Europe

London, market city

Camden markets
the original docs shop in Camden Town
Arlington Road – one of many places from a Madness song
Flats in Camden Town
Portobello Markets
Cheese shop at the Borough Markets
Curry shops on Brick Lane

 

Due to the quick pace of my tour de force, I have only five days in London. And although that seems like an extended stay, there is plenty to see in London. As I arrived at the weekend, I started my tour de force with London’s markets. Now as most people know, I find it difficult to walk past a market even if it’s about 10 stalls in Ulladulla and it’s raining so London was like a dream come true for me.

 

I started with Camden Markets. Sure, their hey day may have been almost two decades ago in the early 90s when grunge brought back flares on pants and lapels and everyone worth their salt came home from their year living in London’s Earl’s Court with a second hand brown suede coat from Camden Markets. There weren’t quite as many suede coats – they’re now called ‘vintage’ and are found everywhere throughout London but more on that later. What Camden did have was loads and loads of different markets with a range of products from antiques to jewellery to T-shirts to all manner of goth-wear. And unlike the markets in Australia, it’s all different and lots of it is handcrafted. And the food is glorious. I took this opportunity to have my London curry for a number of reasons – the curries all looked fantastic, markets was the perfect setting for a curry indulgence and I imagined here in Camden Town was where some of my musical heroes scoffed down a late night curry after a gig.

 

You see, I hadn’t just come to Camden for the markets. This was the part of north London that Madness came from. It was where they played and the streets around here featured in many of their songs. And it’s not hard to see why the ska sound took hold here. There is a heavy Caribbean tradition here from the restaurants to the population. I wandered around for a while far from the markets and (predictably) what claims to be the first doc martens store. I say predictably because before docs became the favoured footwear of grunge, they were worn by rude boys and girls, usually cherry reds like one of the pairs I have at home. And before everyone puts rude boys and skinheads (a-la- Romper Stomper) in the same basket, originally the look and the music was not associated with the National Front – ska was a musical style with its roots in the Caribbean and most of the bands included black members. Primrose Hill, Arlington Road, Camden Town – the places were all here. I also walked down to Camden Loch where Madness launched their infamous Thames barge gig from. [ ‘One Better Day’ – Madness This song mentions lots of places I saw like Arlington House and Camden Loch.]

 

The area is working class with a mixture of terraced houses and high rise estates. My favourite store (apart from the doc shop) was Camden Road Motors servicing British and Continental motors. The long-sleeping goth in me also gave way and I bought a skirt. I haven’t a clue what I’m going to wear it with, although I had ideas of turning it in to a dress – see I go overseas and get all creative.

 

From Camden I headed to the Portobello Road Markets in Notting Hill. Like the suburbs surrounding them, these were more upmarket markets (although the really cool ring I bought that professed to be silver is actually plated rather than sterling so upmarket doesn’t necessary mean quality). The markets stretched along the sides of Portobello Road for kilometers – in the middle some reasonably sad looking fruit and vegetables. And more antiques. And ‘vintage’ clothing and then just the kind of crap you find at trash and treasure. Notting Hill is just the sort of place you would expect to find Hugh Grant – gentile, leafy and clean, even with the markets. [‘Bed and Breakfast Man’ – Madness – this was the first Madness song I really loved. I had listened to them on radio a lot and then a friend lent me his copy of Complete Madness and I was hooked.]

 

From here I headed to the south bank of the Thames to the Borough Market – the sister market of the one I had seen in Barcelona. I got there pretty late, just in time for a quick tour but I can report although it was impressive and has a legendary status among London foodies, the Barcelona market blows it out of the water. It is, however in an interesting part of town, just near the London Bridge tube station in an area that saw plenty of prisons during the early years of London.

 

After the borough market, it was time to call it a day and tired and very cold – it may have been 10 degrees but there is a very cold wind that blows through London – physically, not metaphorically.

 

A word here on London’s tube network. Despite reports, I found the tube to be a convenient, cheap, easy and clean way to get around London. There are tube stations everywhere and it’s not too difficult to change between lines. On the weekend I was doing the markets, the city line was completely out of action due to engineering work but I managed to get around easily. The London Underground Map (which is itself a design icon) is a very useful tool and yes they really do tell you to mind the gap at stations. They also issue warnings about pickpockets or beggars operating on the trains.

 

On day two I started out having a lazy day and doing a couple of loads of washing. After that I set out for the Spitafields markets, renowned as the place to find young designers and some excellent vintage buys. Vintage has been really big in London for the past few years and consequently everywhere you turn, there’s a store selling vintage clothing. And like their counterparts at Gorman House Markets, they clean out the charity shops. The difference in London is that because there are so many vintage stores you a) find some great stuff and b) don’t always have to pay through the nose for it. However, like the Gorman House traders, they only stock clothes for the svelte or up to about size 12 or 14. Note to self: do some fat clothes research before traveling. [‘House of Fun’ – Madness. One of two Madness songs to appear in The Young Ones (still one of the best TV shows of all time). Fun fact – Madness were the only band to appear on The Young Ones twice – this was in ‘Boring’ and Our House featured in the ‘Sick’ episode.]

 

Arriving in Spitafields, I also came across a Madonna exhibition, which featured a range of her outfits, including outfits from Evita and some of the shows. And yes I paid to go see it. For those who are unaware, I am a Madonna fan. Yes, I know that is terribly uncool if you’re not gay or under 15 but I don’t care. I went to the Girly Show tour, I know all the moves to Vogue and I lived in a house where the Erotica coffee table book was actually on the coffee table (albeit purchased my my gay housemate).

 

The exhibition was worthwhile, even just to see the infamous tassled bustier. What was even more interesting were some of the handwritten notes and the contracts. I was particularly intrigued by the signed contract for a magazine interview and the copy of her divorce petition against Sean Penn.

 

When I left the exhibition it was pouring rain so I headed for the fancy new covered market. There were loads of stalls with clothes from all sorts of designers as well as jewellery and some vintage clothing. As with the other markets, each stall was selling something different to the last. This was a really swank market – with restaurants around the edges. Apparently some of the innovative traders had moved into empty warehouses when the market was redone and the rents raised. So I set off to find the other markets – there were at least two others as large as the first as well as people trading on the side of the street. Here I also found DJs playing and selling their wares.

 

Spitafields and Shoreditch apparently used to be industrial areas but when the industry moved out, the artists, bohemians and young creatives moved into the cheap warehouse spaces. Consequently this area is buzzing with creativity but is also dirty and haphazard and full of vintage stores. In fact in an area at one end of Brick Lane I came across five vintage stores in a row.  Some were well overpriced but I did manage to find a bargain. I bought a dress for five pounds. It has an exquisite patterned velvet and doesn’t fit me but I already have a plan to alter it.

 

The other end of Brick Lane is famous for its curry houses. The problem is that while the standard of the curries has decreased, the number of touts or curry pimps has increased exponentially. As soon as you walk past, they are trying to hassle you to go inside. It wasn’t really the curry experience I was looking for and besides I had already had a great curry in Camden Town. After a few hours wandering about Shoreditch in the pouring rain, I decided it was time to head back to the hostel.

 

My hostel, which was international student accommodation was in a great location right next to Great Portland street Station (on the circle line tow stops west of Kings Cross), was clean and had clean working showers. The only problem was the bed. I have never before encountered a mattress that was actually lumpy. This one was and it was on one of those really old wire bed bases. On the first night, even though I was incredibly tired, I found it really hard to sleep. Curiously though, the longer I stayed, the more I got used to it.

 

On my way back from the station, I noticed one of the two local pubs served a Sunday Roast, (exclusively on a Sunday). I decided this was the perfect meal choice on a rainy wintry English night. It was roast beef and came with Yorkshire pudding, gravy and roast vegetables. I added a pint of Guinness to wash it down with. It was just what was required. I sat in the warm pub and swatted up on what to see the following day.

Castles and palaces and kilts in between – wandering through Edinburgh

I awoke to a spectacular blue sky day in Edinburgh – only slightly more likely than one in Ireland apparently. And as it was outside my window, the castle was my first tourist attraction to tackle. I decided that if I was going to visit a proper castle (Blarney being more a ruin than a walled castle arrangement) then Edinburgh Castle would be the perfect choice so I climbed the steps across the road from the hotel than took me to the castle forecourt. It alone provided spectacular views over Edinburgh. The charge was 11 pounds (except that with the VAT reduction, it was 10 pound and some silly number of pence. This actually worked out really well for me because it gave me a chance to get rid of some change. Grappling with working out different money doesn’t lend itself to paying with the correct change. Consequently I think there is at least a kilo of foreign change in my carry-on luggage. They don’t exchange anything less than a Euro either.)

 

The castle was quite spectacular, and probably more interesting for military history buffs than myself. As well as the Museum of the Royal Guards, it also houses Edinburgh’s war memorial, which is inside the castle’s spectacular chapel. There was also a fantastic prisoners of war exhibition as this was where the prisoners from the American war of Independence were held. Apparently some prisoners captured just off the coast during the second world war were also house here temporarily but reportedly in more hospitable conditions. The war memorial, predictably, was off limits to cameras, as were the Scottish crown jewels, also housed here. So now I’ve seen a real crown and apparently the colour of fabric inside the crown actually denotes the country’s religion – the purple catholic velvet was replaced at some point with the red protestant one. Interesting when you think that in Asia red is a colour of luck and prosperity and purple the colour associated with dearth. Green just seems to be associated with Ireland (and the environmental movement more recently). It doesn’t seem like anyone has taken ownership of orange so I guess it belongs wholeheartedly to the modern marketing of mobile phones, financial institutions and supermarkets.

