her talk, I think she’s just being modest.
I see the other hostellers during the day. We watch movies together, episodes of the Office always seem to be running, but it’s at dinner when everyone is about. The first three evenings Sean cooked, but the last two nights we spent down the road at two of the two local restaurants. Thursday night it was goulash in a small wooden hut where we were served by a tight-lipped Slovakian man through a dirty window. Friday night it was pizza. Though Sean and Jess had heaped praise on this place I was sceptical. After all, we’re in the Slovakian outback. But I was wrong to be wary - Slovakian sheep’s cheese and sausage are marvellous pizza toppings. The cheese is amazing; tasty beyond belief and thick without being chewy.
Meals are advertised in weight, so you know exactly what you’re paying for and how much you are eating. The hostel has a pizza-eating challenge. Eat the XXL - 50 cm in diameter - and you get a chalk mark next to your country. It might please you to note that Australia is in the lead, but not by much. I did not contribute to our tally but I watched an Irish attempt fail at the last two pieces.
It snowed my last night in Zdiar, after I was so sure we’d seen the last cold weather.
Part Two
Back to Vienna for Easter, which was fun and familiar, though everything, except restaurants and cinemas and Easter markets, was closed. I went to Schobrunn Palace on Sunday, grabbed a chocolate waffle from the market in the courtyard, and strolled around the grounds. Sighted first European flowers and pushed the Slovakian snow out of my mind.
I met an English girl at the hostel who shared her gingerbread cake with me, and made me think of English boarding school stories. Discovered that Mum had got her dates mixed up and would be arriving on the Wednesday and not Tuesday morning, which, though disappointing, meant I didn’t have to get up in the middle of the night to meet her in Salzburg.
Sorry to be brief and behind, but I've been terribly busy and unfairly, I think, sick with my third cold in three months. Mum and I are now in Munich after spending two days in sunny Salzburg, which I'll tell you about soon.
xxx
I’ve had a lazy time in the mountains, my existence punctuated by the odd walk with Wally and dinner. Climbing the hill behind the Ginger Monkey and looping around takes an hour if I dawdle, which I often do to throw planks of wood and rocks - Wally has odd tastes. There have been only six guests other than me, and only four at one time. This means I have had a room to myself, an unexpected pleasure.
My hosts, Sean and Jess, are unusual. You would swear that Sean is Irish, but his pronounced accent is a by-product of learning English in the company of Irish folk. His passport says he’s Israeli, but while I was there his mum received a letter that might change this. Because he’s been away travelling for five years, the government want to take away his citizenship. We live in a world, a time, fixated with borders. So where does a person with no borders fit in? He’s still puzzling this over.
Jess, an Oxford graduate, works for a company called Oxbridge, which employs Cambridge and Oxford alumni to write essays for students. They produce ‘model essays’ and there’s some contract the students sign to keep it above board, but basically it’s a service enabling people to buy degrees. You wouldn’t believe the pay, though, or the scope Jess writes about. She says she hardly retains any of it, but after hearing her talk, I think she’s just being modest.
I see the other hostellers during the day. We watch movies together, episodes of the Office always seem to be running, but it’s at dinner when everyone is about. The first three evenings Sean cooked, but the last two nights we spent down the road at two of the two local restaurants. Thursday night it was goulash in a small wooden hut where we were served by a tight-lipped Slovakian man through a dirty window. Friday night it was pizza. Though Sean and Jess had heaped praise on this place I was sceptical. After all, we’re in the Slovakian outback. But I was wrong to be wary - Slovakian sheep’s cheese and sausage are marvellous pizza toppings. The cheese is amazing; tasty beyond belief and thick without being chewy.
Meals are advertised in weight, so you know exactly what you’re paying for and how much you are eating. The hostel has a pizza-eating challenge. Eat the XXL - 50 cm in diameter - and you get a chalk mark next to your country. It might please you to note that Australia is in the lead, but not by much. I did not contribute to our tally but I watched an Irish attempt fail at the last two pieces.
It snowed my last night in Zdiar, after I was so sure we’d seen the last cold weather.
Part Two
Back to Vienna for Easter, which was fun and familiar, though everything, except restaurants and cinemas and Easter markets, was closed. I went to Schobrunn Palace on Sunday, grabbed a chocolate waffle from the market in the courtyard, and strolled around the grounds. Sighted first European flowers and pushed the Slovakian snow out of my mind.
I met an English girl at the hostel who shared her gingerbread cake with me, and made me think of English boarding school stories. Discovered that Mum had got her dates mixed up and would be arriving on the Wednesday and not Tuesday morning, which, though disappointing, meant I didn’t have to get up in the middle of the night to meet her in Salzburg.
Sorry to be brief and behind, but I've been terribly busy and unfairly, I think, sick with my third cold in three months. Mum and I are now in Munich after spending two days in sunny Salzburg, which I'll tell you about soon.
xxx
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