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[9087miles]

La France avant la folie 🇫🇷 Revisiting France in March 2020 🇫🇷 Partie deux de quatre

After truffle, cheese and wine-induced dreams, I woke to the view of the castle. It was even more impressive in the daytime. In the kitchen Andy was making coffee fresh back from his usual early-riser walk routine. He’d bought pain au chocolat from the local supermarket and we ate them toasted while we spoke about the plan for the day. We packed up all of our stuff and headed to the car that Tom and Andy had begrudgingly parked up the hill the night before after touring the newer part of town after taking a wrong turn.

When everything was secure, we carried on by foot to the entrance to the castle walls. We paid the fee and found our way up to the ramparts. From the view two things were clear; it was once a vast fortified city perched high above the surrounding lands, and it was freezing. The rain of the night before seemed to have brought an icy wind along with it and we were exposed to it at our dizzying heights. We worked our way along the wall, stopping to admire the countryside on one side and the various buildings within the city walls on the other. We passed an amphitheatre, a monstrously impressive cathedral and tower after tower that had been added to and upgraded to the decor du jour over hundreds of years.

Halfway along we had an opportunity to climb down from the rampart to see a little bit of the city contained within the walls. It seemed like a good opportunity to get out of the wind and somebody suggested we stop for an early lunch. We found a little square where a surprise sun shower drove us into a busy little restaurant. We were ushered upstairs and handed menus. Carol and Andy both opted for onion soup followed by cassoulet, a sumptuous casserole of white beans, sausage and duck meat. Andy even had a beer, but I thought I’d give myself a break after the excesses of the night before.

Appropriately revitalised with the calories we’d burned (and then some) in the sub-Arctic breeze, and with the rain gone, we walked off lunch with a little bit of retail therapy. I was still chilled to the bone when I spotted a display of sheepskin aviator hats outside a shop. It was the vivid red and blue-dyed, long-haired, soft-as-silk sheepskins that drew me into the sales bin. With no prices, it looked like I had to go in to find out more. I turned around to see that everyone else had carried on into the next shop, but it was too late - I wanted one of these hats. The inside of the shop was warm and smelled of leather. Aside from hats, they had an impressive array of jackets and coats. I tried on a couple of hats and enquired about the price. I’d done it again... fallen in love with a hat before realising that with great quality comes an equally great price. It was the Cambridge hat debacle all over again. I opted for a racy deep blue number with Tuscan lambskin on the outside and soft Merino on the interior. I sheepishly carried my bag out of the shop and into the next one, where Carol and Andy were having an argument about which one of them would get the fetching ladies hat. Carol won the battle after she berated Andy for being a hat upstager and threatened divorce. She settled on a black and red number and we carried on. The boys ended up with beanies and we worked our way up to the ramparts for more sightseeing.

We arrived at Le Petit Cochon, greeted by Saskia and Andrew’s usual warm hospitality. Showed up to our rooms, we all took a break to recharge and get ready for dinner. Andrew graciously dropped us off and we said we’d walk back, perhaps via the pub.

Dinner at La Ferme de Flaran was as magnificent as it was the first time we visited. It was nice to show it off to new people and a good opportunity for me to practice my French. I had gotten a little better, with a few more words in my vocabulary and the waitress understood what I was saying this time. I hope that next time I will be able to understand her responses. Andy ordered two French staples - escargot and foie gras. Tom and I each tried a snail, which was smothered in garlic butter (making it tasty by default). Tom flat out refused to try the foie gras based on his fear of offal. I wasn’t sure I agreed with the process by which it is derived (force-feeding geese in their final days to fatten their livers), but I was curious to try it. I wish I hadn’t, because it was one of the most incredible things I have ever eaten. It had been seared and the inside was a delicate and silky smooth texture. It was fatty and buttery and rich. I don’t know if I can say that I won’t eat it again, even though the practice is barbaric. So conflicting. We carried on into dessert (all of the usual suspects - creme brûlée, tarts tatin, etc.) then started a slow walk into the cool evening. I wasn’t sure I was up for a drink in the pub, but it was England v. Wales in the rugby and the pub owner was Welsh, so it felt rude not to.

I ordered a creme de menthe, wanting to replicate the perfect end to the previous night’s meal. What came out was not at all like I was expecting. A glass of green syrupy liquid was placed in front of me. It was the teal green of mouthwash and tasted about the same.

Despite Wales losing the rugby, everyone was quite jovial. I went off to the loo and came back to discover Tom had devised a new mannerism not unlike his extended “come stai” greeting from Venice. This time it was an elongated “bonsoir”, complete with a deep bow from the waist. Lucky everyone was in a good mood! Such a good mood that, minutes later, everybody broke out into a inpromptu sing-along of “The Power of Love” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood. And here I thought Littleton was the only village that did group singing.

We sat outside and got chatting with the locals, including an Englishman who had spent decades in Valence with his French wife and their children. He relished an opportunity to speak English, so we relaxed into it. By the time the second drink came out - this time a lager that somebody had been drinking, it felt like a bad idea to carry on. I called an end to the evening when the son of the mayor of a neighbouring town asked me about how we all knew each other. When I said that Tom was mon mari (my husband) he paused, mulling it over. He replied cautiously in his French accent, “It is okay. I am, how you say, bisexual.” It had all gotten a bit too strange, so I necked my pint and rustled up the crew for a long overdue sleep.

[9087miles]

La France avant la folie 🇫🇷 Revisiting France in March 2020 🇫🇷 Partie un de quatre

It started a lot like any other dinner party with Carol and Andy. A couple of pints of beer, onto wine, and then Tom and Andy drunk booking a trip away. Although this time it was for Tom and Andy’s birthdays, as opposed to the regular trips we’ve taken to celebrate mine and Carol’s birthdays, which are only a few days apart. Having raved about our trip to the Gers the year before, the boys had booked a flight to Toulouse. At a follow-up dinner party in the winter, we concreted our plans and booked accommodation. Andy had watched a documentary about a fortified medieval city in the South of France and only an hour or so from Toulouse. Our itinerary was set for an action-packed long-long-weekend:

Fly from Bristol to Toulouse

Drive to Carcassonne for a night and a day

Drive to Valence-sur-Basie for two nights and two days

Back to Bristol

It was a bit touch and go ahead of the trip, with the news reporting an outbreak of something called Coronavirus in China. We researched the travel advice in the lead-up to departure and everything seemed okay, so we all stocked up on antibacterial wipes and threw caution to the wind and boarded the flight.

At Toulouse airport, we waited for Tom to hire the car for what felt like an age. By the time he got back, he looked like he’d already had enough of the French. We found the car and hit the road, with Andy driving, Tom navigating and Carol and I passenging in the back.

It was dusk as we crested a hill and saw the majesty of Carcassonne. Some of the city lights twinkled up to the summit of the hill, watched over by an impressive-looking castle. By the time we made it into the city limits, the sun had set and the road closed in around us as it began to lightly rain.

Airbnb listings are notoriously difficult to find, but Tom had set the postcode and was guiding Andy along the busy streets. We took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in a pharmacy car park. Things got a bit tense, but we eventually made it to the street we were staying on. With no parking in sight, Andy pulled over onto the side of the road and Carol and I got out with the suitcases to try and find the building. The boys carried on to find the closest possible parking.

On the street, the rain had picked up and there was a bitter wind. I had anticipated better weather, given the warmth of the day, and was a little underdressed. Pulling our cotton scarfs over our heads and shivering, Carol and I took shelter under the eves of a shop selling fancy ponchos and handbags. We window-shopped and chatted as we waited for the boys. All the while, I was trying to make sense of the Airbnb reservation to determine the building we were supposed to find. I worked it out at precisely the moment that the boys arrived, less than impressed with their walk in the rain and the preceding commute. We found the door key in a locked box and made our way upstairs.

The apartment was très chic. It had an open plan kitchen / dining / living area and large bedrooms with with views of the castle - even the toilet had a view! Tom and I took the room with the balcony so that we could smoke. Despite the rain and wind, we all stood on the balcony for a little while to admire the view and take a few happy snaps.

On the dining table were a few bottles of wine, but Andy and Tom decided to head out for more and to reccy possible dinner venues. Carol and I snooped around the kitchen before pouring a glass of wine and settling down in the living area. We chatted for about half an hour and finished a glass of wine, when the boys finally arrived back with more in tow. They had been all around the surrounding blocks looking for it, only to discover that they could buy takeaways from the little restaurant directly opposite the apartment. They’d booked us a table with enough time for another glass of wine beforehand.

By the time we crossed the road to Barrière truffes I was feeling a little bit merry. The restaurant was busy and the windows were opaque with the warmth of informal dining and the promise of more merriment inside. We were seated at the bar and treated like VIPs by monsieur Philippe Barrière, who recommended the best wines and beer to go along with a most delightful spread of truffle-laden dishes. A few of the highlights were a charcuterie plate served with fresh sliced baguette and truffle butter, the smelliest (which also means the most delicious) soft cheese you can imagine with a vein of truffle down the centre, and a mini casserole dish filled with roast duck and mashed potato - buried under a thick layer of grated truffle. Lifting the lid on the last dish was a moment of sensory enlightenment - when my life eventually flashes before my eyes, this moment will be in the top ten!

As we come down from our truffled cloud, the regulars on the surrounding tables all started to shuffle out, wishing monsieur Barrière bonne nuit. We stayed for an aperitif, Carol and I opting for creme de menthe, Andy some kind of transparent fire water and Tom choosing something deep yellow and medicinal - apparently a local speciality. We sipped away, purchased a couple of bottles of aperitif as souvenirs and bid Philippe adieu to get back to the apartment for a long-awaited rest. Of course, we got another wine in before bed, because it was rude not to enjoy our first evening away together.

[9087miles]

Waiting for Allan Cumming - an absurdist matinee and general luxury (February 2020) - Part 2 of 2

We woke with an opportunity seldom had - a whole day in London with no solid plan. Every time we visit we tend to pack so much in, or leave the same day. Tom booked the train for the early evening, so we had no reason to rush.