 

Along with two cafes, two gift shops and a book shop, you can also walk through an exhibition about the kings and queens of Scotland, through the royal apartments, where a woman dressed in period costume was giving a talk on the life of women in the castle and the Great Hall. The hall was quite spectacular, although, unfortunately they were restoring the ceiling when I visited and the scaffolding obscured the grandeur.

 

By far my favourite part of the castle (apart from obviously the cannons on the battlements, was the dog’s graveyard. In A testament to the high regard in which the Scottish Royal Guard hold their working dogs, there is a graveyard just below the top of the castle where the dogs are buried. While I imagine the remains of some ancients may lie here, this was the obly graveyard I saw at the castle.

 

From the castle I took a walk along the infamous golden mile, which had probably more souvenir shops than Temple Bar in Dublin. And there were varying degrees of quality, which could easily be judged by the price being charged for a kilt. They went all the way from a bargain-basement 20 pounds (with bright tartan likely woven in India and a free sporon) to hundreds of pounds for the genuine article weaved in the highlands and individually tailored.

 

I had been warned before I arrived but the Scottish don’t like to take English money (they print their own Scottish notes at the Royal Bank of Scotland). It wasn’t too much of a problem because I was almost out of cash anyway. I had more issues, mostly good-natured jibes – when using Scottish money in England. One or two people have been reluctant to take it after the RBS stocks crashed recently. I found it funny that they use English money in Northern Ireland but the Scotts actually prefer their own money.

 

It seems the Scottish are disputing the Lapland claim to Christmas (probably because of the tartan thing) – I found two shops selling quality Christmas decorations and paraphernalia along the Golden Mile. What I didn’t find was very many places to eat that weren’t owned by Starbucks. Eventually I stopped at a little café and decided on a baked potato with coleslaw and a side salad. I had been eating far too much really stodgy food and wanted something a little bit healthier. I chose the potato because at least if the salad was crap, I had something to eat. The salad was OK in the end – iceberg lettuce, a couple of Spanish olives and some beetroot. Now I’m well known as being a condiment queen and I’m pretty liberal with the condiments but I swear there was more coleslaw dressing on the coleslaw than there wss vegetables in it. And on top of that it had a big dollop of yoghurt dressing on top. It’s all well and good to ask me whether I want skim milk in my tea but why bother when you serve this with it?

 

After finishing the salad and some of the potato (once I scraped the heart attack-inducing condiments off it), I continued on my way down the Ryal Mile darting up and down the side lanes off it and eventually finding my way back to the main road. I passed at least four pickup piints for ghost tours and also discovered Real Mary King’s Close where quite a bit of the haunting is said to take place. As I ventured closer to the Queen’s residence in Edinburgh, Holyrood House, I was reminded that this isn’t just a tourist attraction, people actually do live here. At the bottom of the Golden Mile, opposite the modern Scottish parliament building were a number of rows of quite modest housing. A plaque nearby said that they were government housing supplied for war veterans. I was impressed that this type of housing was found here, within a couple of hundred metres of  the Queen’s residence.

 

I walked around the outside of the Place – you had to pay tio go on a tour and I believe most of that was in the museum anyway.  There’s also an impressive park (with what looks like a volcano covered in grass, near the palace. Although, I think you could keep pretty fit in Edinburgh just jogging around the streets – the area around the old city and the Golden Mile is quite steep and there are a lot of stairs – no wonder they built catacombs beneath the city.

 

From here I wandered back to the hostel through the streets and laneways off the Golden Mile and collected my gear. I had booked a reservation on the train to London at 3pm when I arrived in Edinburgh – the nice gentleman at the station hadn’t charged me anything for it either. I had wanted to stay until later in the day but didn’t really want to arrive in London at 11pm or later – it was Friday so all the trains leaving between 4pm and 7pm were pretty heavily booked. The bonus was that for the first half of the journey tro Newwcastle I had a spare seat next to me for all my junk. And, not only did the express service to London have power, it also had free wi-fi. It gave me a good chance to catch up on my blogging.

There really are beaches in Scotland
Edinburgh from the castle
the dog graveyard
Inside the castle walls
Ready, aim, fire
The battlments
The castle’s chapel
Tartan for the ladies
The Royal Mile
Through the castle arch
The flats for veterans
Ediburgh cathedral
Meeting point for one of many ghost tours
Cathedral close-up

 

There can be only one – knights, Nessie and the Highlands

OK – enough with the Highlander references already. The fact is I had come to Inverness for two reasons – for the tacky tourist trap of the Loch Ness Monster (which was likely to be on par with the Santa village) and so I could visit the Scottish Highlands. And yes I know Inverness only barely qualifies as being in the Highlands. And those that have been to the Orkney Isles will likely scoff at my foray into the Highlands but I am traveling at a fairly fast pace and you’ve got to be impressed I actually went to Inverness.

 

My arrival in Inverness was less than spectacular. I had the booking for the hostel in my hand. Unfortunately it had neither the address nor phone number for the hostel on it. For some reason I had pictured Inverness as a little village on the edge of Loch Ness – probably because of the pic of the quaint little hostel I had booked into – the only one I could find. It had only dorm rooms, which I wasn’t really looking forward to after the early start and all the traveling I had done. It was 8pm when I arrived and I had been seeing deep snow in the dark out of the train window for the past couple of hours.

 

Inverness was granted city status in the 1990s so it’s not really a village. But of course at 8pm on a Wednesday night in winter, the tourist office is closed. I found a map dispenser, hoping the map would have accommodation listings. It ate two pound and didn’t give me anything resembling a map. I had no map, no internet to check the address and no phone number.  I noticed the train ticketing office was open and hoped someone in there would be helpful. The lady was very helpful – she gave me a map with the hostel marked on it, and directions – apparently I had a 20 minute walk ahead of me. The only problem was, when I arrived, it clearly wasn’t the right hostel. She had sent me to the town’s YHA which looked large enough to be a university accommodation building. Not the quaint cottage promised by the website. There was only one thing for it- for the first time on my trip, I phoned home to get someone to look at the website for me. [‘Michael Caine’ – Madness – The old school movie star agreed to record his voice for this track because his daughter was a huge Madness fan].

 

It was 7am and my knight in shining shorts was a bit thrown by my call but got up to help. It transpired that my chosen destination was about two and a half miles from the train station in a different direction to the one I had come. I trudged back to the station and on the way I decided to see if the hotel I had passed near the station had a room for a decent price. It was cold, it was late and I figured I was going to have to catch a cab out to the hostel and possibly back as well. I had only paid about $20 for the bed so in the scheme of things it wasn’t going to be a huge loss. It was one of the best decisions I have made on the trip.

 

The Highlands Hotel was your typical UK country hotel – large bathroom, comfy bed (king single or maybe even a small double) with a doona, and a telly. And they gave me a room for 30 pounds (which included a full Scottish brekkie). Hey even kept the restaurant open so I could have dinner. I had the Haddock in a Guinness batter with chips (with salt and vinegar) and peas. It was Scottish – I was too chicken (and too tired) to try the haggis. It was so good, I decided to try dessert, which was a delicious rhubarb crème brulee (I love rhubarb) with home made shortbread. mmm shortbread.

 

I watched some British telly, including FM, which I have heard good things about and which features stars from the IT crowd and Teachers. I can’t remember if it was BBC3 or ITV 2.The TV stations here really do seem to be pitched at particular markets, in a much more obvious way than in Australia (with the exception of SCTEN and perhaps ABC2) FM was great. If it’s not on Auntie’s radar, I will be lobbying. I charged the laptop but was far too tired to finish my blog so I curled up for a comfy night’s sleep.

 

I went down to the dining hall, which was a hall, with high ceilings and rows of tables. There was an extensive buffet brekkie, the kind you find in a Marriott or similar at home. While I was surveying the buffet for my sustenance, the staff delivered tea, condiments and toast (in a prope3r toast rack) to my table. I chose a hearty breakfast – egg, bacon, sausage, mushrooms and I had black pudding – essentially it tasted like I was eating pate, except with a sausage consistency. [‘Johnny the Horse’ – Madness – this is off their 2000 album, Wonderful – I was going to say recent but its almost nine years ago – where did that go?]

 

The helpful reception staff had provided me with some info on Loch Ness cruises but it had the info I was looking for – how to get to Drumnadrochit, centre of Loch Ness monster mania. There was a bus from the bus station a street over. I wandered over to the bus station. The bus, which only runs every two hours, was already 10 minutes late but luckily the driver was half way through a smoke and I managed to get a ticket and get on the bus. As time was limited, I had to make a choice – do I choose to go to Urqhart Castle which will no doubt have a gift shop and a tour and is actually on the shore of the Loch or do I go to Drumnadrochit, which is a town likely consumed by the industry of the monster. I chose the town because I thought it would be more interesting (and include more tacky enterprises). And I was right.

