Our 9.24am train trip to York from Edinburgh was taken in the company of a host of Newcastle United fans lagering up for the big home match with Leicester later that day. Fortunately they were in the next but one carriage, and closer to the buffet than us, should their store run dry. Six ample ladies ensconced nearby were Eating for Britain ~ Well, it had been two hours since they last had tasted breakfast tatties and pudding.
The silver-liveried Eastcoast train terminating at Kings Cross flew by fields and stone walls at 90mph leaving M1 traffic in its' wake. Sorry about the mixed transport terminology. White sheep, black sheep, white sheep with black faces, brown sheep with white faces, you get the idea..., grazed on rolling and tumbling Herriot hills reminiscent of every BBC rural series you have seen. As we slowed to navigate a rural Yorkshire siding a faded green sign suggested Hadrian's Wall was nearby.
The five nice English ladies in the adjacent seats, having exhausted their conversation, picked up their reading material. "Well!, Who would have thought that?. According to Best magazine, "Dawn French has a new lover!. Pass the crisps will you Jane?." Outside a crop of peas pumped nitrogen back into the soil, and fly fishermen in green waders cast their lines upon swiftly running shallows beneath a miniature harbour bridge.
Approaching Newcastle, fields gave way to business parks, hire centres and wasteland pile with refuse. "Aye, thar's brass in muck!" Vacant pigeon coops and Geordie graffiti assumed prominence as we rolled into Newcastle's outer burbs. A host of bridges jammed with traffic crossed the Tyne just before the station.
"Controversial, Compelling, Confronting!" threatened the sign promoting football legend Roy Keanes's biography. The same could be said for the departing soccer hooligans who yahoo-ed and kicked a Tennent's can along the platform, narrowing missing a porter pushing a trolley laden with fresh supplies of Corkers Crisps and Yorkie Bars.
Friday, October 24, 2014
Monday, October 20, 2014
Edinburgh
Edinburgh
Mission accomplished!. We have returned the hire car despite the GPS giving up the task just around the corner from the depot. Meeting a hire car deadline in an unfamiliar city is one of life's more uncomfortable crisis. Thankfully our hotel had advised us to look for the multi-storey carpark just past Waverley Station.
Our trip from Pitlochry was memorable following our determination to take any road but the A9. The minor road leading us over the high passes of Perthshire took us by breathtaking scenery and past a laird's pheasant shoot at Grandtully complete with beaters. Penny asked for a photo to be taken of her at the Crieff town sign because she knows Crieff is significant to her family. She just doesn't know why. As is traditional, we stopped for more coffee and cake at the Waterford Crystal shop where we feared the car would be swallowed by deep, still potholes.
We visited Stirling Castle on one of the few inclement days we have experienced. It was cold, windy and magnificent up on the summit overlooking Stirling and the battlegrounds that determined Scotland's history. After a slight detour, that included another potholed suburban wasteland, we exited the city for Edinburgh. Our side trip to Dunfermline was disappointing as we were unable to locate the street in which Penny's grandparents had lived prior to emigrating to Australia.
The hire car behind us, we bypassed Edinburgh's thousand steps to The Royal Mile and ducked into the second pub, The Malt Shovel on Cockburn Street, for a refresher or two. A street blackboard promoting another Edinburgh pub crawl had the following request: "Dear Americans, While in Edinburgh, please refrain from saying Sp**k or Fanny and try not to pronounce Cockburn Street." Our barmaid Elspeth has informed me that citizens of Edinburgh are called Edinburgers. She also said she used to work at Mooseheads!.
No trip to Scotland is complete without plenty of haggis, neeps and tatties (haggis, mashed turnips and potatoes). After all, you need a solid foundation if you are intent on sampling every single malt known to man. Above our table a sign read "There are 2 things a Highlander likes naked, and one is malt whiskey!." I have found however, that the odd whiskey may require dilution eg Oban, with it's hint of the sea requires a rock or two. Dalwhinney, on the other hand is "roon" if it should come into contact with H2O.