After having breakfast and checking out, we left our luggage with the concierge and headed outside. Apparently a weekend of fabulous jackets, I was wearing the shiny holographic plastic jacket Tom bought me as a just because present. Good thing too, because the dreary wet weather from the day before had returned with a vengeance.

Ordinarily, we would use a down day to go to Camden, but Tom suggested we visit Brick Lane, which we hadn’t been to since the last time we saw Santa over a decade ago. Tom also suggested we cab it because there was a line-up of black cabs outside the hotel entrance (which explains why they are never around when you need them!)

The cabbie was friendly and Tom chatted away with him as I daydreamed out the window, taking in the sights of parts of London I recognised but did not know. We hit an intersection and Tom took a picture of a building with a mural of stick figures painted up the length of it. “That’s one of Stik’s,” he said casually, and proceeded to message it to Stik. They’d become friendly through a project Tom was managing and had been inseparable on WhatsApp ever since.

ABOVE: Past, Present and Future (courtesy of the artist - check out more of Stik’s work here)

The cabbie dropped us off at one end of Brick Lane and we walked the rest of the way. It seemed vaguely familiar until we hit the block of restaurants, and I was immediately transported to the night with Santa when we walked up and down trying to choose the best restaurant. Today, however, we weren’t in the market for food but shopping. We walked through the rain to the Brick Lane Vintage Market. I was glad to be out of the rain and up for a rummage. I could sense a bargain in there somewhere, but Tom had the find of the day when he spotted a pair of iridescent pink Doc Martens in his size. They had barley been worn (if they ever had) and he was as excited as a kid on Christmas. We traipsed up and down every rack, stall and aisle over two floors but I couldn’t find a single thing. I got a lot of compliments for my raincoat though. I felt like I’d found my people in the basement of an old brewery, markets take place.

We went from the vintage market to an eco market. It was full of really cool stuff that was so hip it hurts. We entered to the smell of every possible vegan food you can think of and shook off some of the rain. I picked out a pair of stud earrings made from old Tesco carrier bags. We passed by the busy food court, because we’d really only just eaten a full English and neither of us were hungry.

Outside the markets was a bustling little cocoa house called Dark Sugars. Although I couldn’t have eaten a meal, a nice hot drink would be a welcome distraction from the weather. As we stepped in the sweet smell of chocolate hung in the air. A mural on the side wall depicted the West African history of cocoa production. There were truffles as far as the eyes could see. By the time we got to the front of the line I felt like I had experienced enough of a sensory treat to satisfy me, but we battled through and ordered a hot chocolate each. We were ushered into the next room, where the real magic was happening. One person was endlessly frothing milk and another’s sole job was to shave generous curls from enormous blocks of white, milk and dark chocolate.

It was so mesmerising that it didn’t even matter that we were fourth or fifth in line. I chuckled and pointed out a poster on the window of a shop across the road, which read “DISNEY RUINED MY SON”. With nowhere to sit in Dark Sugars, we carefully carried our overloaded paper takeaway cups out of the shop for a moment of pure delight. It certainly brightened the day.

Back out in the rain, Tom remembered that he knew of a ukulele shop somewhere nearby. He smeared little puddles over his screen trying to locate it and we traipsed down a deserted side street for a few blocks. Just before we gave up the shop appeared - Duke of Uke. Inside, Tom enquired about a baritone uke and the shop staff scrambled around and deposited a number of them in a little semi circle around him. I took the opportunity to sit down and air out. My beautiful rain jacket was not actually a raincoat and I was starting to feel a little damp. To complete the look I made the data mistake of using the weekend to break in an incredible pair of highly reflective Chelsea boots. My feet were killing me, but they looked so good whenever the light hit them! With Tom unconvinced by any of ukuleles, we left the shop and headed towards Shoreditch.

On the Bethnal Green Road, in a lovely little nondescript Victorian corner shop, was a neon sign depicting in cursive the words “Green Factory”. It was a beacon in the grime and grey of this blustery day, so we went for a closer inspection. The windows were lined with terrariums and I was already inside before Tom had a chance to respond. Four Store sold mostly terrariums and while Tom chatted with the owner, I discovered some little herb growing kits in cut green wine bottles. The owner exclaimed that it was a new growing technology designed by a science teach who had an interested in hydroponics. The teacher had painstakingly researched the best growing media and absorption methods and built a little kit out of recycled bits and bobs. I couldn’t resist, particularly when I spotted a coriander kit, which is a herb we’ve never really had any success growing in the garden. Knowing that we had to get back to our bags before the train station, Tom asked where the nearest tube was and the man pointed us in the general direction, saying that it was a five minute walk. He wrapped my herb kit and put it in a paper bag that would was destined to disintegrate in the weather oustide.

It was a five minute walk that felt like half an hour up a relatively quiet street. We were both saturated and my feet were stinging with impending blisters. I clutched the paper bag like a little baby, fearing that the damp handles would not survive the journey. We made it onto the tube and cross-crossed back towards the hotel to pick up our bags. With time to spare, we shed our damp jackets and scarves and sat in the hotel lobby. After we’d sufficiently repacked everything, we jumped in another black cab towards Paddington.

At the station it was bedlam. It appeared that the bad weather was not localised. Trains had been delayed and cancelled due to inclement weather up and down the country. Luckily ours was okay, according to the board that we checked. Tom made a shocking discovery - we had no return tickets! Fumbling through the envelope, Tom found numerous confirmations, receipts and seat bookings, but no formal ticket to get on the train. With twenty minutes before departure, we rushed over to the ticket office to sort it out. The information/booking office was bedlam, with a queue of people trying to work out the best route home given the number of cancelled trains.

When we got to the counter, the customer service officer was empathetic but unable to help because we had booked through a third party. He got the third party on the phone and explained the situation, then handed over the phone to Tom. If you’ve ever been on the receiving end of an issue resolution phone call with Tom, you’ll know he wasn’t hanging up until we had freshly printed tickets. Because of the line and the resulting call, we’d missed our scheduled train and needed tickets for whenever the next train with be. The person on the other line ended up relenting and asked for the customer service officer for a special code in which to log the reprint against. It was a small win, because we now had over two hours before the next train, if it came at all.

Trying not to kill the buzz of the weekend (the hot chocolate endorphins had definitely faded by this point) we gathered the luggage and shopping bags and headed for the first class lounge. That was the only saving grace of the first class tickets. Rather than sitting on the floor on the platform with hundreds of other frustrated people, we could go into a quiet room with clean toilets and bottomless Diet Coke. As we entered everybody looked up because the door was right by the TV running news shows about flash floods up north and everybody was glued to it. I’d forgotten until that moment that I’d switched from my shiny raincoat to the sequinned puffer jacket. I looked like I’d just come from a gay skiing trip. Some people smirked, some looked legitimately shocked and the others just looked politely away and back to the news footage. It was no skin off my nose, because I was so in love with the jacket I was happy they were looking.

After a quick loo trip and a Diet Coke collection, I nestled into my phone. There was a stream of messages and a photo from Mum, who had spent the evening with Tom’s mum who had been visiting Kalgoorlie. Despite it being a Sunday, they’d caught up at Mum’s for drinks and nibbles. It must have escalated, because the picture was of mum putting Anita into a car home. They looked like they’d had a good time together.

Tom had also retreated to his phone, texting back-and-forth with Stik recounting the palaver we’d had to this point. Stik was in the neighbourhood, having just come from a rave, and said he’d come and have a beer with us to pass the time. In no time at all, we gathered our things for the umpteenth time and met Stik out on the platform

Upstairs at one of the station pubs, we ordered three pints and chatted away about the weekend and Tom and Stik compared the shoes that they’d both purchased that day. Just as I was relaxing into my second pint, Stik went off to the loo and came bursting back into the pub exclaiming that he heard an announcement about our train. We said a quick goodbye to Stik and studied the departure boards. It had been a false alarm, but it gave us an opportunity to grab some sushi to eat on the way home.

I was relieved when we finally got on the train. The first class carriage was empty except for a couple of businessmen who alighted at Reading. I hung up my sequinned coat on the hook at the seat next to me, and we piled our luggage and shopping on the overhead storage shelves. We ate our bento boxes, laughed about the whirlwind trip and settled into our books once again.

[9087miles]

Waiting for Allan Cumming - an absurdist matinee and a chance encounter (Feb 2020) - Part 1 of 2

We boarded the train at Stroud (because it’s much less of a faff to get to than Bristol Parkway, where would normally catch the train to London) and it was still dark and cold. We had packed relatively light; me with my usual kids’s dinosaur carry-on-sized suitcase and Tom’s weekender. I chose to wear my brand new sequinned puffer jacket, which went down like a lead balloon on the platform with the other bleary-eyed passengers. I can’t say I’m surprised really - I looked like a sparkly Michelin man.

We sauntered into the first class cabin and it was empty. Tom had booked the train tickets ahead of time and noticed it was only a few extra pounds each to travel first class. It was like another world. Quiet, spacious and clean. After we got comfy and chatted about the weekend to come, we both read our books. I was enjoying a chapter about linen in a new book I’d picked up a few weeks before, The Golden Thread: How fabric changed history. I was wrenched out of understanding the sacred nature in Ancient Egypt through a recount of Howard Carter unravelling the mummy of Tutankhamun by the ticket inspector, who checked our tickets and offered up breakfast menus. We had a chat with the man, ordered bacon rolls and carried on reading as the sun started rising. Not that you could see it on a count of the clouds. The closer we got to London, the gloomier the weather became.

We had left so early to ensure we could make the most of the morning befor heading to the Old Vic, where we were seeing a double-billed matinee of Samuel Beckett plays with an all-star cast: Alan Cumming, Daniel Radcliffe and even a glimpse of Jane Horrocks. Tom had purchased the tickets as an anniversary gift and we’d both been looking forward to it for different reasons. Me because Samuel Beckett’s plays were a significant contributor to my love of absurdist theatre, and Tom because he has a massive crush on Alan Cumming. For ease of access and to make a weekend of it, we booked a stay at the Court Hotel, next door to the Palladium and just on the edge of Carnaby Street. Fittingly this is the same place we stayed when we saw “Alan Cumming sings sappy songs”, a concert at the Palladium back in 2015.