 

There seems to be a bit of competition for Nessie rights in Drumnadrochit. As you drive toward the town, about two or three kilometers before you reach it, you find the Clansman hotel with what looks like a really large commercial gift shop. They have another one in the town. The bus doesn’t stop here. In the town, there is the Loch Ness Discovery Centre, which you imagine to be some sort of government initiative that is free. It isn’t. This is the place that has the statue of Nessie in the water. But you have to pay to get in. I chose to visit the place off the highway that professed to be the original Loch Ness Monster exhibition. They also have a statue of the monster out the front. I must add that it is quite a walk from Drumnadrochit to the Loch so my photos (which don’t show the monster) were taken through the bus window. The exhibition was a bit of a ramshackle affair. It looked a bit like a construction site. Essentially you walked past some photo stands and into what looked like a very old theatre, the type with those wooden-framed leather seats padded with horsehair and upholstered using brass studs. Of course it was dark when I went in and the woman in the shop put on the filum. It featured a Scottish guy – I’m guessing a local from the production quality – in a kilt telling the tale of the Loch and the monster sightings. These included but were not limited to: two major scientific scans of the loch with sonar equipment (inconclusive); a raft of sightings by monks at the nearby Abbey (and an interview with one, presumably to add credence to the story as man of the cloth would never lie); the ‘hundreds’ of sightings by highlanders that were not documented with photos; and, my particular favourite, a Swedish crew who were going to bag and tag the animal or at least get a scraping of its DNA – they were hampered in their quest by a famous ‘white witch’ from the UK – who just looked like a fat guy who invented a scam so he wouldn’t ever have to get out of his bathrobe. The film sowed his arrival in a limo – for a minute I thought a real celebrity had joined the cause. Highlander searching for the monster perhaps? Don’t laugh. Outside this exhibition was another highlight – a miniature castle with a couple of what looked like highlanders flanking it – It was the Braveheart Castle – having a bet each way I suppose, like the winter adventure world at the Santa village. People went there for Santa and came here for Nessie. End of story. I wanted to ask how many people bothered with the Braveheart Castle but didn’t have the heart. No Highlander exhibit to be seen though. Don’t they know ‘there can be only one’?

 

The gift shop looked like it was under construction and I had already given them a fiver for the ‘exhibition’ so I thought I’d spend my readies at a different gift shop. There were quite a few to choose from. I found just the one – they were having a closing down sale – everything was half price. Liquidated souvenirs sounded just my style. I purchased my items – my niece will be pleased to read that despite being able to purchase Nessie souvenirs at just about every gift shop in Scotland, hers was purchased in a liquidation sale near the loch. I was intrigued about the closing sale – were there one too many entrepeneurs who thought they could make a quick buck in Drumnadrochit. I was informed by the very pleasant woman who owned the place that she and her husband were going into semi-retirement and giving up the shop but still operating the online side of the business. Online souvenirs sort of defeats the purpose. What’s next? Buy your holiday snaps online without ever leaving the couch?

 

I hurried back to the bus stop (if I missed this bus, there wouldn’t be another one for two hours, which would mean I would miss the direct train to Edinburgh, have to change at Perth and arrive in Edinburgh at 9pm). I met this woman who was quite chatty. She was originally from Essex and had moved to Aberdeen and loved it. Somehow she wound up in Drumnadrochit. She and her child have made friends there and so now it is home. In fact everyone I cam across here, apart from the woman at the exhibition, was from somewhere else. I guess in Scotland, it’s a loch change.

 

There’s actually quite a lot of other stuff you can do here – mainly in the summer. The loch is the first of a series – the Great Glen, which splits Scotland in two and separates the highlands from the lowlands. You can bushwalk from one side of Scotland to the other and apparently there are loads of Mountain Biking trails at varying levels of difficulty. Perhaps, one day when I am fitter (and have taken out some quite hefty medical and injury insurance).

 

I returned to the hotel and grabbed my bag. It was then that I noticed the protective satchel for the laptop was a little bit too warm. I opened it and the computer was positively scorching. I obviously hadn’t shut down properly and sitting in its protective cocoon, it had overheated. I tried turning it on – no luck. It didn’t smell like anything had fried. I surmised there were two outcomes – either it had shutdown because it had run out of battery or it had given up after it fried. Either way I wouldn’t know until I had access to power so I jumped on the train for Edinburgh, which traveled on the same track on which I arrived until we arrived in Perth. The countryside in the east was remarkably similar to the west until we came closer to the coast and I saw for the first time in a while, something that resembled a beach – there was sand instead of cliffs. We pulled into Edinburgh’s Waverly station just as the sun was beginning to set. I found my way through Edinburgh’s weave of tiny streets and laneways (and very steep hills) to the hostel, which as promised was directly below Edinburgh castle. Again there were friendly New Zealanders and an Aussie staffing the reception desk. They offered a free pub crawl that evening. ( I came downstairs later to check it out before I would agree to go. It was being run by an Australian girl and most of those going along were American college students. I decided against it in the end.) They also offered free wi-fi.

 

With my key in hand I rushed up the two different flights of stairs to my room on the top floor – it actually had a really cool attic window – and plugged the laptop in. It worked – hurrah. The acer really is tough. Unfortunately I had lost a train ride for the purpose of blogging and was way too exhausted to blog before bead. I headed just up the road and decided, after all the stodgy food I had been eating, to go for Thai.

 

It turned out to be an excellent choice. The Thai Orchid (which included fresh orchids on the table and also one on the tray with the bill) produced some of the best Thai have ever eaten (and that includes the Erindale Thai place and the one that was in Kiama’s main street). The starter was four king prawns stuffed with season prawn meat and pork, covered in an omelet web and served with a tamarind sauce. Then (predictably) I had the Massaman curry – there was no beef so I ordered the chicken. It was glorious. I might point out that most of my restaurant meals have been accompanied by a glass of wine (or in some recent cases a Guinness. I haven’t mentioned the wines because none has stood out in comparison to Australian wines. I’m sure if I went for the top of the range wines, they might but at a low to mid-range level, they just don’t compare to Australian wines. I’m no expert but I don’t think I’ll be ordering European cleanskins any time soon.

 

During dinner I chatted with a Dutch couple who had been to both Australia and New Zealand. They were disappointed I wasn’t going to Holland. After dinner it was time for some telly (there was one in my room) and a big sleep.

The streets of Inverness
Quaint B&Bs everywhere
Loch Ness
Home of Nessie
Snow in the Highlands
On the way south to Edinburgh

Life in a northern town – four hours in Glasgow

When I planned my journey, I didn’t think much about Glasgow – it was a pit stop on my journey between Belfast and almost any other destination I chose in Scotland. My mission, from the limited investigations I had done in the guide books for my short stopover, was to find the Wee Curry Shop and have a madras or similar. I had imagined Glasgow to be a northern industrial town, somewhere where everyone spoke in a thick Scottish accent and looked like they carried the weight of the world on their shoulders.

 

While Glasgow obviously carries the heritage of an industrial city, and I certainly wouldn’t describe it as a contender for a tidy towns competition, there is evidence everywhere of a vibrant arts community. And Glasgow is apparently the home of Scottish fashion. Which may explain why this was the first place on my journey where I heard someone comment on the poor fashion sense of my particular brand of backpacker chic. So my black, baggy army pants are not even chic enough for grunge but they are really comfy and don’t soak up the rain (which was forecast for Glasgow) and my puffy jacket was a little bit of overkill (although it was cold ad it was my only waterproof jacket – lesson learnt there). They seemed to take the most exception to my two bag arrangement – my small tardis handbag that has about 50 pockets and lets me keep everything I really need in an easily accessible position and my backpack which, among other things, contained the acer. I wasn’t leaving that as left luggage! [‘Pride – in the name of love’ – fun Tracy fact – this was a favourite of mine in my religious youth group days]

 

Speaking of the tardis – I found it – right in the middle of Glasgow. There was a blue police box in the middle of the main arcade through the centre of town. I am presuming it is an homage to the Doctor, as played by David Tennant, himself a Glaswegian. I never understood why they made him talk like an Englishman. I for one, would have been even more excited to watch Dr Who if he had’ve used his own accent. After all, it’s not just Sean Connery’s looks that have kept the interest of women for all these years. [‘I’m gonna be (500 Miles)’ – The Proclaimers – I thought some Scottish 80s pop was appropriate. I actually hated this song at the time but I saw The Proclaimers live a few years ago and really enjoyed it – this is probably their worst song (but the only one I have on my MP3 player)]

 

In case you wondered whether Glasgow would be a good place to get an Argyle Diamond, the answer on convenience is yes. As I’m not really ever in the market for jewellery that cost more than my car, I can’t really comment on price. So if you’re in the market for an authentic engagement ring (or if you’ve got loads to splash around, a spectacular diamond choker), Argyle Arcade is the place. There is an endless array of jewellery stores selling diamonds. In fact there is nothing but jewellery stores in the arcade and they all seemed to sell the same style of jewellery I find so boring in the stores at home. Until I got to the end of the arcade where there were a couple of original designers doing some awesome things with the diamonds. Of course diamonds and good design came at a price. Always the way with me – extremes – I’m either happy with the bargain basement option or I want the really stylish one that costs more than I’ll ever afford. What happened to the theory of manufacturing making good design available to the masses? Probably doesn’t apply to diamonds right?

 

From Argyle Arcade, I wandered up to the street where the Wee Curry Shop was supposed to be. When I got there, it seemed more like a residential street but I wandered along it anyway, checking out the buildings. At the end of the street, I found the tenement house. It was closed for renovations but that was OK – I hadn’t really been looking for it anyway. I walked back towards town on the lower street, which had a number of arty stores and premises of theatre groups and the like. It was clear I was in the vicinity of the School of Art. [‘Life in a Northern Town’ – Academy Dream – I know it’s about the north of England but it seemed appropriate for Glasgow]

 

As I headed toward the city, I tossed up the idea of checking out the other end of the street where the Wee Curry Shop was supposed to be found. By now, at almost 3pm, it was going to be far too late for a curry – the shop only did lunch from 12-2. Then I was drawn by perhaps the biggest urban renewal project I had seen so far. There were a whole lot of what I imagine were 60s built council flats (mainly because I have watched too much of The Bill over the years). They were covered in scaffolding and under redevelopment. I had seen plenty of really old buildings being restored but this was the first project like this, on this scale I had seen – a sign of the level of urban renewal occurring in Glasgow. [‘Take on Me’ – Aha –  By the time A-Ha hit the airwaves in the late 80s, I had moved back in time to discover 70s punk and Jamaican ska but I do remember the video for this song was pretty cool and some years later Reel Big Fish did quite a good cover of it.]

