As a couple of months frivolously
gallivanting around Europe neared an end, the farewells started to stack up
and, eventually, Australia loomed large. The final ten days or so felt good but
also slightly odd, like part of a protracted journey home with a familiar
repeat of adieus. Food opportunities gleefully grasped each time like a
last supper, final washing and shopping chores done, the last episode of
Pointless consumed. And then change, again.
The first goodbye was to the
continent, and a wonderful few weeks sampling a little bit of Europe and its
food. A final stop in France provided the rich chocolate ganache on the
decadent three layered cake. Two beautiful, warm days being a figurative golf
widow, first ambling the vines on the Swiss border, and then an Alpine
goodbye in Chamonix.
Chamonix perhaps provided a
fitting farewell to The Alps, whose peaks and valleys I had encountered
throughout; the backdrop to the fairytale at Bled, the recipient of thrilling
fresh snow in Switzerland, the accompaniment to many a scenic train trip. And
today, the biggie, Mont Blanc, out in the clear and saying look at me (with
sunglasses to protect your eyes). Regardless of fatigue, these mountains always
draw you upwards, this being the case again as I walked from the golf course to
the town via an elevated forest path, toilet pine fresh in the crystal clear
air.
In Chamonix there finally came a
point where I relented. I could spend a few hours taking a pricey cable car
halfway up a mountain, walking along a no doubt magnificent rocky balcony of a
trail, taking pictures of glaciers and crags, and wearing myself out once more.
Or I could sit in the sun and have a three course lunch, then potter around the
shops and buy cakes. The lunch was suitably cheesy and the cake, shared and
eaten back in Annemasse that evening, was as predictably delicious as ever. 
Sadly my final day in France was blighted
by weather, though this abated enough for a family stroll in the afternoon, the
scene decidedly autumnal and with a foreboding sense of what was to come for
this part of the world. Grey clouds and low mists, slippery leaves and a
distinct chill to the air, perfect for winter foods involving melted cheeses.
Cue dinner and, as this was France, one final piece of gateaux before departing
for the airport the next morning.
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I’ve had better travel days than
Monday 8th October. There was a sign things wouldn’t quite go to
plan when the quiche in Manor was 60 Swiss Francs more than I had left on me and
there were no alternative giant pretzels to be found anywhere. This was the
precursor to a two hour flight delay, and arrival to Bristol weather that is
best described as abysmally atrocious. Thirty six pounds given to First Great
Western for a jaunt to Plymouth standing up part of the way (compare this to
the 19 Euro fast train to Florence, or the £17.50 Milan-Geneva bargain),
and there I was, finally, back in Plymouth. But it was great to be back.
Plymouth’s weather mirrored
Bristol’s over the next three days (so much so that the picture of Plymouth
shown here was actually taken on the Saturday morning, a few days later...but
it fits better here, because I am writing about Plymouth you see). So I stocked
up on food and books, spent some time visiting relatives, watched Pointless
with enthusiasm, endured Eastenders with less enthusiasm, and probably wrote a
blog entry in between napping.
Thank God for Friday, where at
least the low cloudy drizzle was replaced by sunshine and heavy showers.
Mercifully, most of these showers occurred while I was driving, all the way up
to North Devon and a world I could not remember as I was too young last time I
was anywhere near here. So while torrents of water accompanied me down the road
to Woolacombe, once on the beach things were bright and breezy and rather
wonderful to behold.
From Woolacombe I cut across to
Combe Martin and then took a punt on a road that headed steeply and narrowly uphill,
the type of road where you don’t open windows because you will be smothered by
hedgerows. This quite miraculously squeezed us out on the Exmoor coast and
quite dramatic views of this part of the world, all the way across to Wales.
The roads never really got any
wider, with the tranquil Heddon Valley emerging after a hair-raising descent on
wet leaves. Here, the sun was now shining, the water of the fast flowing river
cloaked in the last vestiges of summer, carving through the steeply sided hills
and out into the Bristol Channel. Of course, being in a valley meant going up
again, gradually squeezing the car towards Lynton, the highlight being a
reverse uphill manoeuvre perched on the edge high above the sea to let an
oncoming car pass. Memorable stuff!
And then, you come out of the
undergrowth and into the remarkable Valley of Rocks, where the bronzed bracken
conceals wild goats and the highs of Exmoor engage in a dalliance with the sea.
Such high drama needs a little
sedition, and not too far away was Arlington Court. Famously regarded (well,
recommended by my brother at least) for its cream tea, this really was the
culmination of a Devon day. In truth, the cream tea must have changed, because
it was unremarkable and sadly now National Trust standardised. But any cream
tea is paradise.
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If paucity of cream was a problem
one day, scarcity of sweet and sour wasn’t the next. This was the last meal in Plymouth,
before a train to Basingstoke. What better way to mark an impending return to
Australia than Chinese all you can eat buffet?! A very British Chinese with
Australia Asian influences. And, like most of the trip before, an absolute
feast. 
And so Devon was as annoyingly
idyllic as a blue sky with white fluffy clouds, the train meandering through
its countryside and me attempting to recover from MSG before Hampshire. I did,
just about, and then embarked on a chicken kebab for dinner, which was
absolutely delicious and entirely memorable itself. Thankfully I do manage to
walk off a fair bit of this tucker, and the next day provided perfect blue
skies for a celebration of autumn at the elegant and evocative gardens at
Stourhead.
Telling my body and my senses that it was autumn, that winter is coming, is a sure way to confuse the hell out of it when it returns to Australia. The next day – my final day – and there were sure signs that it was time to return. Not because it was bad – in fact, the opposite – but if I stayed any longer I would need to buy a proper winter coat. Bracing winds accompanied the sunshine at the coast, down around Lymington and the New Forest, for a walk out to Hurst Castle. A very English seaside landscape, full of colour and pebbles and bobbly boats and seniors going for walks...
Maybe it was the Olympics, or some kind of counter-reaction to having an Aussie passport,
but I felt a stronger affinity to Britain on this trip. You know, it’s not a
bad place really. I liked having a car to get around a little of it, and I enjoyed
its cheapness at the supermarket, and it didn’t actually rain too
much, but I think I was just a little blessed there. I suppose the people are
alright too, especially those who looked after me, made sure I didn’t go hungry
(as if!), and shared some fun moments. To overuse an overused cliché of
2012, gold medal standard.
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