Fromage Foray

Probably the most anticipated of my mini holidays within the mega holiday was a jaunt to France and Switzerland. Whilst I have dabbled in Geneva before, five days provided the chance to visit some new sights, eat some smelly cheese, and be whizzed around winding roads just like old times in my brother's car. Like climbing Mont Blanc, the following account is an arduous undertaking, somewhat immense, partly (bad) French, ultimately rewarding.

Un: Ou est le soleil?
The day dawned with the red sun reflecting in the salt lakes of southern Spain as I left Alicante and boarded a plane full of French looking people bound for Geneva. Two hours later, and after being surrounded by kids playing group petanque on their Nintendo DS-es, we landed at a grey Geneva airport where I was met by Allan, Vero and le bump. Through the suburbs we managed to cross into France despite the rigid border control (I think there was a flag and maybe a little shed) for some snags and cheese at chez frere.

The first jaunt of the trip took us to Yvoire, beside Leman or Lake Geneva to the uninitiated or majority of the world who are not actually French or Swiss. Here, things were gloriously quaint despite the tourists and the rain. unbelievably the first serious rain I had seen for two weeks.

Wrapped up in my classy plastic mac it was ideal weather for an ice cream. almost tempted for the seven scoop challenge, my survival instincts kicked in and I instead opted for three, topped with a healthy dollop of Chantilly cream of course!

Later in the day, as the rain continued, I was entertained with a trip to the Casino, where the gamble is whether you will survive the smell of old socks in the cheese aisle (it's the name of a supermarket you see). Why do Frenchmen need such big noses I mused?! Cheese was turned into more cheese back at the ranch, where we indulged in the sublime cholesterol fix which is raclette, mmm mmm mmm.

Deux: Allez Allez
On the cards today was a sugary fix for breakfast courtesy of the local Boulangerie and innumerable goodies from the cupboards as we awaited the arrival of Vero’s brother, Philippe. Yesterday’s rain had cleared to leave a bright day, through somewhat cool up with the cowbells and Tour de France slogans around the Col de Joux Plane. The plan was for a little wander and I went off seeking one of those typical alpine flower and mountain shots, a la Heidi.

If munching on baguette and cheese on a hillside wasn’t French enough, Philippe quickly zoned in on scores of little frogs climbing up from the small lake, probably escaping a coachload of peckish visitors. Inexplicably this seemed to keep everyone amused, me included, for a good half hour or so. If nothing else, it mean I could sincerely tell the world here I am in France and I have seen lots of frogs today…

With snatches of Mont Blanc identifiable in the distance, we wound on down through more classical Alpine scenery, past towns whose names I can’t remember, through forests and alongside streams, stopping briefly for an ice cream and sighting of some animals whose names I forget (hmm, does too much cheese induce memory loss I wonder?). Quite suddenly, the roads straighten, cities appear and Leman stretches on in the distance. At Thonons les Bains we meandered beside the lake as Frenchies enjoyed their summer holidays on the plage - I was taught at school that plage means beach, but here it was more like a series of swimming pools, manicured parkland and the odd pebble beside the lake. There was also the sight of chateaus and vineyards and people wearing berets cycling with onions round their necks I think (again, my memory may be lacking somewhat).

From French clichés to Swiss stereotypes as the cuckoo clock chimed and we packed our army knives to cut some chocolate while watching fireworks in Geneva. The weekend happened to coincide with the Swiss national day and they celebrate by wearing Roger Federer cardigans and indulging in loud fireworks resembling gunfire, probably the most likely they actually ever get to battle. The fireworks sure were grand though and were accompanied by scores of rides and tents and thousands of people speaking thousands of tongues.



Trois: Allo Allo
The height of my trip? Certainly in altitude and quite possibly in experience. Today was super clear and simply incredible and we whizzed along for 45 minutes or so, mountains steadily rising on either side to reach Chamonix at the foot of Mont Blanc. Chamonix itself was a typically touristy Alpine resort and, on a stunningly clear Sunday, understandably full to the rafters with day trippers. Like many, our destination was a cable car ride rising nearly 3000 metres or so to the Aguille Du Midi, at 3842 metres in altitude, up in the snowline and less than a thousand metres short of the summit of Mont Blanc itself.