 

It’s funny how some places remind you of people but it wasn’t something I expected to happen on the other side of the world. Some years ago, someone I knew for a short period of time spent a year overseas, mostly living in Glasgow, and I had received occasional updates of his life there. At the time he left a big impression on me but I hadn’t thought about him in a very long time. Wandering around Glasgow, I found myself thinking of his life there, and those tales from Glasgow. [‘The Prince’ – Madness – I am so excited about seeing Madness as a post – birthday present. I had loved ‘House of Fun’ and then an English guy at school played more of their stuff for me. That was it – I was in love (with the band. Everybody was in love with the English guy. He wore bleach spotted jeans and rollers. And he was way too cool to be interested in me. . In fact my introduction to another ska band, The Specials, came from another guy who dressed like that. He made tapes for me. Hands up those that remember tapes.)

 

After taking some snaps of the urban renewal project, I rounded the corner into Buccleuch Street and there it was – The Wee Curry Shop. And it was tiny but a lot more upmarket looking than I was expecting. So I had achieved half my objective. I had found it. Unfortunately I didn’t get to meat at it – it was time to head back to the station for my trip north the Inverness to make like Christopher Lambert – I am Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. . I was born in 1518 in the village of Glenfinnan on the shores of Loch Shiel. And I am immortal. [I was looking for an appropriate Queen track but sadly, couldn’t find one. This movie still has the best scene changes I have ever seen.]

Thw Wee Curry Shop
moss grows on everything
park- Glaswegian style
a Glasgow street
high rise flats
building-lead recovery
Tardis

The road to Glasgow

 

The road to Glasgow involved a lot more steps than most of my journeys. I arose before dawn and walked the two blocks to Belfast’s bus station. The place was deserted but some fellow passengers sorted me on the procedure with tickets for the bus to the port. There was a guy who loked like he was moving his goods and chattels to Arberdeen and a mother and daughter off tol Glasgow Aert School for the daughtrer’s interview. When we arrived at the port I got on a ferry to cross the Irish Sea. On this ferry you could check your bags. I was a bit concerned because I hadn’t done the spare undies thing but I decided to take a risk. I figured when there is only one ferry it was pretty hard for it to go the wrong way.

 

It was a fairly quick trip – about two hours and for most of the time you could see land somewhere. Like the other ferries, this one had a private truck driver’s lounge like the ones you find in the service stations along the Hume. And the Italians and Spaniards could learn something from the Scotts about convenience. When you walk off the ferry, it is less than 100 metres to the train station. And my bag made it with me. It was quite a spectacular arrival into Stranraer Harbour actually – snow had fallen the during the night and the hillsides were blanketed in white. It was the first snow I had seen since Switzerland nearly two weeks ago.

 

With my Britrail pass validated I hopped on the train to discover that (as with the Irish trains) there was no power outlet. It’s not helping with the blogging. From there I headed through the snow covered lowlands of Scotland, past quite a lot of sheep – the English woolly type with the black faces. (I’m a bovine expert not a sheep expert.) There were plenty of stops along the way. Like Ireland, Scotland seems to have a lot of small villages and many have rail stations like those in the bush in Australia, sometimes just a platform with no other buildings around it. I changed at Ayr for the remainder of the two-hour journey to Glasgow, pulling in just after midday.

Leaving Ayr
Belfast left in my wake
across the Irish Sea
arriving in Scotland

 

The wall hasn’t fallen yet in Belfast

everybody’s gotta have a wheel
murals in the Falls Road
the wall stretches a long way
The gates through the wall
A tour group looking at Republican murals
Dead end

Belfast, a city I wouldn’t have dared visit 10 years ago left a big impression on me in many ways. Firstly it was really, really cold. And windy. And rainy. Of course, it is the northernmost of the island of Ireland’s capitals on the same latitude as Scotland, and I was still suffering from the tail end of the fluey thing, and I did get wet butr I can’t remember feeling this cold before on my trip. Perhaps the very friendly Irishman making my coffee on the ferry to Stranraer (Scotland) summed it up best. He visited Australia (Sydney and Mandurah, WA) in January and February. “God I was so depressed when I got home,” he said. Although I had some difficulty deciphering our conversation – the Belfast accent is the difficult Irish one – the one that seems to almost be a cross with Scottish. He was cute too but alas our conversation was interrupted by him doing his job. He probably had a girlfriend anyway. Single Irishmen seem to be a bit thin on the ground.

The people in Belfast are extremely welcoming and friendly, keen to spread word to the world that Belfast is a vibrant modern city that lives in peaceful harmony, that the ‘troubles’ are behind them and that everybody lives happily together. But Belfast is still a city divided. Over the years the conflict here has drifted in and out of my consciousness prompted by TV news reports, films, people who’ve come into my life (including Irish neighbours while I was growing up), music and just my general interest in politics and political history. So I knew who had died, where they had died and the decades of political struggles between the two communities in Northern Ireland and the hundreds of years of struggles between the two countries.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the wall. While Berlin has an outdoor museum deploring the culture that brought about its long-demolished wall, there’s a wall, probably five metres high made out of what look like the same concrete panels, with corrugated iron and razorwire atop it running down the centre of west Belfast. While the city centre and many other areas of Belfast can be traversed freely, this wall that separates the staunch protestant (and Ulster Unionist) community around Shankill Road from the staunch catholic (and Republican) community around the Falls Road can be crossed in only two places and even these entrances have gates that can be locked down when trouble starts like during the marching season. [‘Sunday Bloody Sunday’ – U2 – this just seemed appropriate somehow, even though U2 are from Dublin and this song describes an incident in Derry]

The thing you don’t expect is how close and how different the two communities are. Both roads run west from the city centre and at some points are less than a couple of minutes walk apart. Another road runs in the same direction between them – it is on the edge of the unionist side and the wall runs along its edge. I knew there would be murals but I didn’t realise how many. On both sides of the wall almost every spare expanse of wall has a mural painted on it. Alongside the murals commemorating deaths during the troubles and declaring streets and housing estates as Unionist or Republican held, there are anti- Iraq War protests, homages to Che Guvera and in some spots, where particularly millitant murals have been painted over, in a sign that things are calm enough for commercial interests to take over, murals advertising local businesses.

I took a walk down Shankill Road and while I took some photos of the murals, I felt like an intruder into something that is a very personal conflict here – and a fragile peace that could break at any moment. The shops along Shankill Road sell any number of English products, including football gear for teas like ManU and Chelsea. You actually get the feeling you are wandering through an ex-pat community, as if it was the Indian quarter or a China Town. There is a focus on white trim, often with shutters and English gardens on this side of the wall. Down closer to the wall, there are once vacant houses being redeveloped and on the morning I walked through, there was a real estate agent showing a couple through one of them, while another had a moving van out front unloading furniture. There are signs all over Belfast declaring various building projects like this one as ‘urban regeneration projects’ supported by the council. After my stroll through here, I hit the wall and wandere3d along it, back toward town, to find an entrance through.

From here I strolled up and down the Falls Road. Belfast famously has black taxis which will take you on tours of the city. On the Falls Road they have green taxis (albeit shaped like the black ones with a coat of paint). There were also foot tours you could take with a guide but rather than get taken to the places someone else chose to show me, I was happy to wander around the town. The shops along the Falls Road couldn’t be more different to the ones in Shankill Road. To begin with, most of the have their names displayed in Gaelic as well as English, there are a number of Irish cultural stores and services, a Sinn Fein shopfront and even a gift store with pro-republican merch (Lots of T-shirts with Bobby Sands and more Che Guevarra T-shirts than a student rally, even T-shirts with Sinn Fein on them. I thought for five minutes about buying one but then realised I’m not sure where I would wear it. It felt a bit too much like jumping on a bandwagon once it had well and truly left town. I was going to buy a really cool pin but they had none left and wouldn’t sell me the display one – It was a celtic cross with doves at the base. [‘New Year’s Day’ – U2, back before Bono had his sunglasses surgically attached and back when they were making music about the trouble in their own country rather than ntrying to save the world – back when I liked them best.]

The thing that strikes you walking around Belfast is the amount of shops and businesses (as well as suburban areas) that are protected by razor or barbed wire. I went to wander into a very old graveyard just north of the troubled areas, perhaps one with victims or heroes, perhaps not but at any rate, it was padlocked and the top of the fence was wrapped in razorwire and where they ran out of that, in barbed wire. It really left a huge impression on me about how lucky we really are to live somewhere as comfortable and safe as Australia (and as warm).

After my cultural tour it was time for a very late lunch and to sit somewhere warm for a while. I enjoyed a big bowl of homemade carrot and pumpkin soup and a mug of tea. I think there will be more tea when I return. I am really enjoying tea. However, it is debatable whether tea will be the 10am pick-me-up I require to deal with whatever crisis presents itself on any given working day. But for now, the relaxing, warming quality of a good strong cuppa is fitting in with my traveling just fine.

As I went straight onto my impressions of Belfast, I skipped relating my Belfast food experience. For breakfast I enjoyed an Ulster Fry. In Noirthern Ireland it appears just about everything is fried so I thought if I’m going to try something fried, it should probably be breakfast and a traditional one at that – the main part is the same as we would serve with an egg, a sausage, two pieces of bacon and a tomato. But it also comes with baked beans (like in England) and soda and potato bread. Soda bread is a dense bread made with baking soda and buttermilk instead of yeast. It was then pan fried and crispier than regular bread. Poytato bread, though, is something I remember from my childhood. It is more bread-like than a hash brown as it actually contains flour.My aforementioned neighbours – one from the Republic and brought up in England and the other from Northern Ireland, used to cook these regularly and just like her kids came around to our place when they knew waffles were o offer for tea, so I went around there when I knew they were making potato bread. My only regret was that I had to leave too early the following morning to have potato bread again. A mission when I get home – find a recipe.