It might appear to be a cliche but no one with Scots roots can fail to be moved by the skirl of bagpipes. Yes, it's the equivalent of street magicians, and they're there to make money from passersby, but the sight and sound of a piper in full clan kit complete with dirk got my burn water running. Young Angus in a blue McEwan kilt stood in a prominent spot on Edinburgh's Royal Mile and blew up a storm. His only competition for the tourist penny was from the most blatant beggar we have encountered who sat directly next to the Bank of Scotland ATM!
As arranged, Kim and Penny were sitting outside Briddie Maloney's at a corner on Grassmarket enjoying a refresher and a performance from a talented busker. Despite amplification, his voice was soon inaudible due to the Irish girls who had come to Edinburgh for a raucous hen's night. The bride, who wore a blow up horse, ran round and round the bar accompanied by her girlfriends who sported blinking jockey caps. Their escapades were encouraged by the boys in the bar and ignored by the bouncer who had seen far worse. Time would tell.
Mission accomplished!. We have returned the hire car despite the GPS giving up the task just around the corner from the depot. Meeting a hire car deadline in an unfamiliar city is one of life's more uncomfortable crisis. Thankfully our hotel had advised us to look for the multi-storey carpark just past Waverley Station.
Our trip from Pitlochry was memorable following our determination to take any road but the A9. The minor road leading us over the high passes of Perthshire took us by breathtaking scenery and past a laird's pheasant shoot at Grandtully complete with beaters. Penny asked for a photo to be taken of her at the Crieff town sign because she knows Crieff is significant to her family. She just doesn't know why. As is traditional, we stopped for more coffee and cake at the Waterford Crystal shop where we feared the car would be swallowed by deep, still potholes.
We visited Stirling Castle on one of the few inclement days we have experienced. It was cold, windy and magnificent up on the summit overlooking Stirling and the battlegrounds that determined Scotland's history. After a slight detour, that included another potholed suburban wasteland, we exited the city for Edinburgh. Our side trip to Dunfermline was disappointing as we were unable to locate the street in which Penny's grandparents had lived prior to emigrating to Australia.
The hire car behind us, we bypassed Edinburgh's thousand steps to The Royal Mile and ducked into the second pub, The Malt Shovel on Cockburn Street, for a refresher or two. A street blackboard promoting another Edinburgh pub crawl had the following request: "Dear Americans, While in Edinburgh, please refrain from saying Sp**k or Fanny and try not to pronounce Cockburn Street." Our barmaid Elspeth has informed me that citizens of Edinburgh are called Edinburgers. She also said she used to work at Mooseheads!.
No trip to Scotland is complete without plenty of haggis, neeps and tatties (haggis, mashed turnips and potatoes). After all, you need a solid foundation if you are intent on sampling every single malt known to man. Above our table a sign read "There are 2 things a Highlander likes naked, and one is malt whiskey!." I have found however, that the odd whiskey may require dilution eg Oban, with it's hint of the sea requires a rock or two. Dalwhinney, on the other hand is "roon" if it should come into contact with H2O.
It might appear to be a cliche but no one with Scots roots can fail to be moved by the skirl of bagpipes. Yes, it's the equivalent of street magicians, and they're there to make money from passersby, but the sight and sound of a piper in full clan kit complete with dirk got my burn water running. Young Angus in a blue McEwan kilt stood in a prominent spot on Edinburgh's Royal Mile and blew up a storm. His only competition for the tourist penny was from the most blatant beggar we have encountered who sat directly next to the Bank of Scotland ATM!
As arranged, Kim and Penny were sitting outside Briddie Maloney's at a corner on Grassmarket enjoying a refresher and a performance from a talented busker. Despite amplification, his voice was soon inaudible due to the Irish girls who had come to Edinburgh for a raucous hen's night. The bride, who wore a blow up horse, ran round and round the bar accompanied by her girlfriends who sported blinking jockey caps. Their escapades were encouraged by the boys in the bar and ignored by the bouncer who had seen far worse. Time would tell.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Highland Perthshire
It is said that "A man's home is his castle." In Scotland a man's home sometimes is a castle, and for those without a hereditary pile or title, the next best thing is to build a home resembling a castle. Castles lined the road out of Pitlochry as we passed by the Linn of Tummel Trail at the bridge over the River Garry.
