EUROPE 2013

EUROPE 2013

TICKETS PLEASE!

In April 2012 we decided on an extended trip to Europe, proposing to depart Melbourne in April 2013 to fly to Paris, collect a new lease car and drive ourselves through Western and Eastern Europe, England, Scotland and Wales.

Heather and I agreed on a few parameters including flights on the A380 in Premium Economy.
Out departure date was set as 16th April, returning in mid-June, which was later extended to 4th July.
Searching for a fair price for two return tickets to Paris it came as no surprise that Qantas-Air France codeshare flights booked through Qantas were some $4000 dearer that the same flights booked through Air France.
Tickets were hence booked and paid for with AF in Premium Economy on a Qantas A380 to Singapore and hence on an Air France A380 to Paris with the flights reversed for our return.
This was finalised with selected seats on all legs allocated by 2nd August 2012.
Soon afterwards, Qantas withdrew their A380 code share flights with AF through Singapore and hopped into bed with Emirates, re-routing flights to Europe via Dubai.
Our Qantas leg to Singapore was altered to Premium on a B747 with a longer stop over at Changi, and later to Economy on an A330-300 with a seven hour stop over.
The shit had thus comprehensively hit the fan, and we were standing right beneath it.
Air France were reasonable and offered a modest rebate for the economy leg on Qantas. This was acceptable until AF altered their A380 to a B777 from Singapore to Paris, and Qantas failed to respond to my detailed letter to them.
Our dates were fixed as we had paid for the lease of a brand new Peugeot 208 to be collected in Paris the day after our arrival.
Lesson number one had been comprehensively taught and it was time to suck eggs and look elsewhere.
Malaysian Airlines had recently taken delivery of several new A380's and their quoted prices on the www for Business flights were less than Qantas Premium economy flights.
And so off to Flight Centre, Bendigo. In less than thirty minutes we had Business class seats on Malaysian to KL (A330/300) and hence on an A380 to Paris with full business class lie-flat seating, together with complementary Golden Lounge access at each terminal.
AF wanted a large cancellation fee but finally reneged and returned the full initial payment!!
A successful outcome at last; and stuff Qantas and that stupid little joke of an Irish prick who continues to fuck them up big time!!


Tuesday, 16th April

,,,and we are off on another adventure we can't afford but will enjoy every moment of.
Our lucky country is a l-o-n-g way from Europe....

Business class was brilliant, and we got a bit of sleep on the A330-300 to KL—almost lie flat seats. Superb food but far too much of it.
Lounge at KL great but we were buggered and full so didn’t eat anything—just had a couple of double scotches to stay awake, but that didn’t help. Lots of walking to the next flight.
The A380 was amazing!!--full lie flat beds, HEAPS of room, but again they served us a full three course meal ??supper?? But the middle of the night for us. Then seats flat and we both had a good sleep—maybe 4-5 hours.
Then woken again for ‘breakfast’ 2 hours out of Paris—ANOTHER three course meal!!
Found our pub which is shithouse, but right opposite the terminal, and collapsed into bed at 08:00 local.

17th April

There's nothing much more frustrating than being stuck in a crappy hotel room, 24Km North East of Paris, amongst the airport complex.
We planned to have a good rest here first, then perhaps take the airport train into the city about lunchtime for a bit of a look round.   It was nearly 4pm here when we woke, still jet-lagged, the locals in reception strongly advised not going into the city and coming back after dark.
After all, there are pickpockets everywhere and they've even closed the Louvre.
For an art buff like me, that's devastating!!      Apart from the general consensus that THAT painting is not the real thing but just a copy; Leonardo did much more important work in the dissecting room than with a paint brush; although the methods of acquisition of his subjects remain somewhat dubious. And of course be also dabbled in 16th century aviation!!
Yes, we've previously toured the city, queued for the Eiffel tour, walked the concrete jungle like any other city, driven under the Arch de Triumph and drank cheap and oh so expensive vin de maison at a sidewalk cafe, so we've decided by unanimous polling that we will just regard what's left of today as a 'Holding Pattern'.
Our real adventure will start in the morning when we collect our BRAND NEW Peugeot 208 delivered to us here, and head off into the REAL France and the rest of Europe.
Most of the places we visit and all of our stopovers will be tiny little villages off the beaten track; places we will happen upon and probably have never heard of before. We hope to eat with the locals, drink with them, and generally soak up the local culture wherever we are.
18th April
Dunkirk

Off to a great start after getting next to no sleep in the crappy airport pub. They had a card in our room outlining their customer satisfaction policy--'Anything not OK, call reception and their charter is to fix it in 15 minutes'. I called and whinged about the a/c not working--our room was like a sauna. No action taken, so in the AM I decided they owed us something!! After a heated discussion with the 'manager', they finally agreed to my demand for a couple of complimentary breakfast vouchers. So we topped up on everything they had for what would have been an extra E12 each--including a few takeaways for lunch!!  Reasonable I guess. The room had no amenities at all--only a roll of bum paper.
Enough of that. Called the Peugeot people and they had a courtesy vehicle for us in minutes, and to our new car at the terminal straight away. Far more complicated that a C172 to drive--lots of gadgets including large screen GPS which requires a Masters degree in electronics to work, which I don't have.
With assistance we eventually got it to talk to us in English and set course for Lille, and within five minutes we found ourselves in a tow away area within the airport complex.  A quick retreat and eventually onto the freeway after, filling up with diesel.
Off towards Lille amongst trucks at 130Kph; eventually off to a small village and had our 'lunch' beside a little lake. Then back onto the road, and set the GPS for Dunkirk.  Arrived about 3:30pm and found a great little pub--great food, great hospitality and a good nights sleep.  Off into Belgium tomorrow--border only 10Km from here.



19th April

Belgium--Bruges and Zelzate


























































































































































































































































































After a good nights rest in our quaint little Dunkirk pub, a decent continental breakfast and a local walk, we battled to set the GPS in the car and headed off towards Belgium.  


























































































































I remember my long discarded copy of The Lonely Planet almost writing Belgium off as a rather boring and lifeless region of Europe, generally uninteresting and forgettable. However, on our last trip, after avoiding Brussels and heading east, we stumbled on Hasselt, a small 'city' with 'onion ring' streets like many others in the region. In a little pub here we had the largest and most exquisite olives stuffed with magic, and ate them on the sidewalk with a couple of glasses of Belgium beer. It was Easter and the breakfast we had in a nearby cafe the next morning included the usual cold meats, cheeses and the ever present tub of Nutella,  and included Easter eggs and hot chocolate as only the Belgians can make.
We had heard of Bruges and so headed off towards this remarkable ancient Flemish city. On the way, I broke one of our unwritten rules to stay off major freeways. We started on a minor road following a canal, but eventually back into the traffic. It is hard to get from place to place without motorways, so we exit where possible to look for the gems.
This is NOT the tourist season, but one such exit took us to Bruges where we spent several hours, walking this amazing old city. Prague had previously been our favourite as old cities go but Bruges has many more remarkable examples of architecture dating back centuries. Being a Vespa fan, and not averse to an occasional beer, I found this one interesting--bikes and scooters only in Bruges!!
After driving up narrow cobbled stone streets looking for a park, with hundreds of people walking all  over the roads, we realised this was a 'walk-only heritage city', and eventually found a pay-park--more luck that fortune.
It is crowded with tourists even in April-- would be an improbable place to visit in July-August.
We had been told about the unique Bruges 'chips'--they look just like Maccas 'fries' but are oh so delicious--served with dipping mayo, plus sausages and raw chopped onions and a superb sauce--a great 'healthy' lunch-since 1900!!

I have often pondered why anyone would choose to be a pharmacist and have been even more intrigued to find that some poor soles even today seem to relish the profession. Each to his own. However, in non-English speaking countries, calling in to a pharmacy usually finds someone with reasonable linguistic skills to provide a source of information including directions and accommodation.
As we wandered the ancient streets of Bruges I called into the local 'chemist' and this guy was so excited about the whole scene. He dragged out the current copy of Retail Pharmacy (Australian) and showed me with great enthusiasm a three page article about himself and his very historic appotek--ancient labelled jars and artefacts everywhere in the dispensary. I was invited to sign his large book of pharmacists who had visited and he promised to include me on his email list for some journal he is involved in.  And of course insisted on a photo.
Horse and carts constantly taking tourists for tours of the ancient city centre, over miles of cobbled stone lanes, and shops selling every conceivable item including of course Belgian chocolate in every shape and form and 20 litre canisters of their famous Juliper beer.
After lingering far too long in this spectacular spot it was time to head off towards Holland, but by about 4pm we again left the busy roads to look for small village and chanced upon Zelzate population-- about a small Castlemaine. Several pub options, but we settled on De Hof, a classical old pub with ancient wooden floors, spiral staircase and luxurious antique furnishings, in a quaint park setting, with a VERY modern annex in the grounds, with rooms only opened within the last two weeks.
We were settled into the new annex, in the grounds of the old pub, with a lift for geriatrics and only a short walk to the bar and restruarant.












It was to bed early and a great nights sleep in a beautiful new room after a l-o-n-g hot shower.

With rows of sculptured trees, many espallied in neat rows.