SIDE NOTE: I don’t want to keep harping on about it, because I only mentioned recently that Tom has never let me live down my embarrassing star struck encounter with Nigella in NYC, but Tom got his comeuppance and it appears it was a trip that we never blogged about. Before the Palladium concert I mentioned above, we’d spent most of the day in an endless Alan Cumming book-signing line outside Waterstones in Oxford Street. When we were finally let in, we were ushered up a few sets of stairs to one of the upper floors, where there was a larger queue. By the time we got to the front Tom was quite giddy. We both had a copy of the book (I was getting one signed for Anita), so Tom went first. He approached the signing table and I saw Alan Cumming slyly smile and say something. Tom, trying to act nonchalant, lent on the table that it turns out was on castors. Long story short, the table lunged toward Alan Cumming and he called Tom a vandal. It was the moment I had surreptitiously waited over a decade for - a moment of sweet, sweet solidarity. That whole day was laced with destiny, because that night at the concert I spotted Nigella in the lobby. I thought of approaching her to right my social faux pas, but by this point we’d had three pre-show cocktails and a double gin at the lobby bar. I let it slide.

BUT I digress. Back to the story...

Out trip coincided with a rare, once-in-a-blue-moon event - our friend Santa was also in town! Although Tom and Santa have know each other since high school - when Santa was a German exchange student - the first (and only) time I have met Santa was when we shared a snowy day together in Camden and Brick Lane back in 2009. We checked into the hotel and agreed to meet in Soho to find somewhere for a bite to eat. After chatting for about ten minutes non-stop and passing at least ten places we slunk into the door of Sodaberg, a Scandinavian-inspired sourdough specialist. We ordered at the counter and made our way downstairs to the basement, where we found a little vaulted nook perfect for a decade overdue catch-up.

The next hour or so existed in a bit of a vacuum as we caught up on each other’s lives. Since 2009, Santa has moved to Paris and built Finding Sustainia - a sustainability think and action lab; work which has taken her all over the world. We spoke about life and love and loss and everything in between. We all enjoyed the Sodaberg breakfast offering and at one point asked the waiter to take a picture of us in our little cocoon. It was a little too dank, so we stepped out for a happy snap, paid the bill and continued on our merry way.

Back out on the street we just chatted and walked. I was surprised that, despite not having lived in London for a number of years, Santa knew exactly where she was going. This was handy, because every road we crossed and every street we went down looked exactly the same to me, excepting the tourist sights we passed. I wish I could say that it put London into context for me, but I’m still none the wiser. Realising that we had to get to the south bank for the show. Santa stopped, thought for a second about the most direct way to get us there and lead us to Tottenham Court Road station. On the way there we ran through our calendars and committed to a Paris trip around May.

We bid Santa adieu and boarded a Northern Line tube towards Waterloo station, which is behind the theatre. The walk was pleasant in spite of the constant light rain (which for some reason makes you wetter than a short torrential downpour). Inside we bee-lined straight to the cloakroom so that I could discharge my mammoth puffer jacket. The cloakroom attendant gave a wide-eyed grin as he took the heft of the jacket from me. I was glad to have shed it after wearing it all morning. It was warm but weighty and cumbersome.

The crowd was a strange mix of regular matinee-goers, Beckett fans and Harry Potter fans. We had upper dress circle tickets and headed to that bar for a champagne cocktail. Oddly, they’d been served in clear pint cups and Tom’s cocktail filled it barely halfway. The champagne went straight to my head and before you knew it, the bell was going for us to take our seats. The interior of the theatre was beautiful and similar in style to the old Regal Theatre in Perth.

On the way back in we opted for bottled water for the main event - Endgame. The play is near to my heart, because it was an exam piece that we put on in my final year of high school. Daniel Radcliffe played Clov (the role I played in the school production,) the embittered servant of the cruel wheelchair-bound Hamm, played by Alan Cumming. They both did a great job with the physicality. Radcliffe nailed the opening sequence, which is a series of stage directions involving a ladder and high windows at the back of the stage. He eventually delivered the first line about five minutes in. Then he unfurled a sheet over an armchair, revealing a particularly grotesque portrayal of Hamm - resplendent in a pair of Y-fronts with legs withered by inactivity; so lifelike it was hard to determine whether they were actually prosthetic. Special mention goes to Jane Horrocks and Karl Johnson, who played Nell and Nagg. These are implied as the parents of Hamm and they spend the majority of the show in aluminium trash cans downstage right. Confused yet? That’s pretty much the point. If you’d like more information on the show itself, the Old Vic have produced an article entitled, “Things you should know about Endgame”.

We left the theatre in the dreary overcast and walked over the bridge in the cold rain. We ended up back at Oxford Street and had a cheeky wander through H&M Home. I bought an enormous linen tablecloth and we both chose pointless knick-knacks, mindful that we’d have to haul it back to the hotel. We couldn’t pass Waterstones without a quick (i.e. at least an hour) peruse of the shelves. Fascinated by my train read, I picked up a copy of Howard Carter’s The Tomb of Tutankahmun - but only volume 2, which is concerned with the opening of the burial chamber through to the unwrapping of the royal mummy. We ate some dinner and headed back to the hotel, where I ran a hot bath (with a couple of drops of the overpriced but delightful Penhaligons bath oil I got on our trip to Cambridge, as well as a couple of retro bath oils my sister got me for Christmas) and slipped into the first chapter about opening the ancient tomb. In an unrelated mention, Madonna was downstairs... playing at the Palladium.

To be continued...

[9087miles]

It means nothing to me… OH VIENNA! - October 2019 Part 3 of 3

I lifted my head off the pillow and immediately the night before came rushing back to me in vivid Technicolor. My mouth was dry and the scent of hops and alcoholic ethers was strong. I dropped my head back onto the pillow and groaned. Today was going to be rough. Like the gallant hero that he is, Tom rose like the undead and put clothes on. He said he was going to the pub to check the lost and found. He returned about half an hour later empty-handed, but with a cut on his hand on a stray rusty nail in the lost property box. To show my gratitude, I feebly slithered out of bed as a show of my own strength.

Out on the street we stopped about a block from the apartment for a much-needed coffee from a little cafe. We wrote postcards and I called my dad. It was his birthday the day before, but I missed the window of opportunity to call. My voice was hoarse as I recounted what we had got up to the night before. After I hung up from my folks, we finished the coffee and the postcards, before heading back towards Stephansdom. It was noticeably quiet for mid-morning, especially considering it was a Saturday. After passing the second block of closed shops, I did a quick search on my phone to discover that it was Austrian National Day. That would explain why the flights were extra cheap for this particular weekend.

Secretly hoping that nothing would be open and we would just have to go back to the apartment (where I could bask in what was shaping up to be a slow, agonising death of a hangover), we carried on up towards the cathedral. Along the way, glinting from the corner of the main strausser, was Swarovski Kristalwelten. People were going in and out, so we approached for a look - it would be rude not to! Inside, on three floors, was the mother of all Swarovski shops with a basement museum/gallery. We wandered around for about half an hour and I ended up with a little touristy delight. It was a little box filled to the brim with crystal beads in all manner of colours and sizes.

At a loose end, Tom suggested we go and get breakfast. We found a little coffee lounge and went in. It was almost a parody of itself, with morning people lingering over their newspapers and drinking their fancy coffees - so Viennese! We plotted what our options were for the day. Tom mentioned that somewhere on the other side of town was an art building that he wanted to see, so that was a possibility. When we exited the cafe, we noticed that there signs pointing towards Mozarthaus, a museum in a house that Mozart once lived. On the chance that it might be open, we headed off in that direction.

No photos were allowed inside (but I snuck one in the hallway to give a sense of what we were in for), but it likely wouldn’t have made a difference. The rooms were mostly empty, with patrons experiencing the house through the audio guide handed out at the start of the tour. The pressure from the headset alleviated the throbbing in my skull as a British man narrated the life and times of Mozart in 18th Century Vienna. Around each room were one or two spectacles; in one the iconic red coat that Mozart wore - which turns out to have belonged to a female acquaintance. Amadeus had spotted her at the opera and later wrote saying that he had some lovely shiny gold buttons that would make it sing, and that she should give it to him. Further towards the end were puppet shows and projections, all depicting the operas that Mozart wrote.

We went back to the apartment for a spell, while Tom worked out where would go to next. I buried my head into the pillow and suggested that the next stop should definitely include Panadol. Working out that it was only a short fifteen minute walk, I mustered every ounce of strength and hauled myself up for the second leg of the day.

The walk was actually quite pleasant. We walked down back streets of palatial houses and crossed a bridge over the Danube. When we arrived at the Hundertwasser House, it was truly something to behold. Originally a tyre factory, the building had been converted into apartments for low income households. The decoration on the building and the surrounding streets can only be described as creative chaos. Mosaic as far as the eye could see and not a single straight line in sight - Hundertwasser had an aversion to them, describing them as such:

The straight line is godless and immoral. The straight line leads to the downfall of society.

Today we live in a chaos of straight lines, in a jungle of straight lines. If you do not believe this, take the trouble to count the straight lines which surround you. Then you will understand, for you will never finish counting.

Across from the Hundertwasser house in a little artist village, full of shops and more of the same style of arts and crafts. It was built by a collective and serves as a bit of a shrine to the Hundertwasser philosophy. Tom bought a bottle of water and some paracetamol, so I took the opportunity to neck a couple (and the entire bottle of water). I was determined to be present for the day! We wandered around the little boutiques in the artist village for as long as it took for the water to work it’s way through my system. I needed a wee, so we headed down some stairs to find a beautiful fountain and one of the wackiest public toilets I have come across to date. Aside from the wacky and disconcerting mosaic tiling (although I wasn’t convinced it wasn’t just my melting brain) there was a looping audio documentary about the lifecycle of faeces.

