It's coming 'ome, it's coming 'ome...

So far then, 72 hours in the UK and you’re probably thinking what all the fuss is about. A bunch of whistle stop trips and visits and hardly any accompanying photos as well! So much to read with so few pictures. It’s OK, don’t worry, for the whistle stopping has maximised available time in the jewel of England and the heart and soul of it all. Still home I think. I am probably biased, but Devon and Cornwall form probably the most idyllic blend of gorgeousness in the world. OK, maybe not so much on a dreary day in February, but on warm days in May tell me a better place to be. Plus when there is Mum’s roast pork to greet you, how can you be anywhere else?

The first full day in Devon was scrumptious, the weather blue and warm and begging for a trip to Noss Mayo, just a short jaunt from Plymouth on an empty bus across narrow lanes and down steep winding inclines to the cosy villages of Newton and Noss. The walk from here is well trodden but worth repeating, just for the diversity of country and coast, flora and fauna, and a special reward at the end.

So, equipped surprisingly in shorts and hat and smothered in sunscreen it was up the country lane I marched, out to the Warren and its blend of sheep and horse and flowery field and gorse falling down towards the calm blue seas.

A pretty nice setting for a spot of lunch, thanks to a pre-purchased Tesco lunch deal and the extra bonus of some strawberries. I toyed with the idea of a little nap in the sunshine but knew there was still plenty to see, plus needed to ensure time for that end reward before the bus back. Continuing on around the corner to the Yealm estuary, things begin to change from the coastal gorse to bluebells and rhododendrons and verdant woodland, fringing the sparkling waters of the river and creek.



And while not a strenuous walk at all, you should treat yourself to that reward regardless, because it means you end up sat relaxing in the sunshine with legs dangling over the water drinking a pint of Cider in the Ship Inn. Here, my absence from England became all too evident, as I felt slightly tipsy afterwards, unaccustomed as I am to pints of Cider in the afternoon sun!

If I didn’t get to do anything else in Devon then I still would have been happy, but of course, me being me, and English weather being so splendid, there was still plenty more to pack in to four days. If Monday was chillaxing, Tuesday was more frenetic, but peppered with plenty of highlights of a different kind. There was food and people, and the combination of food and people. A walk around Plymouth punctuated by frapuccino and a pasty. A trip out to Aunty Pat’s for tea and chocolate cake. And then the mother of all barbecues for Bethany’s 8th birthday! This was, of course, cooked by yours truly, and I don’t think I have ever done so much food. But at least it meant I was too busy to be roped into trampoline mayhem and musical statues! And I got to cook up and then eat proper good English sausages. They are just not the same in Australia.





Wednesday cooled off and clouded over a bit, providing some time for a bit of a rest in the morning prior to leftover BBQ lunch with the family and pets. The weather brightened up a little in the afternoon and so this presented an opportunity for some serious activity up on Dartmoor. Serious cream tea activity that is. Because I was, like, so hungry having been starved so far on this trip. A bowl of cream for three at Badger’s Holt is some sight. The setting lush and tranquil. The result a clogged artery, queasiness and extreme pleasure.



The cream tea was literally tea, and it wasn’t until the next day that I really started to eat again. We headed across the border into Cornwall, and I was pleased to have got to spend my last day having a ball on a sandy beach on the beautiful north coast at Holywell Bay. There was ice cream, ball games, sand dunes, river crossings, feet in the sand and, briefly, pretty chilly water. I think I even caught the sun a little! Good times.





Sausage and egg pie and cheesy marmites completed the fourth and final day in the south west, a fattening pastry filled end to a fattening, gorgeous time in the most wonderful place in the world. Soon it will have another little pair of feet to cherish and I look forward to returning soon and, wherever I may be, again and again and again.

White Green Blue Grey Black Back

It is hard to leave, but leave I must. Whenever I do leave, it’s usually on the train and there is an hour gliding through Devon and it is always, without fail, looking at its imperious best. The small white clouds are even fluffier than usual, the blue skies purer, the fields dotted with fluffy lambs and black and white cows, the colourful boats gently bobbing in the high tide on the Teign. And then you reach Exeter... Nah, even beyond Exeter it’s not too bad, though by time you reach Reading things are certainly more London than Lutton it’s true, and then you get to Basingstoke and you are certainly not in Devon any more. But there are some perks, including the comfiest and biggest bed on my trip, great value roast dinners and thousands and thousands of bluebells. Oh, and before I lose Brownie points, Dad and Sonia of course (hi guys!)