Having heard big wraps about The Queen's View, we stopped en-route to wherever we were headed, and parked at the spot where Queen Victoria once took tea in 1866. Being The Queen, Victoria assumed the scenic spot was named for her. Pity help the poor underling who may have had the temerity to suggest the title was named after a previous queen, Isabella the first wife of Robert the Bruce. The walls of the tea room were inscribed with other historical facts and numerous musings, with one being a silhouette of QV entering the WC facilities and labelled "One might want to go." Outside another silhouette pictured QV posting a letter under the protection of an umbrella held by good and faithful servant John Brown.
Massive lichen covered trees, that rarely felt the sun's rays, grew up out of the steep slopes next to our road to Tummel Bridge which presented another of those interminable Highland photo opportunities. We drove along the roller coaster B847 past fat sheep and more faux stone castles complete with twiddly bits on gables, until passing under a massive stone bridge and autumnal canopy of larch and oak at Struan. We now know where many of the names of Australian towns originated.
We bypassed The House of Bruan with its' high priced fashion statements and tour buses and lunched nearby at The Atholl Arms at Blair Atholl. Seated near the raging fire, I enjoyed a lentil and vegetable soup that now ranks in my top ten potages. Hearty, and full of flavour and flatulance. We have only once broken the unbroken rule ~ "Never drink at the first pub you see" ~ once! To our detriment, the pub lunch yesterday at McKenzies Hotel was not up to the Scottish standard we have come to expect. Still it was cheap and the walls around the faded pool table featured album covers by Scots hit makers.
As you travel rounds Scotland , the difference between the Shires is striking. The denuded mountain tops and cliff-lined lochs of the West Highlands, the stark bare mountains of the Isles and The Cairngormes, and the autumnal splendour of Perthshire. Another continuing feature of Northern Perthshire are the dead pheasants littering the roads. Bloody pheasants! Still, if we can't find a pub we could survive on road kill.
Having heard big wraps about The Queen's View, we stopped en-route to wherever we were headed, and parked at the spot where Queen Victoria once took tea in 1866. Being The Queen, Victoria assumed the scenic spot was named for her. Pity help the poor underling who may have had the temerity to suggest the title was named after a previous queen, Isabella the first wife of Robert the Bruce. The walls of the tea room were inscribed with other historical facts and numerous musings, with one being a silhouette of QV entering the WC facilities and labelled "One might want to go." Outside another silhouette pictured QV posting a letter under the protection of an umbrella held by good and faithful servant John Brown.
Massive lichen covered trees, that rarely felt the sun's rays, grew up out of the steep slopes next to our road to Tummel Bridge which presented another of those interminable Highland photo opportunities. We drove along the roller coaster B847 past fat sheep and more faux stone castles complete with twiddly bits on gables, until passing under a massive stone bridge and autumnal canopy of larch and oak at Struan. We now know where many of the names of Australian towns originated.
We bypassed The House of Bruan with its' high priced fashion statements and tour buses and lunched nearby at The Atholl Arms at Blair Atholl. Seated near the raging fire, I enjoyed a lentil and vegetable soup that now ranks in my top ten potages. Hearty, and full of flavour and flatulance. We have only once broken the unbroken rule ~ "Never drink at the first pub you see" ~ once! To our detriment, the pub lunch yesterday at McKenzies Hotel was not up to the Scottish standard we have come to expect. Still it was cheap and the walls around the faded pool table featured album covers by Scots hit makers.
As you travel rounds Scotland , the difference between the Shires is striking. The denuded mountain tops and cliff-lined lochs of the West Highlands, the stark bare mountains of the Isles and The Cairngormes, and the autumnal splendour of Perthshire. Another continuing feature of Northern Perthshire are the dead pheasants littering the roads. Bloody pheasants! Still, if we can't find a pub we could survive on road kill.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
The Jacobite Train to Mallaig and Back
"My ticket says Carriage G, Seats 11 and 12 B and F." B and F? Backwards and Forwards of course!. Despite a small problem of double booking, the Jacobite Train departed on schedule at 10.15am from Fort William.