We did a repeat of dinner back at Alt Wien, which was becoming a regular haunt for our little trip. I was feeling much better for having soldiered on with the day but I could only manage one pint of beer. After we finished and walked back towards the apartment, the bells of Stephansdom rang out into the still warm night air. Because all of the buildings are so close and the streets quite narrow, the sound ricocheted and reverberated around like a harmonious singing bowl. We followed the luring sound and ended up at the church. Realising that it was still open, we took one of the final opportunities to see it before we left Vienna.

Inside the air was thick with the fog of frankincence. A service had just taken place and the hushed tones of parishioners and tourists making a hasty exit were barely noticeable as we walked against the crowd and into the belly of the gothic Goliath. At the end of the nave was all of the exciting things in the church, but a gate had just been locked. On the other side were a couple of nuns stubbing out candles and getting ready to head back to their cells. We ogled for a little while at some of the dark art on the walls. The European Catholic churches just nail the drama of the whole affair so well.

Back in the apartment, I lay down and poured the contents of my Kristalwelten purchases onto the bedsheet to admire. I felt a sense of triumph to have managed the day, glad that we’d not wasted the opportunity to see so much beauty.

*****

The last day - when we realised Vienna waits for you

The last day was started at Kaffee Alt Wien, where so many of our Viennese adventures began. We had packed our bags and checked out of our apartment with plenty of time to spare. The flight wasn’t until after lunch, so we could finally pace ourselves. I felt like it had taken the whole trip just to reach the optimum point of relaxation. And I knew that our impromptu underground nightclubbing was partly to blame for that.

Knowing that the trip was nearing its end, I scoured the Alt Wien menu for a suitable last supper. Notable mentions were the Hangover Breakfast (a plate of goulash and a small beer) and the Très Chic (espresso and a cigarette - only served until 12 noon). In the end, I opted for the Kaiser’s breakfast, which was listed as:

Kaiser’s Breakfast

Two soft boiled eggs, cottage cheese, peppers (capsicum), organic ham, cheese, jam, honey and biscuits.

It sounded like a meal fit for an emperor and the perfect way to book-end three days of schnitzel, potatoes and beer. When it came out on two plates, accompanied by a basket of bread, I realised I should have opted for the Très Chic! Tom was smart, choosing a simple ham and eggs, which was presented in a cast iron handled skillet. I battled through my entire calorie intake for the day, giving everything a good go. Including the ten slices of cheese down the middle of the plate.

Back in the direction we had started from, we passed the park we’d stopped in at the beginning of the trip. Across the road was the MAK Museum of Design. I had mentioned to Tom that I might like to take a look in there when we passed by days earlier. We struggled to find the office for tickets. In broken English, the ticket seller up sold us to a ticket that included entry into Blickfang, an international design fair. We perused a lot of different exhibits, commenting on the ingenuity of some people, and the charlatanism of others. We hurriedly finished the loop to make sure we had enough time for the MAK.

Although I could have personally spent all day in there, we only had a few hours to kill at the MAK Design Museum. We studied the map with one of the docents and triaged the things we wanted to see. We started in the basement to see a special exhibition about design and technology through the lens of futurism. It was all very high-brow, but there were some very intriguing social commentary pieces about the life and times we find ourselves in and the dystopia we face in the not-too-distant future. Another of the special exhibitions was a collection of elaborate Japanese woodblock prints. There was a mix of traditional and modern, with a couple of notable celebrities worked in - I still regret not buying a print of the Bowie picture!

Back up at ground level I got to experience a surreal immersive experience in a garden based on Klimt’s landscape work. With a VR headset and headphones, I felt like I was walking through a dream about a video game. The rest of the museum was focused on the Vienna Succession of the 1890s and the sumptuous furnishings of the homes of Vienna over the last couple of hundred years. We whipped through an exhibition of Baroque Rococo glass and lace, before we collected our bags and exited through the gift shop. Back on the train to the airport, I sighed and watched as the beauty faded, gave way to suburbia and the reality of drudgery came slowly creeping back.

[9087miles]

It means nothing to me... OH VIENNA! - October 2019 Part 2 of 3

Refreshed after a peaceful night’s sleep (despite the warmth overnight), we left the house to delight in the Viennese sunshine. Today was an art day, but our first stop was the area around Stephansdom, which was a couple of blocks near our accommodation. Stephansdom, or St Stephen’s Cathedral, is an enormous gothic church. The roof is decorated with brightly coloured hexagonal tiles. Tom suggested we take a look inside, but the line to get in was already long, so we deferred it for another day and carried on through the town that was starting to get busy.

We walked around for a couple of hours, starting with all of the shops and then carrying on toward the Belvedere Palace, home of the best collection of Klimt artworks. We stopped at a fountain for a bit to take some photos. The beauty of the city was summed up in this single intersection.

We got to the Belvedere just after lunchtime feeling a little weary. We hadn’t eaten lunch and the heat was a bit relentless. We lined up for tickets and picked a ticket that allowed us into both the Upper and Lower Palaces.

Originally built as a residence for the Austrian Royal Family, the Belvedere Palace was everything you’d expect. Marble and ornate plasterwork, gilding in places you would expect it (and even more where you wouldn’t!) We wandered from room to overfurnished room, taking in the building as much as the artworks themselves.

I was hanging out for the clump of Klimt artworks in the Upper Belvedere. Gustav Klimt was one of the founding members of the Vienna Secession, a group of upstarts who wanted to overthrow the old guard of stuffy arts colleges. In the process, they exhibited groundbreaking new works in the 1890s and inadvertently started the modernist art movement, which inspires art and culture to this very day. The jewel of the collection is “The Kiss”, which is a sumptuous representation of a couple in embrace, surrrounded by a flower garden. It is a piece I had always admired and was plastered all over Viennese postcards, tea towels and fidget spinners.

We entered the room where it was. There were a few people hanging around, so I looped the perimeter to view some of his other works while the crowd died down. Just before I’d completed full circle and got into the optimum viewing position, I heard a commotion down the hall. In a flash, a bus load of Japanese tourists entered the room like a family of sardines. I felt cheated but they were stereotypically efficient. Before I could acknowledge the situation, the members of the group had whipped out their selfie sticks and mobile tripods, flashed a few pictures and then carried on. Within two minutes they had all evaporated - as if they had never been there at all. I took my opportunity to slide into the perfect viewpoint and snapped my pictures before I missed out again.

I can’t express how moving “The Kiss” was. It was much larger than I expected, at a whopping 1.8 square metres. The illumination just doesn’t photograph as well as it shows up in person, but here are a couple of the best shots I could get before the jostling crowd behind me started to lean over me to get their snap.

Outside after the Upper Belvedere, we stopped for a break on the steps before the epic garden walk to the lower palace. Tom used the opportunity to pull the Ultravox gag in the video below. My bemused look is due to the fact that this would be about the fiftieth time he had responded to something I had said with, “This means nothing to me.... Ohhhhhhh Vienna”. Not that he would agree, but because it is such a catchy song, it got old pretty quickly.

The lower palace was just as impressive, but I was pretty excited by a special exhibition in the orangery devoted purely to raw materials. It celebrated everything fro gums and varnishes to the pigments themselves. It showed some of the sketchy practices of pigment mines in developing countries (which was an eye-opener) and culminated in a wall of different rocks, beetles and saps used as pigments in art, both traditionally and in modern times.

We left the Belvedere aesthetically satiated and went back to the apartment before heading out for dinner. I had a hankering for the Alt Wien and faced the challenge of the gigantic schnitzel again. After two beers I felt a little beaten when Tom suggested another. I said I could do with a walk first to digest the slice of mammoth I had just undertaken.

When we hit the street the cool evening already started to work its magic. It also carried the low din of a hullabaloo. I suggested we follow it and we ended up back at Stephansdom, where a protest was taking place. Because neither of us know very much German it was hard to determine what the group were protesting about, but it had all of the hallmarks - somebody shouting into a megaphone, flags of varying countries, cultures and sexualities (but no general theme), and an air of stayed danger. We leant back on some railing and watched for a while and the exotic rhythmic chanting was quite relaxing. After a while we carried on and I announced that I was ready for that next drink Tom had mentioned. He suggested we get a cocktail because he’d spotted a shiny cocktail bar further up the street. We got there and it looked a little cheap, so we carried on towards the river. At the end of the path were two pubs on looming competitively on opposites sides of the road. With nothing but intuition, we opted for the one on the right.

Inside the pub it was busy. It had a TGI Fridays vibe, which was fitting because it was a Friday! After work crowds chattered over pints as we slid past and found two stools adorning a beer barrel table on the opposite side of the room. A waitress came over and we ordered a strong beer brewed by the pub. Because they were the only two seats left in the place, we took turns going to the loo, which were down a steep marble spiral staircase. Just outside was one of the valets who provide paper towel for a tip. I regretted the second and third pint, because I was running out of coins to give away, as well as feeling more than tipsy. We opted to finish our beers and get out of the pub - maybe to find another drink somewhere else. I alighted the stairs one last time to discover that the old valet was packed up for the night, but something strange was in her place. What I had assumed was a wall had given way to a tiny basement nightclub. Pink lights flashed and pop dance music blared out. In the loo, Tom appeared and we both commented how surprising it was to discover a secret nightclub. As we walked past it on the way to the stairs, the Vengaboys “Boom Boom Boom Boom!” echoed into the he hall. I grabbed Tom’s hand and danced him in (unsure that we were even allowed in there).

The bijoux nightclub was crammed with people. It had a bar at the back and an enormous communal table took up the majority of the space. Off to the side was a tiny dance floor, not quite big enough for the number of people ready to dance (including the two of us). The rest of the night is a bit of a blur. I remember that they had a minimum card spend limit for drinks, so we were drinking two Corona’s each at any given time. A tall Viennese man grabbed Tom’s curly hair, which had been bouncing in his frenetic dancing. I remember it being hot, so I popped my hat, jacket and bag down beside us so that I could continue dancing.