After my late lunch, I wandered around a bit more and then it started raining. Now Belfast rain when it comes doesn’t feel heavy but it is constant and by the time I got back to the hostel I was cold and wet. Firstly I had chosen to wear my jeans again and they just soaked the water up. My new thick woolen hat soaks in quite a bit of rain but eventually it started dripping as well. And as I had packed the puffy jacket away, I was wearing my repel fleece jacket. Now it did a good job of repelling but it was also soaked through by the time I got back. I had planned to go and find the big fish at the harbour (given my interest in big things that was probably fairly predictable). I had also planned to try and find the restaurant that featured Ian Paisley and Gerry Adams burgers on its menu. Instead I curled up in my tracksuit and did some washing while I had the opportunity of a laundry on the premises.

After I warmed up and my chores were done, I headed out to find some dinner – I had planned to grab some Indian takeaway and go back to the hostel but I couldn’t find anything that appealed. Then I found the nice looking restaurant with roast beef on offer for 9 pounds so I sat down and ordered. Just after my dinner arrived these two Irishmen – a Dad and his son (George and Steven respectively) sat down next to me for dinner and started chatting. George was a builder – he had friends in Australia and had always wanted to go there. Steven had been working in Liverpool for the past three years but met a girl from Belfast there and so they came home. They chatted with me throughout my meal, about Australia, about Belfast and about Chopper. It made for a more interesting dinner than I’d had since Venice although George was one of those blokes that doesn’t really listen to what you say because he was too busy talking, I thought they were just being friendly or maybe even angling for a free place to stay in Australia, Then I realised George was hitting on me (I can be pretty thick when it comes to these things). I decided it was the right time to bid farewell. To George and Steven and to Belfast.

Dublin, tacky souvenir capital of the world

Sometimes the castle and surrounds are traditional…
O’Connell Bridge over the River Liffey
Temple Bar
suburban Dublin
the cathedral (and the weather)
… someimes not so traditional
The green within the castle walls

The trip north from Cork took me through green pastures, past more Friesian cows, and in sight of small rural villages. The train wound it way north through the counties to Limerick Junction, the meeting point of the counties of Tipperary and Limerick where the Heffernan clan are from. And if I ever doubted my ancestry, to be sure there are more people in Ireland with my hair than anywhere else I’ve ever been. And lots of the middle aged to elderly Irishmen look like my Dad. In fact I can see my Dad here – I think he would love it.

As I write, the temperature reading on the train says it is 10 degrees. I don’t believe that. I have felt colder in Ireland (and particularly Dublin than anywhere else I have been. There is no snow but it is a damp cold, the kind that makes you feel like snuggling under a wooly blanket your grandma knitted in front of an open fire. Fortunately the hostel had an open fire (as did many of the pubs) and inside it was toasty warm. [‘Uptown Girl’ Me First and the Gimme Gimmes – you can improve anything by adding a punk beat to it]

After arriving at the train station, I discovered the bus I needed to get me across to Temple Bar. Most things in Dublin are a fairly short walk except Heuston, the train station from the south. The station north – Connolly is only about 10 minutes walk from Temple Bar. Britain may be phasing out its red double decker buses, but Dublin has them everywhere. They are blue and the mailboxes are (predictably) green.

Eventually I arrived in Temple Bar – tourism central. Along with the strip of authentic Irish restaurants and pubs, and the people holding advertising signs in lieu of sandwich boards, there also three massive souvenir shops, including an official Guinness store and the official Temple Bar souvenirs store. These were all of course in very old buildings, some of which were probably pubs, and there were, as you’d expect, cobble-stoned streets. The hostel was really nice and staffed by (again) friendly kiwis. Lots of the people staying there were Australians and during my visit to the common room later in the evening, I came across some very young, very drunk, very annoying Australian guys. No wonder we have such a reputation overseas. In fact a lot of Australians must go to Dublin because the currency exchanges all show Australian flags and if you use a visa card, they ask if you want the transaction in AUD.

Evidently the rugby match I had encountered in Cork was played in Dublin – there were banners everywhere saying ‘We welcome English rugby fans to Temple Bar’. Wandering around, I actually heard more pommy accents than Irish ones, which is a shame because I melt when I hear an Irish accent. (I still haven’t met a sweet Irish boy yet but there is always Belfast.) Still feeling quite fluey, I chose a restaurant with an open fire that promised a hearty Irish feed. I chose the Beef and Guinness pie with mash. It was exactly what I needed. And once again I couldn’t finish the piles of mashed potato it was served with. And I love mash. And I washed it down with a pint of Guinness – when in Ireland and all that.

Some years ago I watched a documentary about the making of Guinness that was narrated by a man with my surname who said his family had been involved in the original Guinness discovery. I decided that if my ancestors were involved, I should at least give Guinness a try. It was much too bitter for me. Not in Ireland though. Here it is absolutely delicious. I could drink it all the time. Now if we could just get them to make Irish Guinness in Australia, everything would be grand. [‘Rocket Man’ – Me First and the Gimme Gimmes – some songs should be left alone but this song is good if you want to actually know the words to the song – they’re annunciated better in this version.] After dinner and only my second call home since I left, I snuggled under the blankets for a good night’s sleep.

I awoke to another typically damp, windy Irish winter day (despite the fact that spring officially began yesterday). First job was sorting out a ticket to Belfast. For anyone intending to travel from Dublin to Belfast on a Eurail Pass like me, you will only get halfway – the pass only gets you to Dundalk. From there you have to buy a ticket to get to Belfast (about 20 euros). After sorting the travel I headed out for a walk around Grafton Street and through the area now known as SoDa. I found a great little market arcade with some hip designers and the usual market stuff. It also housed a retro shop but there wasn’t anything much that you couldn’t get at Route 66 in Melbourne or Sydney – They even had the same shoes. I found a great skirt in one of the boutiques but as usual sizing was a bit of an issue and the skirt was a bit too expensive for something I would need to alter.

By about lunchtime I was in need of sustenance as I had woken up a bit late for the free hostel breakfast. I found just the ticket at nude, which was essentially one of those juice bars that also do soups and salads. Something warm like soup looked very appealing. As it turned out they also did stews, served with mash or in a bread bowl. I chose an Irish stew in a bread bowl and a mug of tea. Perfect Irish comfort food. [‘Debaser’ – The Pixies – this is another real winter song which seems appropriate at the moment]

After refueling (and warming up a bit) I headed back out, this time walking a bit further towards the parts of Dublin where people actually live like The Liberties. There was a lot of what I imagine were post-war flats or perhaps even housing estates, mostly all red brick. I also came across St. Patrick’s cathedral which has a nice manicured park and garden. It wasn’t as mindblowing as some of the other churches I had seen but was c certainly a good example of an Irish Roman Catholic church. I also came across a couple of nuns walking around Dublin – the only place I had seen them outside of Rome.

My last stop in Dublin was at the castle. Now Dublin castle is a strange place. Many of the buildings that were contained in the castle’s walls as well as the walls themselves remain standing. However, parts have been refinished. And painted bright colours. As in Rome, you are reminded that people weren’t protecting these ruins for the past thousand years the same way they are today and cities grew up around these historically significant buildings without regard for protecting their surroundings. It has actually been one of the most interesting things about monuments on my trip – what the monuments were next to.

After my historical encounter it was time to spend some money in the two level souvenir shop (yes I had to) and grab my bags and bid farewell to Dublin.

In Cork, the Irish rebels love their footy

There are some seriously old buildings but unlike the other cities Cork has a villiage feel
No colour editing – the grass everywhere really is that green
Cork is actually quite hilly with lots of these retaining walls
probably where the old train station was
A vibrant inner city for a population a little smaller than Canberra
The harbour is the world’s second largest natural harbour (after Sydney)
wandering the streets and laneways
The signs are still in two languages but everyone speaks English
Blarney Castle
Cork Butter Museum. Yes, really.

I really, really like Cork – it reminds me a lot of Newcastle – a working class industrial port city that has had to reinvent itself for the 21st century. In Cork’s case that has meant, like most of Ireland, IT. Apple Computers has its European headquarters here and Amazon have just followed suit. Cork’s harbour is the second largest natural harbour in the world, behind Sydney and its position on the Southern tip of Ireland makes it an ideal distribution point for US companies.

Cork is casual and welcoming, and the people incredibly friendly. People were happy to chat or give you directions. And while there are stylish boutiques throughout the city, people here don’t take themselves too seriously and the attitude is very casual. It’s one of the first places since Rovaniemi that I didn’t feel out of place in my army pants. And there’s a good reason a hoodie and an anorak are standard dress in Cork – it may rain at any minute. In the 24 hours I was in Cork it rained four times (and that was while I was awake). [‘The Rocky Road to Dublin’ – Dropkick Murphys – yes I’m back to the Dropkicks – yes I know they are from Boston but they’re Boston Irish through and through]

It appeared that I had arrived in Cork on the night of a six nations rugby match between Ireland and England. While Cork is known for being Ireland’s rebels, they’re still fiercely loyal to the national rugby side and any hope of seeing a live band was quickly dashed. Every bar in town, up or downmarket was showing the match. The Irish are passionate about sport – be it rugby, soccer (and they call it that) or Gaelic football. I probably would have had a beer and even watched the game (when in Cork) but I was feeling really cloggy and in need of a cup of tea and some comfort food. I found it at a little place called Uptown Grill or something like that. A roast leg of chicken with mashed potato and mushy peas. And a pot of tea. The Irish serve tea with a meal like we would have a coke. A huge steaming pot of really strong tea, the way my grandma used to make it. It was perfect. Then I went back to my room and snuggled under the doona for a good night’s sleep.