After another great breakfast of crousants, cold meats, cheese, juices, coffee and yoghurt, we dialled up Rotterdam on the GPS--having no intention of going there, but in that general direction until we find our little village. Roosendaal is just inside the NL border as the photo showns--a biggish town/city with the same name of Bianca and Davids’ farm back home!!
This is the Boulevard Roosendaal which is about 25Km long and starts in Belgium and continues into the Neatherlands. Just over the border in NL we stopped at this small 'supermarket'--Carroufoure?? and bought a couple of essentials--a 'handbag' of Australian vino blanc, and TWO bottles of Vodka for E16 for the two ie: E8 each bottle Vodka--about $10AU.!!  Why would anyone be a teetotaller here??  These buildings in central Roosendaal would have been covered in snow, as was the rest of northern Europe, only a couple of weeks ago--hence the steep roof on all buildings. After re-setting the GPS from 'fastest' to 'shortest' route, we were directed off the busy roads into the smaller places, looking for a small village to stay. We again happened on a 'gem' Oostvoorne, right on the coast west of Rotterdam, and where the bloke who now owns my Hispano-Suiza lives. Visiting him was not a priority as the car is still being restored in France, but he called in at the pub to see us--a charming and no doubt filthy rich bloke who was delighted to  get some photos I had, and to learn a bit more about MY car!!  Just before Ooostvoorne we came across the essential dutch windmill, and then crossed a quaint little canal on a car ferry!!
And then on into the great little village of Oostvoorne--just our size--and of all places booked into a motel room at Murphys Station hotel--quaint, quiet, reasonably priced, and the odd looking 'motel' rooms are very modern and comfortable inside. And its sunny, brisk, and still-- spring weather with giant chessnut trees everywhere, and tulips and daffodils in full bloom.
Very friendly people here and they speak good English, and even understand Australian!!
But of course there's always a thorn amongst the daffodils.
To offset the effects of the Vodka, Heineken, too much good food and the handbag du vin, we slept like logs in our room and in the morning went for a long walk in the 'forest' of giant chessnuts and elms in a large park behind our pub.
We decided to stay another night in this little village, so had a good walking tour of the town. Also met up with the Hispano bloke again, and swapped notes about THAT car!!~
Spring is certainly sprunging in Oostvoorne albiet very late, according to the locals.
I am using the iPad Mini for photos and it is far better than any camera I've used--but the blog pics don't do justice to it. On the A380 leg to Paris, to my surprise the GPS worked even though we were in the centre rows, and it accurately showed the lat and long and altitude (about 38,000') coinciding with that on the aircrafts tracking display on our TV.
And when we went for a walk here, it shows that our room is about 50' BELOW mean sea level.  Thank kryst someone still has a finger in the dyke, or we'd be under water all the time!!
And so tomorrow we will head off towards/into Germany via Masstrich which is the 'corner' of the Netherlands, Belgium and Germany.  Stuttgart and the M/Benz museum coming up soon!! Our next village will be another surprise that we stumble upon.

Mon 22nd April

The Doctor of Gymnich

Well, I almost pulled off a real clanger today.  After breakfast of cold meats, a fried egg, cheese slices and toast with Nutella, we packed up and set the GPS towards Aachen, Germany.
There are three GPS modes to select—‘fastest’, ‘shortest’, and a combination of the two—probably a bit of motorway and a bit of side roads— a sort of a motoring mixed grill. The ‘fastest’ option is always further than the ‘shortest’, which seems pretty Irish.
Our general idea is set ‘fastest first’, which gets us on a 130Km/h road with Mercs, Audis and Beamers flashing past at improbable speed in the outer lanes.
When we have travelled far enough and are ready to get into the back-blocks to find a small town/village, we change to ‘shortest’, leave the major roads and just follow the voice prompts from Flossie, our electronic GPS guide.

After leaving Oostvoorne, we passed the massive oil refinery and holding tanks of the area, through the little beach and yachting bay, and onto the motorway.

In next to no time we were near Aaachen, and  pulled off to find a quite spot to eat our breakfast extras for lunch. We pulled into a village and parked opposite the local cemetery, with horse paddocks opposite. Again, a beautiful but rather strange lunch spot!
After confusing Flossie, she directed us back to the Autobahn towards Cologne (Koln). At 14:30 I decided to give Heather a break and get into the side roads for a small village.
Re-set ‘Flos’ and she soon directed us onto the small roads and to a little Hotel in the unlikely village of Gymnich, population about 2,500. I parked nearby and asked a local if the pub had accommodation.. (on the door it had 11:00-14:30, and 17:30 to 23:00).
Not a word was understood, but in an instant I was taken by the giant hand of a convivial local, in overalls and covered in paint and plaster; led through a rear gate and into ‘reception’ where he thrust a pen and guest form in front of me to fill out.
There was no option—just fill it out—and when he saw me write Australian be became quite ecstatic.
Heather was still waiting in the car unaware of her ‘different’ accommodation for the night.
And different it was!!  Still alone, I was led up two VERY steep flights of stairs and shown room number one—small, clean—but up those bloody stairs???.
I was given the keys, and my new friend disappeared, leaving me to go and get Heather.  We returned to our abode, to find it seriously locked, but found access to the rear ‘beer garden’ to sit out the time till 17:30.
My friend returned, and let us into the reception/bar area, and his only response to all my questions about where to park, the price, WiFi etc was ‘the doctor coming after, she knowing all’!!!.
So we just sat and waited for the doctor after he’d poured Heather a large glass of white wine and pocketed the cash.

I didn’t feel I needed a manual rectal examination or any procedure for that matter at this stage, but I guess I’ll just have to leave that to the doctor.
In about an hour, a nice lady appeared—she too confirmed that 'the doctor knew all' and would be here soon (no words understood by either party).
Somehow I ordered a slivovic which appears the same in all languages; she poured me a large glass and disappeared with it, to return with the glass almost boiling!!, no doubt microwaved in the glass!! Almost got pissed on the fumes waiting for it to cool a bit—but what beautiful moonshine!!!!
And so we both sat in the ‘waiting room’; we seemed to be the only patients for the day, and the unique aroma of warmed slivovic filled the room like surgical antiseptic.

Some time later, a pretty young thing in her mid-twenties emerged with the madam—and finally the penny dropped---the doctor was the DAUGHTER!!!  What a relief—no medical procedures to endure; and the daughter spoke excellent English.
Indeed, ‘the doctor IS knowing all!!’
The daughter was able to tell me there was no WiFi, where to park the car safely, why we were the only victims as they are really a restaurant but do let rooms occasionally for local workers.
Also, our room would be E68 including breakfast, the TV DID have the BBC in English, and a bit of local information.
And so what started out as a potential nightmare turned out to be another great little gem after all.
A very clean and tidy but small room up those stairs, a lovely restaurant at which we were treated like royalty at dinner—Zouppe Goulash, followed by some sort of mixed grill.
The father returned after scrubbing up a bit, and it turns out they are Croatian, not German, and hence his joy at my admiration of his slivovic!!  Soon we were great mates although simply in sign language plus an occasional word of broken German/English.
A couple of Croation beers and a further warmed slivovic and several vins blanc for Heather and we climbed those stairs as if in an elevator, and slept soundly till 6am!!

23rd April

Gymnich to Stuttgart

Before vanishing to her own quarters, ‘the doctor’ had advised us that breakfast would be from 7am, and we rose at 6am, scrubbed and descended the narrow stairs with some trepidation. It was time to explore a bit of Gymnich on foot.
Directly opposite the pub was a large cathedral, and in the courtyard nearby something written on stonework at the base of a cross about Pappa John Paul 11 and some dates. Perhaps the boss could explain at breakfast. Also who was Jan Von Werth, 1591-1652 whose drawing appeared on all the Reissdorf kolsh beer coasters at our pub?
Mr Google tells me he was a general of some note during the thirty day war; history buffs can delve further.  However, he seems to be something of a major figure to our hosts.
At breakfast, we all had an extended conversation in sign language, and with pen and paper.  The ‘bosses’ name is Miroslaw (calls himself ‘Freddie’) and his wife is Catarina.  Catarina is the chef and ‘Freddie’ does most of the talking.
The writing at the base of the cross commemorates a visit by Pappa John Paul 11.  Other important visitors to the town include Henry Kissinger, the Beetles (1960) and former President Gerald Ford.
Buggered if I know why or was able to understand; perhaps they were at a loose end or just got a bit way laid like us.
However, Freddie is very proud of these famous visitors to his small village of Gymnich.  And why not.
Catarina laid on a spread of sliced salami, ham, cheese, butter and fresh crusty bread rolls, while Freddie made a pot of fresh REAL coffee and glasses of orange juice.
The family moved from Croatia nineteen years ago, looking for a better life in the ‘west’ and have run the pub/restaurant ever since.
After an extended breakfast conversation, we bid farewell to our new found dear friends, and headed off in the car, which had sat out on the street overnight, totally unscathed.
I dialled up Stuttgart, and Flossie soon had us on the Autobahn again, at 130Km plus. By 9am we had covered over 100Km and stopped at a roadside park for our first ‘stretch’, and by 10:15 we had covered over 200Km, with less than 100Km to Stuttgart.

Another stop for a Pissour, and then started looking for a hotel to prop at close to Stuttgart, but within striking distance of the Mercedes Benz museum.
Flossie took us very close to the M/B museum and we pulled into a side street to an interesting little pub.  But, it was booked out.
I then drove a short distance to another pub, and a very nice young chap there regretfully told us they were also booked out.
However he phoned another three nearby hotels without luck, and the forth, had accommodation available and he booked us in!!
I asked why all the booked out pubs??—“Stuttgart is always like that for the M/B museum”, and also there is a festival this weekend—the Stuttgart Beer Festival, held twice a year.  Of course!!
So we were lucky to get any accommodation close to the museum.
By now it was well past lunchtime, so we each had a bratwurst in a roll with mustard at a local servo, and checked into the hotel for two nights—too late to visit the museum this arvo, so will spend a good part of tomorrow there, have a good rest and head off towards Munich on Thursday (25th).
A great bowl of Zouppe and a couple of Stuttgart hoffbrauhaus beers, and another early night.



24th April Mercedes Benz Museum

We are staying within spitting distance of the Mercedes Benz museum here, but with divided roads and under and overpasses it was still a E14 taxi ride. Along the main drag which of course is Mercedes Strausse, past the Mercedes Benz football stadium and then just follow the giant Mercedes star, shining in the morning sun, slowly revolving above the new vehicle showrooms next to the museum.

The museum building itself is quite a masterpiece—very modern and appearing all metallic silver and glass.
Inside everything is spotless from the marble and  parquetry  floors on each level to the multilingual and impeccably dressed  staff, of whom there are hundreds.  Entry is only E8 for a full days visit, and I spent an enthralling five hours there.
There were visitors pouring in at opening time (9am) and that continued all day.
Firstly, multi media devices are handed out, with headsets for audio in the selected language, and a handpiece which when pointed at an exhibit explains all about it. Select general details, technical info, history. etc.
A glass elevator whisks everyone to the top level (8th floor) and then everything is in chronological order as you work downwards.
From the genesis of the motorcar in 1888 to the very latest and everything along the way, plus futuristic concept vehicles including a working hydrogen powered vehicle.
There is a gently sloping walkway spiraling downwards allowing views of exhibits from above, or at each floor level one can get up close and personal, but not touch!!
A stunning display of hundreds of cars, commercial vehicles, early racing cars and modern M/Benz powered F1 cars.
The historical audio and visual descriptions treat the war years accurately but with sensitivity, however it was notable that no military vehicles were on display other than M/Benz aircraft engines used in many Messerschmit a/craft.
Far too much for me to do justice to, so I’ll let the pictures tell a bit of the story.
A bit of an indulgence for me, but Heather was happy to walk in the sunshine around this quaint area of Stuttgart, rest, and read a book.  The weather so far has been brilliant wherever we’ve been. Lets hope it continues.

