Adios

There’s been a certain symmetry in my travels in Europe, the last month a reflection of the first, though while the first is all about hellos and how are yas the last is mostly farewells and see ya laters. Sometimes the thought of impending farewells overshadows those last few days, as much as you try and you do enjoy them there is always that departure on your mind. You console yourself by looking forward to those things you have missed but know you are going to miss those things you have had.

It started in Spain and that is where it pretty much finishes, barring one last royal day in England. This time round, Spain was wetter but better in all the things that count. Mum’s cooking was around the same (it can’t be better) and in the week I think we managed lasagne, roast dinner, bakewell tart, various things with clotted cream, cheesy marmites and, on my part tartiflette and BBQ, representative of where I have been and where I am heading! The Spanish visit was also improved by having a hire car for myself and, despite the weather, being out of season. This meant things were less frenetic, towns were quiet and some of the beaches were nice. One such beach being at Torre de la Horadada which was getting closer to Australian standard.

The first couple of days were spent dodging thundery showers, alternating siestas and shopping trips with little jaunts out into the country or coast. This included a drive down to Mar Menor, which is a vast body of salty water separated from the sea by ‘the strip’, a Gold Coast like series of high rises and golf courses. We never made it onto the strip, but stopped at the southern end and Cabo de Palos before racing back around Mar Menor as a dark storm approached.

The rain in Spain was again on the cards the following day, though not when we left home or for most of the time driving. It was only when we had fortuitously navigated the signless inland town of Novelda and reached our destination on the top of a small hill that the heavens opened. Pitter patter on the car roof as we sat patiently in the car park waiting for a clearing, it could’ve been England, though there was a car of jolly Germans also waiting next to us. At times it stopped briefly only for a deluge a minute later, but finally there was respite enough to wander around the rather fancy façade of the monastery of Santa Maria Magdalena and the less fancy but historically top trumping older Moorish castle of Mola.





It really was a dash and snap occasion, quickly lapping the exterior and taking a few quick photos before further heavy storms rolled in. On another day it would be good to amble and just hang out round here, admiring the buildings and the views that surround, perhaps eating some lunch and reading a book. And even taking time to compose a photo rather than a quick point and shoot in between thunder claps.

Mercifully the weather picked up in the latter half of the week, enough for a dip in the sea and a nice day out in the mountains and back along the coast. This was our big day out, driving on the very empty toll roads around Alicante to the peaks rising inland from Benidorm. The first port of call was Algar Falls, which must have benefitted from the rain, though there is a strong likelihood the falls are activated by a pump, given the landscaping and development to make what was probably once a natural highlight into a tourist honeypot. Don’t get me wrong, the water was beautiful and the setting pleasant enough… it’s just the endless rip off car parks and cafes and admission fee and man made rocks and platforms. In Wales we have seen this is free and untainted. In Australia, you drive along a dirt track, park in a national park, walk through Eucalpyts and Banksia and see water plummeting off a massive sandstone cliff, just as it was 50,000 years ago. In Spain you get a dodgy portaloo, topless Germans on rocks, and the most expensive ice and lemon possible (anyone would think lemons are scarce around here!)

Beyond Algar Falls, the number of naked Germans disappears and you are left to very steep and winding mountain roads and villages mostly untainted by modern trappings. The road reaches its high point at Coll de Rates, around 800metres above the sea which is visible in several directions. Hidden also are the large tourist resorts, with just groves of olives and almonds surrounding market towns in the valleys.





Getting lost is easy to do around here, and we took a lengthy unintended detour back down in the valley taking us very close to Denia. Looping round though it was back onto the N332, the main (free) artery linking the many resorts on the Costa Blanca. One of these places is Altea which, though I’m sure has enough hotels and beach umbrellas to satisfy the Spanish government, retains a rather charming old town high up on a hill. It was a bit a walk up to here, but the coffee overlooking the bay and out to the rocky lump of the Penon d’Ifach was worth it, and it was a pleasure to amble around the whitewashed alleys and lanes, with not too much tacky touristiana on show.





And that pretty much caps it. Sights were set on Australia and the journey home, and it was fitting to light the BBQ on my last night there and of course, finish with one last helping of clotted cream with apple pie. My time in Spain this year has much been like Spain itself, good and bad. Thankfully, like the tumbling, whitewashed houses of Altea and the Salmon on the BBQ, the last week was good and I felt ready to return to Oz.