While I was still fluey, the sleep (and probably the tea) had helped a lot. I got up, had my free hostel breakfast – toast with jam and tea – and headed out for the day. I thoroughly recommend the Bru Bar and Hostel – the staff are a mixture of Irish and New Zealanders and it is friendly and relaxed. The rooms are clean and comfy and they provide free wi-fi – no mucking about, you just log on. I was glad they made everything so easy while I was feeling sickly. My first mission for the day was making my way to Blarney. [‘The Wild Rover’ – Dropkick Murphys – a traditional Irish ditty gets the Dropkicks treatment]

Yes, I kissed the Blarney Stone. Yes, I am aware the locals piss on it. And no, you don’t have to worry about me talking more – the Blarney Stone is about the gift of eloquence (and I don’t think anyone would argue that I could do with that). And by the way, you don’t need to be so worried about bending over backwards to kiss it – there are two guys to hold you (and they take a photo) what you should be more worried about is the never ending really tight and steep spiral staircase to the top of the castle where the stone is. I paid for the photo this time 10 euros and it came with a certificate. If Santa charged 10 euros instead of 50, I would have got my photo there too.

Blarney is about 15 minutes by bus out of Cork – it is a little village around a common (heavy with tourist stuff of course) but what is interesting on the trip is the number of small farms and villages you go past or pass through on the way, all serviced by public transport. In Ireland, you really can live in a small village and commute to work. In fact it would take less time than getting to civic if you live in Kambah.

From the lush green grass and Friesian cows (they’re the black and white ones for the bovine illiterate) to the dry stone walls, the country around Cork really reminded me of Kiama. It’s hardly surprising since it was Irish immigrants who started the dairy industry in Australia. Which leads me to my next port of call – The Cork Butter Museum. Unfortunately no statues made of butter, but a plethora of artifacts for making the stuff and a history of butter in Cork, including the fact that the butter storehouses and market in Cork were for a long time the centre of world trade in butter. Fun butter fact – milch (milk) and the cow were at the centre of both the ancient Irish diet and mythology – they buried butter in the bogs in ancient times (a container of which was on display in the museum. Now you may question my interest in the butter museum (apart from the obvious kitsch element) but my family history is tied to the dairy industry in Australia (and gee with a surname like Heffernan, you wouldn’t guess that they might have been Irish dairy farmers originally). And one of my great uncles (Irish catholics come from big families so there are a few) built his own butter museum on the road between Kameruka and Candelo. I have no idea whether it still exists as the last time I was there was more than 20 years ago but I was interested to see the Cork museum, which was a lot better archived and presented than Vic’s museum – his was basically in a disused shed from stuff he had collected out of interest. [‘Amazing Grace’ – Dropkick Murphys from the album Live on St Patrick’s Day From Boston MA – this is the version of this song I want played at my funeral (not any time soon I hope)]

The other thing Cork has is a lot of is churches – not like Rome has relics but functioning churches. I was in Cork on Sunday so it was probably more obvious but there were also ads for charities urging people to give generously this lent. There are probably few other countries in the world where advertising can target a specific religion and be successful.

Cork also has welcoming people. And yes I am still totally in love with the Irish accent. And no, I haven’t found myself an Irishman to sweep me off my feet. My favourite Irish mannerism is a hallmark of why this country (or Cork at least) seems so welcoming. Instead of saying you’re welcome, they say ‘it’s no bother at all’.

In transit with a Spanish flu – like being in limbo but worse

So what idiot agreed to an 8am flight? That would be me, without of course, any regard for the fact that meant being on the way to the airport at 3.45am. Despite my concern, the shuttle bus turned up (early in fact) and the driver spoke enough English to get me to terminal 4. This was the first time I had caught a plane since arriving in Stockholm without spare undies so this time I was prepared – enough clothes to last a couple of days were piled into my onboard luggage. [‘Full Moon, Empty Heart’ – Belly – this is probably my favourite Belly song and perfect for a Sunday afternoon as the sun goes down over Limerick Junction, Ireland]

I had tried to check in online about three times without success ad when I arrived at the airport I realised why – I was flying into Ireland with a one-way ticket on a budget airline and there was no evidence I was leaving (despite the fact I was booked on a plane back to Australia in less than two weeks). As it turned out, the Irish border was the hardest one I have crossed so far. And despite being able to stay for up to 60 days, they want a date for when you are leaving as soon as you arrive. And they check your passport about six times before you actually make it across the border. Anyway, despite my concern, the airline check-in girl booked my bags through to Cork. At least this time I had undies.

Madrid’s Barajas Airport was the first major international Airport I had entered. It’s easy when you go through Hong Kong as a transit passenger and Helsinki airport was a lot smaller than SKSA. It was a convoluted process to get to the gate through security screening, downstairs, on a train to the terminal 4 annex, upstairs, more security screening and a passport check – I got my second passport stamp for leaving Spain. Now seeing as Ireland is part of the EU (they even use the Euro), I was surprised by the strict level of border control – EU citizens can live and work in Ireland. Finally, we boarded the plane and I settled in for the two and a half hour flight. Greater Madrid looked quite spectacular as we flew out before dawn. It dawns quite late in Madrid and the sun sets rather late as well, which probably explains the structure of the Spanish day.

Once I arrived at Heathrow, it was clear I had a pretty serious head cold – temperature, hacking cough and blocked sinuses – the whole deal. Between my Spanish flu and my lack of sleep, it was going to be a long six hour wait for the train. Most of the first hour was just taken up with getting through the security checks and to the correct terminal. First you walk for about 15 minutes, get on a bus and walk for another 10 minutes then you get your passport checked twice and have a biometric photo taken. Then you walk for another 10 minutes to get to the correct waiting area where you get the boarding pass for the connecting flight. First I sorted the cash situation and then I decided to have breakfast. I was in England (well kind of) so I decided it was time for my first fry up since leaving home. It was great and it was nice to be able to order without pointing and using hand gestures.

After wasting the day, suffering with the flu in transit, I had to pass through another passport check and a biometrics check before finally boarding the plane for Cork. Interestingly English isn’t the first language for the announcements to Ireland either. They are in Gaelic. But everybody speaks English. I arrived in Cork airport where it had been raining to yet another passport check (and another stamp) allowing me only to stay until March 6 – I couldn’t remember the exact date I had planned to leave Ireland. And the first thing I noticed was how green it was. Everybody tells you but you’re really not prepared. [‘Gepetto’ – Belly – kind of appropriate considering the Celtic sounding Clanaard was the genesis for this band.]

Injuries and a little TLC in Madrid

Yes my Madrid sojourn began with a bit of a disaster but considering that during my only other overseas holiday I almost got killed by a coconut and arrived home with a golden staf infection, a sprained ankle doesn’t seem too bad. And given I was staying with friends who nursed me with cups of tea and an ice pack, if it was going to happen, this was the perfect place. And the perfect timing – just after I arrived. And I’m sorry to disappoint those hanging out for a cool story about how I was engaged in some kind of adventure sports. In my own true style I sprained my ankle walking through a door. In my defence there was a raised door jam I should have stepped over and the whole exercise was complicated by the fact there was also quite a step down. I did, though, manage not to break the funky glassware I was holding at the time. So there I was, moments after arriving at the home of my friends Scott and Edward, tripping over the door to their penthouse terrace, laughing my head off. Why was I laughing? Because I had managed to carry my great heavy pack around the icy streets of four countries covered in snow (not to mention Lapland) and I tripped over a door.

 

I decided not to let it stop me – but by the afternoon of our first day out on the town, Scott noticed I was limping so we spent the afternoon and evening chilling out in the apartment. This rest was exactly what I needed, for the ankle and for me. And it didn’t stop me from seeing some of Madrid – we did mostly art and food. I just did the sightseeing at a more relaxed pace. [‘Dust Me Selecta’ – Gerling – now I used to like Gerling a whole lot when they were basically a punk band with backpacks. I really like their electronic stuff too – like this track]

 

The first evening we visited a Spanish supermarket. Like the Italians, the Spanish have large aisles of olive oil. They also have heaps of beans and legumes – a staple part of the Spanish diet. And they make great chips – the snacky kind, not the hot kind, which they make fresh, fried in olive oil and serve to you. They also have tortillas – the potato kind not the Mexican flour thingys – which we picked up for the next day’s breakfast. That evening I had a home cooked Spanish inspired chicken dish with awesome black olives. You know how Spanish olives you get in Australia mostly have no taste – these had taste. Because they were black it was a subtler flavour but they had flavour. After that we settled back, had a chat and watched some telly.

 

On the morning of day two, despite quite considerable pain in my ankle, I was determined to get out and see the city. As with most of the places I have visited so far, I scored an appropriate dose of Spanish weather. Sunny and warm – about 17 – 20 degrees – warm enough for me to wear a skirt and T-shirt (and my snow boots mostly to stabilize my ankle. We took a walk and Scott pointed out some of the buildings they had considered, the local character of the areas we walked through and some little tidbits of Spanish history and culture. Madrid, like Barcelona has a lot of wrought iron balconies and wider streets than the other European cities I had visited. Yet, there is the same structure with apartment buildings that are four or five stories high, central squares and plazas and statues and monuments everywhere. Except that in Spain, and Madrid in particular, the monuments are more likely to be fountains than in other places.

