Wednesday 28th October - London
I'm sitting in our basement room at the Shaftesbury Premier London Hyde Park in Paddington blogging on our last day in Europe. Despite the impressive hotel name, this is anything but Premier. More like the inspiration for the Kink's Dead End Street: There's a crack upon the ceiling, and the kitchen sink is leaking, What are we living for, two roomed apartment on the second floor. Two rooms!........luxury!. Ray Davies sure nailed it.
Despite this somewhat gloomy introduction, we have had a wonderful time during the past week - London has really laid on an autumn to remember. Skateboarders and shopgirls are wearing shorts and the Christmas decorations in Oxford Street look stunning. We spent most of the past week exploring Bath and the Cotswolds, of which I will expand upon at a later date - let's just say it was magical cruising the minor roads in our 1200cc VW Polo.
Off to Singapore tonight from Heathrow - fingers crossed.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
All they talk is Blarney
Finished off cards to James, Jon, Al and Penny for posting from Carrigtwohill. Another great full Irish breakfast, this time with two types of pudding - black and brown. Excellent tea served in a bowl, still no luck with wifi.
Cork has the worst road and traffic problems I have yet encountered, and Madame GPS didn't help by continually referring to a Glasheen Street that failed to materialize. Eventually we found the road to Limerick and from there to Blarney Castle. Beautiful grounds and gardens surround the castle and the other Blarney features. An ever decreasing stairway led us to the top where we were held by the legs until we were able to perform the deed. Immediately my writers block disappeared and I finished off 3 works by Shakespeare and 2 by Tolstoy.
As Dingle was our destination and Blarney is only 8km out of Cork, we had better get a move on. We motored along a succession of minor and major roads before stopping near Mallow for lunch. My first seafood chowder and soda bread - Yum! An urbane Irish sixty-something and his child bride offered us advice that we found very useful and we were soon headed in the direction of Conor Pass - what a trip.
Coastal views gave way to a narrow stone road that took us up into the clouds past lakes and waterfalls until we descended through the mist into a view of Dingle on the Atlantic. Fantastic!. We drove down into town and parked at the port just as a trawler from Skibereen headed out to sea - the fresh smell of the sea was overpowering.
Seeking oysters, we were disappointed to see the fish shops did not open until 6pm and we had to drive back to Cork. Hugging the coast road we stopped at Inch Beach, a favoured surfing spot where hardy surfers had parked their vans. The sun had just begun to set over the wet western horizon.
Travelling back to Cork we passed through a umber of picturesque locations including the beautiful town of Macroon just over the Kerry/Cork border. A somewhat disappointing dinner was followed by drinks in The Imperial's lounge - a Jamiesons over ice went down well.
Dublin, Domhnach October 11th
Brash Americans with loud voices were being discreet in the lobby of the Burlington, as I made my way to reception. Seeking stamps, Laura directed me to the consierge's desk. Finbar, of the florid complexion, informed me they had a franking machine that would just fit the bill.
The line to the breakfast buffet was short and we were soon seated with silver service teapots steaming. A procession of uniformed staff cleared tables and brought toast to unappreciative Russians and Americans - God, they are rude! I passed on the kippers and headed straight for the eggs and black puddings. Even the white bits were black.
Rather than play Russian Roulette with our euro, we decided to walk into Dublin, passing on the tacsai. Entering St Stephen's Green by a corner gate we wandered by a statue commemorating Thomas M Kettle, a casualty of the 1916 uprising. He died not for flag, nor king, nor emperor. But for a dream born in a herdsmen's shed. And for the secret scripture of the poor.
Needing a comfort stop, we headed into Burger King for flavourless coffee. Great music, despite the bland offerings: Double Barrel by Dave and Ansel Collins just pipping Steve Miller's The Joker. Out into Grafton Street we passed a number of good buskers and human statues, one the spitting image of Dr Who's Davros. A statue of Thin Lizzy's Phil Lynnot, complete with Fender Precision, was located outside a bar. Sweet Molly Malone's statue led us to the Hop On-Hop Off bus.
Our driver Eammon had a quip for every stop. His best was delivered at the cemetary by St Patrick's cathedral: The burial plot of the man who invented the cross word is nearby. Three across and six down!. We alighted at the stop next to the Guiness Storehouse where we spent a very enjoyable few hours that culminated with a pint each in the Gravity Bar, Dublin's highest with 360 degree views across the city. back on the Hop On-Hop Off for a blowy drive through Phoenix Park, Europe's largest enclosed park that is five times larger that Hyde Park in London. No deer were visible.
Off the red bus, onto the yellow, off the yellow in O'Connell Street and back on the red for our trip back near The Burlington. Up Pembroke Street and along Leeson Street Lower and across into Upper, round the corner and straight into Morrisey's bar for a couple of rounds. Three men meet in a bar - an Irishman, and Australian and a Brazilian..............? Having missed lunch we settled for toasted ham and cheese sandwiches.
The line to the breakfast buffet was short and we were soon seated with silver service teapots steaming. A procession of uniformed staff cleared tables and brought toast to unappreciative Russians and Americans - God, they are rude! I passed on the kippers and headed straight for the eggs and black puddings. Even the white bits were black.
Rather than play Russian Roulette with our euro, we decided to walk into Dublin, passing on the tacsai. Entering St Stephen's Green by a corner gate we wandered by a statue commemorating Thomas M Kettle, a casualty of the 1916 uprising. He died not for flag, nor king, nor emperor. But for a dream born in a herdsmen's shed. And for the secret scripture of the poor.
Needing a comfort stop, we headed into Burger King for flavourless coffee. Great music, despite the bland offerings: Double Barrel by Dave and Ansel Collins just pipping Steve Miller's The Joker. Out into Grafton Street we passed a number of good buskers and human statues, one the spitting image of Dr Who's Davros. A statue of Thin Lizzy's Phil Lynnot, complete with Fender Precision, was located outside a bar. Sweet Molly Malone's statue led us to the Hop On-Hop Off bus.
Our driver Eammon had a quip for every stop. His best was delivered at the cemetary by St Patrick's cathedral: The burial plot of the man who invented the cross word is nearby. Three across and six down!. We alighted at the stop next to the Guiness Storehouse where we spent a very enjoyable few hours that culminated with a pint each in the Gravity Bar, Dublin's highest with 360 degree views across the city. back on the Hop On-Hop Off for a blowy drive through Phoenix Park, Europe's largest enclosed park that is five times larger that Hyde Park in London. No deer were visible.
Off the red bus, onto the yellow, off the yellow in O'Connell Street and back on the red for our trip back near The Burlington. Up Pembroke Street and along Leeson Street Lower and across into Upper, round the corner and straight into Morrisey's bar for a couple of rounds. Three men meet in a bar - an Irishman, and Australian and a Brazilian..............? Having missed lunch we settled for toasted ham and cheese sandwiches.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
St Raphael
Tuesday 6 October
Sitting at an outside table was your quintessential middle-aged Frenchman, either on vacation or independently wealthy. He had all the accoutrements of modern life - the mobile phone, Ipod, sunglasses, cravat and big cigar. A copy of today's Paris Match was opened next to his first expresso of the day, sunglasses perched above reading. His brown leather jacket rode up at his elbow as he perused the real estate page headed Portes Ouventes. Cigar smoke wafted up to our fenetre.
Valbonne's resident eccentric was still wearing the first outfit of the day. It was most subdued when compared with yesterday's garb of multi-coloured turban, white pantaloons and vivid top below his white Van Dyke beard. He was sitting in our local shooting the breeze with his compardres.
We caught the 10.30 am bus service to Le Gare Cannes for 1 Euro - the bargain of the year. Our airconditioned bus wound through the 'burbs where even the bus stops sounded romantic. Les Levines was followed by Sant Basile, L'Orangedie and Vieux Village. Arret Demande, the next stop sign illuminated, and arret demande we did, alighting at Gare de Cannes.
Tren No 881168 for St Raphael left precisely at 12.38 and we travelled along the sparkling Mediterranean to le gare where we met Robyn. Took a table at Le Poussin Bleu and gazed out across the brilliant sea to St Tropez - Salade Nicoise x 4. After lunch Kim and I took a stroll along the seaside in search of un glace. I can't believe that they have the temerity to call one of their privee beaches Sandy Plage! Other than that, St Raphael is very pleasant in the off season.
Back to Cannes via le tren past more sparkling sea and Cap Roux. Following aperitifs at Vieux Village and observances of a game of boule we headed home to Valbonne.
Sitting at an outside table was your quintessential middle-aged Frenchman, either on vacation or independently wealthy. He had all the accoutrements of modern life - the mobile phone, Ipod, sunglasses, cravat and big cigar. A copy of today's Paris Match was opened next to his first expresso of the day, sunglasses perched above reading. His brown leather jacket rode up at his elbow as he perused the real estate page headed Portes Ouventes. Cigar smoke wafted up to our fenetre.