25th April

Bernau am Chiemsee--Anzac Day in Germany

From our Autohof  Hotel on the outskirts of Stuttgart, we set sail for Munchen right into the peak hour traffic at 8:30.  Flossie retained her calm however, even with long delays at traffic lights and when road works forced us to ignore her instructions and detour now and then.
Before long we on the Autobahn, set the spinnaker, retracted the landing gear and joined the fleet at 130Km/h with Audis, Mercs, Skodas and VW’s blasting past in the outer lanes. At least most of the trucks and cars were heading into Stuttgart and not our way.
Our little ‘Googly’ (Peugeot 208 Diesel) is doing a great job and even in auto can whip down a cog and zap past slower vehicles at 160Km/h with ease. Or flick it into manual and the response is instantaneous.
A pity the French speaking Asian guy who gave us a five minute rundown plus an owners manual in fluent French didn’t show me a few of the finer points.
Our last experience with 'Peugeot Open Europe' in 2009 was much more customer friendly—a choice of color, drivers manual in English sent to us a month before leaving Australia, and more assistance when we picked it up at Calais.
And without GPS, we were given an excellent map of Europe and good directions to leave the terminal.
This time, no color selection and no customer service to speak of. Just show them the receipt for the payment made six months ago, and piss off.
I think they are getting a bit too big for their thongs, with a yard full of new Peugeots and those godforsaken Citroens and Renaults of similar size and cost.
Our car had 2.8Km on the clock when we drove off—obviously only enough to get onto and off a transporter from the factory.
After just on 2000Km I am starting to get the hang of it, and we pulled in for the third tank of fuel (about E50) 150Km south of Stuttgart.
It was also time to inform Flossie we really wanted to set the little village of Bernau as our target for the day; about 80Km south of Munchen.
We stop for rest breaks now and then------(We had to laugh at a cop car pulled up at a servo with a cop in uniform having a good long piss on the grass verge, while his mate waited in the car with lights flashing!!---)
All the truckies and most others do the same; so why should we pay for that pleasure either?.)
So, I don’t.
But if Heather does, and I respect her modesty, it is E0.70, and you get a voucher for E0.50 off any purchase at the servo shop!!
So, owning a Pissour is a pretty lucrative business!! Minimal capital outlay, no complaints department, casual staff only, a no returns policy and every client gets a gift voucher on the way out!!
Flossie soon directed us off the Autobahn and into the real countryside and soon we were in the oh-so-beautiful village of Bernau am Chiemsee.  A village beside the largest lake in Barvaria, and at the foot of mountains with snow still hanging on the peaks.
This is the town where Kerstin Schubert lived as a kid-- Biancas friend who lived at Outrim with her and David for about three months last year, tending and grooming the horses. They have kept in touch, and we also know Kerstin and will meet up with her when she comes down from Munchen tomorrow evening.
And get some good local advice in English, infact Australian ‘English’!!
It was just on lunch o’clock as we drove into Bernau and pulled into a pretty little parking area beside a creek and ate our ham and cheese rolls and bananas.
And then for a drive to find a pub, and the three or four in town all look great.  We visited the lake area where the tourist info is located, and were pleasantly surprised at the service offered for gratis. The Council staff at Castlemaine info centre could do with a lesson here, but as I’ve threatened to do an odd day there as a volunteer, perhaps they’ll take note from a geriatric former Councillor.
We booked in to the Gastof Alter Wirt, a fabulous old inn right in the centre of the village—reasonably priced, excellent bar and meals, and loads of character and history.  Apparently first constructed about 900ACE but of course rebuild, refurbished, renovated and restored over many years.
I Skyped Kerstin, and she will meet us here about 6pm tomorrow evening.  She suggested we might like to have a ride in the cable car to the mountain top tomorrow, and perhaps a ferry to an island in the lake where there is a castle; with her on Saturday.  Sounds OK with us.
It is ANZAC day, and out of respect we toasted the moment in the early evening, about the time of dawn services back home.  Lest we forget.
And let us also acknowledge that those poor souls commemorated at the local monument beside out hotel were also conscripted by the immoral, corrupt and hideous regime of the time, to serve their country.






26th April

In is very warm here today and in fact 30+C in the googly, so aircon on.  The ground is still very soft and the fresh green grass is just pushing through after very heavy snow which covered the area until two weeks ago. Still snow on the mountain peaks, but it won’t last much longer in this heat.
I drove about 5Km towards Auchau, through open countryside with newly planted crops everywhere, and came to another tiny town. The signs here indicated Munchen to the right—no thanks; and ‘non comprende’ the signs to the left which may have been up to the mountain top.
So I retreated. Back through Bernau village towards the lake, but came across a road block with the police very excited, but eventually was waved through.
After getting lost in a residential area, I turned back, and the cops now had an ambulance blocking the road, and a chopper landed in a very small grassed area beside the road.  Not a car accident, most likely a local resident with a major problem, my guess an AMI. The chopper was in no hurry to take off, sadly I don’t think the outcome was good.
After lunch, we drove to the lake and tourist info centre again, and the cable car is ‘being serviced’ today, but will be running again over the weekend.
Back at the pub, I was fascinated by some of the detail and the intricate lead light windows throughout.  It seems the proprietor also owns the wellness centre pub behind this one—not many people getting wellness there, and also the local butcher who specialises in his ‘home made’ Barvarian sausages.
We both had the skinless pork snags with potato salad for lunch—pretty good.
Kerstin arrived about 6:30pm—her train from Munchen had broken down about 25Km from here and she had called her mother who lives in Bernau to drive and pick her up.
We had tea together at Alter Wirt and afterwards Kerstin took us to a quaint little bar close by for a couple of beers—and a beer here is 0.5 litre for the smallest!!
Tomorrow she will pick us up at 10am and we will drive to the ferry and go out to the island in the lake and visit the ‘castle’

27th April

Kerstin called at our pub at 10am, and she was the designated chauffer for the day in the ‘googly’.
Off to the large lake wharf, and lined up and boarded a large ferry for the big island with the castle.
Now this castle is no mere beach house or weekend fishing shack.
It seems that a certain King Ludwig of Barvaria was a rather different chap in many ways.
He had a fetish for creating lavish palaces, which he had constructed with his own funds, eventually becoming seriously bankrupt without using money from his subjects but borrowing heavily from Royalty all over Europe.
Perhaps his most ambitious project was attempting to recreate the Palace of Versailles right here on an island in the middle of the Bernau am Chiemsee lake.
We visited the island by ferry, followed by a ride through the former kings parklands by horse and carriage.
The tour through the palace was fascinating and our English guide was adamant no photos are allowed inside.
Her description was a rather watered down account of Ludwig and his unconventional behaviour.
However it is clear he was quite eccentric.  He had no time for administrative matters from his ‘seat’ in Munchen, was a devotee of Richard Wagner, much his elder; but the relationship was perhaps more that musicology.
Ludwig never married although be became engaged at one stage but only briefly, he had many very close male companions and hence his sexual preferences were often questioned.
None the less, he was warmly loved by his Barvarian subjects, despite being regarded as quite mad and mentally deranged.
This perception was strengthened by the reality that his younger brother was indeed regarded as clinically insane.
Eventually his own ministers deposed him, and his mysterious death followed.
It is believed he drowned in a Barvarian lake along with his assigned physician, both of whom were strong swimmers. And the bodies were found in only waist high water!
The mystery remains unresolved today, yet the State benefits from his palaces as fabulously important tourist attractions creating great wealth well beyond their cost; making Barvaria the richest region of Germany today.
And many visitors to his ‘Versailles’ are French—to research the stairway to Ludwigs palace—the original in France having been destroyed during wartime.
Afterwards, we had lunch at the Monastry on the island, then returned and back in Bernau had traditional apple strudel at Kerstins mothers home.
Then an early night at our pub, and off through Austria in the morning.


28th APRIL  (****Continue corrections here****

Austria to Friedersbach
After dialling up Vienna  and setting the ‘fastest’ option, Flossie was rather confused and a bit sluggish to react getting us out of Bernau.
I guess too, she occasionally gets a hangover.
We expected to be directed onto an Autobahn almost immediately, but perhaps as it was Sunday she felt it appropriate for a quite drive through the countryside.
And it was a long drive at that.
But through numerous small villages and towns both in Germany and Austria.
Before crossing the border we called in at a small servo for diesel, E1.33/l, the cheapest so far, and also a coffee.  It seems the fuel but not necessarily the coffee, is a bit cheaper off the major roads, like to home.
We drove into Austria and with still over 200Km to Vienna it was time for our lunch.
And then on through dozens of beautiful little towns and villages until 3:30pm by which time Flossie had had enough, as had her female assistant.
For no reason whatsoever, we took a small side road and entered the tiny village of  Friedersbach.
And they don’t come much smaller than Friedersbach, population almost three hundred.
In a pretty valley in a distinctly rural area, the village is little more than a row of quaint houses each side of the main street with farmland beyond.
We booked into the only accommodation in town,  quaint and traditional from the street but very modern inside.
Expensive décor throughout, an extensive dining room, resident chef, modern cocktail bar, lifts to the rooms, and tariff to match.
Why such a lavish pub in a such a miniature village, off the beaten track??
Very comfortable but not exactly my cuppa tea, so off to explore this little gem.
It is virtually only one street, one Km long. No shops or retail centre at all, but there are several villages within one or two Km.
And of course a huge church with a tiny pub opposite, where the sins to be absolved are committed.
We entered the latter, to find one table of about ten blokes and one girl, all socking down some clear liquid, which they had obviously been doing since the morning service.
Not to be outdone, but with some linguistic challenges we ordered a glass of white wine for Heather and a schnapps for me.
Only E0.90 for the schnapps, served in a traditional shot glass, not measured, just straight from the bottle.
The fire chief from the ‘locals table’ joined us.  In uniform, red faced and as pissed as a fart, he
proceeded to tell me repeatedly in German, something about his friend in Australia who has grown up children.
I found this breathtaking news, but after half an hour of repetition and droplets of spit emitted from his foetid breath, the novelty wore off a bit.
A couple of his mates joined us; I guess Australians in Friedersbach are a peculiarity.
Probably any tourists for that matter.
Of course, I was offered and accepted another schnapps and then it was time for me to wish them well and retreat to the car, leaving Heather to happily entertain them.
While I waited for her, one of the guys staggered out of the bar, almost fell on his face and then mounted his ancient tractor and drove off home, mostly on the wrong side of the road!!  Hilarious!!
A nice dinner in the ‘Hilton’, wild garlic soup followed by schnitzel and salad, superbly presented. I  think there were four others staying here and the hotel could perhaps sleep fifty.
Another great day, and off to bed.