 

There is the same emotive reaction in the Spanish as you see in Italians but they are much more likely to be helpful and friendly. There is a slightly chaotic feeling as well, but unlike in Italy it is ordered chaos. The metro system is an example of this. There are loads of different metro lines crisscrossing the city and often each other. For someone from elsewhere the web seems extremely confusing and it is easy to get on the wrong line going in the wrong direction. But the metro trains and stations are incredibly clean (in comparison to Italy) and this chaotic web means there is a metro station really close to wherever you need to go.[‘Here in your bedroom’ – Goldfinger – almost as good a track about a one night stand as the famous Hunters and Collectors number that Paul McDermott like so much]

 

Our first stop on our meander through Madrid was the Rietro – a huge park (hectares) in the middle of the city that used to be an aristocratic hunting ground. This is the second of these parks I have seen and they couldn’t be more different. While the Berlin Park had some structured trails, it was largely still a wilderness area (probably accentuated by the fact the whole park was   buried under quite a bit of snow. The Rietro was much more structured with carefully manicured topiary trees everywhere (so manicured it invoked memories of Edward Scissorhands for me), a boating lake, statues and gardens and loads of people everywhere. It was like what Commonwealth Park might have been if somebody planned it better and put it close to where people actually lived.

 

From there we passed by the Prado, Madrid’s famous art museum but we decided to choose some more modern collections to see. First there was a Rodin exhibition outside a smaller gallery – we took a look and ventured inside. Apart from a very funky staircase and a gift shop that I’m sure Scott could spend a whole day in, there was an exhibition from a Stucco artists and another hit and miss exhibition from a cultural collective which chooses the artists to show based on their work’s relationship/reaction to society. I had at first surmised that it was a student exhibition – it had that kind of reactionary, angry and discordant flavour about it.

 

After this is was time to head to one of Madrid’s other famous galleries – The Renie Sofia, which contained works by more of the Spanish artists who interested me – Picasso, Dali etc. I’ve never toured a gallery with Scott but always thought it would be fun. It was. And what better place to find this out. There were times of admiration from the artists but also irreverence. You don’t have to genuflect in front of a piece just because an artist created it and a gallery exhibited it. In art, as in all things, what appeals and what you think is ridiculous is a matter of personal taste. The work of artists like Picasso was the popular culture of their time. Mozart’s tunes were once pop songs. [ ‘No Worries’ – Hepcat – I discovered Hepcat, a traditional first wave style ska band at Warped Tour in Ulladulla, Festivals are good for that. I remember that their rhythm section actually reverberated through the ground.]

 

After the gallery tour, it became obvious (probably from my increased limping) that I needed to take a rest. We decided lunch (the Spanish lunch starts at 2pm) was in order and stopped at a Spanish sidewalk restaurant for lunch. We had these fantastic little fried peppers – they had a similar flavour to a capsicum but were the size of a chilli, chicken croquets, marinated roasted chicken and potatas bravos (which I probably haven’t spelt correctly but mean brave potato). I never really thought of how integral the potato had become to the Spanish – you always think of Ireland when you think of the potato even though it is actually indigenous to South America.

 

After lunch, it was clear the walking had actually been quite a bad idea for my ankle so we went home. It had actually swollen up quite a bit so my host turned into my nurse and we put it up with an ice pack and I sat on the couch sipping beautifully made tea watching Voyager, which was like old times with Scott (even the ankle as I have always been, and will probably always be, a complete klutz). We also watched several episodes of this awesome UK comedy Peep Show. If you get a chance, check it out – you’ll cringe but it’s totally worth it.

 

After a comfort meal of sausage pasta, lots of tea and sympathy and a good rest my ankle felt ready to tackle Madrid’s streets once again. Edward joined us for the second day of Madrid induction. First off were two practical housekeeping tasks – money and another postal attempt. I achieved one objective. Like everywhere else, the banks in Madrid don’t seem to actually like dealing with people and giving them cash. So that was a wash out. I thought I’d leave it for Heathrow where a) people spoke English and b) there are so many people passing through that they would have to offer those services.

 

Next stop – the post office. Despite the fact that the post office assistant didn’t speak English, like the German guy he was very helpful. This time, however, I was armed with Spanish speakers and on the second try we managed to get a box the right size (the first box would have fit my entire rucksack – when you say big to a Spaniard they take it seriously), fill out the Customs declaration, fill the box with stuff, address it and post it. And the helpful postie did it as economically as possible for us. I think he may have thrown the box in for free in the end. Consequently those who asked for souvenirs pre-Madrid may have to wait a little longer – I took the two weeks to a month option, which cut the cost by half. Then there was all the paperwork (and the stamps). Apparently stamps are pretty big with all things official in Spain. [‘Pounding’ – Doves – the band who I have as the message tone on my phone – not this song though]

 

After the chores were done with, we took a stroll through the centre of town to look at the second hand silver dealers which produced loads of animal themed silver statues – prawns and other assorted seafood were the standouts – but not the knock-my-socks-off jewellery piece I had been looking for. We also found some other funky shops, like the one with the bottle green felt top hat.

 

After all that window shopping, it was time for lunch – we ate a little earlier than the Spanish lunch hour in order to secure a table at a great little homey restaurant, one of the hidden gems I never would have discovered without my hosts. This time we ordered a three course meal – bits of stuff – not quite tapas but close – for entrée, including a shared bean soup. The fabulous thing about the Spanish is that they believe in enjoying your food – it’s not about presentation or using the correct fork. Food is shared from the plate – there is no such thing as individual plates – that just takes up space on the table. Even the bread just goes straight on the table or at most a paper serviette. The Spanish are pretty stylish so you might want to make sure you’ve wiped your chin and not spilt anything on your clothes but other than that, anything goes. The second course was the most deliciously tender roast chicken and dessert the famous St James or almond cake. I am told when whole it always has a cross on it (in sprinkled icing sugar). This gastronomic delight was washed down with wine topped up with a local, slightly sweet, sparkling mineral water – very refreshing. After lunch it was time to do what the Spanish do and head home for a siesta.

 

We hit town for dinner about 8pm, much earlier than the Spanish would eat guaranteeing a) that we would get a table and b) that I would be in bed relatively early. Our first stop was a little Cuban bar around the corner from the restaurant, which reportedly did some wicked caparinhas and mohitos although this evening we stuck to a quick pre-dinner beer.

We ate at a really good restaurant the boys had discovered that served great food from the Galacian region in north-western Spain. It was so popular that if you don’t get there really early, you had to queue. In keeping with the egalitarian nature of the Spanish, the place doesn’t take reservations. It had a really rustic and informal feel, which somehow fitted comfortably with the style of Madrid. While Madrid is a cultured place with a high sense of style, it is a relaxed rather than prissy style and this place fitted that mantra well. As it was renowned for seafood, we made sure our order contained quite a bit of it. We had the fried peppers again, mushrooms and bacon, cod croquettes, calamari and mussels in this great tomato sauce and we washed it down with wine (served in bowls like saki – also a Galacian tradition). We again followed the meal with St James cake. Afterwards we headed to a little tapas bar with all kinds of odd decorations for a final beer. My favourite part was the whole leg of ham (including its black trotter) was attached to the bar for easy slicing. Apparently the colour of the marking on the trotter indicates the type of ham. There were sever4al other hams and assorted cold meats hanging on the wall behind the bar. What was also interesting in such a chaotic bar – in Spain you pay for your drinks when you leave. It’s an interesting idea but not one I think would work particularly well in Australia, where you have enough trouble stopping people from souveniring glasses from the pub. [‘Violet’ – Hole – from the album Live Through This, one of the packages of songs that works phenomenally well as an album, played from beginning to end. This song reminds me of winters in Canberra (and it’s another one of my ringtones]

 

That’s where my Madrid tour ended, a markedly different traveling experience to the others. It was a lot more relaxed – I had stayed in Madrid for three nights, the longest stop so far and I didn’t need to know how to get anywhere. If you gave me a map of Madrid and the metro, I wouldn’t be able to tell you how to get anywhere. I also hadn’t planned any type of itinerary in Madrid and decided to see it through the eyes of my friends. It was also one of the few places (other than Venice) that I have been out at night. And I got to rest and just chill out for a while to recuperate for the rest of my trip.

Yes my Madrid sojourn began with a bit of a disaster but considering that during my only other overseas holiday I almost got killed by a coconut and arrived home with a golden staf infection, a sprained ankle doesn’t seem too bad. And given I was staying with friends who nursed me with cups of tea and an ice pack, if it was going to happen, this was the perfect place. And the perfect timing – just after I arrived. And I’m sorry to disappoint those hanging out for a cool story about how I was engaged in some kind of adventure sports. In my own true style I sprained my ankle walking through a door. In my defence there was a raised door jam I should have stepped over and the whole exercise was complicated by the fact there was also quite a step down. I did, though, manage not to break the funky glassware I was holding at the time. So there I was, moments after arriving at the home of my friends Scott and Edward, tripping over the door to their penthouse terrace, laughing my head off. Why was I laughing? Because I had managed to carry my great heavy pack around the icy streets of four countries covered in snow (not to mention Lapland) and I tripped over a door.

 

I decided not to let it stop me – but by the afternoon of our first day out on the town, Scott noticed I was limping so we spent the afternoon and evening chilling out in the apartment. This rest was exactly what I needed, for the ankle and for me. And it didn’t stop me from seeing some of Madrid – we did mostly art and food. I just did the sightseeing at a more relaxed pace. [‘Dust Me Selecta’ – Gerling – now I used to like Gerling a whole lot when they were basically a punk band with backpacks. I really like their electronic stuff too – like this track]

 

The first evening we visited a Spanish supermarket. Like the Italians, the Spanish have large aisles of olive oil. They also have heaps of beans and legumes – a staple part of the Spanish diet. And they make great chips – the snacky kind, not the hot kind, which they make fresh, fried in olive oil and serve to you. They also have tortillas – the potato kind not the Mexican flour thingys – which we picked up for the next day’s breakfast. That evening I had a home cooked Spanish inspired chicken dish with awesome black olives. You know how Spanish olives you get in Australia mostly have no taste – these had taste. Because they were black it was a subtler flavour but they had flavour. After that we settled back, had a chat and watched some telly.