Valbonne's resident eccentric was still wearing the first outfit of the day. It was most subdued when compared with yesterday's garb of multi-coloured turban, white pantaloons and vivid top below his white Van Dyke beard. He was sitting in our local shooting the breeze with his compardres.
We caught the 10.30 am bus service to Le Gare Cannes for 1 Euro - the bargain of the year. Our airconditioned bus wound through the 'burbs where even the bus stops sounded romantic. Les Levines was followed by Sant Basile, L'Orangedie and Vieux Village. Arret Demande, the next stop sign illuminated, and arret demande we did, alighting at Gare de Cannes.
Tren No 881168 for St Raphael left precisely at 12.38 and we travelled along the sparkling Mediterranean to le gare where we met Robyn. Took a table at Le Poussin Bleu and gazed out across the brilliant sea to St Tropez - Salade Nicoise x 4. After lunch Kim and I took a stroll along the seaside in search of un glace. I can't believe that they have the temerity to call one of their privee beaches Sandy Plage! Other than that, St Raphael is very pleasant in the off season.
Back to Cannes via le tren past more sparkling sea and Cap Roux. Following aperitifs at Vieux Village and observances of a game of boule we headed home to Valbonne.
Valbonne - Part Trois
Robyn and Gavin had completed their tennis and were waiting downstairs in their whites. Six shoehorned into the saucisse was something to be endured, for a magnificent dinner awaited us. While John McG poured drinks, and Kim assisted in the kitchen, I searched Robyn's CD collection for dinner music. A platter of superb Pate de Fois avec Cognac, and a multi-faceted terrine were spread upon the fresh sliced baguette. Le Grand Prix joint of fillet of boeuf spattered in the silver chaffing dish as I tore up lettuce and sliced cucumber for the salad.
Robyn extracted the clinging packet of buffalo mozzarella from the 'fridge and dubiously declared Buffalo mozzarella, it looks more like buffalo balls. We attempted to drain off the moisture in a colander but eventually settled for dolloping liquid fromage onto the sliced tomato and basil. The pouvre verte sauce bubbled encouragingly. Gavin balance the steaming chaffing dish on Hamish's dog kennel as Robyn ignited the cognac - ooh la la!
I have been extolling Kim's pepper sauce as the best ever, and have been emphatic whenever tasting other offerings of same. However, Robyn's offering matched Kim's this night. I learnt it all from you, Ma cherie soeur.
The end
Robyn extracted the clinging packet of buffalo mozzarella from the 'fridge and dubiously declared Buffalo mozzarella, it looks more like buffalo balls. We attempted to drain off the moisture in a colander but eventually settled for dolloping liquid fromage onto the sliced tomato and basil. The pouvre verte sauce bubbled encouragingly. Gavin balance the steaming chaffing dish on Hamish's dog kennel as Robyn ignited the cognac - ooh la la!
I have been extolling Kim's pepper sauce as the best ever, and have been emphatic whenever tasting other offerings of same. However, Robyn's offering matched Kim's this night. I learnt it all from you, Ma cherie soeur.
The end
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Valbonne bound - Part Deux
Even the appeal of Vieux Valbonne could not restrain us and soon we were strolling Cannes' Rue d'Antibes, home to high priced, blue chip boutiques such as Chanel, Hermes, Dior etc. Two minature poodles imperiously ignored us from their vantage point in a pram piloted by their expensively shod mistress.
From there we walked past a street market offering crafts and dubious drawings to Boulevard De La Croisette where sitting and strolling are an occupation. Private beaches, accessed for 15 euro, offered deck chairs and Dubonnet and relief from the hoi polloi. The public beach was dotted with potted palm trees and bamboo and the pitiful Mediterranean swell scarcely troubled the gritty sand.
All manner of folk perambulated along the pavement adjoining Plage de la Croisette hoping to see someone noticeable and hoping to be noticed. Impossible tans contrasted with pastel shades and assorted bling. Far too much mutton dressed as lamb for Australian tastes, and most of the outfits would not be seen even at Noooosa in high season. Observing the populace is made easier by the provision of blue metal chairs liberally sprinkled along the beach wall for just such a purpose.
The magnificent frontage of the Carlton Hotel was obscured by a garish facade promoting a new animated film - a media festival of sorts was opening on Monday. My somewhat cynical attitude to Cannes was summed up in Time Out that quoted a local resident: This, right here, Henri emphatically tapped the zinc-topped bar of his neighbourhood cafe, This is the real Cannes. Not that, he gestures in the direction of far-off Croisette, That?, That is Disneyland!.
We hailed a taxi and indicated Valbonne as our preferred destination. Zat is handee, said the driver, My mistress in Valbonne is expecting me. Oh!, O!, we simultaneously thought, Boy are we going to get stung!. Our thought were emphasisied by his chatty manner and the number of slowly taken shortcuts. However, Valbonne is some way out of Cannes and the traffic was heavy - the result about 35 euros. Not too bad.
.........more to come.
From there we walked past a street market offering crafts and dubious drawings to Boulevard De La Croisette where sitting and strolling are an occupation. Private beaches, accessed for 15 euro, offered deck chairs and Dubonnet and relief from the hoi polloi. The public beach was dotted with potted palm trees and bamboo and the pitiful Mediterranean swell scarcely troubled the gritty sand.
All manner of folk perambulated along the pavement adjoining Plage de la Croisette hoping to see someone noticeable and hoping to be noticed. Impossible tans contrasted with pastel shades and assorted bling. Far too much mutton dressed as lamb for Australian tastes, and most of the outfits would not be seen even at Noooosa in high season. Observing the populace is made easier by the provision of blue metal chairs liberally sprinkled along the beach wall for just such a purpose.
The magnificent frontage of the Carlton Hotel was obscured by a garish facade promoting a new animated film - a media festival of sorts was opening on Monday. My somewhat cynical attitude to Cannes was summed up in Time Out that quoted a local resident: This, right here, Henri emphatically tapped the zinc-topped bar of his neighbourhood cafe, This is the real Cannes. Not that, he gestures in the direction of far-off Croisette, That?, That is Disneyland!.
We hailed a taxi and indicated Valbonne as our preferred destination. Zat is handee, said the driver, My mistress in Valbonne is expecting me. Oh!, O!, we simultaneously thought, Boy are we going to get stung!. Our thought were emphasisied by his chatty manner and the number of slowly taken shortcuts. However, Valbonne is some way out of Cannes and the traffic was heavy - the result about 35 euros. Not too bad.
.........more to come.
Valbonne bound
Saturday 3rd October
We changed trains at Marseilles from the Carcasonne regional. After travelling within the Camargue and along the Cote d'Azur we were met at Rue de Gare Cannes by Robyn and her Citroen C4 "saucissone".
It is probably best if we discard details of the following two hours. Suffice to say the wine and good company at Cafe des Arcade made up for our discomfort at not accessing our accommodation until 10.00 pm.
Sunday 4th October
There go those bells again! "Boing" x 9 announced we were late from Mass.
Plas des Arcades was strewn with a multitude of merchants offering their wares on chic tableux. A faded brown children's pedal car at a collector's price, and 70 euro for a wooden bell chambre arrangement caught my eye amongst the many fine offerings - no tat here.
Off to Mougins for a superb lunch of rotisseried poulet, salade verte et rouge, and Provencal tapenade noir. This was taken with a 2007 la Fiole Chateau-Neuf-de Pape Blanc that seemed to go on forever.
Splash! I was in heaven, perfect pool conditions. Dripping wet, I eased myself onto the bleached wooden chaise lounge and closed my eyes. I could have lay there forever.
It was not to be, for a walk up to the old village of Mougins was suggested by Robyn. Mougins had been the home of Picasso for many years and he spent much of his time in the area until his death in 1973.
...to be continued
We changed trains at Marseilles from the Carcasonne regional. After travelling within the Camargue and along the Cote d'Azur we were met at Rue de Gare Cannes by Robyn and her Citroen C4 "saucissone".
It is probably best if we discard details of the following two hours. Suffice to say the wine and good company at Cafe des Arcade made up for our discomfort at not accessing our accommodation until 10.00 pm.
Sunday 4th October
There go those bells again! "Boing" x 9 announced we were late from Mass.
Plas des Arcades was strewn with a multitude of merchants offering their wares on chic tableux. A faded brown children's pedal car at a collector's price, and 70 euro for a wooden bell chambre arrangement caught my eye amongst the many fine offerings - no tat here.
Off to Mougins for a superb lunch of rotisseried poulet, salade verte et rouge, and Provencal tapenade noir. This was taken with a 2007 la Fiole Chateau-Neuf-de Pape Blanc that seemed to go on forever.
Splash! I was in heaven, perfect pool conditions. Dripping wet, I eased myself onto the bleached wooden chaise lounge and closed my eyes. I could have lay there forever.
It was not to be, for a walk up to the old village of Mougins was suggested by Robyn. Mougins had been the home of Picasso for many years and he spent much of his time in the area until his death in 1973.