And the last thing I remember is realising on the walk home that I had left my hat at the bar. Tom said we could go back, but I was far too drunk to face the walk back. Surprisingly, I remembered the door code to the building and our room.

[9087miles]

It means nothing to me... OH VIENNA! - October 2019 Part 1 of 3

Take a look at this picture:

This quick snap was taken five minutes off the plane from London to Vienna. It was relatively early in the morning. We’d left home in the dark for the perilous trip along the M4 to Stansted, stood in line at customs and boarded a plane by 8:30am. By the time we arrived, we were both exhausted! We wandered around the airport terminal trying to interpret the German signs to the train station. Pay close atttention to the beautiful English wool tweed flat cap I am wearing - the one that I got on our earlier trip to Cambridge. It is also the one and only picture I have of it, but we’ll get to that later, in part two of this blog.

The trip into the centre of town was relatively short and similar to any other European city we had arrived in. It was hard to see the renaissance grandeur owing to the urban sprawl surrounding the city itself. When we alighted the train, there was a journey up number of escalators and through long tunnels before we emerged through a large shopping centre onto the street. From a cursory glance, it was underwhelming, but that could have been the sleep in my eyes. We turned left and tried to find a phone charger (because we’d inadvertently left two in the hotel in Cambridge and forgot to pack the spare!) The buildings were pretty dreary so we headed back in the direction we’d come in search of a bit of charm.

The hunch was right. A bit further on from the train station in the other direction was a beautiful park. It was a lovely sunny day, so we sat down on a bench and gathered our thoughts. I needed to get my bearings, so I read back through the Airbnb details to get a postcode and make sense of the map. Around us children played, people walked dogs, some read in solitude and couples sat together dreamily taking in the mid-morning sun. I already felt at peace by the time I’d sorted myself out. Off we trekked to find the apartment. The drab of the other side of town gave way to a bustling metropolis of 18th century elaborately decorated buildings; more like what I was expecting. The streets started to thin out when we reached a literal turning point in the road. I’d confused the directions and we’d passed a couple of side streets that would have taken us to where we needed to be. Instead, we ended up at a mini roundabout with a bronze sculpture of Johannes Gutenberg (inventor of moveable type press, which resulted in the mechanical printing press and literally started the enlightened age of information we live in today) on a decorated plinth. Although Gutenberg has no apparent link to Vienna, the statue was created by Hans Bitterlich, a Viennese sculptor in 1900. Stopping to do that research was worth it, because this statue became our landmark for the rest of the trip.

We found the apartment and settled in. It was just after lunch and I was already ready for bed. We agreed to rest for a bit before taking a little wander around to get to know the immediate area. The quiet streets around our accommodation were dotted with impressive window displays in bookshops and antiques boutiques. We bought a few postcards and touristy bits and picked up the odd pamphlet for later review. When we got back to the apartment I suggested we rejuvenate for a bit, have a shower and face the streets again later for dinner. I’m pretty sure we even had a little nap.

A colleague had recommended a schnitzel restaurant, but I couldn’t find the message where she mentioned it. Instead, we traipsed up and down each of the streets looking for the best bang for our buck. Wiener Schnitzel being the local specialty, it seemed that every pub offered some kind of special deal. We settled on the diciest looking one of the all - Alt Wien (or Old Vienna). Entering was like stepping back in time. The dimly-lit walls were plasterered with posters promoting everything from Mozart concertos to obscure Dadaist plays. In each of the best corner seats were what looked like regulars - hunched over, smoking and studying a newspaper with the dregs of a small glass of beer on the table. On the other side of an automatic glass sliding door (like the one you would find at a supermarket) was the non-smoking section. It was a little more upmarket, with ornate chairs and higher ceilings. That just wasn’t us, so we requested a seat in the front. We ended up tucked in a comfy wooden booth in the thick of it all. I took the wall seat so that I could keep people watching. We ordered a beer recommended by the waiter as well as the famed schnitzel. It was ready quickly and suitably impressive. Each schnitzel was the size of a head and served on a bed of delicious potato salad. We both barely got through it as we chatted about the itinerary over the next couple of days. A couple of beers later and we called it a night.

Back in the room, we studied all of the guides and pamphlets to plot out the plan over the long weekend. There were a couple of museums on the list and all of the obvious photo opportunities, but mostly we both just wanted to see the beauty that Vienna had to offer.

To be continued...

[9087miles]

A Tale of Two Cities (well, one city and a town) - A Cambridge mini break: Part 2 of 2

I awoke with a bit of a buzz. Just last night we had briefly met one of the people who have helped to shape the LGBT movement for decades. When we arrived back at the hotel after the book-signing - which was just around the corner from the venue - Tom joked that Armistead was probably staying at the hotel. That was an exciting and completely plausible thought. We ordered room service, ate and went to sleep.

In the morning we went downstairs for a morning cigarette and chatted about event, as well as the plan for the day. It still wasn’t really punting weather, but we agreed to suck it up - it could be months or even years before we came back to Cambridge - and you just can’t put things off in the UK because the weather isn’t nice (otherwise you’d possibly never do anything! We only had the morning to get it done, because we had planned to go off to the Stained Glass Museum in Ely, a short drive from Cambridge.

On the way back up to the room when the elevator stopped, we said good morning to a handsome tall guy waiting for the lift with a big labradoodle. It reminded me of a scene from one of the middle books in the Tales series. In it, the main character Michael and his boyfriend Ben live in domestic bliss with a big fluffy dog, just like the elevator dog. I wondered if it could have been Armistead’s partner Chris and their dog. I waited until we got to the door of our room before I shared the suspicion with Tom. It was a bit of a stretch, but an exciting thought nonetheless.

Downstairs in the dining room, we sat down and I started to feel a little bit hungover. We hadn’t drank that much but the adrenalin of the night before must have been wearing off. Tom got up to get us coffee and I scanned the room. So many gay couples; it felt like we actually in San Francisco. I spotted Tom powering into the room carrying two steaming demitasse cups on saucers, a bemused look on his face. He’d barely placed the cups on the table as he blurted out, “Armistead’s here. He’s getting breakfast!” I grinned and shook my headache to collect a plate for the breakfast buffet. While up there he brushed past, copping knowing glances from the other men in the line. Tom offered to toast bread for Armistead while he was hovering at the stupid conveyor belt toaster waiting for some artisanal sourdough to come though. When he declined, Tom put his own underdone toast in for a second round and left me to watch it while he went to pour us a juice. The toaster couldn’t cope with the second round and the result was a pair of charred remains sliding down onto the receiver tray. I put them on the plates and proceeded back to the dining room. Armistead and Chris had been seated at the opposite corner and the groups at other tables were casting knowing glances and whispering amount themselves. It must have been a very strange breakfast for the handful guests that hadn’t been at the talk the night before.

After we packed up and checked out, we called for our car to be returned and went outside to sneak in a cheeky cigarette before it arrived from the basement. Lo and behold, Armistead, Chris and their dog exited the hotel and stood under eve of the hotel entrance, waiting for a car. They were talking to the journalist that had conducted the interview the night before. I tried not to eavesdrop, but couldn’t, and listened as they chatted pleasantly until a minicab arrived. The bid each other farewell and moved wheeled the luggage over to the cab. I could see Chris looking displeased as the cab driver said something through the passenger window and shook his head. We realised that the cab driver wouldn’t let them in the car with the dog, even though it had been mentioned when it was booked.

Tom put his cigarette out and started out towards the melee. “What on earth is he doing?” I wondered. I finished my own smoke and slowly approached. Tom was telling Armistead and Chris that he really didn’t mind as long as they knew the address of the train station. The next few minutes were a flurry of activity. We fit in as much of their luggage into the boot along with ours (and a load of recycling destined for the tip - how embarrassing!) and then all piled in, the dog on Chris’ lap and Armistead’s overnighter on mine.

The conversation was constant the whole way to the station, despite having only briefly shaken hands. We spoke of many things - our respective moves to the UK, the origin of Philo the dog’s name and collective nouns. Armistead spoke at length about a Tales of the City spin-off set in the Cotswolds, at which point Tom offered up our spare room if they needed to base themselves in the area for research. As I write this, the book is still to be published, but focuses on a story from one of the middle books in which Mona, a stoic Californian lesbian, moving to England in the 1980s and winding up marrying an English Lord in a small village in Gloucestershire. We arrived at the train station having chatted the whole way. It would seem I had overcome my fear of idols - I didn’t sit there like a stunned mullet, but eloquently contributed to the intelligent conversation. Or at least that’s the way I remember it! We got out to assist with all of the luggage and Chris gave us his card and said to get in touch if we came to London. We all hugged goodbye, gave Philo a pat on the head and carried on to the second part of the trip - Ely.

One of the strangest things about Cambridge is that, despite being a busy metropolis, it is classified as a town. In Western Australia a town can be classed as a city once the population cracks th 20,000 mark. In the UK, a city is considered anywhere where there is a cathedral. To this end Cambridge (with a population of 120K) is not a city, but Ely (with its cathedral but a measly 18K) is one. Go figure?!

We arrived in Ely after about half an hour and the rain had let up a little. It was like entering a ghost town compared to the hustle and bustle of Cambridge. We got out of the car and went to take a look at Ely Cathedral, which is also home to the Stained Glass Museum. The cathedral itself was pretty impressive and we’d arrived on a particularly busy day. All of the pews had been cleared out of the nave and replaced with large displays of impressive homegrown veg, live sheep and a number of ancient handicrafts. I got chatting with a Kiwi lady from the local spinners and weavers guild for a while; admiring the guild’s giant great wheel.

We finished looking around and made our way to the south corner, where a steep staircase lead up to the museum. Inside, we purchased tickets and entered the exhibit, which extended along the gallery on one whole side of the church. Impressively backlit, the pieces were sectioned up according to era from medieval all the way up to modern day. There were some impressive Renaissance pieces, but my favourite was the early 20th century deco/nouveau stuff. Tom took a liking to the more modern works, some of them by fellow members of The Worshipful Company of Glaziers.