 

On the morning of day two, despite quite considerable pain in my ankle, I was determined to get out and see the city. As with most of the places I have visited so far, I scored an appropriate dose of Spanish weather. Sunny and warm – about 17 – 20 degrees – warm enough for me to wear a skirt and T-shirt (and my snow boots mostly to stabilize my ankle. We took a walk and Scott pointed out some of the buildings they had considered, the local character of the areas we walked through and some little tidbits of Spanish history and culture. Madrid, like Barcelona has a lot of wrought iron balconies and wider streets than the other European cities I had visited. Yet, there is the same structure with apartment buildings that are four or five stories high, central squares and plazas and statues and monuments everywhere. Except that in Spain, and Madrid in particular, the monuments are more likely to be fountains than in other places.

 

There is the same emotive reaction in the Spanish as you see in Italians but they are much more likely to be helpful and friendly. There is a slightly chaotic feeling as well, but unlike in Italy it is ordered chaos. The metro system is an example of this. There are loads of different metro lines crisscrossing the city and often each other. For someone from elsewhere the web seems extremely confusing and it is easy to get on the wrong line going in the wrong direction. But the metro trains and stations are incredibly clean (in comparison to Italy) and this chaotic web means there is a metro station really close to wherever you need to go.[‘Here in your bedroom’ – Goldfinger – almost as good a track about a one night stand as the famous Hunters and Collectors number that Paul McDermott like so much]

 

Our first stop on our meander through Madrid was the Rietro – a huge park (hectares) in the middle of the city that used to be an aristocratic hunting ground. This is the second of these parks I have seen and they couldn’t be more different. While the Berlin Park had some structured trails, it was largely still a wilderness area (probably accentuated by the fact the whole park was   buried under quite a bit of snow. The Rietro was much more structured with carefully manicured topiary trees everywhere (so manicured it invoked memories of Edward Scissorhands for me), a boating lake, statues and gardens and loads of people everywhere. It was like what Commonwealth Park might have been if somebody planned it better and put it close to where people actually lived.

 

From there we passed by the Prado, Madrid’s famous art museum but we decided to choose some more modern collections to see. First there was a Rodin exhibition outside a smaller gallery – we took a look and ventured inside. Apart from a very funky staircase and a gift shop that I’m sure Scott could spend a whole day in, there was an exhibition from a Stucco artists and another hit and miss exhibition from a cultural collective which chooses the artists to show based on their work’s relationship/reaction to society. I had at first surmised that it was a student exhibition – it had that kind of reactionary, angry and discordant flavour about it.

 

After this is was time to head to one of Madrid’s other famous galleries – The Renie Sofia, which contained works by more of the Spanish artists who interested me – Picasso, Dali etc. I’ve never toured a gallery with Scott but always thought it would be fun. It was. And what better place to find this out. There were times of admiration from the artists but also irreverence. You don’t have to genuflect in front of a piece just because an artist created it and a gallery exhibited it. In art, as in all things, what appeals and what you think is ridiculous is a matter of personal taste. The work of artists like Picasso was the popular culture of their time. Mozart’s tunes were once pop songs. [ ‘No Worries’ – Hepcat – I discovered Hepcat, a traditional first wave style ska band at Warped Tour in Ulladulla, Festivals are good for that. I remember that their rhythm section actually reverberated through the ground.]

 

After the gallery tour, it became obvious (probably from my increased limping) that I needed to take a rest. We decided lunch (the Spanish lunch starts at 2pm) was in order and stopped at a Spanish sidewalk restaurant for lunch. We had these fantastic little fried peppers – they had a similar flavour to a capsicum but were the size of a chilli, chicken croquets, marinated roasted chicken and potatas bravos (which I probably haven’t spelt correctly but mean brave potato). I never really thought of how integral the potato had become to the Spanish – you always think of Ireland when you think of the potato even though it is actually indigenous to South America.

 

After lunch, it was clear the walking had actually been quite a bad idea for my ankle so we went home. It had actually swollen up quite a bit so my host turned into my nurse and we put it up with an ice pack and I sat on the couch sipping beautifully made tea watching Voyager, which was like old times with Scott (even the ankle as I have always been, and will probably always be, a complete klutz). We also watched several episodes of this awesome UK comedy Peep Show. If you get a chance, check it out – you’ll cringe but it’s totally worth it.

 

After a comfort meal of sausage pasta, lots of tea and sympathy and a good rest my ankle felt ready to tackle Madrid’s streets once again. Edward joined us for the second day of Madrid induction. First off were two practical housekeeping tasks – money and another postal attempt. I achieved one objective. Like everywhere else, the banks in Madrid don’t seem to actually like dealing with people and giving them cash. So that was a wash out. I thought I’d leave it for Heathrow where a) people spoke English and b) there are so many people passing through that they would have to offer those services.

 

Next stop – the post office. Despite the fact that the post office assistant didn’t speak English, like the German guy he was very helpful. This time, however, I was armed with Spanish speakers and on the second try we managed to get a box the right size (the first box would have fit my entire rucksack – when you say big to a Spaniard they take it seriously), fill out the Customs declaration, fill the box with stuff, address it and post it. And the helpful postie did it as economically as possible for us. I think he may have thrown the box in for free in the end. Consequently those who asked for souvenirs pre-Madrid may have to wait a little longer – I took the two weeks to a month option, which cut the cost by half. Then there was all the paperwork (and the stamps). Apparently stamps are pretty big with all things official in Spain. [‘Pounding’ – Doves – the band who I have as the message tone on my phone – not this song though]

 

After the chores were done with, we took a stroll through the centre of town to look at the second hand silver dealers which produced loads of animal themed silver statues – prawns and other assorted seafood were the standouts – but not the knock-my-socks-off jewellery piece I had been looking for. We also found some other funky shops, like the one with the bottle green felt top hat.

 

After all that window shopping, it was time for lunch – we ate a little earlier than the Spanish lunch hour in order to secure a table at a great little homey restaurant, one of the hidden gems I never would have discovered without my hosts. This time we ordered a three course meal – bits of stuff – not quite tapas but close – for entrée, including a shared bean soup. The fabulous thing about the Spanish is that they believe in enjoying your food – it’s not about presentation or using the correct fork. Food is shared from the plate – there is no such thing as individual plates – that just takes up space on the table. Even the bread just goes straight on the table or at most a paper serviette. The Spanish are pretty stylish so you might want to make sure you’ve wiped your chin and not spilt anything on your clothes but other than that, anything goes. The second course was the most deliciously tender roast chicken and dessert the famous St James or almond cake. I am told when whole it always has a cross on it (in sprinkled icing sugar). This gastronomic delight was washed down with wine topped up with a local, slightly sweet, sparkling mineral water – very refreshing. After lunch it was time to do what the Spanish do and head home for a siesta.

 

We hit town for dinner about 8pm, much earlier than the Spanish would eat guaranteeing a) that we would get a table and b) that I would be in bed relatively early. Our first stop was a little Cuban bar around the corner from the restaurant, which reportedly did some wicked caparinhas and mohitos although this evening we stuck to a quick pre-dinner beer.

We ate at a really good restaurant the boys had discovered that served great food from the Galacian region in north-western Spain. It was so popular that if you don’t get there really early, you had to queue. In keeping with the egalitarian nature of the Spanish, the place doesn’t take reservations. It had a really rustic and informal feel, which somehow fitted comfortably with the style of Madrid. While Madrid is a cultured place with a high sense of style, it is a relaxed rather than prissy style and this place fitted that mantra well. As it was renowned for seafood, we made sure our order contained quite a bit of it. We had the fried peppers again, mushrooms and bacon, cod croquettes, calamari and mussels in this great tomato sauce and we washed it down with wine (served in bowls like saki – also a Galacian tradition). We again followed the meal with St James cake. Afterwards we headed to a little tapas bar with all kinds of odd decorations for a final beer. My favourite part was the whole leg of ham (including its black trotter) was attached to the bar for easy slicing. Apparently the colour of the marking on the trotter indicates the type of ham. There were sever4al other hams and assorted cold meats hanging on the wall behind the bar. What was also interesting in such a chaotic bar – in Spain you pay for your drinks when you leave. It’s an interesting idea but not one I think would work particularly well in Australia, where you have enough trouble stopping people from souveniring glasses from the pub. [‘Violet’ – Hole – from the album Live Through This, one of the packages of songs that works phenomenally well as an album, played from beginning to end. This song reminds me of winters in Canberra (and it’s another one of my ringtones]

 

That’s where my Madrid tour ended, a markedly different traveling experience to the others. It was a lot more relaxed – I had stayed in Madrid for three nights, the longest stop so far and I didn’t need to know how to get anywhere. If you gave me a map of Madrid and the metro, I wouldn’t be able to tell you how to get anywhere. I also hadn’t planned any type of itinerary in Madrid and decided to see it through the eyes of my friends. It was also one of the few places (other than Venice) that I have been out at night. And I got to rest and just chill out for a while to recuperate for the rest of my trip.

Madrid’s laneways
wandering the Rietro
The freaky topiary trees
My favourite balconies
The wall garden
Madrid’s main square
The corner supermarket poresso is impressive
In Spain they build gardens around ruins – not other buildings
The duck pond (different to the boat pond)
The cows are everywhere