At Banavie we passed over Neptune's Staircase where a boat was perched in a lock high above the rail line awaiting passage to Loch Locky. "Here comes the refreshment trolley." "Where's the Witches' hat, butter beer and Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans?." We have to make do with Snickers and coffee delivered by Neil in a t-shirt labelled "Roll n Stock Buffet." By carriage G, the catering thermos had almost emptied, and as Neil lifted the container and dribbled the remaining tea, he told a story. Two linguistic professors, one Spanish and one Gaelic, were having a discussion. "Is there a Gaelic word equivalent to Mañana?." "Och nae! We don't have a word to discuss such haste."
Passing grand views of coastal scenes, we arrived at Mallaig for our 90 minute stopover. Exiting the station we noticed a number of passengers were wearing Hogwarts' costumes and accessories, in some cases whole families had assumed the characters of Griffindor pupils and staff, complete with wands!. There's not a lot to be said for Mallaig, and they must be dreading the end of the train season. The sea ferry to The Isle of Skye doesn't draw tourists like The Jacobite service. Once we had lunched and visited the wharf we headed back to occupy our seats. A trip to the second hand book revealed whole shelves of JK Rowling's ouvre on sale.
Our worst fears have been confirmed. The horrible English woman and her pliant husband "Tony?, Tony?!, Tony!!!", have been placed nearer to us than on the outward journey. If we had Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans we could put them in our ears. Perhaps that's how they developed the earwax flavour?. Carriage G has been promoted and we are now coupled to the steaming black engine "The Lancashire Fusiliar". "Chuff, Chuff!." Being this close to the funnel means our carriage doesn't fill with smoke unlike the outward journey. Train spotting tragics with zoom lenses continue to take snapshots from roadways and rocky outcrops.
Oops, we spoke too soon ~ as we entered a low tunnel coal dust and smoke filled our carriage. The Japanese tourist in the adjacent seat fixed his camera setting to smog and pulled up his face mask. "Tony, this clue in Friday's Telegraph is wrong." "There aren't enough spaces for my answer!."
Ben Nevis loomed up ahead as we approached Fort Wiliam. As we disembarked, the engine driver and stoker waved and grinned through grimy faces as they steamed past.
At Banavie we passed over Neptune's Staircase where a boat was perched in a lock high above the rail line awaiting passage to Loch Locky. "Here comes the refreshment trolley." "Where's the Witches' hat, butter beer and Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans?." We have to make do with Snickers and coffee delivered by Neil in a t-shirt labelled "Roll n Stock Buffet." By carriage G, the catering thermos had almost emptied, and as Neil lifted the container and dribbled the remaining tea, he told a story. Two linguistic professors, one Spanish and one Gaelic, were having a discussion. "Is there a Gaelic word equivalent to Mañana?." "Och nae! We don't have a word to discuss such haste."
Passing grand views of coastal scenes, we arrived at Mallaig for our 90 minute stopover. Exiting the station we noticed a number of passengers were wearing Hogwarts' costumes and accessories, in some cases whole families had assumed the characters of Griffindor pupils and staff, complete with wands!. There's not a lot to be said for Mallaig, and they must be dreading the end of the train season. The sea ferry to The Isle of Skye doesn't draw tourists like The Jacobite service. Once we had lunched and visited the wharf we headed back to occupy our seats. A trip to the second hand book revealed whole shelves of JK Rowling's ouvre on sale.
Our worst fears have been confirmed. The horrible English woman and her pliant husband "Tony?, Tony?!, Tony!!!", have been placed nearer to us than on the outward journey. If we had Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans we could put them in our ears. Perhaps that's how they developed the earwax flavour?. Carriage G has been promoted and we are now coupled to the steaming black engine "The Lancashire Fusiliar". "Chuff, Chuff!." Being this close to the funnel means our carriage doesn't fill with smoke unlike the outward journey. Train spotting tragics with zoom lenses continue to take snapshots from roadways and rocky outcrops.
Oops, we spoke too soon ~ as we entered a low tunnel coal dust and smoke filled our carriage. The Japanese tourist in the adjacent seat fixed his camera setting to smog and pulled up his face mask. "Tony, this clue in Friday's Telegraph is wrong." "There aren't enough spaces for my answer!."
Ben Nevis loomed up ahead as we approached Fort Wiliam. As we disembarked, the engine driver and stoker waved and grinned through grimy faces as they steamed past.