We spent quite a while in the gift shop. Partly because Tom was admiring another modern piece and trying to work out the trick behind the technique used, but mostly because it was a good gift shop. Tom got himself the museum book for later reference, as well as a couple of postcards. I couldn’t stop playing with the giant blue glass tombolas, so I got one!

We drove back in the late afternoon chatting the whole way and made it back, knackered, from a big weekend of sightseeing and celebrity-chaffeuring in time for a late tea and bed.

[9087miles]

A Tale of Two Cities (well, one city and a town) - A Cambridge mini break: Part 1 of 2

It is a rite of passage for every self-respecting gay man to read Tales of the City series by Armistead Maupin, or so I was told by a number of friends and lovers when I first came out and moved to the big city to find myself. I picked it up once and read the blurb. For some reason in my mind I kept confusing it with A Tale of Two Cities, the Dickens novel set in Paris and London in the lead up to the French Revolution. For that reason, and the fact that it looked like a pretty serious commitment (I’d seen the omnibus version at over 800 pages), I just didn’t bother.

It wasn’t until I met Tom, and we watched the DVD box set of the 90s TV adaptation, that I sat up and took notice. The story of Michael “Mouse” Tolliver and his journey from a dusty country town to 1970s San Francisco to find himself, love and acceptance; what’s not to love?! I bought the first three books from Planet Books in Mount Lawley (which felt appropriate) and burned through them in a couple of weeks. I was hooked and discovered that Maupin carried on writing the Tales story. The next three books were just as good and the folllowing three even better. The most recent one, The Days of Anna Madrigal, was released in 2014 - coinciding with our move to the UK.

Five years later, for my birthday in 2019, Tom got me the ultimate fan girl gift - a evening with Armistead Maupin, touring his autobiography “Logical Family”, at the Cambridge Corn Exchange in October. That is where this particular story starts.

Tom normally does the driving when we head out on a road trip but, because of where we live, Cambridge adds about an hour to the journey. We agreed to split the driving and stopped in Bicester and took the A40 through Oxfordshire. The midpoint was around Bicester services, where we stopped for a loo break and a mooch around. Services in the UK are not just a petrol station, but surrounded by a small takeaway food court and sometimes a retail complex. Bicester was a substantial size with even a couple of interesting shops. We wandered around a clothes shop and got chatting with the guy behind the counter. He was “fresh off the boat” from rural Australia and ended up living with a guy nearby. We gave him a few pointers on adjusting to the cultural differences. I admired his dismissive cockiness at some of the imparted advice. I recognised his hopeful goals based on preconceived notions of the country he had moved to, because it was exactly the demeanour I arrived here with. Not wanting to shatter his plans, we said goodby and got back on the road.

I did the second half of the drive, which was uneventful until we arrived in Cambridge. It just so happened that the weekend we chose to visit was a week before university started, so the streets were littered with the expensive cars of parents dropping their kids off to check in to their colleges and halls of residence. After missing the turnoff, I got frustrated that we had to drive about a mile before the traffic tailed off and I could find somewhere to make a park safely. We were stuck in a traffic jam and looped around, over the same picturesque little bridge twice. I gave up and turned down a deserted street, which got us a little deeper into the town. I would come to regret that decision, because I received a fine in the mail - the street was so quite because the whole stretch was a bus lane only.

We finally made it to the hotel to be greeted by a valet. This is not a normal part of the trip, but Tom had chosen the Hilton Cambridge City Centre because it was one of the only hotels he could find with parking, and I was glad to hand the keys over to somebody else to park the car. We unpacked our overnight bags and a suit bag (I like to travel with them even if I’m not wearing a suit, because it adds a touch of class) and checked in at the front desk. After we dropped our bags down, we headed out to explore a little bit.

Aside from the university, Cambridge is famed for punting (guiding a boat along a shallow waterway using a big pole) on the River Cam. It was October - chilly with a light drizzle - so we opted to mooch around the shops and even found a little artisan market. We bought a little earthenware milk jug and some other small bits and carried on to discover a beautiful stretch of shops old and new.

One of the shops was Laird Hatters and I was itching to go in and have a look. It was a men’s hat shop and contained floor to ceiling hats in all manner of colours and sizes. I zeroed in on the flat caps and baker boys and found and exquisite tweed baker boy with flecks of every colour in the rainbow. I tried it on for size and it was perfect. I took it to the counter and realised after the shop girl rang it up that we hadn’t seen any price tag. “That will be eighty pounds,” she said matter-of-factly. I gulped and looked towards Tom. He relented, saying that we were technically on holiday and reminding me that he had recently won £100 on a scratch card. The girl wrapped the cap in a manner befitting such an expensive hat and we made a hasty exit. Back on the street Tom scoffed at the price and we carried on down the street. Further along, I picked up an Aleppo shaving soap and then we stumbled on Tom’s wekaness - Penhaligons. One of the UK’s oldest finest fine fragrance makers, I didn’t even realise that they had other shops outside of London. Realising how hypocritical it would be if I didn’t let him enjoy a frivolous purchase, I followed Tom in to be hit by a waft of Halfeti, one of the new range or Penhaligons’ offering... described by them accordingly;

So this is love. An intoxicating, mysterious fragrance: vigorous grapefruit, Levantine spice and rose tangle in the moonlight. But what’s that upon the riverbank? Could it be the fabled black rose?

Tom sniffed what felt like a thousand testing strips and settled on Marleybone Wood, which contained a heady mix of woody spice. Caught up in the olfactory revelry, I perused their sale shelves and picked out a Bluebell Wood bath oil to use when we got back to the hotel. Since we moved into our new place (which only has the room for a shower) I relish every opportunity for a bath. It has become a stipulation when we book any accommodation.

Back at the hotel we relaxed in the room before we had to get ready. I ran a lingering bath and put in a tiny drop of the bath oil. I left the bath to fill and went out to get a towel and my phone to play a bit of mood music. When I returned the room was full of the delicate scent of the bluebell wood. I was transfixed and transported as I slipped into the bath.

By the time I had emerged from the bathroom, there was barely enough time for Tom to have a shower before we had to leave for dinner and the reason we were visiting - the talk with Armistead! Tom tried to book ahead, but there were no bookings in time before the show. We decided to risk it and see what we could find out on the street. I slipped the tickets and a card I’d written (I’ll get to that later) and we left the hotel.

There were stack of places, but we spent so much time choosing, the window for eating was very small. We agreed to have a beer, go to the show and get something afterwards. We stopped in at a little pub with just enough time for a pint and a chat before we rushed around the corner to the venue.

Inside was exactly the crowd you’d expect at the queer literary event. As I looked around the room I felt underdressed, even in my garish red velvet top and collarless jacket. We ordered a beer from the bar, bought a copy of the book and perched for a bit of people watching. Not long after, the bell rang and Tom rushed to the bar to grab another couple of beers for the show.

The interview was enthralling. Although based around Maupin’s memoir, the event was also peppered with questions (both from the interviewer and the audience) about the characters, Maupin’s recent move to London to escape Donald Trump and his take on Silicon Valley ruining the charm of San Francisco. There was reference to an upcoming Netflix series and a lot of talk about Barbary Lane, the big old house that the characters lived in and where a lot of the action of the first three books takes place. Barbary Lane was the place Mouse found his “logical family” (as opposed to his biological one), which was also the name of the memoir. Armistead read a chapter from the book; a racy story about his first sexual experience with a navy man.

It was announced that there was a signing afterwards, which meant we politely jostled our way out of the theatre, books in hand, to find a long line snaking through the lobby. By the time we got to the front of the line I was feeling giddy, partly because we’d downed three beers in quick succession on an empty stomach, but mostly because I get that feeling in the pit of my stomach every time I meet an idol. I thin it comes from the fear of looking like an idiot in front of somebody I respect and look up to - like the time I lost my words in front of Nigella Lawson (Tom still takes the mickey out of me for it!) This was part of the reason for penning the aforementioned card ahead of time, which gave me the ability to get my point across. Inside it said something like, “Thank you for your writing - it changed my life and shaped me as a gay man”. Or something like that. In front of Armistead I felt a bit sheepish. He was sat there politely smiling, having just been grilled for a couple of hours by the interviewer, plus about another hour subjected to gushing fans previous to me. I thrust the card at him and apologised for its content. Although I meant it, I realised that it is probably the same sentiment everybody expresses. I did mention that the artwork on the card was one of my felt pieces, which seemed to impress him. He signed our books and we posed for a photo, one of us either side.

Thanking him again, we went out into the cold night air. Realising that Cambridge had shut up earlier than expected, we wandered around trying to find something before retiring to our room and ordering room service.

To be continued...

[9087miles]

Into the Woods

Fresh back from London, we were exhausted from a whirlwind tour during Mum’s visit. Her days were numbered and Tom had gone back to work. He suggested that I take Mum to Puzzlewood, which is always a favourite for visiting friends and family. I thought it would be a nice way to bookend the trip. Plus, it had been quite warm and the temperature in the shady woods is a little lower than the surrounding countryside.

This ancient forest in the Forest of Dean is made up of scowles - rocky formations created by limestone eroding from the the other rock. There are winding paths that were laid down in the 1800s. It feels like a solemn and mystical place. It has been used over the decades as a popular filming location - Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Doctor Who and Merlin to name only a few.

The wood was used for iron ore extraction during Roman occupation, which lends a little more mystery to the landscape, with tunnels and caves carved out thousands of years ago, then grown over with moss, lichen and bracken.

We spent a couple of hours wandering though, with every new vista a photogenic backdrop for another holiday snap or selfie.

[9087miles]

London to Agrabah

The end of Mum’s visit culminated in a surprise in London - a night on the West End to see Aladdin. Not the first time in London for Mum, we strayed a bit further than the normal haunts, but did a couple of favourites as well. We even stayed at the same place as last time... arriving at Rod and Sarah’s lovely Victorian terrace a stone’s throw from Camden Town means it’s like coming home every time.