...to be continued
Mirepoix via Fanjeux
Thursday October 1st
Off to Mirepoix courtesy of Madame. We stopped at Fanjeux high up above the surrounding countryside. It was from Fanjeux that St Dominic began his crusade against the Cathars.
The post midday carrillion sounded grand, but proved one too many times for an old white Samoyed who, slumped in his doorway, howled in protest. The covered town plaza appeared abandoned but was obviously well used as evidenced by numerous cigarette butts.
Dry and brittle Franciscan-brown sunflower stalks lifted their heads to Heaven, awaiting harvest time in the Aude. Madame warned us of a imminent speed camera as we approached Mirepoix. We parked and walked towards Le Centre Medieval. Modern shopfronts sat beneath wooden frame supported houses that sported faded coleurs. Tree trunk thick columns were hung with wrought iron lamp lights that lit the deep alcoves housing cafe tables and chairs.
Autumn leaves were windswept down Rue Monseigneur de Cambon fleeing the ivory painted horses of the carousel foaled in 1900. We chose a table close by the covered market place quadrangle where merchants cleared their morning's offerings. The church bells tolled the hour in the spire occupying pride of place. The verdant rain trees and purple prunus shed their leaves, some of which fell on our luncheon selections. Each dish was accompanied by fragrant heaps of garlic-flecked beans.
L'ancienne Cathedral Saint Maurice was built in the 14th-17th centuries and was distinguished by its remarkable organ and handpainted decorative walls. We lit a candle and placed it at the altar dedicated to Notre Dame de Lourdes.
Madame was obviously peaked at our refusal to take the next turn left and took revenge by directing us down a narrow lane that ended in a dead end. My first French traffic reversal.
Via Lavelanet and Belesta we passed through Puivert seeking Chateau de Puivert. Make a hard left turn. Hard! - I practically broke my neck seeking direction. The previous heart-attack inducing French roads were highways compared to this crumbling goat track. Phew! we made it, and it was worth it. From our highly prized strategic stronghold we had the most awe inspiring view of that day. The Pyrenees shrouded in cloud were but a backdrop to the valley of the River Rebenty below. Brazened fields awaiting harvest lauded it over their plucked and ploughed brethren.
Home via Limoux's peak hour, along plane tree lined A and B roads.
Off to Mirepoix courtesy of Madame. We stopped at Fanjeux high up above the surrounding countryside. It was from Fanjeux that St Dominic began his crusade against the Cathars.
The post midday carrillion sounded grand, but proved one too many times for an old white Samoyed who, slumped in his doorway, howled in protest. The covered town plaza appeared abandoned but was obviously well used as evidenced by numerous cigarette butts.
Dry and brittle Franciscan-brown sunflower stalks lifted their heads to Heaven, awaiting harvest time in the Aude. Madame warned us of a imminent speed camera as we approached Mirepoix. We parked and walked towards Le Centre Medieval. Modern shopfronts sat beneath wooden frame supported houses that sported faded coleurs. Tree trunk thick columns were hung with wrought iron lamp lights that lit the deep alcoves housing cafe tables and chairs.
Autumn leaves were windswept down Rue Monseigneur de Cambon fleeing the ivory painted horses of the carousel foaled in 1900. We chose a table close by the covered market place quadrangle where merchants cleared their morning's offerings. The church bells tolled the hour in the spire occupying pride of place. The verdant rain trees and purple prunus shed their leaves, some of which fell on our luncheon selections. Each dish was accompanied by fragrant heaps of garlic-flecked beans.
L'ancienne Cathedral Saint Maurice was built in the 14th-17th centuries and was distinguished by its remarkable organ and handpainted decorative walls. We lit a candle and placed it at the altar dedicated to Notre Dame de Lourdes.
Madame was obviously peaked at our refusal to take the next turn left and took revenge by directing us down a narrow lane that ended in a dead end. My first French traffic reversal.
Via Lavelanet and Belesta we passed through Puivert seeking Chateau de Puivert. Make a hard left turn. Hard! - I practically broke my neck seeking direction. The previous heart-attack inducing French roads were highways compared to this crumbling goat track. Phew! we made it, and it was worth it. From our highly prized strategic stronghold we had the most awe inspiring view of that day. The Pyrenees shrouded in cloud were but a backdrop to the valley of the River Rebenty below. Brazened fields awaiting harvest lauded it over their plucked and ploughed brethren.
Home via Limoux's peak hour, along plane tree lined A and B roads.
Chez Felix
Wednesday 30 September
Drove into park at the Cite before we split up to explore our Carcassone options. Kim and I walked about the streets until we found a much needed bank - Le Distributor worked well. We passed down in Square Gambetta off Rue Victor Hugo where we found an internet space in the Algerian Quarter. There we chatted with an Aussie couple who had come to check their share price - they informed us the A$ = Euro rate had risen above 60 eurocents.
We strolled down Rue de Verdin to Place Carno where we sat amongst the lunching residents at Chez Felix. Busy waiter Herve was most efficient taking and delivering orders in rapid succession. A marble fountain, topped by Neptune, spouted streams of water from eon-stained denizens of the deep. Potted puce petunias cascaded from planters hung on ornate lampposts.
Chez Felix must have had some municipal clout, for Herve accessed the packed tables across an adjacent pedestrian crossing. At our appointed agreed time we met Wendy and John at the Cite carpark for our trip home to Palaja. Madame indicated we should cross-country as the most direct route home, but we ignored her and made it anyway.
Johns I and II walked via the most picturesque laneway in Europe to O'Copains D'aborn (aka Cap XV) to order pizzas. Deux bieres et une pastiste sil vous plait - trente minutes to await our order. A game of French pool and a complimentary beer later we made our way home - nougat and pizza by the pool, accompanied by R L Burnside.
Drove into park at the Cite before we split up to explore our Carcassone options. Kim and I walked about the streets until we found a much needed bank - Le Distributor worked well. We passed down in Square Gambetta off Rue Victor Hugo where we found an internet space in the Algerian Quarter. There we chatted with an Aussie couple who had come to check their share price - they informed us the A$ = Euro rate had risen above 60 eurocents.
We strolled down Rue de Verdin to Place Carno where we sat amongst the lunching residents at Chez Felix. Busy waiter Herve was most efficient taking and delivering orders in rapid succession. A marble fountain, topped by Neptune, spouted streams of water from eon-stained denizens of the deep. Potted puce petunias cascaded from planters hung on ornate lampposts.
Chez Felix must have had some municipal clout, for Herve accessed the packed tables across an adjacent pedestrian crossing. At our appointed agreed time we met Wendy and John at the Cite carpark for our trip home to Palaja. Madame indicated we should cross-country as the most direct route home, but we ignored her and made it anyway.
Johns I and II walked via the most picturesque laneway in Europe to O'Copains D'aborn (aka Cap XV) to order pizzas. Deux bieres et une pastiste sil vous plait - trente minutes to await our order. A game of French pool and a complimentary beer later we made our way home - nougat and pizza by the pool, accompanied by R L Burnside.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Autumnal Paris
Saturday 17th October
A quiet train trip seemed just the thing after last night's escapades and excesses. We caught the tube from Earle's Court tube station to Kings Cross St Pancras International for our trip to Paris via the Chunnel. The throbbing had dulled to the occasional thud.
Green fields and the occasional church spire were glimpsed as we emerged from the tunnel at Calais. The urban infill became more noticeable as Paris approached. Out at Gare du Nord and change at metros until we emerged near Place Monge and nearby Rue Mouffetard, our home for the next five nights.
The streets were packed with students from the Sorbonne while we searched for a place to eat - so many choices, how could we have made such a mistake. It was overpriced and not very good, must not be so blase next time.
Sunday 18th October
I left Kim in bed and went wandering for the essentials. The students had disappeared and in their place were tables and ground sheets offering bric a brac, second hand clothing and the occasional pile of discarded vinyl offerings, Edith Piaf to the fore. Further on I passed unbelievable displays of fresh seafood, hot chickens, roast meats, cheeses and pastries. As I waited in line like a good Parisienne, a superb pear tart caught my eye. The trench coated gentleman at the head of the queue had also been enticed and the tart soon disappeared into a paper bag and off up Rue Mouffetard.
We walked down La Mouff admiring the fresh produce and the chic parade before stopping to watch a number of chanson performers (avec accordianist), entertain the crowd who danced serenly to the music. It was 11.00am on a Sunday morning.
A quiet train trip seemed just the thing after last night's escapades and excesses. We caught the tube from Earle's Court tube station to Kings Cross St Pancras International for our trip to Paris via the Chunnel. The throbbing had dulled to the occasional thud.
Green fields and the occasional church spire were glimpsed as we emerged from the tunnel at Calais. The urban infill became more noticeable as Paris approached. Out at Gare du Nord and change at metros until we emerged near Place Monge and nearby Rue Mouffetard, our home for the next five nights.
The streets were packed with students from the Sorbonne while we searched for a place to eat - so many choices, how could we have made such a mistake. It was overpriced and not very good, must not be so blase next time.