I could complain about the wait for our cable car but it simply meant I had a fantastic chocolate cake creation whose name I also cannot remember. Whether that was a good idea as we ascended rapidly, swinging on a few wires from time to time, I’m not so sure. Perched atop a high peaked rock cluster, the Aguille Du Midi is a complex of tunnels, lookouts, ice caves and cafes, with 360 degree views of the Alps, glaciers sweeping down to meet carved out valleys dotted with chalets, climbers zig-zagging like ants to distant summits, and exposed looking chairlifts transporting the adventurous across the mountain to Italy.

Intoxicating views, although the altitude (above 12,000 feet in old money) itself was enough to induce a drunken-like stupor, making every step a challenge, feeling like you are on the verge of passing out and, once back at a reasonable level, the inevitable hangover. Unlike many a drunken night out though it is definitely not something to regret though it could seriously get addictive.

Quatre: Tournez a gauche, et gauche, et gauche
Vero and Philippe were back at work today so it was left to two Rosbifs to explore some more of this most scenic corner of France and I was taken on le grand tour of the region. Our first stop was the town of La Clusaz, another charming Alpine resort, complete with a morning market and wholesome summer activities such as ice skating, crazy golf, mountain biking and, of course, walking. Being wholesome chaps ourselves we partook in a decent length walk, beginning with a little assistance from the cable car up to Beauregard leading to a land of alpine meadows, pine forests and small, rounded summits.



High on the hill were a lonely goatherd, along with a timely bar-restaurant where I was able to correctly interpret some French and pay the correct money for our drinks. The cable car down was ideally timed to munch on a cheese filled baguette, fuelling us for further meanderings towards the cooling waters of Lac D’Annecy, a seemingly favoured holiday spot and you could see why.



There were a few more stops on the way home, first at Les Ponts de la Caille, where not one, but two bridges spanned a small gorge which somewhat resembled the type of thing you often stumble across in south east Australia. A small tear formed in my eye and I clutched my heart, but after all my eyes were tired from staring at all the scenery and I had been eating a lot of cheese…

Surely there couldn’t be many more mountains left to climb, but wherever you turn round here there is another set of hairpins leading to another massif or range. The elongated ridge of Mont Saleve which rises just above the Geneva conurbation was the final stop on le grand tour and we arrived at the summit just in time to look to the east and catch the last rays of sun on the Mont Blanc massif and all the gorgeous country in between.





From another vantage our proximity to Geneva was all too apparent, looking down on the town, picking out the giant jet fountain and watching the fairground rides light up for the night. Somehow we had to get down there and this led to more hairpins and a steady descent to Annemasse for a well-earned pizza and beer


Cinq: If only I had an army knife
Today was the day to let the public transport take the strain as Al and I headed into Geneva before my late afternoon flight back to England. I’m not one to shirk public transport and it’s always a way of doing what the locals do and seeing the sights and sounds of a place. Somewhere on either the tram or the bus however my wallet decided it wanted to stay in Switzerland and vanished into the ether. Whether it clumsily fell out in a melee of bags and pockets or whether that guy who got rather intimate with me getting off the bus put one hand in my pocket I’ll probably never know. What followed was the calls to banks who strangely all seemed to be having problems with the mysterious “system” today and an exemplary French textbook scenario in action over at the police station. Annoying, but it didn’t totally cloud a rather nice day by the lake, plus it turned into Al’s shout for the rest of the day!

Being destitute it seemed to make sense to head to the United Nations, to see if they could pass some resolution or something which would probably be totally undermined by the USA who would go ahead and take action against wallets of much distinction regardless. It turns out they couldn’t help, but I took solace in the fact that I encountered a ‘big thing’, a giant chair outside the flag lined, fountain land of the UN.



From the UN, we headed into the nearby Jardin Botaniques, something which is turning into a regular habit of any big city I visit. Here there were a number of frogs laying about doing little and displays of flora from across the globe, though very little from the exotic realms of Rooty Hill.

The Jardins blended into more parkland beside the lake, territory which became increasingly familiar from a previous day spent in Geneva. Familiarity was all around as we crossed the lake and walked out to the imaginatively named Jet D’Eau, larger than Canberra’s Captain Cook Memorial Jet but equally as deserving of the question why.


