Thursday, August 28, 2008

Spain, Plane, Going Insane and Wall of Shame

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?

Last seen being plagued by the end of the mosquito season (which was Sunday just gone apparently), the expat Gollum lookalike took refuge in a Pepsi can.

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There are a few days of my Europe break unaccounted for. I have vague recollections of time in swimming pools, races to the next lamppost, siestas on the couch. I can hazily see a strangely fantastic steak and kidney pie in a Spanish pub. Ooh, there goes Mum’s lasagne. Beaches, but not as I know them. And then greyness, cold, Jedi powered airport toilet flushes, wedged between kids in a magnificent flying machine and transportation to a parallel universe in the southern hemisphere.

So there we are, it’s all over. There were sights, so many sights, from lush Cornish coves to monstrous mountains. Gorgeous, but just sights, there for a photo to remind me of where I’ve been, to post on the blog and put together some sort of coherent witty story. Beautiful places but, simply on their own, not the things I want to keep in my head and cherish forever. They are a background, a stage for better things: races to the next lamppost, baguettes on hillsides, Batman impressions, coffee by the harbour, a round of warm beers, battles in the pool, long lazy barbecue evenings, red-eye trips to the airport, a chat in the gardens. It’s all about you people!

As I said goodbye to the folks in Spain I was finishing one of my summer holiday reads, Into the Wild, about Christopher McCandless, a twenty-something who gave up society and wandered into the Alaskan wilderness never to return. I think for me, and indeed most of us, there is at least a small, primeval appeal about what he did. We all dream of the next grand mountain or twenty mile stretch of white sand, looking for that high of pure, unadulterated nature and thrill of new horizons. Sadly, this almost obsessive pursuit cost McCandless his life. The poignant thing about this is that shortly before he perished, he seemed to actually realise the real beauty of life is not the earth but its people. One of his final diary entries read: “HAPPINESS ONLY REAL WHEN SHARED”.

I don’t wholeheartedly agree with his revelation – we’ve all been happy with a bit of me time, right? I sure have had some great times and craved that independence. But then I go share them via this blog, with a friend, chat about it on a Monday morning in work. Maybe I’d rather say the good times are good and the better times are the good times shared. Maybe even there’s a bigger smile on my face when the checkout girl at Coles jokes about the man talking to himself (okay this wasn’t offensive… he was on the phone) than when I stumble upon a beautiful beach and have it all to myself.

Why am I bothering to write this and get all deep on you? Well, mainly because I read these words in Alicante airport, after goodbyes which seem to get harder and harder each time. And I was reminded that it didn’t really matter if I saw mighty mountains or curvaceous coves. Because they were just a backdrop, for the people*.

So as a mark of respect I decided to try and find some of the least flattering pictures of everyone, including me! If you have made it this far and not given up on this post already, thank you so much for among other things hospitality, nourishment, transport, patience, cheese, being irritating and wonderful at the same time, but most of all, just being you. And there will always be a big welcome for you down under!



* this doesn’t mean next time you can just lock me up and feed me gruel when I come to stay – I still wanna go places OK?!

Sunday, August 24, 2008

The most beautiful place in the world!

My huge yeti sized carbon footprint continued with a flight from Manchester to Plymouth and it was pleasing to see a tractor on the runway (seriously) as I arrived late on a Sunday night. Ah home, eternally home. After my blessed first week in England when they had their summer, it was more like autumn for five days in the Westcountry with Dad but somehow we managed to get lucky, see, do and eat pretty much everything we wanted to. Much of this was a nostalgia fest for both of us. I am very grateful to have grown up in a free, prosperous society but to grow up in a free, prosperous society which happens to be in the most beautiful of regions is truly a bonus. Clotted cream coloured spectacles? Maybe, but I’ve been to cities that never close down and I’ll still call the Westcountry home.

The nostalgia was instant first thing Monday as Dad and I made the pilgrimage to Wrangaton Golf Club to attempt to play golf. Wrangie was looking truly awesome in the low cloud and spots of rain, soft as a sponge, green as a bogey. There were a few memorable shots but for the most part we hacked round, spurred on by memories and a good lunch in the clubhouse.

For some reason, a round at Wrangaton often seems to produce something of a hangover, tiredness, achiness and a throbbing head. In this context, it was a challenge to wander the aisles of mega Tesco for goodies but we picked up some dinner and other bits and pieces. In a way maybe we shouldn’t as we ended up sitting at Cap’n Jaspers that evening with no room for a Jasperizer or Half a Yard.
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The next day held promise of sunshine and some showers so we headed to North Cornwall to bathe in the sunshine and avoid most of the showers. First up was Boscastle, seemingly restored since huge floods a few years back and a fine place to walk along the harbour and out to the headlands. Breathe it in, these are special moments.




Now, back in Boscastle, the sun began to shine and it was perfect to sit down by the harbour and have a drink. The cream tea was tempting me but we decided to stick to a coffee, what with other treats pending later in the day. How is it a small café in a very small village in an area of England so tucked away you have to squeeze through narrow lanes to get there serves a far better coffee than anywhere else in the land, including those stupid chains and expensive haunts in London town? It was even better than some poor examples I have had in Australia, praise indeed.

But you don’t come here for coffee, you come here for pasties by the sea in Tintagel, something which is incredibly hard to beat. Follow this up with a fudge crumble and you’re onto a winner.