Sunday 18th October
I left Kim in bed and went wandering for the essentials. The students had disappeared and in their place were tables and ground sheets offering bric a brac, second hand clothing and the occasional pile of discarded vinyl offerings, Edith Piaf to the fore. Further on I passed unbelievable displays of fresh seafood, hot chickens, roast meats, cheeses and pastries. As I waited in line like a good Parisienne, a superb pear tart caught my eye. The trench coated gentleman at the head of the queue had also been enticed and the tart soon disappeared into a paper bag and off up Rue Mouffetard.
We walked down La Mouff admiring the fresh produce and the chic parade before stopping to watch a number of chanson performers (avec accordianist), entertain the crowd who danced serenly to the music. It was 11.00am on a Sunday morning.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Cruising with The Cathars
Tuesday September 29th
Breakfasted, we headed off to see the Cathar's stronghold Minerve. Madame GPS led us a merry dance - obscure villages and forgotten ruins reached by D class roads were on her menu. We began rising, hopefully towards Minerve, and momentarily pulled off the road onto a vantage point where the Hercault landscape was rent by the L'Argent-Double River.
Minerve's ancient stone architectural marvels clung to the edges of the Brian Ravine, as we decided to explore alone. Kim and I made our way around the narrow stone encased rues and ramparts marvelling at the Cathars' tenacity. Satisfied with our rambling, we met for lunch adjacent to walls that had once been under siege from Simon de Monfort's caterpaults. Dragging our weary bodies up Minerve's northern approaches we made our way back to the car for an alternate trip home.
Unfortunately Madame had other ideas and we were soon clinging to narrow roads that hugged the side of ravines. The French have a great sense of humour and believe if you place a dividing line down a miniscule strip of macadam it will make it seem bigger. Perhaps we shouldn't have programmed the GPS for the trip home via Olonzac, but instead opted for the direct route to Carcassonne. Whatever.............., we experienced a fabulous day's motoring through the lands of the Cathars that we will not forget.
A refreshing drink at Olonzac was enjoyed before recommitting to the trip home. Suprisingly, hardly anyone was still referring to the great tyre hijack of 2007 - other than that bunch at Bar Sportif who had formed an encounter group. Approaching the Cite we once again encountered peak hour travel (including a yellow grape-laden trailer) prior to arriving home at Palaja.
We consumed our first course around the pool before setting off down moonlit Romangarda laneway for dinner at C.A.P. XV Bar. The bar was filling up so a football match must be imminent. Mine host was pleased to see us and performed some form of mating ritual reserved for repeat customers. Once finished we weaved our way home down the middle-aged streets lit by a harvest moon and heralded by a hooting owl. John McG lit our way with a torch, our only weapon against the possibility of attack from wild boars disrupted from their foraging. Jean had previously told me of a funeral she had attended of two hunters who had mistaken each other for porcine prey.
With that tableau laid out we retired to bed to sleep the sleep of the errant motorist.
Breakfasted, we headed off to see the Cathar's stronghold Minerve. Madame GPS led us a merry dance - obscure villages and forgotten ruins reached by D class roads were on her menu. We began rising, hopefully towards Minerve, and momentarily pulled off the road onto a vantage point where the Hercault landscape was rent by the L'Argent-Double River.
Minerve's ancient stone architectural marvels clung to the edges of the Brian Ravine, as we decided to explore alone. Kim and I made our way around the narrow stone encased rues and ramparts marvelling at the Cathars' tenacity. Satisfied with our rambling, we met for lunch adjacent to walls that had once been under siege from Simon de Monfort's caterpaults. Dragging our weary bodies up Minerve's northern approaches we made our way back to the car for an alternate trip home.
Unfortunately Madame had other ideas and we were soon clinging to narrow roads that hugged the side of ravines. The French have a great sense of humour and believe if you place a dividing line down a miniscule strip of macadam it will make it seem bigger. Perhaps we shouldn't have programmed the GPS for the trip home via Olonzac, but instead opted for the direct route to Carcassonne. Whatever.............., we experienced a fabulous day's motoring through the lands of the Cathars that we will not forget.
A refreshing drink at Olonzac was enjoyed before recommitting to the trip home. Suprisingly, hardly anyone was still referring to the great tyre hijack of 2007 - other than that bunch at Bar Sportif who had formed an encounter group. Approaching the Cite we once again encountered peak hour travel (including a yellow grape-laden trailer) prior to arriving home at Palaja.
We consumed our first course around the pool before setting off down moonlit Romangarda laneway for dinner at C.A.P. XV Bar. The bar was filling up so a football match must be imminent. Mine host was pleased to see us and performed some form of mating ritual reserved for repeat customers. Once finished we weaved our way home down the middle-aged streets lit by a harvest moon and heralded by a hooting owl. John McG lit our way with a torch, our only weapon against the possibility of attack from wild boars disrupted from their foraging. Jean had previously told me of a funeral she had attended of two hunters who had mistaken each other for porcine prey.
With that tableau laid out we retired to bed to sleep the sleep of the errant motorist.
A hint of Homps, a little of Limoux
Monday 28th September
We awoke to a beautiful day in the Languerdoc following a lazy Sunday initially lounging about the pool, and later enjoying a superb meal of regional specialities at Carcassonne Cite amongst the ramparts (Pate maison, Soups onion and poisson and deux Cassolets).
Our hostess Jean drove us to the hire car depot near Carcassonne airport where we were to pick up our B class Mercedes. Due to a misunderstanding concerning the required documentation, I was nominated as the designated driver. Not having time to panic, I eased the car out of the carpark and onto the wrong side of the road.
Carefully I drove to Homps courtesy of Madame GPS where lunch was partaken at our old favourite Les Tonneliers, just down the road from Camilla's dream house. My meal Le carre d'agneau aux herbes de la garrigue (rack of lamb with regional herbs) was washed down by Minevois Rose, delicious. The largest man in Homps was nowhere to be seen!
The bell sounded and Le Saint Ferreol departed for our voyage Promenade Sur Le Canal du Midi.
We shared our first lock with a rented barge that passed on after we attained our new level; there are 65 locks used to lower and raise the barges of which we used but 1. Reaching our destination a few kilometres along the Canal, the Captain turned the vessel around for our dappled voyage back to Homps. The plane trees provided shade to us and the nearby stone studded maison of the canal-keeper as we cruised at a leisurely 8kph. We were rudely returned to the 21st century by a fly past of French fighters as we disembarked at Quai des Tonneliers.
Despite it not being market day, we decided to visit Limoux. Madame guided us safely, despite the odd hiccup and the heavy peak hour traffic. Parking a short walk from the Place de la Republic we stopped into a Tabac for stamps before partaking of a drink at a bar in the square. I walked down Le Rue to ensure our favourite shopfront titled "D'etant" was still there. It was, and to my surprise it was a sports shop of the old kind - full of fishing lures and boule sets.
Back to the Mercedes laden with bread and wine for our trip back to Palaja. Pasta Palaja for dinner, washed down by more Rose made for a good night's sleep.
We awoke to a beautiful day in the Languerdoc following a lazy Sunday initially lounging about the pool, and later enjoying a superb meal of regional specialities at Carcassonne Cite amongst the ramparts (Pate maison, Soups onion and poisson and deux Cassolets).
Our hostess Jean drove us to the hire car depot near Carcassonne airport where we were to pick up our B class Mercedes. Due to a misunderstanding concerning the required documentation, I was nominated as the designated driver. Not having time to panic, I eased the car out of the carpark and onto the wrong side of the road.
Carefully I drove to Homps courtesy of Madame GPS where lunch was partaken at our old favourite Les Tonneliers, just down the road from Camilla's dream house. My meal Le carre d'agneau aux herbes de la garrigue (rack of lamb with regional herbs) was washed down by Minevois Rose, delicious. The largest man in Homps was nowhere to be seen!
The bell sounded and Le Saint Ferreol departed for our voyage Promenade Sur Le Canal du Midi.
We shared our first lock with a rented barge that passed on after we attained our new level; there are 65 locks used to lower and raise the barges of which we used but 1. Reaching our destination a few kilometres along the Canal, the Captain turned the vessel around for our dappled voyage back to Homps. The plane trees provided shade to us and the nearby stone studded maison of the canal-keeper as we cruised at a leisurely 8kph. We were rudely returned to the 21st century by a fly past of French fighters as we disembarked at Quai des Tonneliers.
Despite it not being market day, we decided to visit Limoux. Madame guided us safely, despite the odd hiccup and the heavy peak hour traffic. Parking a short walk from the Place de la Republic we stopped into a Tabac for stamps before partaking of a drink at a bar in the square. I walked down Le Rue to ensure our favourite shopfront titled "D'etant" was still there. It was, and to my surprise it was a sports shop of the old kind - full of fishing lures and boule sets.