29th April

We dialled Brno, Czech Republic, and Flossie obeyed without question, again on secondary roads with the ‘fastest’ option chosen.
I guess there are a paucity of motorways between Friedersbach and Brno.
The scenery however was beautiful, and even though early Monday morning, the traffic very light.
At the Czech border we pulled in to buy the compulsory ‘permit’ for a maximum of ten days on their road system.
The scenery remained stunning, with apple orchards in blossom and vineyards coming into bud and plenty of open country where potatoes and wheat are the main crops.
In the villages and smaller towns, plenty of evidence of an independent country still coming to terms with capitalism and former Soviet oppression.
The roads in Czeski are in need of much upgrading, and hence the E10 permits will be put to good use.
Gone were the plentiful expensive Audis, Mercs and VW’s of Austria, and the Czech residents mainly drive older Skodas and much older Fords, Seats and small FIAT’s.
And even the trucks where older and shabbier.
As in Austria, we saw numerous piles of wooden stakes neatly stacked beside open farm land.  Our guess is they are to erect temporary fences for strip grazing.
Religion has certainly clung to the lives of a suppressed people, with church spires in every village and numerous tiny roadside chapels and memorials; many ancient, and sadly, some erected following recent accidents.
By 3pm we had bypassed Brno and it was the agreed hour to seek a gem for the night, together with some local culture and perhaps a splattering of English.
We left the main road much to Flossies displeasure, and into a small village.
There was no obvious accommodation, so I again resorted to the local ‘lekarne’.  Yes, she spoke some broken English, and suggested a road side hotel with ‘excellent to eat’, some 12Km further towards the Polish border.
We found this place and booked in promptly as it was obviously popular, and we were the only non-CZ car in the place.
We are at Zastrizly in the Buchlovske hory forest of Cheski, high up on a mountain top overlooking open farmlands and a distant town beyond—through the smog—it is a still day with no breeze to clear the air.
A great barman with some English helped us book in, and I got a room on the ground floor which is not common.
The price was exorbitant—E31 for a double room—clean, comfortable and with an ensuite!!!!.
The place is very popular and was very busy at mealtime.
We both tried a local speciality—venison with a mushroom cream sauce, washed down with a couple of shots of local slivovic (me) and white wine (Heather)
And 0.5l of local ‘Starobrno’ beer for me—local from Brno, and  nice and bitter, a bit like an IPA on tap.
All that cost next to nothing, so we tipped them E5 and I bought a REAL slivovic glass for Friday nights back home with Karl, our Slovenian/Australian neighbour.
It was offered for gratis, but they reluctantly accepted E2.
We have wifi in our room, so time to update these ramblings before an early night, and off to Krakow in Poland tomorrow.

Zastrizly to Krakow, Poland 30th APRIL
We left at 7:30am and covered about 100Km before pulling in for breakfast at 8:30, just as a nice roadside restaurant was opening.
We were offered the menu in English, and both ordered a ‘full English breakfast’--yes, in the Czech Republic. It was a bit different, particularly the sausages, but did include baked beans, two eggs, bacon and mushrooms.
And the coffee came on a small tray with a shot glass of clear liquid beside it, and a wrapped boiled lolly!!
The clear liquid was a bit of a test, as I know many Eastern Europeans down a slivovic with their coffee before heading off to work, but fortunately it was plain H2O.
Breakfast cost something like 900Kr, whatever they are, about E14 after the conversion was accomplished.
We reached the Polish border with just over 100Km to run to Krakow.
Poland is not for the fun seeking tourist.
A sad and depressing place, so why did we bother?
Heather would rather avoid an area where the memories of our previous visit to Auschwitz and Berkenau remain so powerful .
We had visited hell there before.
Yet there is something strangely mesmeric about a country where the unspeakable happened during our own lifetimes.
A powerful magnet, drawing us towards a beautiful city, in a country with an horrendous past and its proud and defiant people.
A place to reflect, and to remind us we must never forget.
Krakow was once the capital of Poland, and as its second biggest city today, is more accessible that Warsaw.
Or so we thought.
As we drove into the country it was difficult to feel light hearted, or in holiday mode.
The majority of roads are appalling, the traffic is chaos and GPS is less than useless with detours and road blockages everywhere.
Before long we passed signs to places, the names of which make me shudder. Oswiecim (Auschwitz), Berkenau, and of course the Krakow getto.
We passed the hideous modern hotel we stayed at in 2009, within 5Km of Auschwitz—right next door to a childrens fun park!!
It was lunchtime in Poland, but we couldn’t pull off at one of the many cafes near here.
The sight of happy school children in their lunch hour was both uplifting and thought provoking.  Their nearest connection to the area would be through grandparents or great-grandparents.
How could anyone of our age live in a village named Oswiecim?
At one of the many detours directed by a young cop, a very old man staggered along the street almost unable to stay upright.
Perhaps he was a young youth at the time of the horror, and should be forgiven for remaining drunk for the past seventy years.
The young cop observed him knowingly and just let things be!
We got within 25Km of Krakow, and detours due to accidents and roadwork’s sent us in many directions, and that sign to Oswiecim kept appearing to haunt us.
Finally, within 4Km of the centre of Krakow we had both had enough, and pulled off a ‘freeway’ into what seemed like the Toorak of Krakow at a sign to a hotel.
In a side street, a young lady, well dressed and driving a new Alfa had turned into her driveway, waiting for the automatic entrance doors to open.
Well to do young people are obviously getting on with their lives in Krakow.
I quickly parked illegally and asked her about a hotel-and she spoke excellent English and directed us to the Farmona Hotel, Jugowicka, Krakow—just around the corner.
A first class hotel in a parkland setting.
We booked in, had a nice meal without speaking much, and headed back to our very nice room.
Tomorrow is May Day in Poland and most of Europe—a public holiday—and I hope they find something to celebrate.
(For aviators and mariners, May Day is a phrase we never want to hear, or utter!!)
All we ask is a peaceful night here, and a visit to the ‘old’ centre of Krakow in the morning.
It is quite deliberate that here are no photos to post today!

Krakow, Poland 1st May

Being a public holiday, the traffic in Krakow was light, and we had no trouble ordering a taxi at reception and were soon into the centre of the old city.
We walked the old town square and marvelled at the well preserved ancient buildings. The town hall, the market buildings, the royal palace and the many churches of which there are over three hundred throughout Krakow.
Of fifty thousand Jews in Krakow in 1941, there are less then three hundred there today.  But as our young guide remarked, most now mix in a secular society, the three hundred churches are mainly empty and religion amongst the young is in decline universally.
Unlike Warsaw, Krakow was spared bombing raids during WW2 and the ancient city remains largely extant.
And then it was off to the ghetto area some distance away, with an English speaking guide, and in the comfort of an electric ‘car’—a sort of elongated golf buggy.
Past what remains of traditional Jewish shops with their original facades and window displays retained, but many now coffee shops inside.
The only remaining section of the ghetto wall which at the time was topped with coils of razor wire.
Oscar Schindler’s factory with many relics and visual displays.
And then, the Apteka Pod Orlem—“the Pharmacy Under the Eagle”.
Established by his father in 1909, Tadeuz Pankiewic took over the pharmacy shortly before the outbreak of war, and in 1941 it became enclosed in the ghetto.
Three thousand Polish residents had to move from the area designated for the ghetto to make room for some 16,000 Jews.
Tadeuz was asked to move but refused and was reluctantly allowed to continue. His three female assistants also decided to remain and help with his aid to the people of the Ghetto.
It was a place where ‘prescriptions for survival’ were prepared and administered—sedatives to keep small children quiet during Gestapo raids, tranquillisers for the distressed and depressed and general first aid.
Some of the dispensary items on display include many strong barbiturates, ‘strychnine’ and vitamin compounds.
Tadeuz and his staff also offered somewhere to hide in the back rooms of the pharmacy, at great personal risk.
With original photos and excellent audio visual displays including film and voices of some survivors of the ghetto, the pharmacy under the Eagle only re-opened to the public after many years, on 1st March this year.
The Apteka Pod Orlem faces onto a huge square in what was the ghetto, containing nothing but empty chairs, representing the thousands who never survived or were transported to extermination camps.
An enormously touching monument, a place to reflect and an appropriate place to end out ghetto visit and return to our hotel.
We drove off out of Krakow, again in chaotic traffic, towards Slovakia.
After a TWO hour traffic jam outside Krakow, we eventually drove through some picturesque countryside to the Slovak border, for the compulsory ‘Vignette’ pass for their roads.
The flat landscape gave way to hilly country with huge fields of canola and Heather remarked on the profuse lilac bushes everywhere, which we hadn’t noticed in Poland.
At beer o’clock we looked unsuccessfully for a gem and ended up at a boring roadside motel.
We had driven far enough, so booked in and paid E30 cash.
I left Heather in charge of a warm beer and a bored to death young girl running the empty place, and drove off determined to find another ‘gem’.
Within 5Km I had left the main ‘road’ and into a tiny village of Benice where I booked in to a quaint little place—Kastiel Benice in---.
Also E30, lovely young couple running the place, excellent English and very welcoming.
So I collected Heather and abandoned the E30 from the ‘dump’ and we had a great meal and quite night at Benice, for still only E60 total!!