Crossing the lake once more, we left the shores to head for some late lunch, a delicious pizza type thing (whose name I forget!), only thinner and made with a creamy, oniony base accompanied with a cold crisp beer. Very satisfied, the only thing left to do which could top this, and end my time in France and, briefly, Switzerland, was to pop into the local department store, taste and buy (courtesy of Allan’s wallet) a cowshed load of Swiss chocolate.

Feeling all continental, it was time to leave the sun, muster up all the sarcasm and irony I could manage, and return to Great Britain.

Las Ketchup

After a fine spell reacquainting myself with Britain and how, according to just about everyone, it is going downhill, it was time to move on, leave British things behind and move to a corner of Spain. Which is of course, full of British people constantly whingeing about how hot it is, eating fish and chips and watching the ever-worsening Eastenders.

Perversely it was a very warm day when Mum, Bethany and I departed the shed at Exeter Airport and headed to Quesada, Dona Pepa, Whatever, Somewhere, Spain. OK, it was pretty hot here but not to be whinged at for goodness sake! Clearly the pool was a popular place throughout and very nice it was too, in the times between screaming children enjoying themselves and having fun (tut tut!)




Other activities in my few days over there involved braving dodgy driving for visits to a couple of Spanish towns. Calpe is semi-famous for a big rock, a very average beach (come on, it’s tough beating Australia), and my only slightly authentic Spanish eating experience involving some chorizo and a baguette! It’s a lovely drive and the area around the rock is thankfully undeveloped and worthy of a wander (unless it’s too hot).

Another morning was spent in Orihuela, an inland town which is actually full of Spanish people (they do exist!) and is typically Spanish… hot, dusty, god-fearing and with a sprinkling of old buildings and architecture.

I think most of my time though was spent trying to keep my niece Bethany amused and out of trouble. Let me tell you, reciting alternate letters of the alphabet and counting to 100 gets a little weary from time to time. But I can’t complain as I managed to avoid being subjected to High School The Musical (however, I did learn that Troy really loves Gabriella or something. Really loves. I was surprised, as Troy didn’t look like the kind of guy who would be into that kind of thing). I also shamelessly went along eating the local food, which included a BBQ, fish and chips, Chinese, and a big deep fried platter.

It seems, then, that I managed to depart Spain my Britishness clearly intact. Next stop France, and greater challenges lay ahead on a path dotted with very smelly cheese…

End of Part One

OK, maybe when people said I had brought the good weather with me they had a point. Apart from a minor blip on Friday it has been pretty much perfect and the short wearing opportunities have far exceeded expectations. After the initial frenetic activity to make hay (see below) I have taken a much more leisurely, Devonian style approach to my time. This has included the odd spell of reading in the garden, more gentle ambling, a trip round the shops and out to Aunty Pat’s for lunch – it was good to see some raspberries growing in her garden, a few of which I nicked to complement a home made cream tea.

I ramped up the pace slightly on Sunday, catching a bus across the Tamar to Crafthole in South East Cornwall. This region is such a delight and seems a million miles away from the council chav towns of Plymouth. Not only do you have the rolling hills from the Ambrosia custard tin but the stunning sweep of coastline around Whitsand Bay, all gargantuan cliffs dropping down to shingle coves and beaches. And of course, access to the South West Coast Path, maybe I'm biased but without doubt the greatest track in the world!

Whilst I will be returning to the southwest in a couple of weeks with Dad, it has become something of a ritual to end my time in this part of the world with a barbecue. Being the honorary ‘Australian’, I am charged with responsibility for burning the snags and turning the prawns, sculling a XXXX and muttering a few XXXXs as I singe my eyebrows. Mum seemed to think all the family were there and Allan could help eat the food mountain which emerged, including approximately: 20 prawns, 8 giant burgers, 20 sausages, half a pig’s belly, 20 chicken wings, 8 chicken drumsticks, 8 chicken thighs, 20 slices of butternut squash, a few mushrooms and peppers, salad, bread, one rhubarb crumble and one banoffee cheesecake.