Monday, October 6, 2014
Portobello Road and Piccadilly
It's official, autumn in Europe has been postponed. I'm thinking of writing a letter to the French and British governments to complain that I am lugging around unworn winter woollies. I am also tempted to follow the path of many other compatriots and wear our national dress of shorts and thongs. Whilst awaiting service on Eurostar standing next to a young bloke in boardies and Ripcurl t-shirt, the bar attendant picked our nationality before we opened our mouths. Aussies are everywhere!
We made arrangements to meet Chris and Paulette in Notting Hill for lunch in Portobello Road, and having negotiated the combative antique dealers and boutiques, popped into The Castle pub. Having previously suffered only minor damage to our wallets en route, we commenced to expend some serious money on food and drink. A round of 2 large white wines, a double G&T and 2 pints of ale left only change from £30. Fish and chips with mushy peas was a further £11.99 per serve. London ain't cheap!
You made a good decision coming here on Friday said the shopgirl in Ben Sherman, Tomorrow will be manic here!. That's true, everyday street traffic in London is heavy and as the weekend approaches even heavier, as evident by the Regent Street crowd as we emerged from Oxford Circus tube station. Let's go to Liberty, said Paulette, worrying her bank manager even more. If you are intent on some classy retail therapy, Liberty is the place to go. Tricked up to resemble a Victorian era establishment, customers can spend thousands of pounds, or only £2.50 on toast tongs as we did!. Every home should have a pair.
Chris' London travel app indicated we were only minutes from Carnaby Street, one of my bucket list entries. Friday night drinkers spilt out of crowded pubs onto the roadway, as we passed under the sign announcing our arrival in Swinging London. To be frank, it was a bit of a disappointment, with half the street occupied by fast food shops. Shopping bags proclaimed Pret a Manger and EE rather than I Was Lord Kitchener's Valet.
Developing a thirst, we pressed on through the crowds milling around Leicester Square and London's theatre heart near Covent Garden. By-passing Chinatown and various casinos, we headed along Charing Cross Road, intently searching for number 44, and into Jambon Jambon, a tapas bar. I was quite impressed, having been in Spain in the past month as the Patatas bravas, chillies and tortilla match those I had previously enjoyed.
Replete, we farewell Chris and Paulette hopping aboard the 87 Routemaster, and selected Leicester Square underground for the trip home via Chalk Farm.
We made arrangements to meet Chris and Paulette in Notting Hill for lunch in Portobello Road, and having negotiated the combative antique dealers and boutiques, popped into The Castle pub. Having previously suffered only minor damage to our wallets en route, we commenced to expend some serious money on food and drink. A round of 2 large white wines, a double G&T and 2 pints of ale left only change from £30. Fish and chips with mushy peas was a further £11.99 per serve. London ain't cheap!
You made a good decision coming here on Friday said the shopgirl in Ben Sherman, Tomorrow will be manic here!. That's true, everyday street traffic in London is heavy and as the weekend approaches even heavier, as evident by the Regent Street crowd as we emerged from Oxford Circus tube station. Let's go to Liberty, said Paulette, worrying her bank manager even more. If you are intent on some classy retail therapy, Liberty is the place to go. Tricked up to resemble a Victorian era establishment, customers can spend thousands of pounds, or only £2.50 on toast tongs as we did!. Every home should have a pair.
Chris' London travel app indicated we were only minutes from Carnaby Street, one of my bucket list entries. Friday night drinkers spilt out of crowded pubs onto the roadway, as we passed under the sign announcing our arrival in Swinging London. To be frank, it was a bit of a disappointment, with half the street occupied by fast food shops. Shopping bags proclaimed Pret a Manger and EE rather than I Was Lord Kitchener's Valet.
Developing a thirst, we pressed on through the crowds milling around Leicester Square and London's theatre heart near Covent Garden. By-passing Chinatown and various casinos, we headed along Charing Cross Road, intently searching for number 44, and into Jambon Jambon, a tapas bar. I was quite impressed, having been in Spain in the past month as the Patatas bravas, chillies and tortilla match those I had previously enjoyed.