Back to the Mercedes laden with bread and wine for our trip back to Palaja. Pasta Palaja for dinner, washed down by more Rose made for a good night's sleep.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Ireland - the First Part
Following La Petite Dejeuner Anglais (the full English), we were delivered to Heathrow No. 1 Terminal by James in his Mercedes van. The departure lounge was an Alladin's cave of duty free that proved too irresistible for me. An hours' flight and our Aer Lingus plane taxied to a stop as a convoy of Ryan Air flights followed us down the flight path.
The bus took us past innumerable pubs, barbers and hearing aid providers. We entered the modern lobby of The Burlington, where the Russian receptionist Franciska, informed of our impending anniversary, immediately upgraded our room to "one with a view". Kim, your tea is ready, I called out just as she answered a knock at the door. Compliments of The Burlington burred the young steward as he deposited a bottle of wine and glasses on the table.
The literary pub crawl of Dublin was due as we were directed to a packed room where Richard and Frank were playing out a scene from Waiting for Godot - the only play where nothing happens - twice. Equipped with nothing but two battered bowler hats, they enthralled and entertained a crowd of mixed Caucasians. Right, we're off for Trinity College for the next part, and holding up his hand Frank directed us down Dawson Street. A raucous assembly of students crowded the steps as we made our way to a spot under the Elizabethan cupola. There we were given an account of Oscar Wilde's student days and his North American tour of 1876.
Frank filled us in on Oscar's visit to a Coloradan mining town where he presented lectures on Art and Aesthetics to burly red shirted miners - possibly the only well dressed men I had seen since arriving. The miners, sensing a victory over the effete Oscar, suggested he dine with them down a mine where for the four courses, the only ingredient was whiskey. He subsequently drank them under the table and upon leaving his prostrate dinner companions suggested that next time they serve five courses!
Next stop - O'Neills where we will put in a quality 20 minutes of drinking time. We'll see if we can fit into the snug. Snug! Snug alright. Ireland was playing Italy in a Word Cup qualifier and every Irishman, and most of the women, were shoe-horned into every one of Dublin's bars watching the game. O'Neills in Suffolk Street was chockers with the roomiest spot being behind the bar where a guestimate of 25 taps were dispensing good cheer. Twenty minutes later the half time score stood at 1 all and the smokers headed outside.
Across the road we congregated about the steps of the Dublin Tourism Centre that had previously been St Andrews Church. Tales of Michael Collins and the exploits of 1922 were mingled with a performance by Frank and Richard of a play that featured The Toucher. Passers by were unexpectantly drawn into the story unwittingly playing the parts of Catholic or Protestant Clergymen. At plays' end we strolled around the corner to The Brussels for another 20 minutes quality time.
Roar.....!!!! Ireland had converted a corner with a great header from Sean St Ledger and the Guinness flowed. Just down the laneway for a final quiz. A battle soon developed between inner and rural Boston with prizes awarded to both, despite protestations from the Germans out front. Final soccer score - Ireland 2, Italy 2. Into Davey Byrnes opposite The Duke for a final half pint.
"Home James, and don't spare the horses". Taxis were in plague proportions as we strolled hopefully in the direction of Leeson Street Lower. We have come to the conclusion that every second man in Dublin has a taxi and non-drivers have at least one beautiful daughter.
A collection of black clad bouncers challenged each other outside Buck Whaley's Nightclub. My feet are killing me Kim complained as we passed by another betting shop. Not far now, and rounding a corner we were home. A quick foot rub and off to the land of nod.
The bus took us past innumerable pubs, barbers and hearing aid providers. We entered the modern lobby of The Burlington, where the Russian receptionist Franciska, informed of our impending anniversary, immediately upgraded our room to "one with a view". Kim, your tea is ready, I called out just as she answered a knock at the door. Compliments of The Burlington burred the young steward as he deposited a bottle of wine and glasses on the table.
The literary pub crawl of Dublin was due as we were directed to a packed room where Richard and Frank were playing out a scene from Waiting for Godot - the only play where nothing happens - twice. Equipped with nothing but two battered bowler hats, they enthralled and entertained a crowd of mixed Caucasians. Right, we're off for Trinity College for the next part, and holding up his hand Frank directed us down Dawson Street. A raucous assembly of students crowded the steps as we made our way to a spot under the Elizabethan cupola. There we were given an account of Oscar Wilde's student days and his North American tour of 1876.
Frank filled us in on Oscar's visit to a Coloradan mining town where he presented lectures on Art and Aesthetics to burly red shirted miners - possibly the only well dressed men I had seen since arriving. The miners, sensing a victory over the effete Oscar, suggested he dine with them down a mine where for the four courses, the only ingredient was whiskey. He subsequently drank them under the table and upon leaving his prostrate dinner companions suggested that next time they serve five courses!
Next stop - O'Neills where we will put in a quality 20 minutes of drinking time. We'll see if we can fit into the snug. Snug! Snug alright. Ireland was playing Italy in a Word Cup qualifier and every Irishman, and most of the women, were shoe-horned into every one of Dublin's bars watching the game. O'Neills in Suffolk Street was chockers with the roomiest spot being behind the bar where a guestimate of 25 taps were dispensing good cheer. Twenty minutes later the half time score stood at 1 all and the smokers headed outside.
Across the road we congregated about the steps of the Dublin Tourism Centre that had previously been St Andrews Church. Tales of Michael Collins and the exploits of 1922 were mingled with a performance by Frank and Richard of a play that featured The Toucher. Passers by were unexpectantly drawn into the story unwittingly playing the parts of Catholic or Protestant Clergymen. At plays' end we strolled around the corner to The Brussels for another 20 minutes quality time.
Roar.....!!!! Ireland had converted a corner with a great header from Sean St Ledger and the Guinness flowed. Just down the laneway for a final quiz. A battle soon developed between inner and rural Boston with prizes awarded to both, despite protestations from the Germans out front. Final soccer score - Ireland 2, Italy 2. Into Davey Byrnes opposite The Duke for a final half pint.
"Home James, and don't spare the horses". Taxis were in plague proportions as we strolled hopefully in the direction of Leeson Street Lower. We have come to the conclusion that every second man in Dublin has a taxi and non-drivers have at least one beautiful daughter.
A collection of black clad bouncers challenged each other outside Buck Whaley's Nightclub. My feet are killing me Kim complained as we passed by another betting shop. Not far now, and rounding a corner we were home. A quick foot rub and off to the land of nod.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Palaja beckons
Saturday 26th September
Our final morning in Madrid - following a night punctuated by the revellery of Spaniards celebrating TGIF, we woke slightly discombobulated and made our way to Atocha Madrid Station. We were soon headed east for Barcelona at speeds in access of 300kph. The dry arroyos and stunted trees of indeterminate origin left the flat landscape a desolate appearance starkly contrasting with the mountainous green valleys of Andalucia.
Travelling at these speeds is an advantage for the landscape changes regularly offering the weary traveller respite from the flat lands of Aragon. This day trip was not one I was too eager about as we had to change trains a number of times, with tickets needing to be purchased at unfamiliar destinations in ever narrowing timespans.
Arrive at Barcelona, redeem Eurail tickets for the daily commuter to Cebere at the French border, alight at Cebere after 24 regional stops, redeem for Narbonne, and finally change trains once again for Carcassonne. Cap Cebere to Narbonne is a fabulous trip, highlighted by views of seaside towns and castle ramparts. Once past Perpignan, the pink and purple rinsed sunset highlighted the flocks of wild geese soaring from the marshes. The train's isthmus of track was often the only break in the tracts of water.
The experience inspired Wendy to remember a train trip she once took to Morriset, or Budgewoi, or somewhere equally exotic. We were met at Carcassonne by our host Jean with a peck on each cheek and a broad Glaswegian accent Ooooooooo, ye poor we bairns, travelling all that distance.
To be continued...
Our final morning in Madrid - following a night punctuated by the revellery of Spaniards celebrating TGIF, we woke slightly discombobulated and made our way to Atocha Madrid Station. We were soon headed east for Barcelona at speeds in access of 300kph. The dry arroyos and stunted trees of indeterminate origin left the flat landscape a desolate appearance starkly contrasting with the mountainous green valleys of Andalucia.
Travelling at these speeds is an advantage for the landscape changes regularly offering the weary traveller respite from the flat lands of Aragon. This day trip was not one I was too eager about as we had to change trains a number of times, with tickets needing to be purchased at unfamiliar destinations in ever narrowing timespans.
Arrive at Barcelona, redeem Eurail tickets for the daily commuter to Cebere at the French border, alight at Cebere after 24 regional stops, redeem for Narbonne, and finally change trains once again for Carcassonne. Cap Cebere to Narbonne is a fabulous trip, highlighted by views of seaside towns and castle ramparts. Once past Perpignan, the pink and purple rinsed sunset highlighted the flocks of wild geese soaring from the marshes. The train's isthmus of track was often the only break in the tracts of water.
The experience inspired Wendy to remember a train trip she once took to Morriset, or Budgewoi, or somewhere equally exotic. We were met at Carcassonne by our host Jean with a peck on each cheek and a broad Glaswegian accent Ooooooooo, ye poor we bairns, travelling all that distance.