There was one last hurrah though before returning to good coffee and bad television. It seems to be becoming a bit of a tradition now to sign off in style, with a quintessential piece of England… last time white cliffs and this time the royal trappings of Windsor along with the salad bar at Harvester. Thanks to Caroline who picked me up at Luton and dropped me off at Heathrow and kept me entertained in between.



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And so that really is it. It’s been a long time, a rollercoaster journey but some magnificent moments and magnificent people. Thank yous and kisses and hugs and maybe a fart and burp or two, a poke in the poker face, a bounce on the trampoline, a chomp of cheese, and an afternoon nap to you all. I could complain about some of the weather you gave me but I am sat here in Canberra in several layers thanks to a cold horrendous weekend of weather I was not envisaging in my mind on that plane journey home, so really British weather isn’t that bad! Since being back we’ve had dust storms, sunshine, thunder storms, hail, winds and rain. It’s always tough coming back, tough starting work and tough being on the right time zone, physically and mentally in a no man’s land. Things are getting there though, and softened every day by a little pleasure that you remember… the coffee of course, but the mangoes coming into season, the smell of the bush, the roast chicken from Coles, the acceleration of the Magna, the free spirit and attitude of the youngsters with their hair and funny sayings and intonations. They kind of make you smile. Despite the weather this weekend, Spring has definitely been here and will come back, bursting into summer. It’s evident all around, with blossoming trees and colour bursting to life.



And all I intend to do, all I can do, is make the most of it.

A marmot flavoured suitcase?

In the time it takes to drive from Canberra to Melbourne I had ticked off four countries…Wales, England, Switzerland and France as I embarked on a farewell weekend at chateau de Stafford. After such a journey I was pleased to go to the beach, with sand and waves and everything, all in the middle of landlocked Europe, have a paddle and follow up with an afternoon nap and an ice cream. Leman-sur-mer.





It was back to business as usual over the following days, taking in mountains and food and mountains of food, commencing with a trip to the foot of Mont Blanc itself and the Mont Blanc tramway, an almost impossibly inclining old fashioned hunk of junk rising from St Gervais to Nid d’Aigle, some 2380 metres above la mer.



Around this way are rocks and goats and big drops below, not to mention the odd glacier, plummeting down the mountainside and fragmenting into jagged blocks of ice and water and rocks.





It’s wild country round here, which makes the arrival of a tram high up on a piece of rock in the middle of nowhere all the more surprising. Many use the stop as a starting point for climbing the mountain, meanwhile the less intrepid among us stop off at a little café in the sun to chomp on a stale baguette to recover from a little scramble across the rocks.

After such strenuous efforts (eating stale bread), it was little surprise that the downhill crawl on the tram should lead to eyes closing, slowly drooping and shutting before popping open at the occasional open vista.



Off the tram and into the car, we moved on to Chamonix and well, you guessed it, more mountain scenery and food. Ice cream followed by a scarily steep climb on a cablecar with the occasional gust of wind is not really recommended, but got us nonetheless to a point on the other side of the valley to old Mont Blanc itself which, by this time of day, was mostly obscured by cloud. The same cloud thwarted our attempts to ride in another thin metal box on a flimsy rope across a massive crevice, but hey ho, the views up here were good enough for the marmots so that’s good enough for me.

Every other shop round here stocks cuddly marmots, some of whom have been skilfully stuffed with a small speaker by a tiny woman in a Chinese sweatshop to emit a whistle when you walk past. Apart from underlining the futility of global consumerism, they are hardly an accurate depiction of what is quite a chubby, dour looking creature. The high pitched whistle when you stand too close, however, is not so far off.

Back down in Chamonix, avoiding high pitched whistles and souvenir shops, there was one final stop at Mademoiselle Cakeface, some takeaway for after dinner, the literal icing on the cake.



More mountains and mountains of food followed again the next day, though the ones made of rock were obscured somewhat by cloud for the most part. The town of Samoens provided a fine base for ambling and eating, what with its little parks and cosy streets and selection of local sausages.



Further up the road we took a jaunt around the wonderfully named and probably spectacular in clear weather Sixt-Fer-a-Cheval. This appears to be a magnificent valley enclosed by towering rock and jagged peaks, dissected by a number of waterfalls. Despite the peakless views for us, it was still a rather impressive place and one to come back to in the future I should think.