Suddenly it was my last day in the UK, my last day in Europe, and what did the last day provide? Bloody rain and wind and cold that’s bloody what! Thanks Britain, punishing me for leaving you again. I think it was a test of my Britishness though, for Britons are masters at day trips in the rain, soggy sandwiches and plastic macs. I passed with flying shades of grey, as we headed down through the New Forest to Lymington, taking in the waterproof laden street market and completing the culinary heritage expedition with great British fish n chips. And then one last dose of clotted cream, incorporated in several varieties of ice cream.

To end we stopped by at the New Forest Wildlife Park, a serene little place set in the woods containing about one million owls and otters, several freakishly large butterflies, a few deer, mice, wild now not so wild boar and, yes, two wallabies for an ironic twist.





From one zoo to another, the joy that is Heathrow Terminal Three. The fun of lining up to check bags in, queue some more to get through security and wait around a bit to be served at WHSmith. A chance to rush around purchasing last minute gifts and chocolate and wolf down a last supper from Melton Mowbray, Cheddar and the Brie fields of Normandy. Sadly no strikes would stop me, no ash clouds would give me a few bonus days, no upgrades to business class would emerge. Instead, I would be plunged into unsettled disorientation, eventually arriving back in a waterlogged city in Australia, keeping going with better coffee, taking one last, short, bumpy hop in a plane to dry off and recover in what is really a small town in the country in winter. It will take some time to get over it but the jewels will shine through and the glimmer of places far away will remain in my heart. And in the words of Arnie, I’ll be back.

Continental Drift

Of all the big things in Australia, the biggest pain in the arse is its distance from pretty much anywhere. Eat a dodgy airplane meal and watch a crumby movie and you’re still hovering over the Red Centre. Have a doze and watch some more crumbiness and you may just be passing over Darwin. Repeat ad nauseum and sprinkle with a random glimmering Asian airport, and eventually, eventually, you find yourself in Europe. If that was all rather easy, add in the complex swirlings of ash clouds, red shirted Thais, militant cabin crews and preppy Tory governments to further the potential for absolutely no enjoyment whatsoever. But I made it, and that first pork pie at Heathrow airport was worth it!

Now, of all the small things in Europe, the smallest inconvenience is its distance from pretty much anywhere. Grab a pork pie, listen to a handful of songs and you’re suddenly floating across the French-Swiss border. Take a sip of water and you’re landing in Geneva. Put an extra layer on to cope with the disappointing temperatures and, before you know it, you are back in France, chomping bread and chewing cheese. From big to small, autumn to spring (kind of), new to old, the contrasts all the more dazzling after 30 hours in a dark metal sardine can. As I lurch into Europe, I feel like Guillaume, soaking up the world around me and babbling some nonsense about it (and still doing so now...)

So, on with the show: I had arrived in Annemasse, France, home of every single possible combination of cheese, potatoes and cured pork, most of which I ate in my short visit. Unlike previous visits here though, things were markedly different in the general gloominess and chill of the weather, meaning the usual dazzling peaks and lush sun filled Alpine meadows were off the menu. I had to eat some more to compensate. Cakes especially. Days were additionally filled with plays in the park, entertainment aplenty provided by Guillaume, jaunts through forests and towns and just stuff that is so continental it dazzles anyone who has just landed fresh from the New World.



Saturday brought a trip to the town of Annecy, and the opportunity for the most picture-taking ramblings, situated as it is on a rather splendid lake and surrounded by mostly cloud shrouded mountains. While the mall was more Westfield than Ouestfield, the ooh-la-la-ometer shot up as we wandered into the old town, all coloured houses and shutters, churches and bridges, bikes and cafes, boulangeries and baguettes.







What was nice – as well as the history and culture and architecture and spatterings of touristy shops – was that a normal dose of a French Saturday afternoon at the shops was taking place. Normal (if normal equals generally lean and well dressed) madames et monsieurs et mademoiselles were treating themselves to a new frock or some shoes, or perhaps another handbag. Abnormal people like me (generally suffering from cheese OD and dressed by le Target) were eyeing up more chocolate and cakes again.



Out of the world of shutters and shops the old town gives way to the lake, and as the sun emerges for 30 seconds and temporarily warms the soul, all is rather agreeable. Here, the Frenchies continue to stroll and wander and play in the park and discuss affairs such as when they are going to next go on strike for not getting two glasses of wine at lunch.