To be continued...
Friday, October 9, 2009
Museo Nacional, Madrid
Friday 25th September (continued)
Oh my head! Last nights' escapades have left me with a headache and an earworm Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds.
We left the flat around 10.30 and slowly walked to the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia (aka the Sofia). 6€ entry and 4€ for an audio guide could be the best value in Madrid. The collection on the 2nd floor had a series of galleries, some interconnected, that contained some of the most famous paintings of the 20th Century.
Picasso, Dali, Miro, Man Ray, Ernst - the list went on. The first gallery we entered focussed on the turn of the century Paris School with the earliest examples of cubism represented. Later schools of depiction included paintings that re-interpreted famous works of earlier eras. In his 1957 series Las Meninas, Picasso reinterpreted Velaquez's paintings of the Infante Margarita and her courtiers in the painting of the same name. Altogether Picasso produced 44 paintings based on Velaquez's canvas that we had earlier viewed in the Prado.
Not having eaten breakfast, we went down to the spacey spacious museo cafe for coffee and sandwiches. Outside an enormous black and white perspex sculpture by Roy Lichtenstein dominated the interior plaza. Kim and I left Wendy and John McG and went in search of the Robert Mapplethorp contribution Although unable to find this offering we viewed and experienced a wide variety of canvasses and installations including a large white diagram of economic and political follies that had appropriately once hung in the Nugan-Hand Bank in Sydney. A television showed a series of performances of the Patti Smith Group of different eras - Mapplethorp's contribution perhaps?
Back on the second floor many prominent we saw many works depicting artistic protests against the Nationalist's actions during the Civil War. Picasso's Guernica (1937) was the sole piece hung on a gallery wall. Opposite, a series of photographs by his wife showed the work in progress. Suprisingly, visitors were permitted to take photographs, as long as flash was not used. Had we another day, we would have returned to view those parts of the collection, including Klee, that we missed. Another trip perhaps.
That afternoon we caught the Metro to the end of the No. 3 line to Moncla and had a pleasant stroll through Parc Oest, one of Madrid's many fine parks, where we were serenaded by a lone bagpiper........?.
Friday night in Madrid is a big one for partying and strolling and we were swept along by the milling crowd after emerging from Sol Metro. Seeking dinner, we wandered in and out of the cross Calle around Plaza Santa Ana and eventually settled on a Peruvian restaurant - it is noticable that Madrid is the home to Spanish-speakers of many countries. This establishment surely wins the award for the fastest service ever, not that this proved a disadvantage for the unusual meals were great- particularly my prawn and rice soup and the fantastic lemon meringue pie we shared.
Sadly this was to be our last night in Spain for France beckoned.
Oh my head! Last nights' escapades have left me with a headache and an earworm Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds.
We left the flat around 10.30 and slowly walked to the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia (aka the Sofia). 6€ entry and 4€ for an audio guide could be the best value in Madrid. The collection on the 2nd floor had a series of galleries, some interconnected, that contained some of the most famous paintings of the 20th Century.
Picasso, Dali, Miro, Man Ray, Ernst - the list went on. The first gallery we entered focussed on the turn of the century Paris School with the earliest examples of cubism represented. Later schools of depiction included paintings that re-interpreted famous works of earlier eras. In his 1957 series Las Meninas, Picasso reinterpreted Velaquez's paintings of the Infante Margarita and her courtiers in the painting of the same name. Altogether Picasso produced 44 paintings based on Velaquez's canvas that we had earlier viewed in the Prado.
Not having eaten breakfast, we went down to the spacey spacious museo cafe for coffee and sandwiches. Outside an enormous black and white perspex sculpture by Roy Lichtenstein dominated the interior plaza. Kim and I left Wendy and John McG and went in search of the Robert Mapplethorp contribution Although unable to find this offering we viewed and experienced a wide variety of canvasses and installations including a large white diagram of economic and political follies that had appropriately once hung in the Nugan-Hand Bank in Sydney. A television showed a series of performances of the Patti Smith Group of different eras - Mapplethorp's contribution perhaps?
Back on the second floor many prominent we saw many works depicting artistic protests against the Nationalist's actions during the Civil War. Picasso's Guernica (1937) was the sole piece hung on a gallery wall. Opposite, a series of photographs by his wife showed the work in progress. Suprisingly, visitors were permitted to take photographs, as long as flash was not used. Had we another day, we would have returned to view those parts of the collection, including Klee, that we missed. Another trip perhaps.
That afternoon we caught the Metro to the end of the No. 3 line to Moncla and had a pleasant stroll through Parc Oest, one of Madrid's many fine parks, where we were serenaded by a lone bagpiper........?.
Friday night in Madrid is a big one for partying and strolling and we were swept along by the milling crowd after emerging from Sol Metro. Seeking dinner, we wandered in and out of the cross Calle around Plaza Santa Ana and eventually settled on a Peruvian restaurant - it is noticable that Madrid is the home to Spanish-speakers of many countries. This establishment surely wins the award for the fastest service ever, not that this proved a disadvantage for the unusual meals were great- particularly my prawn and rice soup and the fantastic lemon meringue pie we shared.
Sadly this was to be our last night in Spain for France beckoned.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Out of Sequence London Update
Thursday 8th October
Currently in London staying with our friends Sue and Michael at their amazing mews home in Kensington, previously owned by the Prince of Orange. Kim is at present having her hair cut across the road at Henny's, having just returned from a visit to Kensington Palace and Park. Must look your best in W8.
There is far too much to do in this amazing city so we are attempting just some of what London offers. The Palace was amazing and had an exhibition titled The Last Debutants. The exhibition explores the "glamourous and alluring world of the 1958 debutant season". I particularly liked the newspaper coverage of the day where the most outrageous act of the season reported was when a number of debutant dreams (ie males), went swimming in their undies. By gosh they paid for it with an all out attack by their partners who bombarded them with champagne glasses!. This is what made the empire great.
Ticked off two more must do's, when we lunched opposite the Park at the Goat Tavern, and had Cod and chips and Bangers and mash - both with mushy peas. Very good too!.
By the way, it was bright and sunny all day today. Even if it was wet, my day has just been made because Michael has just opened a bottle of 1982 Chateau Gazin Pomerol to breathe. Does life get any better?.
Currently in London staying with our friends Sue and Michael at their amazing mews home in Kensington, previously owned by the Prince of Orange. Kim is at present having her hair cut across the road at Henny's, having just returned from a visit to Kensington Palace and Park. Must look your best in W8.
There is far too much to do in this amazing city so we are attempting just some of what London offers. The Palace was amazing and had an exhibition titled The Last Debutants. The exhibition explores the "glamourous and alluring world of the 1958 debutant season". I particularly liked the newspaper coverage of the day where the most outrageous act of the season reported was when a number of debutant dreams (ie males), went swimming in their undies. By gosh they paid for it with an all out attack by their partners who bombarded them with champagne glasses!. This is what made the empire great.
Ticked off two more must do's, when we lunched opposite the Park at the Goat Tavern, and had Cod and chips and Bangers and mash - both with mushy peas. Very good too!.
By the way, it was bright and sunny all day today. Even if it was wet, my day has just been made because Michael has just opened a bottle of 1982 Chateau Gazin Pomerol to breathe. Does life get any better?.
Mooching in Madrid
Jesus dropped us off near Sol and we found a 7 Euro all you can eat buffet nearby. As Kim's suitcase had had a major wardrobe malfunction we went searching for a replacement. Eschewing the expensive one, we headed upstairs near to Sol Metro Station. While trying out the luggage, I noticed we had been joined by a Chinese gentleman and his Australian wife. It was Tetsyu. the award winning chef from Adelaide. They were purchasing a suitcase to transport several kilos of Spanish cheese he had purchased at a five day Cheese Festival. He appeared interested to hear of our exploits at El Borges Raisin Festival.
My latest culinary exploit, spaghetti con chorizo was consumed at home. Although our Madrid apartment was small, the gas fired stove top did the dish proud. Kim and I decided to take a stroll before retiring; the best laid plans of mice and men......
12.13 am - if only I could transmit the sound of late night Madrid - the shutters coming down, the waiting taxis, the departing bar flys, the next door neighbour through the thin walls. We had headed up Calles Ancora to Bar Barridos. Two Rosada and Cerveza on top of our previous consumption resulted in us being maggoted in Madrid. Another round and we were harmonizing to Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds with our fellow customers. Dos Americanos con lecci - mine host attempted to understand two blind Aussies - thank god for Juan (good name that) who spoke English and translated. Over the sound of the futbol we karaoked to Los Beatles, left a tip of 4 euros and weaved our way home.
My latest culinary exploit, spaghetti con chorizo was consumed at home. Although our Madrid apartment was small, the gas fired stove top did the dish proud. Kim and I decided to take a stroll before retiring; the best laid plans of mice and men......