Needless to say, leftovers will be eaten today, probably at Exeter Airport Shed as we wait for Cullompton Airways Flight 00AR to Spain. Hopefully the weather will be as good in that part of the world!

Making Hay

As the sun continues to bathe this soggy little island, people keep telling me “you brought the good weather with you”. I don’t have the heart to tell them it’s probably single digit degrees, slanting rain and gloomy mornings over in Canberra. The marketing people have done such a good job through ads for Fosters (the Australian beer!), Home and Away and Crocodile Dundee that the very thought of wearing a coat down under seems nonsensical.

My ethos has been very much to make hay while the sun shines, knowing all too well that the dark clouds are always on the horizon! This week has encompassed a couple of contrasting trips to the seaside. First up was St Ives down in Cornwall, known as the St Tropez of England, complete with palm trees and exotic flowers, art galleries, sandy beaches and fine cuisine.

It’s not without the more typical English seaside attractions though – buckets and spades on the beach, colourful windbreaks, purple skinned Northerners. And, of course, being Cornwall, you can’t move without bumping into a pasty shop or teahouse or ice cream parlour. Having already eaten a small pasty for lunch it was with some dismay that Mum and I stumbled upon Pengenna Pasties, famous for being exceedingly scrumptious and posing on rocks in Tintagel in 2007. The only solution was to buy one and bring it home for dinner… I’m thinking that this is the first time in my life I have had two pasties in one day (that’s quite surprising really!). Credit goes to Mum who safely transported the prized specimen back on the train and home to Plymouth.

St Ives is the kind of place where you amble. Narrow streets lined with cottages meander in a haphazard fashion before, without knowing it, you turn the corner and face a sweeping stretch of sand which if you squint could almost be Coogee. A sandy beach no less, much to the dismay of my Australian friends. You amble along the sands, you amble around the headlands and, if you are brave enough, you amble with your feet in the water!

Hey everybody it’s a montage of pictures of me, in shorts, in England. Blimey!

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The second trip to the seaside followed the day after, and this time it was Devon’s turn to show me what it had got. To be fair, Devon is absolutely beautiful but Dawlish Warren isn’t the most scenic of spots, despite an interesting coastline made up of red rocks and cliffs. The convenience of this place is the accessibility by train and amusements to keep young monsters, well, amused. Whilst it was still bright, a stiff breeze made it much cooler and, still wearing shorts, I think both Mum and I both shivered now and again. My sister Cheryl meanwhile, who is more akin to the English weather thought it was just perfect!

It wasn’t really beach weather so we made use of the amusements, plying pound coins into the scammer grabbers for soft toys and going crazy shoving 2p’s into a big pile of even more 2p’s in the hope that some of them may fall over the edge and into our pockets. At least it kept my niece Bethany amused… six year olds seem to take some amusing but thankfully she likes crazy golf (which we can all take part in) and trampolines (which is effectively like putting her in a cage for a few minutes to wile away some energy!). It was nice to see Bethany doing this though since – sign I am getting well ancient – it brought back childhood memories of me doing the same, ah.

Retracing the past

There is something reassuring about the train journey to Plymouth, the scenery seemingly little changed over time, hills and hedgerows increasing as you thread your way through deepest Devon. Suddenly, abruptly, you cruise alongside rows and rows of houses, no doubt full of ruddy faced farmer types baking fresh scones and drinking Cyder with a ‘Y’. Yeah, of course, that’s totally what it’s like…

After meeting Mum at the station, first stop was “Town”, where not a lot had actually changed from a year ago… the odd new shop here and there and more quality fancy dress and fashion accessories at Bits N Bows, the premium stop for all your party needs in the South West! A pasty for lunch was followed by Mum’s homemade lasagne in the evening, eaten outside on the deck in the increasingly bright and warm weather.

Blue skies and fluffy white sheep clouds greeted me for my first full day in Plymouth and I took part in the annual pilgrimage that is the bus to town, walk up Armada Way to the Hoe and along the seafront to the Barbican.