A Turkish feast fit for forty thieves

Because we lost Tom’s grandad in the same time that Mum was visiting, we had a funeral in the middle of the trip. It meant some time with Tom’s family, including a lunch visit with Kim, Carly and the grandkids. We went to one of many North London Turkish restaurants, all in converted Victorian pubs that have been dwindling for decades. For a pittance, we got more food than the eight of us could possibly have polished off! We chatted away and grazed for a couple of hours, then rolled out of the restaurant completely stuffed.

We left Kim’s mob and headed straight into Kentish Town to drop off the car and caught the tube to Central London. We did a little bit of shopping (this was about the point Mum realised that she was going to have slow down on shopping for the grandkids). We had a wander through Fortnum and Mason’s, then onto Waterstones in Oxford Street. We had timed it right, because it was happy hour in the bar on the top floor, so we ordered two-for-one cocktails and spent a bit of time out of the rain. It was completely miserable when we arrived back at Kentish Town tube station, so we stopped in at the pub on the corner, which boasted the World’s Smallest Beer Garden. It was in fact just a doorway with a stool and an ashtray, but it kept us slightly drier! Inside, an AFL game was being projected on the wall, so we stayed for a while for Mum to get her footy fix and fit in a couple of pints of Guinness.

Caves of wonder

The day of the show was a packed one. We started off with more general wandering around London and got to the Brasserie of Light for afternoon tea. It was an opportunity for more food and cocktails, but also for Tom to show off the sparkly Pegasus project that he had worked on. The food was suitably impressive and we walked it off with a canter through Selfridges.

By the time we got back out on to the street, there wasn’t really time to faff about catching tubes to Camden, so we considered our options. Tom ran up to a man leaning on a bicycle-driven rickshaw. After some negotiation, Tom waved us over and we got on. The man fiddled with an iPhone, after which the dulcet sounds of Suzi Quattro (one of Mum’s absolute rock faves) blared out of a Bluetooth speaker somewhere behind us in the mechanics of the rickshaw. It was equally exciting, scary and embarrassing. Those rickshaws pick up a lot more speed than they appear to on the street - and they definitely get more attention than the average passing Uber or black cab. By the time we rounded the corner onto Old Compton Street, our driver’s playlist had switched appropriately to Bonnie Tyler’s “Holding out for a Hero”.

We alighted, righting our outfits and commenting that we actually had a bit of time to wait before we had to be in the Prince Edward Theatre. Conveniently enough, Old Compton Street is the home of London’s most prominent gay bars. Realising that (aside from that one lunch in the beer garden in Dublin) I had never been to a gay bar with my Mum, we stopped for a little drink at G-A-Y. Even took the opportunity to tweet about it so we showed up on the screen - it was late afternoon, so it didn’t take long to show up!

We left the bar and headed to the theatre next door. The show was exactly the spectacle you would expect from Aladdin. We had a booth jutting out somewhere to the right of the stage, which gave us an uninterrupted view of the multi-level stagings (which was used for dances and chase scenes alike), as well as impressing pyrotechnics and special effects. The magic carpet scene was so well executed that it suspended disbelief as Aladdin and Jasmine levitated up and out into the audience and back onto the twinkling starlit stage.

Back out on the street it was balmy and still (perhaps it was only me who felt this way because of the champagne cocktails I’d tucked into at the Brasserie of Light). After meandering through the red glow of Chinatown, we found a heaving Irish pub. After a couple of pints, we ended up back in Old Compton Street, where I bumped into a colleague I could not place (but who knew me). The evening escalated from there, with Mum snapping me (and an innocent bystander) using the open urinals placed at the end of the road. We ended the evening eating kebabs in a basement in Leicester Square and hailed the first cab we could find. It was clearly time to go home!

[9087miles]

Extreme Plan-changing... or Our unplanned minibreak to Cologne

Tom and Mum had been looking forward to our trip to North Wales for an epic zip lining experience and abseiling in a cave that was once used for mining. I was looking forward to going to North Wales. The idea of careening down a hillside hundreds of metres above the ground frightened the life out of me, but it was something that they were both looking forward to, so it was inevitable.

Although, it wasn’t inevitable. A freak summer storm brought high speed winds and lashing rain to the northern UK, which caused the zip lining company to cancel a few days of activity (including our pre-booked slot). It seemed the gods were smiling on me.

At a loss for what left a sizeable gap in our itinerary for Mum’s trip, I immediately jumped on a couple of holiday apps and started throwing ideas around for city breaks. We settled on Cologne, a city in Germany famous for - you guessed it - making cologne (it’s the home of 4711, a staple on every nanna’s dressing table).

A couple of highlights:

Kölsch!

A local beer (a cross between an ale and a lager), Kölsch is the pride of Cologne, with every Brauhaus priding itself on its self-brewed offering. A welcome relief from the heat, we spent a fair amount of time after lunches hopping into a dark and dingy pub to partake in libations. The only problem was that it was incredibly strong beer. One glass turned into three or four in each pub and, by the time we stumbled out, we were rat-arsed and barely able to get back to our accommodation.

One night we went for dinner in a beautiful Bavarian-looking pub building. Not knowing the custom or the lingo, we looked for an empty table to set up at. The rabbit warren of a building went deeper and deeper and it wasn’t looking hopeful. At last we found a booth that was literally at the very end of the building (tucked away as if it had been built in to fill the space). An aproned man came shouting at us in German, beckoning us to follow him. I would seem we had taken a reserved table (we assumed) so we followed the ranting waiter. Standing dumbfounded while he gave us a dressing down, he finally stopped and said, “Are you English?”, saying something loudly over his shoulder in German which seemed to tickle the other patrons. We said that we were Australian, and all was forgiven. He brought Kölsch and menus and we were good to go. He let us in on a little trick. He was a Köbe, a Kölsch server. He carried a round tray with a handle in the middle and a slot for around eight of the little 200ml glasses the beer is traditionally served in. His job was to scout around the pub, ensuring that anybody with a mouthful or less left was rejuvenated with a fresh, cold Kölsch. When you were ready to stop, he advised that you needed to put your coaster on top of your glass - this indicated that you were done.

Brot und Käse und Fleisch

We all enjoyed a wide selection bread, cheese and meat. Every second shop along the mall was a cafe selling incredible sandwiches. We stopped on the second day around lunchtime for a bite to eat. We sat outside in the plaza, which was tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the shopping precinct. We watched a busker set up, taking a little amp and mic stand out of a suitcase. She was playing pan pipes with a backing track, but Tom pointed out that it didn’t actually look like she was playing the sounds that were coming out of the speaker. Soon enough, a man approached her and she stopped playing (although the soothing sound of panpipes did not!) We weren’t close enough - or indeed fluent enough - to know what was said, but she packed everything into her suitcase and skulked away.

Cologne Cathedral

It is said that Cologne Cathedral is visible wherever you are in Cologne and this was certainly true wherever we were. Plonked right in the centre of town (or the other way around - the town built up around it), this impressive and grimy Gothic-looking church was a must-see attraction. We did it on the first day and it was every bit as magnificent on the inside. Although we’ve spent a lot of time in English churches, they are completely different on the continent. Often, they are older and much more Catholic than the English counterparts, which were partially demolished or stripped of relics and decoration akin to the Catholic Church.

Cologne from the Rhine

On the last day we jumped on a boat and saw the city from a different angle. The boat trip was just over an hour and worked up and down the Rhine. Mum was happy to be in the sun, which was the polar opposite of the weather we had experienced on our Ireland trip. I was happy to sit in the shade of the boat, because it was just a little bit too hot for my liking.

[9087miles]

Obligatory summer BBQ on the Severn

When we got back from Ireland, it was perfect timing for a visit to Littleton for the annual tradition of the summer birthday driftwood BBQ on the banks of the Severn River. The villagers welcomed Mum back with open arms. It is worth noting that she had left her mark from the last visit, because she had left a number of mannerisms that stuck. For example, the people in Littleton still point at fires to drive the smoke away from them, an old wives tale that I remember Mum and (Aunty Rayleen) doing when we were camping as kids.

Thanks to a makeshift Guinness bar being set up (like we didn’t have enough of it in Ireland), all of the regular shenanigans ensued, with the tide of the Severn flowing in as the sun went lazily down behind hazy clouds. Once the sun was down and the tide took out one of the areas of the bank that we had been lazing on, a few of the crowd started splashing around in the river, which was no doubt full of cow shit by this point! Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the Guinness, but a fun time was had by all and we partied on late into the night, before retiring back to Carol and Andy’s for a restful sleep in the country atmosphere.

[9087miles]

A long way through Tipperary (Ireland Part 4 of 4): Cross counties back to Wexford

The trip had been enjoyable, meandering across from east to west; however we realised just how far we had travelled when we worked out just how far we had to go to get back in time for the ferry the following morning.

Tom felt it seemed a shame not to go through Tipperary, so we took a deviation of a few miles so that we could see it. It was like any other larger town in Ireland; charming and sleepy. At least it was charming, until Tom locked all of the electric windows on open and turned up “Long Road to Tipperary” through the car stereo, waving at every passer by for what seemed like the world’s longest main road.

Hoping to get as much out of the last day as possible, we took a minor deviation through Wexford to see Hook Lighthouse. I say minor, but it involved catching a small ferry over a river and driving up and down the peninsulas depicted in the Ros Tapestries. We got to the lighthouse in time for one of the last tours. It turned out to be just the three of us with a chatty Irishman who guided us through the history of the lighthouse, from the original medieval stone dome to the remotely-manned lighthouse till in use today. Because it was just the four of us, we spoke of the trip overall and of the tour content in more detail. One of the Ros Tapestries was mentioned, which put everything into a little more context. It was like we’d gone full circle!