12.13 am - if only I could transmit the sound of late night Madrid - the shutters coming down, the waiting taxis, the departing bar flys, the next door neighbour through the thin walls. We had headed up Calles Ancora to Bar Barridos. Two Rosada and Cerveza on top of our previous consumption resulted in us being maggoted in Madrid. Another round and we were harmonizing to Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds with our fellow customers. Dos Americanos con lecci - mine host attempted to understand two blind Aussies - thank god for Juan (good name that) who spoke English and translated. Over the sound of the futbol we karaoked to Los Beatles, left a tip of 4 euros and weaved our way home.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Marvellous Madrid
Tuesday 22 September
Up bright and early again as Shane and Jess were arriving to transfer us to our train at Antequera station. Bidding a fond farewell we boarded the train and deperted on time at 9.28 for Madrid.
After a pleasant trip with breakfast provided, we arrived at 11.50am and using Susannah's instructions were soon at No. 5 1A Calle Ancora. After familiarising ourselves with the neighbourhood and visiting the ATM and Supermercado for essentials, we set off for the nearest Metro Station. Palos de la Frontera was two blocks away and we were soon emerging into Madrid's central shopping zone - Solo.
We headed East, and after skirting around Plaza Mayor and its offerings at tourist trap prices, we arrived at Palaco Real and the National Armoury buildings. Wendy's opinion was that the Palace surpassed Buckingham Palace - we shall see. Walking back via Jardines Del Cabo Noval we passed by Teatro Real and the Opera House. The shops along Calle Del Arena included a fantastic delicatessan offering beautiful cheeses and smallgoods, and nearby we visited Madrid's DJ's - El Corte Ingles. The streets were packed with elegantly dressed Spaniards who were being entertained by a cavalcade of street performers and placade toting hopefuls.
Returning via the Metro to our neighbourhood in Centrale, we stopped at our local, Bar Soria, for tapas and drinks, followed soon after by a shared dinner of calamari and braised squid. We were fortunate to have the services of a multi-lingual Romanian waitress who suggested our suggestions, including a cream laden caramel dessert.
Wednesday 23 September
Breakfasted, we headed off for the Museo del Prado located nearby. The Prado has a peerless collection of Spanish and European art numbering more than 7000 pieces, with more than 3500 on display. The collection is a window on the historical vagaries of the Spanish soul: grand and imperious in the Royal paintings of Velazquez, darkly tumultuous in the Pictures Negro of Goya, and outward looking in the sophisticated works from across Europe. Many of the subjects were determined by the Royal and religious patronage of the era with numerous depictions of the Crucifixion and Nativity.
My favourite paintings were those of Hieronymus Bosch and the Brueghels younger and elder. These were painted during the period 1500 to 1700 when the low countries and parts of Italy were under Spanish domination. In addition to the Spanish paintings many Italian painters were represented: Botticelli, Raphael, Titian, Caraveggio, Giordano and Tiepole. Many fine and delicately wrought busts and statues are also displayed. Although the paintings are of centuries past, the Prado is internally very modern, if housed in a Neo-classical building. It was designed by Juan de Villaeeve in 1785 on the orders of Carlos the Third and it opened as a museum in 1819.
We wandered home via the surrounding tree-lined streets and down past Estacion de Atocha to Calle Ancora. Madrid's lack of birdlife is compensated by the twittering sparrow sound of the pedestrian crossing lights - most musical! During siesta we Skyped with James and downed a few beers before I retired to beer for a few hours respite. All that culture takes it out of you.
Out along Calle Alcort to check out tonight's prospective dining establishments, we stopped for a little refreshment. Adjacent to the bar, an Asian Bazaar had just received a consignment of plastic lemon trees and the proprietor was doing her utmost with a sponge to make them irrestible at the bargain price of 10 euros. Instead, the passed parade stared incredulously at this botanical nonsence....You can't eat plastic lemons!
The bars were starting to overflow with futbol fans awaiting tonight's UEFA Cup fixture featuring Real Madrid. We traipsed around searching for a smoke-free environment and eventually settled for Patacon Pisao on Calle de la Delicas. Especialidid en Comida Colombianan boasted the menu. What a find! The barbecue pork and chicken were delicious and accompanied by a quartet of piquant sauces. The restarant's decor included an assortment of South American artifacts and the proprietoress featured predominantly on a photo wall of visiting Colombian celebrities. Delicious flans and good Colombian coffee completed the experience.
We wandered home replete through the perfect Madrid evening and the exultant footie fans.
Up bright and early again as Shane and Jess were arriving to transfer us to our train at Antequera station. Bidding a fond farewell we boarded the train and deperted on time at 9.28 for Madrid.
After a pleasant trip with breakfast provided, we arrived at 11.50am and using Susannah's instructions were soon at No. 5 1A Calle Ancora. After familiarising ourselves with the neighbourhood and visiting the ATM and Supermercado for essentials, we set off for the nearest Metro Station. Palos de la Frontera was two blocks away and we were soon emerging into Madrid's central shopping zone - Solo.
We headed East, and after skirting around Plaza Mayor and its offerings at tourist trap prices, we arrived at Palaco Real and the National Armoury buildings. Wendy's opinion was that the Palace surpassed Buckingham Palace - we shall see. Walking back via Jardines Del Cabo Noval we passed by Teatro Real and the Opera House. The shops along Calle Del Arena included a fantastic delicatessan offering beautiful cheeses and smallgoods, and nearby we visited Madrid's DJ's - El Corte Ingles. The streets were packed with elegantly dressed Spaniards who were being entertained by a cavalcade of street performers and placade toting hopefuls.
Returning via the Metro to our neighbourhood in Centrale, we stopped at our local, Bar Soria, for tapas and drinks, followed soon after by a shared dinner of calamari and braised squid. We were fortunate to have the services of a multi-lingual Romanian waitress who suggested our suggestions, including a cream laden caramel dessert.
Wednesday 23 September
Breakfasted, we headed off for the Museo del Prado located nearby. The Prado has a peerless collection of Spanish and European art numbering more than 7000 pieces, with more than 3500 on display. The collection is a window on the historical vagaries of the Spanish soul: grand and imperious in the Royal paintings of Velazquez, darkly tumultuous in the Pictures Negro of Goya, and outward looking in the sophisticated works from across Europe. Many of the subjects were determined by the Royal and religious patronage of the era with numerous depictions of the Crucifixion and Nativity.
My favourite paintings were those of Hieronymus Bosch and the Brueghels younger and elder. These were painted during the period 1500 to 1700 when the low countries and parts of Italy were under Spanish domination. In addition to the Spanish paintings many Italian painters were represented: Botticelli, Raphael, Titian, Caraveggio, Giordano and Tiepole. Many fine and delicately wrought busts and statues are also displayed. Although the paintings are of centuries past, the Prado is internally very modern, if housed in a Neo-classical building. It was designed by Juan de Villaeeve in 1785 on the orders of Carlos the Third and it opened as a museum in 1819.
We wandered home via the surrounding tree-lined streets and down past Estacion de Atocha to Calle Ancora. Madrid's lack of birdlife is compensated by the twittering sparrow sound of the pedestrian crossing lights - most musical! During siesta we Skyped with James and downed a few beers before I retired to beer for a few hours respite. All that culture takes it out of you.
Out along Calle Alcort to check out tonight's prospective dining establishments, we stopped for a little refreshment. Adjacent to the bar, an Asian Bazaar had just received a consignment of plastic lemon trees and the proprietor was doing her utmost with a sponge to make them irrestible at the bargain price of 10 euros. Instead, the passed parade stared incredulously at this botanical nonsence....You can't eat plastic lemons!
The bars were starting to overflow with futbol fans awaiting tonight's UEFA Cup fixture featuring Real Madrid. We traipsed around searching for a smoke-free environment and eventually settled for Patacon Pisao on Calle de la Delicas. Especialidid en Comida Colombianan boasted the menu. What a find! The barbecue pork and chicken were delicious and accompanied by a quartet of piquant sauces. The restarant's decor included an assortment of South American artifacts and the proprietoress featured predominantly on a photo wall of visiting Colombian celebrities. Delicious flans and good Colombian coffee completed the experience.
We wandered home replete through the perfect Madrid evening and the exultant footie fans.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Granada - continued
While waiting for the crowd to disperse into the palaces of the Nazaries, we enjoyed some liquid refreshment in Plazade los Anjibes overlooking old Granada. The second of my pens El Secundo has been replaced by a new red one which seems appropriate, as this is the translation of Alhambra - The Red One.
Known as the Old Royal House by the Spaniards, the palaces are composed of the most important focal points of the Alhambra: the Mexuar (council chamber), and the two palaces of Comares and the Lions. The Alhambra has recently been declared a monument of human heritage - beyond the architecture it is a creation of space, air and light. It is not just a space filled with a void, it is rather the captured amalgam of brightness and shadow, streams and flowers, enveloped in verse and sensations which transcend time. Rather good that, wish I had written it.