I think one thing I noticed in Annecy and elsewhere is the value of the park in European society, more so than I think the electric BBQs and gum trees bring to life down under. A few fountains and trees and flowers is more than that. Perhaps because many more live in old apartment blocks, the park is always bustling and noisy and chatty and filled with the sounds of laughter, of kids going mental, of yoofs being yoofs and runners and cyclists being far too energetic. It is at one a playground, a dining room, a first date, a treadmill, a social club.

Because everyone who is anyone hangs out at the park, we headed into the environs of Geneva on Sunday to saunter through another park, play ball, eat sandwiches and soak up a few moments of sunshine and something approaching warmth. Not too far away, through grand apartment blocks was the Natural History Museum, which, naturally, tells the history of stuffed animals in a museum format. So many stuffed animals, all of which were endlessly stimulating for Guillaume.

Talking of stuffed things, I filled myself up on coffee cake before joining Alain for a whizz up the slopes and hairpins of the Saleve, Geneva’s very own mountain which is happily situated in France. It’s a big hulk of a rock, with some sheer cliff faces dotted with pockets of forest. The top itself is not really the Matterhorn, more a rolling plateau of moorland, providing pleasingly simple walks for many on a Sunday afternoon. Exercise was good, if a bit of a recent novelty. Alas distant views to more spectacular peaks were restricted by the cloud, which was still lingering on until – of course – the day I departed, climbing up alongside the Jura and saying au revoir to the peaks of Mont Blanc as things became blue...

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I didn’t really have any high expectations or must sees for my few days in Spain, which is perhaps why I found it utterly relaxing and enjoyable. The weather played a large part... I was beginning to miss big blue skies and temperatures in the 20s, but El Engerlando delivered in style. It too had its food and culture moments, but it also had siestas and paddles in the sea and sand in the toes. In fact, the beaches were the best I had seen here, thanks in no small part by the relatively small number of Brits and Germans on them and water that seemed a bit clearer and sparklier than in mid August. After les chills et cheese of France, a walk on the sands at Guardamar, reacquainted with my shorts, was an ideal way to transition into Spain.



(*still no Australia)

The signs of spring and summer were more evident here, exemplified by a walk in a park, where everything seemed to be in the process of procreation (well, except for the people... unless there were some of these in the bushes). Peacocks were making total cocks of themselves to try and impress some bird or other, ducks were telling their newborn chicks to quack off and red squirrels were in hiding as they were obviously making out in some tree hollow.





After the walk, Mum was getting busy too, but mercifully just in the kitchen to make me lasagne. Followed by apple crumble and – oh yes – Rodda’s Cornish Clotted Cream. Smiley face. Large tummy.

Over the next couple of days time was filled with more wanderings in the sun, using enough energy up to warrant a siesta before indulging in more food and drink. We predictably got slightly lost on our way to the inland town of Orihuela, but once there discovered the weekly market was on and almost everyone – shock horror – was Spanish! Leaving the Spanish to their market, we just ambled around a few of the streets, from alleyway to church, across squares and circles, and successfully navigated to and from the car park in the centre of town.





The next day we made our way to the beach, bypassing Alicante on the desolate but immaculate toll road that seems to be used by about 30 cars a year, worth every single worthless Euro in my book. The beach in question was at Villajoyosa and was in itself a beach worthy of being called a beach – again, surprisingly clear and pleasantly warm enough for a paddle in the water. Sadly, a fair bit of work was taking place nearby, likely some form of economic stimulus and jobs creation given it seemed mostly pointless. However, peace was restored with the inevitable onset of siesta time.

Noise pre-siesta time was also abundant in the streets backing away up the hill from the beach, but this was the noise of Spain at lunchtime – kids playing in the street, cockerels clucking along cobblestones, unemployed men fiddling with motorbikes, old ladies sitting and watching the world – and conspicuous strangers – go by. I felt somewhat intrusive, though I’m sure come August I wouldn’t be the only Brit meandering through the narrow laneways paved with people’s smalls hanging out to dry and the smells of sizzling chorizo.








And that, as they say, was that. Apart from yet more food and a bit of relaxation, the endurance that is watching British soaps, and the joys of warm fuzzy features from the South West on the BBC Spotlight News (yes, this is Spain). It’s great to be able to go continental on these trips back home, just for something of a different flavour and tone. Enough of Johnny Foreigner though, time to hit up the United Coalition Kingdom of Dave’s Britain and Northerners in Iceland.