This part of the world isn’t all hidden and tucked away, evidenced by the packed car park at Port Isaac, better known by many as home to Doc Martin. Surprisingly, the town remains quaintly beautiful and doesn’t seem to overly cash in on its links to a TV show – it remains at heart a typical Cornish fishing village, with narrow lanes leading down to a small harbour. However, you did find yourself thinking “Ooh, I wonder if Doc Martin will stomp down that alley in a minute” now and again.



In the evening it was good to return to the ‘Oe where the national firework championships were taking place. Excellent for getting in touch with the inner Janner and watching three great displays over Plymouth Sound. Who needs a harbour bridge?!

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If you said to me on Wednesday morning I’d be supping a pint of Cider sat in the sun beside the water I would have had you sectioned. The rain and wind swept through Plymouth city centre all morning and looked unlikely to abate as we set off to Noss Mayo in south Devon. Noss Mayo though seems to have its own little climate control switch which is set on idyllic. The wind remained for the bracing coastal part of the walk but had eased sufficiently for T-shirt and cold drink in The Ship Inn, an unexpected bonus.



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More holes in the cloud on Thursday and a trip to Dartmoor where I still got wet crossing a brook. Dad took me on a walk of great variety including gurgling streams, forest, high moorland, Celtic ruins, squidgy bogs and no path at all! Such exertion made me hungry and so it was more than time for a PROPER Devon Cream Tea!!




This is what you need Australia. Until this point you will forever remain a second class country, lol!

Cream teas and rolling hills go hand in hand, like Sonny and Cher, that politician and the Cheeky Girl and Marmite and toast. The rolling hill fix came courtesy of the views from Houndtor – surprisingly somewhere I do not recall visiting previously. Half of glorious Devon was on view from here, looking majestic in the afternoon sunshine.




Looking back at that huge bowl of cream you may be surprised to hear that we dined out in the evening at the good ol’ Britannia with Cheryl and Steve. You may be surprised. If you don’t know me very well that is.

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With all major things ticked off, fudge packed and fairy costumes in the suitcase, it was time to leisurely head to Exeter Airport on Friday, taking a route via the South Hams which nostalgia told me wasn’t so long, winding and clogged with traffic like one of my arteries after that cream tea. We stopped for coffee (normal service resumed) at Slapton and a walk on the beach. A pebbly beach, no doubt to the delight of my colonial friends.

Up the road, Totnes is a pretty little place, though not one you want to spend 40 minutes getting through when you have a lunch appointment and a flight to catch. Such is the hazard of being from a beautiful part of the world, all grockled out as it was on a sunny Friday. In the end we made lunch for about 30 minutes, savouring as much as possible the bargain carvery in Torquay.

My last few minutes in the south west were something of a blur as we raced to the airport so I could get on my plane to Spain. Thankfully I have had many more minutes in this part of the world and I hope many more are still to come my way in the future. Australia home? Nah, not quite yet me loverrrrrr. Home is where the heart is.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

North and South

The sparkling waters of Geneva gave way to low leaden skies as soon as I crossed the Channel and touched down in deepest darkest Sussex. The gloom thickened as my train clanked inside the M25 and finally the drizzle dampened the streets of West Hampstead where I was met by my friend Caroline... previously whom I had last seen in a sun-packed Canberra. Up Finchley Road past old landmarks we crawled to a late dinner of proper English Indian takeaway.

Pleasingly my relatively good run with the meteorological gods continued as my only full day in London town became increasingly bright and tropical. It was pleasant enough for an M&S sarnie on the grass at Embankment, while over the other side of the Thames, the kids were playing in the fountains and the beaches were looking positively Bondi-esque?!



On days like these one typically takes in a pleasing stroll along the South Bank, which has developed much in recent years and seems even more snazzier than when I was last living in the national capital. Some of the old things remain the best though, including the Anchor pub, which has been down on the banks of the Thames for several centuries already and ideal for a quick shandy.

Later in the day I was meeting up with the good old folks from TNS Social UK, and it was a lengthy stroll over to Holborn, passing many iconic red phone boxes which seem to be all the rage with these tourist types you know. A few warm ales of the English variety followed at some old boozer, just like the old times with the exception of a few more grey hairs here and there!





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The next day, propelled by lunch from a classic greasy spoon, it was time to head north, to Lancashire, The North. The main event here was the wedding of Melita and Geoff and a rare beautiful golden orb bathed the wedding in warmth and light witnessed rarely in these parts. Of course, I was thanked several times for bringing the sun with me from Australia!



Besides the wedding I spent a good deal of time down in classy Lytham with two former housemates of mine (before they were evicted by Big Brother), Jenn and Ollie. The day after the wedding was more like normal, spent indoors for a large part watching the more obscure Olympic sports as the rain teemed down. For dinner, we visited a fish and chip shop seemingly endorsed by Gordon Ramsay, though if I were you Gordon, I would seriously **^%&* *@#** **”#@***. Another slight disappointment was the new Batman movie, what with his annoying voice and absence of coherent plot line, but it was nice to sit in a comfy chair and avoid the wet and cold. Highlight of the day though was reserved for a drive down Blackpool prom, watching skanky hen nights tumble from one dire place to the other, poor kids spending their summer holidays in a yellow plastic cagoule, and marvelling at pea brained skinheads strutting their guts. Eee ooop, lovely.