Benice, Slovakia to Budapest, Hungary 2nd May.

We were up early and after home brewed coffee, left our little ‘castle’ at 8am, planning to pull off the road early, say 12:30pm.
The plan was to travel via Nitra, Slovakia and visit the Eurofox aircraft factory, where they make the Recreational ‘light’ aircraft that Horsham Aviation are Australian distributors for. (My Cessna is always serviced at Horsham)
We were there by 10:30 and I was warmly welcomed and manager Peter, showed me all over the works.
They produce about forty aircraft per year in a tiny ‘factory’ with about 8 workers.
A very light two-seater with folding wings, ideal for ‘Stray Gonads’ to tow behind a campervan for an occasional aviation fix in the backblocks.
Wishful thinking I guess, but a local flight was not possible as their newest production was not quite ready for a test flight!!
And they are right next to the Slovak Aero Club, with a taxiway to a 1000m grass runway, also used extensively for gliding ops.
A warm day, even 30 degrees at times, but a few drops (maybe two) later.
It was only a further 120 Km to Budapest, so we decided to drive on a bit, stop for fuel and lunch and then re-assess.
By 2:00 pm we were only 40Km from Budapest, our last big city stopover, so decided to press on.
Unlike getting into Krakow, we were able to continue on a great ‘freeway’ right into the centre of the city, well before the evening peak hour.
After a couple of laps of the city centre with nowhere to park and no obvious signs to a hotel, we asked a young bloke, and he directed us to one nearby—the White Lion.
Very flash, but why bother about another E250 for somewhere to sleep!
The nice English speaking girl on the desk seemed incredulous when I requested a room, but didn’t have a booking!!
All good pubs in Budapest are booked out, except perhaps the Ibis—NO BLOODY WAY!!
She kindly gave me directions to a good pub on the Buda side of the Danube, but we got hopelessly lost and Flossie took us up a narrow street to a tiny private  house.
Things were getting a bit tense, but at the penultimate moment we discovered a great little place on a busy street for the outrageous price of E39 for a double room including breakfast, an English speaking proprietor, WiFi and a locked car park.
And a great restaurant next door, where we both had ‘pork knuckle’ with veg and salad—great.


FRIDAY 3rd May

During the night there was a severe thunderstorm that went on for quite a few hours but by morning the rain had ceased and in was in the high 20’s and humid.
We have decided to stay another night here, so after a nice breakfast it was off to explore this historic city.
Our pub is almost opposite the local ‘suburban’ rail station and after a short walk and a bit of local help, we were on our way into the centre of Buda.
The public transport system is very fast and efficient.
From the central station, only a short walk to the river Danube, with loads of boats waiting to take river tours.
We boarded a hop-on-hop-off ferry at a wharf, right opposite the beautiful houses of parliament on the Pest side. This took us up the Danube in both directions under many bridges and with excellent views of historic buildings on both sides, to disembark on the Pest side, quite near the central market area.
Our walk included the river bank area where many former historic buildings have been turned (tastefully) into luxury hotels, and up into the central square and  café precinct.
We had lunch at a sidewalk café just as the clouds were starting to re-form!
On the way back to the wharf the sky opened and it really pissed down.  We both got soaked to the skin, which has solved the laundry problem for the next few days!!
We will have a good rest this afternoon and tonight, and head off towards Slovenia tomorrow.
I skyped Miran, our neighbour Karl’s nephew who we have met at Faraday, and warned him that we should be in his village of Bovec, Slovenia, probably Sunday evening.
He hates a slivovic also!!!!

4th May

We left our little pub in Budapest at 8am, right amongst the peak hour traffic.
Flossie did a fine job and we were soon on the outskirts of the city and onto country roads.
About 60Km South-West of Budapest we came across a busy local Saturday market at Gardony, and called in for a coffee break and a good look around.
Interesting local dried fruits, wine, halva and chocolate, and the usual stalls of made in China junk.
It was getting busy early, and the local cops were directing traffic to park, including us.
We then drove on a bit, stopped for diesel which cost 32,000 ‘minglebars’, paid with Visa travel card, about E30  for 25 litres.
The persistence with local currencies in EU countries is rather strange, but everywhere they are happy to convert to Euros, and seem to prefer them. The travel card on-line statements usually agree with the conversions, +/- a few cents.
At lunch time we stopped beside a river in Hosok Utja, Molnoszecsod, Hungary, and ate our cheese, salami, egg, pickles and mustard rolls, washed down with diet Coke, which incidentally doesn’t work in Europe either.
Before long we were back in Austria, cutting across the corner towards Slovenia.
By 2:30pm it was time to exit the secondary roads and find a place to camp.
We found a great hotel with an ancient façade but very modern inside, the Allmer ‘wellness hotel’ in the village of Bad Gleichenberg, Austria, not far before the Slovenian border.
Now ‘Bad’ in German/Austrian means spa/spring and the area has many natural springs and ‘wellness centres’.
The bar however, is apparently not regarded as a wellness centre per se, yet there were many there partaking of strong liquids including bier and pizza.
After dinner, including the above, we visited the flash indoor pool and undertook of some ‘wellness’ ourselves!!
Many ancient bodies of similar decline had also participated in ‘wellness’ prior to visiting the bar; refreshed and oh so bloody wholesome.
After all that wellness, it was time for bed; and into Slovenia in the morning.

5th May  

We left our Allmer hotel before breakfast, while all the ageing ‘wellness’ people were probably still trying to figure out what to do with their multi-pronged, strawberry flavoured condoms from the dispenser in the  ‘wellness centre’—perhaps--“should we eat them just like that, or mix them with our gluten free, sugarless, free range yoghurt?”
Flossie directed us on secondary, user friendly roads, and being Sunday the traffic was very light, and of course no trucks on the minor roads.
This is the way to see the REAL countryside.
We again passed through numerous small villages, and stopped for our ‘wellness breakfast’ of cheese and salami rolls and coffee, not long before the Slovenian border.
Then into Slovenia, a small yet stunningly beautiful country with green manicured fields and tiny villages with postcard perfect houses in vivid colours.
We had fallen in love with Slovenia in 2009 when we stumbled on the strikingly attractive village of Bled with its ancient castle and lake surrounded by show capped mountains.
Our destination today was the village of Bovec, at the foot of the Julian Alps, which separate Slovenia from Italy.
And the main purpose was to visit the niece of our neighbour Karl—Metka, and her husband Miran. Miran has visited Faraday several times and last year we had him and Karl for meals at our home.
Karl is very special to us, and as his extended family all live in Bovec, including his eighty two year old brother whom he has not seem for almost twenty years.
Hence this visit was rather personal for us, and some of the photos may be meaningless for some followers of our blog. (yes, I must  have a few followers, we are averaging 83 ‘hits’ per day—why I don’t know, but please persevere!!!)
To reach Bovec without resorting to autobahns is interesting to say the least.
Firstly, about 40Km through the ‘edge’ of Austria to the Slovenian border, 40Km through winding roads in Slovenia, but with no or little traffic, and again arrived at the Austrian border.
Back into Austria and climbing through the mountains for a while, and then we came to the Italian border!!
Could Flossie be wrong??—no way.
This was a road for BWM motorbikes or Ferraris only, and a challenge in our little ‘googly’. Numerous switchbacks, hairpin bends and bridges over deep ravines.
And all the time climbing, eventually reaching the peak of the mountain pass at 1165 metres, at the Slovenian border again; with only 15Km, all down hill, to Bovec.
Located in a valley beside the river Soca, with mountains rising on both sides, this village is our best ‘find’ so far.
The snow capped mountains each side are so steep and close that Bovec is shaded from sunlight for three months of the year in winter, but this time of the year in Spring it is hypnotic.
We booked into the Kanin Hotel—recently renovated and very nice—room and breakfast E78 for both of us including a huge breakfast.  Kanini is the name of the highest peak which the hotel faces, covered in snow, and Italy is beyond!
I skyped Miran, and he and Metka met us at our pub, and after a drink, shouted us out to a local restaurant for a VERY local meal.
The aperitif was a powerful concoction made from tiny local blueberries, distilled, with some drunken berries and sediment in the glass.
Only some 25ml each, but about 150 Octane!! Only made in the Soca valley, and they presented me with a bottle of it to smuggle back home and share with Karl.
Then, cabbage and bean soup, followed by REAL Kranski sausages with vegetables and a local sweet speciality—a pasta/pastry casing filled with a mixture of ground walnuts and cacao—superb.

Monday 6th May

After breakfast including slices of Kranski, cheese, cold meats, coffee and ‘local’ croissants, Miran and Metka picked us up from the Kanin, and we had the grand tour of  Bovec, and the nearby village where Karl lived until he escaped and eventually got to Australia as a sixteen your old during the war.
We visited the actual house he was born in and lived as a child, and then his brothers home and took many pictures of Vinco and his wife for Karl, and one to prove that I can also work in a vegi patch—at Faraday Karl regards his very productive garden as his ‘office’.
And then back to Miran and Metkas unit for coffee, apple juice and some quaint specially home made croissant-like cakes.
And Miran phoned Kark, and we hat a chat. All is well at home, he is a great caretaker.
Miran then drove us around the mountain roads, in pouring rain at well above the speed I was allowed to, and even the rosary beads hanging from the gear stick of his Skoda did nothing for Heathers confidence.
However, he has driven these roads for years and it was very safe.
In the Soca valley we visited an ancient Napoleonic fort, beside a bridge and with a very deep ravine on two sides.
Apparently when the bridge was blown up, the fort was impregnable for the advancing cavalry and they were simple lost into the river, or retreated.
The water in the Soca river is crystal clear and aqua blue, apparently from the limestone it cuts through.
The valley and river are very popular with white-water canoeists and rafters and infact the European kayak championships will be held here in a couple of months.
It may surprise some that I visited the local airfield. C172 rides are offered from here, but there was no activity except a young bloke attempting to launch a paraglider, without success.
The 1000 metre runway is like a bowling green, but wow!!—after taking off in either direction there would be an immediate climb to 3,500 feet to get out of the valley. And no room for a ‘circuit’ approach, the mountains are far too close.
The memorial marker pictured, sadly again shows the folly of mountain flying in IMC
However, Miran assures me they regularly take off with four on board in a C172 with no problems. Perhaps 10 litres in each wing??
We bid our fond farewells, and headed off again towards Italy, towards the Trieste/Venice area.
It poured raining most of the day and again we had miles of mountain driving before descending into Italy and towards Sacile
We stopped for a VERY late lunch at a small café and had coffee/chocolate, and asked for a Panini to take away!!  This was a giant loaf of bread filled with sausage meat, eggplant and capsicum (heated).  We had it cut in four and wrapped in foil, it would be at least two meals.
The lady running this place has no children, but numerous ‘birds’ and pets. To my amazement she has seventeen sulphur crested cockatoos which cost E700 each!!
I offered to supply her with as many as she liked, slightly ‘damaged’, at no cost!!
And then on to Sacile where we eventually found a brilliant Agritourisimo.—fortunately more Agri, and not much tourisimo!!—a REAL farm with a vineyard and animals in a rural setting, and I think we are the only guests tonight.
We shared a bottle of their local La Pioppa vino with our pannini—yes, even me!!—when in Rome----