The final day offered a change of pace – the mountains of food continued but big chunks of rock were replaced by rolling Swiss countryside, fields of burnt sunflowers and vines and many flowers around the nearby agricultural college-come-park. It was a good chance to enjoy some warm sunshine and chill out, a sometimes rare opportunity over the last couple of months.





And that was about it, from my memory and recollection and sketchy notes about what I did on that final long weekend in France. As always, very well looked after and tour-guided around by the family. The only other vague memory was getting up at some godforsaken hour and being transported through a number of tunnels to a large bright institution to be taken away on a flying machine, a journey for which I will forever be indebted!

Wales before snails

Having gone on at length about the joys of England I’m now going to tell you that my last few days in the UK were spent in Wales, home of rugby playing singing boys with a fondness for sheep and Tom Jones. And my Aunty Val, who kindly put me up, along with Dad and Sonia. One last thing about England first – Devon was absolutely majestically sparkling in that hour long trundle on the train. While absolutely majestically sparkling is good, part of me hates it when it is like this when I leave. It’s like Devon saying, “Oi, what you doing? How can you leave me when I am this fluffy and warm and perfectly formed?”

Wales was some compensation for sure – at times majestic, at others sparkling, and sometimes both. In a nutshell I had three full days here and logic dictates I take you through in chronological order…

So on the first day, also commonly known as ‘Day 1’, Dad and I headed to the Gower Peninsula – a Cornish like piece of Australia twinned with Scotland that was ultimately Welsh and forever associated with blonde curly haired left handed batsmen wafting gaily outside the off stump (it’s not described this way in the brochures, but this is what my head says). Skirting Swansea Bay and its many ultimate lifestyle developments we ended at The Mumbles. I think the Mumbles are some pieces of rock, or possibly a lighthouse, or a seaside resort; regardless I did find myself mumbling more than usual (there must be mystical properties in them thar rocks). Anyway, it was a very nice spot – full of old people and a pier and an average coffee by the water. A nice, civilised start.

A little further on was Oxwich Bay and, with the tide out, a vast sweep of sand and wet flats eventually reaching the sea, curving all the way round for miles and miles. It required a panorama and for that I climbed a rather large sand dune.



And then, just along the narrowest of bus routes was Port Eynon, serving up some Banana Toffee ice cream and propelling us onwards to Rhossili. This is a magic and justifiably popular spot, a near perfect bay framed by a sweeping moorland ridge, tailing off to the cliffs and peculiar rock formations around Worm’s Head (I can’t see the resemblance to a worm myself). Possibly even more peculiar was the herd of cattle strolling the beach like they owned the joint.




The second day, which we shall call ‘Day 2’ was less ambitious in its reach but served up a nice dose of Welsh goodness. We all headed to Abergavenny, which, apart from being somewhere that you cannot but help try to pronounce in an awful attempt at a Welsh accent, was having a market. There were even some sheep for sale, and with that I couldn’t quite bring myself to eat the lamb baguette for lunch.



We are, of course, in South Wales, the old one and not the New one in Australia. I cannot see much of a resemblance between the two, apart from a few sheep and shopping malls. Still, didn’t stop some confused soul in Abergavenny rocking out with his didj.


So the third day, aka ‘Day 3’, emerged bright and sunny, a spell of settled weather just arriving as I’m about to leave. Today was time to head into the Brecon Beacons, a scene of pastoral heaven giving way to the rounded hollows and ridges of the Beacons themselves.





While we dabbled in visitor centres and the town of Brecon itself, the main event of the day was a sometimes treacherous walk to various cascades and the elegant Blaen y Glyn falls. It’s not supposed to involve a river crossing, but we are adventurous and misguided souls who like taking leaps of faith towards a slippery pebble on a gushing torrent. Memories of Dartmoor come to mind.

Safely forded, the river presented a number of cascades, each one moderately more impressive than the last and culminating in a plume of white water... the majestic and sparkling part.



On the way back we stopped by Miss Whippy, who wasn’t half as exciting as I was hoping the name suggested, but Dad seemed to be in there. And with a wave from Miss W herself we headed back down into the valleys, putting a cap pretty much on my time in Wales. Another country ticked off, not so much different from some of the delicious parts of England and providing some real highlights. For once I haven’t mentioned much food, which is odd because it was pretty fine, thanks in no small part to Aunty Val and the good people of the valleys.

Back on the road, more goodbyes and four countries in one day… what’s new, pussycat?