Replete, we farewell Chris and Paulette hopping aboard the 87 Routemaster, and selected Leicester Square underground for the trip home via Chalk Farm.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Le Marais in the Morning
As today is our last jour complet, here are some observances about every day life in Le Marais prior to après-midi. Prior to departing, I opened the double glazing and let Paris in. Opposite at No. 9, residents have tied Monoprix and Carrefour bags to their ornate Juliet balconies to discourage pigeons. Below, the hoarding hiding the shop renovations continues to be updated with the daily poster billing. Yesterday's Taylor Swift is today's Karl Largerfeld. Below at Cafe Carrefour, bamboo chair legs scrape on bitumen and tips clink on table tops.
In response to my cheery bonjour!, Kim merely turns and pulls the blanket up over her shoulder. Our day at Versailles and our contretemps with the rail schedules seems to have taken its toll. One visit to Versailles is worth a thousand lectures on the origin of the French Revolution. We take lunch at Cafe Angeline dining in an anti chamber previously occupied by Marie Antoinette's chambermaids. Yes, we ate cake!
Exiting our apartment, I jump clear as cleansing water pours from two holes above the gutter and sweeps yesterday's debris away. Amidst the torrent a brewery truck advises we should drink in moderation as it delivers kegs of Kronenberg to our local bar Le Bouquet Des Archives where Happy Hour prices apply from 17.00 to 20.00. Nearby is the Open corner bar that appears to restrict clientele to males.
Opposite, parents are escorting their children to Ville De Paris Ecole Maternelle, our local infants school. A crèche is around the corner according to the lollipop lady in fluro, who brings the traffic to a stop three times a day. Pity she doesn't work during Happy Hour when pedestrians and bicyclists constantly cheat death.
I drink an early morning espresso at Le Chinon corner bar on Rue Des Francs Bourgois. To my left a business man and his female colleague chat over Americains (long blacks) accompanied by glasses of water to dilute the coffee. To my right, a woman dips pieces of her Pain du Raisin into her cafe creme and brushes crumbs off her briefcase. Beer taps set into the zinc top bar are partnered by a water fountain used to rinse glasses. Outside, two African women in colourful dresses step onto the pedestrian crossing after looking both ways.
Venturing deeper into the back streets, I pass darkened boutiques named Berenice and April, May that tempt passersby with subtle lighting of next seasons' fashions. Tall elegant women with straight backs and high heels glance hauntingly as they peddle by with phones clamped to their ears.
At Bar Perle, an old woman tears the wrapping off a fresh packet of cigarettes as the waiter delivers her coffee.
In response to my cheery bonjour!, Kim merely turns and pulls the blanket up over her shoulder. Our day at Versailles and our contretemps with the rail schedules seems to have taken its toll. One visit to Versailles is worth a thousand lectures on the origin of the French Revolution. We take lunch at Cafe Angeline dining in an anti chamber previously occupied by Marie Antoinette's chambermaids. Yes, we ate cake!
Exiting our apartment, I jump clear as cleansing water pours from two holes above the gutter and sweeps yesterday's debris away. Amidst the torrent a brewery truck advises we should drink in moderation as it delivers kegs of Kronenberg to our local bar Le Bouquet Des Archives where Happy Hour prices apply from 17.00 to 20.00. Nearby is the Open corner bar that appears to restrict clientele to males.
Opposite, parents are escorting their children to Ville De Paris Ecole Maternelle, our local infants school. A crèche is around the corner according to the lollipop lady in fluro, who brings the traffic to a stop three times a day. Pity she doesn't work during Happy Hour when pedestrians and bicyclists constantly cheat death.
I drink an early morning espresso at Le Chinon corner bar on Rue Des Francs Bourgois. To my left a business man and his female colleague chat over Americains (long blacks) accompanied by glasses of water to dilute the coffee. To my right, a woman dips pieces of her Pain du Raisin into her cafe creme and brushes crumbs off her briefcase. Beer taps set into the zinc top bar are partnered by a water fountain used to rinse glasses. Outside, two African women in colourful dresses step onto the pedestrian crossing after looking both ways.
Venturing deeper into the back streets, I pass darkened boutiques named Berenice and April, May that tempt passersby with subtle lighting of next seasons' fashions. Tall elegant women with straight backs and high heels glance hauntingly as they peddle by with phones clamped to their ears.
At Bar Perle, an old woman tears the wrapping off a fresh packet of cigarettes as the waiter delivers her coffee.
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