Tuesday 7th May
Of course there was an alterior motive for visiting Sacile, the home of  the Fazioli piano manufacturing facility, and their demonstration concert hall.
The Fazioli concert grand piano is now considered the finest (and by far the most expensive) in the world.
In exceeds the New York Steinway an even the German built Steinway, and all the leading Japanese pianos.
Very accomplished professional pianists are PAID to perform on a Steinway;  the very finest insist on the Fazioli, and usually have to pay for the privilege.
I promised Heather I would be no more than an hour, how wrong I was.
Outside the entrance to Fazioli there were about 30 secondary students with their teacher. The sliding gates were secured with no obvious means of entry other than with an oxy torch.
Luckily for me, the teacher spoke excellent English and explained that his group of students from Rome and arranged their visit months ago.
Further, he suggested I would have little hope of entering without a letter of introduction, but as I was from Australia, perhaps he could persuade them to let me in.
At 9am the sliding gates opened and the teacher and his students all entered, and I followed at a respectable distance.
After some time a nice lady came out and respecrtfully advised that a visit without notice was not possible, and suggested I get a letter from the Australian agents in Perth!!
However, she directed me to her assistant who took copies of my passport, and email address, and auggested I write formally,requesting a visit, on one of three selected dates, about ten days from today!!
Shit, talk about Fort Knox, getting into the Fazioli empire without prior notice is exceptionally difficult.
Perhaps after our week in a villa in Toscana, perhaps!!
We drove on past Venice and eventually found a bed for the night in an old orphanage in the ancient town of Ravenna about 60Km south of Venice.

May 8th

Our unusual accommodation last night was a direct consequence of my policy of   ‘----through life just freely
roam--‘  we never book ahead, or travel in the tourist season, and hence every place is a surprise, and a new experience.
And occasionally a disappointment, as with the Fazioli place in Sacile.
After bypassing Venice yesterday, we called at a small town on the Adriatic coast which was ancient and beautiful, but our search for accommodation proved fruitless, and hence we drove further south to Ravenna.
Ravenna is a large coastal town, steeped in history and is a national heritage listed place.
Even though it is out of season, it is a large university town with a constant flow of visitors.
The town centre is pedestrian only, and getting to our ‘bed and breakfast’ ‘hotel’ was a real challenge, after asking at a number of good hotels, which were fully booked.
We were directed to this place, which required driving illegally up several one way streets to get into the courtyard parking space through an ancient gateway just wide enough for Simpson and his donkey.
The very flash and modern interior of an ancient home for orphaned girls and wayward Catholics of days long past, now nominally called a B & B---complete with superb period furniture, numerous small rooms with en-suites, and even an old interior church for those in need of forgiveness or spiritual guidance.
We needed guidance to the dining room which we were told was only for breakfast, and the well lit yet unattended bar, which we were told would not be open till 9pm!!!—is it Lent or something, or simply Holy Roman abstinence?
So off to the local ‘supermarket’ for some supplies for ‘dinner’, and of course the bar never opened!!
I thought we were the only guests, but there was a constant trickle of customers later.
However, our room, small as it was, was clean and adequate and there was a very comprehensive breakfast in the morning before we escaped through the ancient walls in the ‘googly’-----
---and then on to Tuscany.  We entered Greve in the GPS, an historic town midway between Florence and Sienna. We had previously stayed in a villa near Greve in 2009, booked through the www, and were a bit disappointed.
But it is the heart of the Chianti Classico region of Toscana, within striking distance of Volterra, Orvietto, Firenze, Sienna, San Gimignagno and all the spectacular little hilltop villages and vineyards of Tuscany.
And so we arrived ‘cold turkey’ as it were, in the square in Greve at 1pm.
We had driven on secondary roads over the alps at 50Km/h most of the way—yet seeing far more of the countryside that on the autostradas.
The city square was packed and our chances of finding a gem of a villa for a weeks stay seemed remote.
While Heather waited in a café we had haunted regularly on our last trip, I came across a superb ancient, self-contained apartment, purely by chance,  only 4Km from the centre of Greve.
Up a good dirt road, well away from the town.
Their large group of visitors had moved out just this morning, and we took their best villa for E650 for seven nights—way below the E1500 for the busy season.
A real gem—our own bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, sitting room, balcony and terrace; open fireplace if it gets cold, and totally separated from anyone in the rest of the place.
Brilliant views over the Tuscan countryside, with vineyards, olive groves and mountains all the way to Greve, and also a shared swimming pool in the extensive gardens.
And the place is a working vineyard and winery, with excellent Chianti Classico vino at E5 for patrons, and we may join other visitors for an optional traditional Tuscan dinner tomorrow evening.
In the morning, I will get some provisions in Greve, and am looking forward to cooking some real wog tucka.
Heather is contented, and we will have a weeks R and R here before heading off towards Switzerland, whenever!!
We have spent most of the day resting, and settling into this gem near Greve—San Stefano. The proprietor, Agostino, speaks reasonable English and with my Italian phrase pocket book we get on well.
He is an excellent host, and suggested many places of interest to visit around Greve.

9th May

I drove the 4Km into Greve in the morning to get some basic provisions for our own cooking—finding a parking spot near the central square or the Co-Op supermarket outside the square is very challenging.
We are stocked up with the basics—bread, milk, eggs, butter, cheese, garlic, onions, real wog sausages, pork/beef mince (maybe a little horse??), tomato paste, pasta, sugar, salt and pepper—sold by weighing from bulk into a plastic container!!  And real ground coffee for our little coffee boiler in the kitchen.
Breakfast of cheese, bread and coffee at midday, as we have decided to accept the offer of a traditional Tuscan dinner with a group staying here tonight, E35 each including many courses, and of course vino too.
I have caught up on a couple of emails, and written to Fazioli requesting a short visit after we leave here, on 16th May, one of their 3 possible dates! And also emailed the Perth distributors, sucking eggs and asking for some sort of introduction.
The dinner turned out to be a great night. With six Belgian blokes, on a ‘4 day trip’ they do together each year, all former basketball players, perfect English speakers, and all in for a big night.
We had antipasto including proscuito, salami and cheese with slices of bread dipped in olive oil. Followed by superb spagetti with tomatoes and fresh herbs cooked perfectly, then ‘roast beef’ with roasted potato pieces and an eggplant cheese and tomato ‘slice’ (hot of course.)  Salad with a nice balsamic and olive dressing, and sweets of strawberries with cream, and a slice of some local cake, to be dipped into a small glass of something like sherry.
The bottles of Cianti Classico red wine flowed freely and the Belgians set a cracking pace whilst we downed plenty of Trebbiano de casa. (Red just stuffs me up in the head these days, and my favourite wine is now beer)
However the shot glass of grappa with the strong coffee really hit the spot, and Heather and I departed for our casa before 11pm.
The Belgians will still be going for quite a while; our hosts joined in after diner, but they too were ready for bed.

10th May

We were up bright and bushy tailed in our villa, but the
Belgian quarters across the road were silent, and they didn’t surface till much mater.
We made fresh coffee and had crusty bread and tomatoes for breakfast.
There is misty fog hanging in the valley this morning and quite overcast but our view is still beautiful; and it is so quiet with no traffic nearby and only the sound of a mopoke somewhere in the distance.
Somewhat overdue for a visit to the trichologist, I drove the 4Km down our mountain track to Greve and found a traditional ‘barber’.
Straight into the ancient chair, and he was down to work on a pretty scruffy canvas with a variety of surgically sharp instruments. My Italian phrase book helped a bit as he spoke no English.
Much trimming with scissors only and then tackled my beard and mow until we were both satisfied.
And then out with shaving brush and foam and the cut throat razor to clear all the weeds under my chin and neck.
This old master craftsman (possibly not much younger that me) spend a good hour at his easel; a true artisan.
E20 for the experience, which considering the enormity of the task was very reasonable.
Got an email from Fazioli regretting they are unable to permit a visit and suggesting I write for an appointment when next in Italy!!!!
Bugger.
The weather here is cool, very still, but we got some rain and thunder in the afternoon.
Not doing much during our ‘holiday within a holiday’ except resting.
This arvo I drove to the Panzano area of Chianti, near where we stayed last time we were here—much higher up in the hills, about 610 metres on Flossie.
In the evening I cooked our first wog meal, which of course had to be pasta.  Got some fresh sage from Agostinos garden,  cooked the spag, drained and mixed with big chunks of garlic, tiny cherry tomatoes, olive oil, grated parmesan. Also made meat sauce separately and again we had crusty bread.
Agostino also insisted I picked some globe artichokes from the veg patch to try—full of earwigs like our veg at home—but when boiled in salty water and drizzled with olive oil they were superb.
Great wog tucka!!
Tomorrow is the weekly Saturday market in Greve (pronounced Grevay).
The market was packed last time we were here, and they had superb local Sienese pork  (‘wild chinguali’) with crackling, freshly cooked and sliced for rolls,
And I think we can’t resist

11thMay

A still sunny morning in San Stefano and had breakfast of toast and coffee.
Mid morning, we drove the 4Km down the hill into Greve.  The centre was packed and we took ages to find a parking spot.
The village square had been cleared of cars and the whole place was one big outdoor market, a regular Saturday event.
Clothes, both new and pre-owed, shoes, fruit and veg, kitchen gadgets, books, hats, sunglasses and every kind of every local food.
The same stall selling freshly roasted pork paninis was again doing exceptional business and we each ate one as we walked around.
Thick slices cut off a whole roasted pig, with pepper and herb seasoning, in a fresh ‘roll’.
As the huge bell in the town tower struck midday, the crowds started to thin out and the stall holders were packing up for another week.
On our way back to the car park, the local ‘supermarket’ was just closing and we missed out on a few top-up items.
But at a tiny fruit/veg shop we bought giant fresh tomatoes and some nice local vin blanc at E3.30/bottle.
Back home for an afternoon nap, after being shown over the San Stefano’s ancient cellars, by Agostino.
The grapes and picked, crushed, fermented and the wine stored here, but any lab work and chemistry is farmed out.
And the olives are picked and sent for processing. The superb oil is stored in stainless steel containers today, but the family have worked this property for centuries and there are many ancient amphora’s still kept in the cellar.
Our villa has everything we could wish for, including NO TV!!!
We don’t know what’s happening in the rest of the world but would have heard about any serious dramas on the Toscana Telephone.
I do know however that tomorrow is Domenica, and that  most red-blooded Italians will be wishing for a couple of Ferraris on the podium at the Spanish Grand Prix!!
And I can watch live timing from the F1 site, on the laptop.