It’s hard to beat on days like these, perfect for the 15 year old mums to take little Courtney for a pram push, ideal for the foreign exchange students to take their backpacks off both shoulders and lounge in gaggles on the grass, and just super for the wrinkles to park up and sit in their car staring absently out to sea. Also a great day for an ice cream, and I even stumbled across a BIG ice cream - all presented in a very restrained British way and not with all the associated hoo haa you might find in the colonies.

Now, you may know when I’m in Sydney I like to get out on the water and in this most Sydney-esque of days I decided to take the ferry across the Sound and over to Cawsand. Of course, it’s very similar to the Manly ferry, leaving the old part of town as it does, passing the shiny white architecture of Plymouth Dome, views to the Tamar Bridge and cruising on along a number of wooded inlets, some even with swanky apartments overlooking the water! Pleasingly, Cawsand, and it’s partner in crime, Kingsand, is a long way from Sydney and was designed before such things as cars existed, creating a confined maze of narrow, cottage lined alleys and lanes, leading down to slipways and shingle coves peppered with Northerners getting sunburn.

Now from here I took the walk into Mount Edgecumbe, climbing steeply up to Maker. I passed some people coming the other way, one of the guys was busy taking photos whilst his partner patiently waited. Did he make her come along? Make her, Maker? Geddit?! Oh dear, I think I was actually getting slightly delirious here as it was unseasonably warm and, believe it or not, my head was starting to get a little tinted. The shady trees helped a bit and it was nice to be greeted at the top of the hill with more Cornalishious scenery.

From here it was downhill all the way into the more formal gardens of Mount Edgecumbe, a place I have wandered around many times since a wee nipper. When I was younger the highlight was always the chance to have an ice cream from the Orangery Café and, as nice as all the plants were, it was no different this time round. Given I’m a little older these days I can also have a sneaky pint of Cider, very useful when there is an hour wait for the Cremyll Ferry and there is a pub slap bang opposite the quay. Glorious.

Welcome to Country

And we’re off. Kinda. Destination Mother Country would get there but first there was the short matter of, well, getting there. I had a bit of time to fill before leaving the chilly winter of Canberra and indulged in a lazy morning including a nice hot bath and a divine brunch, followed by a walk through the Anglo-Australian ramblings of Telopea Park in Kingston. Winding down, beginning to relax and take it easy.

And then, with minutes to spare until departing for the airport, the news filtered through of delays to my flight from Sydney, leaving me with more time than I bargained for in Canberra. For many, the line "more time than I bargained for in Canberra" would induce dread, turning them as white as a cockatoo in a carwash. For me, well, I just continued relaxing and taking it easy… a nice afternoon doze, followed by a stroll up Red Hill for a coffee and some cake.

Eventually the pace did quicken and, leaving a surprisingly frenetic Canberra Airport, I reached Sydney just in time to sit in a chair and watch people watching people trying to sing lines to songs on some typically below par Aussie TV. The show ended with a guest appearance from Joe Dolce who sang his classic hit, shaddap you face.

It seems the Qantas crew must’ve been hooked as well, since it was almost immediately after that boarding for flight QF31 to London commenced. I won’t bore you too much about the journey, it was excruciatingly boring, punctuated by a very brief stopover in a lounge in Singapore where the time was half past Zombie. I did manage to catch a few winks and a few decent TV shows, including a fascinating documentary on the construction of a big Gumboot in Tully, Queensland.

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Britain, Britain, Britain. You gave me such a disappointing start I almost wanted to turn back. Looping around the edges of London, finally landing at, yes, a grey dreary Heathrow, unable to work the aerobridge, walking mile upon mile to bags and Customs. Being greeted by the most over-officious and patronising woman piling people onto a messy transport system and then queuing endlessly for an over-priced ticket on a bus which sits on the M25. The 30 hour journey does not help at this point let me tell you. Somehow though, it seems the M25 presents a clear physical boundary between the grey monotony and leafy green England. The ride into Woking through the lushest woodlands perks up the battered soul and improves along the train line to Basingstoke. I was here, the first stop in the itinerary with Dad and Sonia.

Of course it wasn’t long until I hit up the supermarket. I don’t know if it was the jetlag or whatever, but part of me felt a bit lost, like I didn’t belong here. Sainsbury’s was all a bit alien and strange, having said that I did manage to acquire some pork pies, pickled onion flavour Monster Munch and a Double Decker. Such foods are vital when lounging around watching the Open golf, which was an ideal way to get over the journey and encompassed much of the weekend.