Leaving the palaces we continued into The Generalife, a retreat where the Grenadan monarchs could relax, away from the daily toil and bustle of the court. Entering the Dismounting Yard, we strolled through the various gardens and by the splashing fountains taking time to smell the roses and bruise the massed herbs. An army of gardeners ensured the foliage was trimmed and the paths swept. I stopped to express my gratitude and shared my sugared figs from El Gordo with a trio of green clad nurserymen. Grathias and adios.
We exited the Alhambra for the drive home to Riogordo and Shane considered the views over Grenada as the best part of the city - He is not a big fan. Exiting the A4102 at Alfarnatjo, we travelled along the narrowing track where we came upon a herd of goats complete with grizzled goatherder. We have just come upon what we in the tourist trade call a "Thank You God" moment said Shane.
Through a notch in the mountains we could see the local reservoir and were soon passing the Riogordo olive oil factory. After pausing to banter with another Brit expatriot, Shane dropped us off at No. 2. See you at 8.00am.
Known as the Old Royal House by the Spaniards, the palaces are composed of the most important focal points of the Alhambra: the Mexuar (council chamber), and the two palaces of Comares and the Lions. The Alhambra has recently been declared a monument of human heritage - beyond the architecture it is a creation of space, air and light. It is not just a space filled with a void, it is rather the captured amalgam of brightness and shadow, streams and flowers, enveloped in verse and sensations which transcend time. Rather good that, wish I had written it.
Leaving the palaces we continued into The Generalife, a retreat where the Grenadan monarchs could relax, away from the daily toil and bustle of the court. Entering the Dismounting Yard, we strolled through the various gardens and by the splashing fountains taking time to smell the roses and bruise the massed herbs. An army of gardeners ensured the foliage was trimmed and the paths swept. I stopped to express my gratitude and shared my sugared figs from El Gordo with a trio of green clad nurserymen. Grathias and adios.
We exited the Alhambra for the drive home to Riogordo and Shane considered the views over Grenada as the best part of the city - He is not a big fan. Exiting the A4102 at Alfarnatjo, we travelled along the narrowing track where we came upon a herd of goats complete with grizzled goatherder. We have just come upon what we in the tourist trade call a "Thank You God" moment said Shane.
Through a notch in the mountains we could see the local reservoir and were soon passing the Riogordo olive oil factory. After pausing to banter with another Brit expatriot, Shane dropped us off at No. 2. See you at 8.00am.
Friday, October 2, 2009
More of Madrid
I have a confession to make - I have fallen in love with Metro Madrid's station announcer.
Once a male announces Estacion Proxima, I know she will then intone Opairah or maybe Sol. It is worth it to leave marvellous Madrid's ozone laden morning air and descend underground just to hear her voice. If we are lucky there will be a delay and the incident will require explanation in her throaty Castillian accent. Grathias.
Our tour guide to El Escorial officiously herds us towards the departure point with a pamphlet - What, no wand?
We are in very good hands for our guide is Silvia and our driver is Jesus. The morning rush hour presents no problem for Jesus for he flattens it and drives straight through a red light. That got the sparrows twittering!
Our route out of Madrid takes us out the Arc of Triumph - Franco's celebration of the Nationalist's victory in the Spanish Civil War. Madrid's morning traffic is heavy but in the hands of Jesus we are soon hitting the high road to El Escorial and the Valley of the Fallen. El Escorial is amazing. After skirting around the austere stone walls of the Monasterie de San Lorenzo we enter a stone flagged quadrangle bound by forbidding granite walls. Even the sound of the attendant school children does not leaven this feeling of dread. Once inside however we encounter evidence of the lives and times of the Bourbon and Hapsburg Royal Family. The death bed of Philip the second has been left in the original state, down to the copper bed warmer. Copies of many of El Greco's paintings, as well as originals, hung in various chambers. The battle room held depictions of maps of famous battles of the era - Australia is not depicted.
The high point of the visit was the descent of an exquisite marble staircase to the tombstones of deceased Royalty. The funeral urns of the Spanish Monarchs lined the marble Mausoleum of the Royal Pantheon. Current members of the Spanish Royal Family will rest here. The Bascillica of San Lorenzo contains a lavish altar piece with the Chapel housing a superb marble sculpture of the Crucifixion by Cellini. Leaving the Bascillica entrance we encounter crowds of uniformed school children on lunch break.
Re-boarding the bus we headed in the direction of Santa Cruz del Valle de los Caidos - The Valley of the Fallen. General Franco had this built as a memorial to those Nationalists who died in the Civil War and it dominates the surrounding country side. It is reminiscent of the Nazi architecture of Speer and left me cold. I almost felt sorry for the 40,000 troops buried here. There is little respect shown by visitors. Unlike other Spanish historical attractions, there were no opportunists playing the crowds. It was off the bus, quick look around and back on the bus. Few even gave it a second look as we headed back down the hill.
A serious problem of marble staining left me feeling somewhat satisfied. Spitting on Franco's grave would have been more satisfying.
Once a male announces Estacion Proxima, I know she will then intone Opairah or maybe Sol. It is worth it to leave marvellous Madrid's ozone laden morning air and descend underground just to hear her voice. If we are lucky there will be a delay and the incident will require explanation in her throaty Castillian accent. Grathias.
Our tour guide to El Escorial officiously herds us towards the departure point with a pamphlet - What, no wand?
We are in very good hands for our guide is Silvia and our driver is Jesus. The morning rush hour presents no problem for Jesus for he flattens it and drives straight through a red light. That got the sparrows twittering!
Our route out of Madrid takes us out the Arc of Triumph - Franco's celebration of the Nationalist's victory in the Spanish Civil War. Madrid's morning traffic is heavy but in the hands of Jesus we are soon hitting the high road to El Escorial and the Valley of the Fallen. El Escorial is amazing. After skirting around the austere stone walls of the Monasterie de San Lorenzo we enter a stone flagged quadrangle bound by forbidding granite walls. Even the sound of the attendant school children does not leaven this feeling of dread. Once inside however we encounter evidence of the lives and times of the Bourbon and Hapsburg Royal Family. The death bed of Philip the second has been left in the original state, down to the copper bed warmer. Copies of many of El Greco's paintings, as well as originals, hung in various chambers. The battle room held depictions of maps of famous battles of the era - Australia is not depicted.
The high point of the visit was the descent of an exquisite marble staircase to the tombstones of deceased Royalty. The funeral urns of the Spanish Monarchs lined the marble Mausoleum of the Royal Pantheon. Current members of the Spanish Royal Family will rest here. The Bascillica of San Lorenzo contains a lavish altar piece with the Chapel housing a superb marble sculpture of the Crucifixion by Cellini. Leaving the Bascillica entrance we encounter crowds of uniformed school children on lunch break.
Re-boarding the bus we headed in the direction of Santa Cruz del Valle de los Caidos - The Valley of the Fallen. General Franco had this built as a memorial to those Nationalists who died in the Civil War and it dominates the surrounding country side. It is reminiscent of the Nazi architecture of Speer and left me cold. I almost felt sorry for the 40,000 troops buried here. There is little respect shown by visitors. Unlike other Spanish historical attractions, there were no opportunists playing the crowds. It was off the bus, quick look around and back on the bus. Few even gave it a second look as we headed back down the hill.
A serious problem of marble staining left me feeling somewhat satisfied. Spitting on Franco's grave would have been more satisfying.
Granada
Early start today - Shane arrived at 8.30am for our trip to Granada and the Alhambra Palace. We passed through Santa Fe (It sounds romantic, but its a horrible little place, said Shane), and saw the offer of Euro 49 for a room at the Holiday Inn located in Granada's motor alley.
Entering a road tunnel we passed along a lane marked Alhambra. Up a slope we headed until we were high bove Granada; a thin shroud of smoke lay over the landscape below. 4 tickets and audio guides were purchased and we set off down Secerao - the cypress walk. Windows had been incised into the foliage leading to views of the structured gardens. We continued towards the Palace of Charles V. The Italian-influenced facades gave way to the circular renaissance-era courtyard that possesses magnificent acoustic properties. Doric columns and ionic pilastres abounded.
After leaving the Palace we passed though the Puerta del Vino (the colour, not the grape) and explored the Alcazaba via Plaza de los Aljibes. Fabulous views to the surrounding hills and clinging suburbs could be seen from terraces and the three towers.
Entering a road tunnel we passed along a lane marked Alhambra. Up a slope we headed until we were high bove Granada; a thin shroud of smoke lay over the landscape below. 4 tickets and audio guides were purchased and we set off down Secerao - the cypress walk. Windows had been incised into the foliage leading to views of the structured gardens. We continued towards the Palace of Charles V. The Italian-influenced facades gave way to the circular renaissance-era courtyard that possesses magnificent acoustic properties. Doric columns and ionic pilastres abounded.
After leaving the Palace we passed though the Puerta del Vino (the colour, not the grape) and explored the Alcazaba via Plaza de los Aljibes. Fabulous views to the surrounding hills and clinging suburbs could be seen from terraces and the three towers.
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