We made it to our last bed and breakfast near Rosslare (chosen for its proximity to the ferry so we didn’t have an epic drive so early in the morning) just before sunset. Kaye, our host, greeted us with a cup of tea and a piece of sponge cake. She gave us the rundown on the room and the local area. She suggested that if we wanted food, we should hightail it down to the pub before the kitchen closed.

We headed over the pub for our last meal and pint of Guinness before the epic ferry journey home. It was a cool evening, the sun was setting and the Guinness was cold. After dinner, I switched to Baileys, because it felt like the most appropriate Irish finish to the journey.

[9087miles]

A load of Blarney (Ireland Part 3 of 4): Cork to Tralee

We got to Blarney Castle in the early afternoon. I know that it is touted as one of the major tourist attractions in Ireland, but I didn’t realise to what extent. As we entered through the ticket booth, the property was huge and well-appointed, with literally thousands of people spread out over the estate. We walked through the gardens, stopping for cheesy photos along the way to the castle. Set atop a steep rocky hill, Blarney Castle is looming and impressive. It is a single structure, with the usual turrets. At the front of the building, there is a cap between the roof and the turret and that is where the Blarney Stone is.

Folklore says that kissing the Blarney Stone gives one the gift of the gab. As romantic as it sounds, kissing the stone is an act of thrill-seeking contortion. In order to reach the stone, kissers have to lay on their back and slide diagonally down and out into the opening between the roof, which is protected only by an ancient-looking wrought iron grate.

As we wound up the hill to the door there were signs along the way... 1 hour to the top of the castle. It didn’t seem accurate, because we were almost at the top of the hill. As it turns out, the signs factored in the long queue. People were literally lined up all the way from the Blarney Stone, all the way down the winding stone staircase, through the rooms of the castle, to just outside the gate.

We got in line and it took a long time to move. The lovely sunshine that had followed us into the estate had long gone, and a chilly wind blew through the castle. After a video loop on the ground floor there was no other entertainment, with people shuffling up stairs and through rooms in silence bar the odd exclamation of the structure. Up on the roof, there was still a full loop along the inner ring of the castle, before trailing around the outside to get to the stone. There was an incredible view of County Cork and the realms beyond and an opportunity to have a photo taken together by other people in the line. We took photos for other people, because we had essentially spent the last hour going through the same trial to to the top.

The actual kiss seemed simple. Two men facilitated the activity, one holding people as they bent back and the other taking the photo (which could conveniently be purchased at the gift shop on the way out). I watched a number of people do it, including little old ladies. As easy as it seemed, nerves crept up to my throat. I’m not afraid of heights, but I wouldn’t say I’m comfortable either.

I went first. I leapt into action like the people I’d watched, throwing my legs down and inching toward the gap in the stone, which was much wider than it appeared from the bottom of the castle! The man gruffly corrected my position (I’d basically laid myself out in a diagonal, rather than straight on towards the stone). He told me to grab the rails and go. My earlier posture and grabbing the railing too high meant that I couldn’t quite reach. I shimmied my trembling hands further down the rail, but still couldn’t get close enough. The man suggested I inch further, but I could feel the counterweight of my legs shifting towards the edge. Just as I was about to give up, the man grabbed the scruff of my shirt and thrust me into the void between the stone and the castle. I smashed my lips against the stone and used Adrenalin and my weak core to scramble back to safety.

I watched Mum and Tom do the stone, taking my own pictures. As expected, Mum was in her element. She literally would have slipped between the grate had she slipped, but she lowered herself down and swung right to the bottom face of the stone. It seemed all of the CrossFit had paid off! Tom also managed it easier than me.

And just like that, we were done. An hour in a queue for a matter of minutes. On the way down Tom started hysterically laughing. It seemed he had taken a pair of unflattering photos of Mum and I (see mine above) on the return from the stone. He laughed so hard that he farted, at which point he exclaimed that the Blarney Stone had given him the “gift of flatulence”.

Back down on the ground, we had a sandwich and a Bailey’s Hot Chocolate and got back to the car to carry on to Tralee. It was an hour or so, but we had the summer daylight on our side and no need to be at our guest house in any great hurry. We meandered through the roads, stopping every now and then to see antique shops that seemed to litter this part of the country.

We got to Tralee and struggled to follow the directions of the satnav, which took us into a winding labyrinth of cobblestoned streets with sharp angles. We passed a pub which looked like a good shout for dinner and eventually found The Tralee Park Guest House. Set in a beautiful Georgian townhouse on a street lined with the same, it was a welcome relief from the experience the night before in Cork. We checked in, got all of our stuff into the room and headed back out for dinner. We laughed about the day, nestled in a booth in a classic, dimly-lit Irish pub (which I guess they just call a pub in Ireland) and washed three incredible meals down with Guinness.

[9087miles]

A rich tapestry of the Southeast (Ireland Part 2 of 4): Wexford to Cork

After arriving quite late the night before, we got up and had a slow start to the morning. Tom made coffee and we had a wander around the property. It was luxury compared to the pokey cabin on the ferry. An old converted garage attached to a lovely country home, it had all of the mod cons - comfy beds and was decorated with incredible artworks (which we later learned were painted, drawn and woven by Inga - our host). The house felt like the middle of nowhere the night before, but the sun had risen on a lush green farm landscape, with fields as far as the eye could see.

Sat on the step for a cigarette, I spotted a French Bulldog chasing Inga. We said hello from a distance and another older Frenchie bounded up, seemingly from nowhere. I had a little cuddle and she wandered off to join the group. Tom rounded the corner with a puppy in his arms. After a longer cover station, it turned out that Inga and her family bred them, and they had been on a road trip the day before to drop a puppy off to somewhere near Dublin.

After having a bit of a cuddle with the puppies and chatting with Inga, we packed up our stuff and got on the road to Cork, stopping in to further explore New Ross. We wet back to check out the famine ship and JFK statue in the light of day.

We visited the Ros Tapestry project, a modern day tapestry depicting events around the Anglo Norman arrival in the South East of Ireland. Fifteen tapestry panels have been woven but people through the county over twenty years, telling a story of medieval invasion, knights and princesses. We spent over an hour wandering through, gazing at each individual panel while listening to an audio guide produced in true Irish storytelling-style.

The road to Waterford was littered with Wexford strawberry sellers and antique shops. We arrived in Waterford around lunchtime. The city was beautiful, with a mix of old Catholic Churches and modern buildings. After a wander, we booked in for a tour of the Waterford Crystal factory.

Despite having a long history rooted deep in Waterford, the factory is no longer in existence due to global competition. Despite this, the visitor centre acts as a museum for posterity, with some classic pieces and custom orders still made by a handful of craftspeople. Visitors are taken through to see the full process, from the pouring of the glass, through shaping and cutting. The last room is full of historical works, including incredible paperweights, trophies and other decadent delights. It was clear that so much work goes into every piece, passing between a lot of people end-to-end. It’s easy to see why the finished items attract the hefty price tag.

As anticipated the tour leads into the gift shop, where I hemmed and hawed about buying four crystal champagne coupes. I eventually decided against it, because we had days of car travel and I didn’t want them to break. We stopped for a bite to eat after the tour and got back in the car to continue the journey to Cork, where I had booked an Airbnb.

We got to Cork in the pouring rain and the Airbnb instructions were minimal about where to pick up the key a number of streets away from the actual property. We eventually found and entered the building complex, which was a former (or perhaps current) medical clinic. The door swung open into the flat and it was more than underwhelming and nothing like the listing - in fact, it wasn’t even the property that had been listed on Airbnb.

Aside from being quite grubby, it was filled with mismatched furniture and had a general air of depression about it. The consensus was that we would only be sleeping here, so we chose our rooms and headed out to the closest pub, hoping that a few pints of Guinness would tale the edge off. It did help in the end, and the bartender gave us a list of the sights to see in Cork.

After a fitful sleep we got up, packed up and got the hell out of the hovel we’d spent the night in. The drive into town was shorter than expected, so we parked and had a wander around. Cork was a nice enough, but the horrors of the night before lingered, so we had something to eat and got back in the car to get to Tralee via Blarney Castle.

[9087miles]

The Emerald Isle (Part 1 of 4): Ferry to Wexford

We got up quite early to get to the other side of Wales to get the afternoon ferry. The day before we had stocked up on all manner of snack foods for the road trip and eventual ferry ride. We stopped at a services in the middle of Wales to get brunch and carried on, eventually making it with about half an hour to spare. That meant we got a good spot in the line of cars before heading to the cafe shack to kill time.

When it was time to head back to the car, I thought I’d take the opportunity to go to the loo and pick up a Diet Coke for the road/sea. As I stepped out of the shack, I could see that the cars were starting to move onto the boat, so I picked up my pace. A quick canter turned into a full sprint as I could see our car at the front of the line. Swearing and panting, I got in the car just in time to drive the ramp onto the boat.

We were instructed to park in a long line in the guts of the enourmous boat and left the car for the upper decks, where we checked in and walked through cafes, gift shops and eventually to our little cabin. I felt like an idiot for panicking that I wouldn’t be able to get a Diet Coke on the boat.

As exciting as it was to travel to another country by boat, it was an uneventful trip. After a mooch through the gift shop and a trip to the deck, we retired to our cabin. We peered out the window and watched Wales disappear. We snacked and chatted and then Mum and Tom both fell asleep. I started a new Netflix series and a couple of episodes in, we were in Ireland.

We landed in the late afternoon and thought it might be a good idea to stop in somewhere for food before we got to our Airbnb. New Ross was the closest town, which turned out bigger than expected. We had a choice of food and settled on Italian, as if we hadn’t already eaten enough carbs on the trip so far!

We walked off the epic meal to the harbour, where there was a famine ship and a bronze statue of JFK (whose family fled Ireland for America during the Potato Famine).

With the sun quickly setting behind ominous clouds, and not having mobile service, we thought it would be a good idea to get to our accommodation for the evening. After navigating the windy country roads and passing the John F Kennedy arboretum, we found our beds for the night at the end of tree-lined road, in amongst only a handful of houses in the dark.