I did visit a few parts of jolly olde England as well though. This included Basingstoke Mall, where the glass was shiny but the coffee was inevitably disappointing. I just don’t know why we cannot make a good coffee in England. We are a bright nation and goodness knows how many people from coffee making countries exist here. But some spotty youth pressing a fully automated button which dribbles out some scalding hot, bitter liquid and a pile of mush is not the way to go! I so needed a good coffee too.

On Sunday, the weather was improving all the time, bright and reaching dizzying heights of 17 degrees. Dad and I headed to Virginia Water, a part of Windsor Great Park and, for some reason, a part of the world I associate with Peter Alliss who is rambling more than ever these days. It was oh so leafy, horsey horsey, joggers and kids and people on bikes. I loved it, I now seem to be staring at big broad leaf oaks in the same way I used to gasp at Eucalypts.

Sunday afternoon was pretty good too, struggling a little to keep eyes open and watch Paddy win the golf, accompanied by the smell and taste of Roast Pork. It may have been a ropey start but things were getting better all the time. Plymouth, you cannot disappoint…

A few of my favourite things

No doubt in a week’s time I will be stuffing my face with pork pies and cream teas, watching BBC1 and moaning about the weather. I am going home, again temporarily, and very exciting it is too. There are some things I am not so excited about, like Qantas Flight 31, the summer heights highs of 17 degrees and the impending arrival of an extra four inches on my waistline. In fact, some strange things are happening to me in that I am thinking of some of the things I will miss, such as a nice coffee in Manuka, a walk up Red Hill, my beast of a car and even some Australian people. Worryingly I also seem to know much of Advance Australia Fair (apart from a bit of mangling in verses five and six) although Waltzing Matilda is still far beyond me. Am I turning into an Australian? I think no, as I still can’t stand Koshie and Mel on the Sunrise show and Lamingtons remain perennially underwhelming. I guess I am somewhere in between, which, looking on the world map, makes me Dirga Dirga Dirga.

So to fill my boots on Australianity before filling my boots with cholesterol I have been indulging in a few of my favourite things, like raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. Last weekend I took one of my regular walks on Red Hill and it seems all of Australia was out on view, with more colourful birds than marching up Oxford Street in Sydney’s Mardi Gras.

I also went to the Botanic Gardens, thinking there wouldn’t actually be much there given we are in the midst of winter. Well, let me tell you now one of the great things about Australia is that there is always some crazy plant in flower, usually combining with the Eucalyptus in the air to give off a wonderful fragrance which I wish I could bottle and bring to England.

Red Hill and Wattle and caramel slices,
Parrots and coffee and great restaurant prices.

This weekend, and my last Saturday in Australia until August 23rd, meant I was pretty keen to go bush, just like a jolly swagman doing stuff under a Coolibah tree (OK, are you getting all these references today? Come on, keep up!). Thankfully the weather this week has been cold and rubbish meaning that summer highs of England will actually be tolerable (though I will still need a nice comfy jumper I think). Saturday the sun shone and shone though, following a heavy frost and snow on the not so distant ranges.



So, picking up an Australian for good measure on the way, it was north to good old Fitzroy Falls where not much had changed since last time I had been there, apart from much better food in the café.

Lyrebirds and Gum Trees and huge café sangas,
Big things and Coles Bird and hoons in their bangers.

For some unknown reason, it seems to me Fitzroy Falls attracts a lot of Australian Chavs. Not quite the same as the English chav but you can spot the similarities (a bit like comparing the English and Australia Magpie). I guess it’s not actually a million miles away from the very southwestern suburbs of Sydney which could explain things. The Croydon of the bush. Anyway, it was good to get some fashion tips as this Thursday I will be joining the fraternity, decked out in tracky pants and a hoodie for maximum comfort aboard a big aluminium tube. Yes, join me as we go up over once again.

Pasties and Cornwall and proper Devon teas,
Football and Top Gear and choppy old grey seas,
Fish, chips and a spam fritter from Francines,
These are a few of my favourite things.