12th May
Happy Mothers Day to all Mothers, and also time to reflect and fondly remember the
Mother we once had.
Here in Italy it is also Mothers Day today, whilst back in Slovenia, the last country we visited, it was celebrated on 8th March.
Whilst the ‘Sherman Tanks’ claim to have invented mothers day, in ancient  times a whole weekend of celebrations were held in May in recognition of Juno, the goddess of marriage and motherhood. (Google 101)
Today in Italy it is simply a day for families to get together for a meal in the family home, or to dine out.
It is the most popular day of the year to dine out, and flower sellers line the piazzas all day.
Not a good time for visitors to find a special restaurant, so I made toast and coffee for Heather, and have borrowed a white flower from the gardens in remembrance of my Mum.
And Heather sykped her Mum back home.
(For the history buffs I have come across a fascinating web site (Italian) depicting an oil on canvas painting by Benardino d’angelo Bucatini of an enormous ‘mamma’ giving birth by Caesarean section to seven live wolves!!!—allegedly representing the hills of Roma. Not for the faint hearted; it goes into great detail of the bizzare origins of the Roman  ‘giorno madre’  There is a flag on the top RHS for a vague English translation. Click on http://giornomadre.messaggiospagliato.it  )
The six Belgian blokes left this morning, after a very long day yesterday working all the tasting rooms of Chianti.
They played up a bit in the pool till 11:30 last night, which didn’t make Agostino very happy.
We were oblivious to it all our villa is quite separate.
We had a bit of rain here this afternoon, and two loud claps of thunder, but it soon cleared and is now quite warm.
------And Ferrari came one, three in Spain with Alonso winning his ‘home’ GP!!

13th May
WARNING: THESE PAGES MAY CONTAIN ADULT MATERIAL. PARENTAL GUIDANCE IS RECOMMENDED. KINDLY REGARD THIS MESSAGE AS HAVING APPLIED SINCE DAY ONE. THANKYOU.
It is a beautiful sunny day at Santo Stefano near Greve and our resolve to do next to nothing but rest here, persists.
It is so quiet you can hear a mosquito fart, which in itself has a valuable purpose, as the occasional one that penetrates out defences at night can be detected before it strikes.
The swallows that visit Greve each Spring have begun to build their little mud houses, and on the indoor staircase to our villa, Agostino has erected permanent terracotta platforms for this purpose.
I guess it could be regarded as some form of cross species symbiosis—they benefit from a safe and protected place to nurture their young, whilst we are spared their crap on our heads.
I can’t be absolutely certain, but as these amazing aviators do migrate each season, I am pretty sure the one that has taken up residence outside out door is the very same that nested in our shed last year.
They do however, look quite similar; perhaps I could be mistaken.
In less that two months, Firenze will be crawling with experts counting how many ‘goolies’ David has or the length of his ‘mister wobbly’.
Many similar nether parts from statues in Rome and elsewhere, have been removed as souvenirs, including from the Vatican museum itself !!.
Sienna will be crawling with objectionable Yanks fighting for a place at a tiny restaurant, or pushing to get their postcard picture in one of the many piazzas.
San Gimignano, Assisi, Arrezo, Radda and Pisa will be invaded by  ‘ethnics’ such as we are, and all the villas of Toscano, so many of which are now owned and run by yanks, poms and frogs, will be crowded.
We have previously been guilty of joining such impersonal throngs, and it saddens me that so many ‘ancient villas’, circa 2013, are still being built by entrepreneurial non-wogs.
With no character, charm or history.
Each to his own, but to just happen upon a real Tuscan working farm, vineyard, olive grove and villa, is what I call Italy.  And there are thousands of them!
For us, much better to absorb the atmosphere, and explore the intricacies of one ancient town and its people, than draw a mere brushstroke across a broader canvas.
And so what of today.
I drove into Greve at 7:30, found a parking spot and entered the ‘co-op’ as it opened at 8am.
Salami, cheese, mortadella, panni and the inevitable Nutella, plus some tea bags, for a change from coffee for breakfast.
After brunch I acquired a giant gelato as only the Italians can make, and sat in the sunshine trying to consume more than the sun could melt.
Resting in the afternoon here is a serious activity, yet requires few special skills other that reasonable dexterity with a corkscrew, and the ability to relax and nod off at will.
For those in need of spiritual fulfilment this ancient winery even has its own private chapel.  (I should know better, but thought it was the bar!!)

14th May
My warning that today readers could expect to see some red motorcars was not to be taken lightly.
Indeed it has been an exceptional red letter day.
After leaving our superb villa near Greve at 9am, we set Flossy to take us on the autostrada to the town of Maranello near Modena, a mere 165Km north.
After battling the trucks at 130Km and cars blasting past much faster in the outer lanes, we were in Maranello just on 11am, almost opposite the Ferrari factory, and beside the museum.
It took some time to find accommodation, a few pubs being booked out as the ‘vintage’ re-run of the Milli Miglia ends here of Saturday.
However we happened upon the Maranello Palace hotel, a pleasant modern place within 3Km of the Ferrari Museum, and almost behind the factory.
Heather was happy to rest here while I proceeded to tick another item of my barrel list.
Over the years I have come to reconcile myself with the the depressing  reality that I may never own a Ferrari, excepting by the remote possibility of an Oz Lotto killing.
I have been told however that even that improbability of instant riches requires the purchase of a ticket.
And so why not hire one for a drive around the streets and outskirts of their home town.
On either side of the museum are operators offering drives in a variety of Ferraris.
On the www there were some requesting payment with a booking form downloaded and sent in, not my modus operandi.
I was able to rock up to a group called ‘Kick Start’ and book the Ferrari of my choice for 3:30 in the afternoon.
I chose a 458 Italia, open cockpit, with all gears and clutch ‘paddle operated’ on the steering wheel, al la F1, and only a stop and go pedal on the floor.
E200 for 30 minutes with a ‘guide’ in the passengers seat to direct me onto the back roads and to tell me when to press on the ‘gas’.
After following a truck for a bit, he directed me onto a side road and kept calling ‘gas’ ‘gas’!!
At one stage we were doing 170Km in 4th gear, and he pushed my right knee down as he called ‘gas’!!, and the acceleration was astonishing.
I don’t think I quite got to 200Km/h, but I at least got into fifth gear, and the acceleration was still immense.
What it would do in 6th gear is for a longer straight, or on the track only!!
Top speed is allegedly 325Kph (202MPH)
Because of the truck following, he gave me a few more minutes of an extraordinary experience.
The thing was fully insured except for wheel or rim damage, which has an excess of E10,000!!!
I was bloody careful to avoid that.
While still on cloud nine I wandered over to the Ferrari museum, with a particular interest in their F1 cars over the years, up to almost the very latest.
Turning one corner on the second level, one is confronted by an perfect wax ‘model’ of Enzo himself, sitting at his original desk. It is so realistic, I found it a bit confronting.
Enzo died in Maranello in 1988 at the age of 90, but it was as though the master was still at his desk!!
Back at our hotel there were TWELVE Ferraris, all from France, in the car park. Magnificent, but why on earth would anyone ever buy a yellow, blue, or black Ferrari.
But then again the frogs are a strange lot!! Sour grapes??
I hope the pictures tell some of the story, I am still speechless!!

15th May

Up at 7:30 in our ‘palace’ in Maranello, and already the occasional Ferrari is playing symphonic music along the streets below.
We had a superb breakfast in the dining room, included in the E130 for the night.  The usual sliced meats, cheeses, yoghurt, juices, caffee Americana, croissants and a variety of ‘wellness’ options for the connoisseurs of chaff and fibre.
Paid our dues at reception, and admired the autographed photos on the lobby wall.
Phillipe Massa (Ferrari F1 driver) who stays here before the Italian GP; that dropkick chef Gordon Ramsay who has stayed and no doubt annoyed the shit out of management, and many members of the Ferrari F1 support team.
We watched the frog Ferrari group depart en mass, and then snuck out inconspicuously to the ‘googly’.
Set Flossy for Milano and headed off in pouring rain at 10:30am, on non-autostrada roads.
It poured rain all day, and by 2pm we had only covered 165Km, all on secondary roads, and it was time to look for somewhere to stay.
We are in the Lombardi plains area of Italy; as flat as a shit carters hat; not the most attractive region of this beautiful country.
After finding a stunning ennoteca which advertised accommodation, but was not open yet for the coming season, the helpful proprietor printed out directions to a ‘nearby’ agriturismo.
Directions in the Italian countryside leave a lot to be desired—few street (via) names, and vague signs with exaggeratedly short distances to places to stay.
And so in heavy rain, it took us almost two hours to find the place he recommended.
Eventually we arrived at this modest agriturismo, on the peak of about the only hill in the region, pretty basic, but with superb views in all directions over rolling vineyards.
La Dogana, adjacent to the Castle of Luzzano, in the tiny village of Greta. La Dogana apparently means something like ‘go through customs’, but I think we got through without being challenged!!
A strange name for an Agriturismo.
The rain stopped, and we had our ‘picnic dinner’ outside, washed down with some vin ordinaire
A quite spot, and again I think we are the only takers.
But I don’t have to milk the cow (Schnook)!!
A friendly ‘petroni’ with minimal English, and it is E95 including breakfast.
Our ‘camerra’ is up a spiral staircase which is a challenge for this old fart, but I will only carry my pills and a toothbrush up those stairs!!
We have no wifi here, and so this post will appear hopefully, tomorrow.
By which time we should be close to the Swiss border in the north of Italy, and possibly heading through the Saint Bernard tunnel (18KM) on Saturday.

17h May
After a generous breakfast for two in the dining area below those dreaded stairs, we set off again planning to cover 150-200Km by lunchtime by which time we would be within striking distance of the Swizz and French borders.
Again on secondary roads, avoiding the autostradas, but through many small villages with numerous roundabouts.
In fact in two hours we had only covered 100Km.
We passed the Malpensa airport, which is one that serves Milano, but is a long way north west of that city.
We stopped for a roadside break nearby, in a forest of giant chessnut trees. Our one at home will be that big in a couple of centuries.
And then on to the township of Laveno Mombello, and found a great hotel which was fully booked. The girl in reception phoned around and booked us in to the Hotel Meuble Moderno, right on the shores of Lago Magggiore.
So we stayed and had lunch at the flash pub, and both had a superb dish of creamy fettuccini with fungi.
And then a 7Km drive to Meuble Moderno, which is not very ‘moderno’ at all, but clean and comfortable with superb views over the lake from our balcony.
We had not had wifi for two days, and when I opened my email and skype I was shocked to find out that a good flying friend John Livsey, had passed away.  Terribly sad, and we later got ‘details’ from his best mate.  Not a flying accident, but so very sad.
John and I had flown around Australia last year, and Heather and I had befriended him.
He stayed at our place numerous Saturdays after coming up to Kyneton for a fly.
This was during a ‘rough spell’; which we thought he had recently overcome.  And Heather listened to all his problems, and offered counsel, as she is so adept at.
And now it is all over. And so bloody pointless.
We toasted him over a couple of Belgian beers and vin bianco respectively last evening.
Sad as that is, we have a holiday to get on with, and had a walk around this beautiful spot, right at the foot of the Alps.
Lake Maggiore is enormous, over 68Km in length, and the Swizz border runs across it some 35Km from where we are.
The people we might have visited near Bern, Switzerland are away; and everything in Switzerland was oh so expensive on our last visit.
So we will stay here an extra day now, regroup, and on Sunday head off towards the Mont Blanc tunnel and into France where all those silly bloody frogs live.
Give me wogs anyday!!  Viva Italia!!

18th May

Up early at our ‘moderno’ in Laveno, and had a nice breakfast downstairs with the other five people staying here.
A bit of serious electronic financial juggling was then required between Peter, Paul and Mary, to keep Alan and Heather in the black.
The ANZ need to be told that whilst their travel card is excellent and saves heaps on currency transfer fees, their web site is less than bloody useless.
Perhaps they also need reminding that we have an EEU these days, and only one currency needs to be loaded.
Even in all the Eastern European countries we have visited, the price is automatically converted from whatever their local ‘minglebars’ are, to Euros, give or take a couple of cents, without fees.
Impending travellers, look into this and just load the card with either GBP or E depending on the best exchange rate.
And if you load a travel card with a Credit card, it is considered a purchase!!  Thus you get a lot of Qantas FF points (in our case),  which can be transferred from those useless pricks to another airline’s points scheme.
Enough of all that!, from the worlds most useless financial advisor.
---------J.L.’s premature demise has vindicated my philosophy that life has to be lived to the full—let’s do it all and more, and stuff the bloody expense!!!
It is fine but overcast here and rain is expected by about 3pm. So we decided to take a ferry to Intra, across the lake from here, for their Saturday market.
Only a short crossing, and possibly mainly locals taking their cars over on the short ferry trip.
Great scenery on the way over—castles, mountains on all sides and the quaint small town of Intra with a bustling market.
Our only purchase was a coffee each, and Heather bought an umbrella for E3!
And it DID rain when we got back, right on three o’clock!!
And rained steadily for the rest of the day, but still quite mild.
Which didn’t prevent us walking down the street and getting a real wog pizza, and a not-so-wog but none the less very nice takeaway kebab, to polish off in our ‘moderno’
Note the 24 hour coin-in-the-slot pharmacy--I should have had one of these and I might have made a few quid from all the 'innocents' who were too embarrassed to come in and ask.  Note, at least the three top shelves are good 'ole 'wellness products'!!!

19th May
The rain continued all night and it was still pissing down while we were having our yoghurt, sliced meats, cheese, bread rolls and coffee for breakfast.
But Indigo Jones, our ‘moderno host’ assured us it would stop by 9am.
After leaving right on 9am we headed towards the autostrada to get a few Km up towards the alps and Monte Bianco, to drive under the mountains into France
And of course the smart arse was right again, by 9:15 the rain had stopped, the sun was out, and in the light Sunday traffic we were able to sit on 130Kph comfortably for almost 200 clicks.
By 11am we were driving through the beautiful val de Aosta, where we stayed for a couple of days in 2009.
Right at the foot of the Alps, in the North-West corner of Italy, about 40km from the St Bernard tunnel to Switzerland (last trip) or the Mont Blanc tunnel into France.
Almost at the latter, and on the Italian Monte Bianco side, we stopped for a breather (OK, a pee/smoke), to take it all in.
Surrounded by snow covered cliffs, with ribbons of water streaming down vertically from the melting snow, and the entrance to the 11.6km tunnel directly ahead.
And the peak of Monte Bianco, at 15,781 feet, way above its cloud shrouded base.
A couple of hang gliders were gently soaring the cool fresh air, high above the snow line.
The entrance is about one hundred metres inside the French border, so it is rightly called the Mont Blanc tunnel.
So we purchased our ‘pass’ from the frogs on duty and were careful to maintain sixty Km/h all the way through—the ‘50 minimum and 70 maximum’ are strictly enforced.
The tunnel exit is still some 6000 feet AMSL and we stopped again for some photos.
And then down for about 20Km and took the first exit to hunt for a base for the rest of the day and night.
We happened upon the Saint-Gervais area in the Chamonix region—a group of small and very pretty villages with numerous Swiss-type ski resorts.
But it seemed that nobody was home.
After getting hopelessly lost I chanced upon a couple of locals outside a café and managed to get the name of a hotel written on a scrap of paper—‘Les 2 Gares’ in le Fayet.
I fed this into Flossy, and she immediately took us to a closed road with no alternates.
After driving round hopelessly for half an hour with no success, I came across a THIRD resident of the region!
This old chap stared at my scrap of paper, scratched his head for a while, then proceeded to hop in the back seat of the ‘googly’ and direct me with sign language to les 2 gares.
I assumed it was just around the block, but after numerous turns and roundabouts, many of which seemed familiar, we drove on for over ten Km.
I kept thinking if he does take us to the pub, how in hell will I be able to drive him back to where we found him, and then get back to the pub without getting lost again.
At last we entered the small village of le Fayet which had three or four hotels, including the Les 2 Gares.
He hopped out very pleased with himself, and greeted two blokes he obviously knew with the usual kiss in each cheek!
I tried to explain that I would drive him back, but fortunately I think he intended visiting his mates here anyway, and had got a free ride.
And so there were now at least FIVE inhabitants of Saint-Gervais!
We booked in to this great place with the mountains hanging just outside the front, and profusely thanked the old chap and his mates for their help.
As most know, the frogs in general are reluctant to speak English, even though many can.
To overcome this impasse, I never ask ‘do you speak English?’, but rather say ‘I am from Australia, can you help?’
The results are often very positive.
They distinguish us from the ‘poms’ immediately. No offense intended, my good pommie friends have been Australians for over forty years!! (P&B)
After going through the kangaroo impersonation for a while, full of smiles, they go out of the way to help, even if there don’t speak ‘English’.
We had a great 3pm lunch in a nearby café, and back to out 3-star ‘Swiss ski resort’—E59, and it’s a real gem.
The streets were deserted by 4pm, perhaps they’ll all come out to play tomorrow!!







20th May


After breakfast and a bit of a wander around the village, we set Moulins in the GPS.
And were surprised that it is further away by far that Paris. Perhaps there is a Moulins in the Arctic somewhere. So I altered the setting to Nevers, home of the ancient oak forests, which produce the best, and most expensive wine barrels.
We started off on the toll roads to get through the alps without too much mountaineering, and again the roads seemed almost deserted.
No trucks, and few cars, and at 130km plus it was a breeze.
After 150Km and having descended to the Liore valley region, we left the toll road system and onto excellent secondary roads, and continued on through the beautiful French countryside.
In the Challone province, we headed off into some small villages through typical rural farming country, with those famous white beef cattle grazing happily in lush fields.
These pure white coated beef cattle are raised for their their high quality meat, sometimes crossed with Angus or Herreford stock.
The rain continued to piss down, and the forecast is for much of the same all this week in France.
We called into the small village of  Paray-le-Monial looking for a small hotel in the countryside.
After calling at four places, we came across a fine restaurant, and an English teacher dining there recommended a Hotel called le St Cyr at Montmerlard, some 20Km away.
We drove there on great rural roads, to find this superb hilltop spot was closed.
So in the pouring rain we retreated, only to find that there were many beautiful little accommodation places, but all were closed—nobody home!!!
No one had told us that is Whit Monday, a religious public holiday in France—not a good day for athiests to find somewhere to stay, or eat!!.
Back at Paray-le-Monial we chanced upon a small hotel—open, and booked in for the night.
Having not eaten since 7am,  I drove on for many Km trying to find some sort of ‘snack’.
The supermarket in a nearby larger town was closed, no cafes were open, and back at our little hotel we had to wait until 7pm till the dining room opened.
We are located beside the Canal du Centre, not far from  Macon on the Saone river, close to where we stayed in Tournous on our last trip here.
Hunger is great for the appetite, and at 7pm we joined many others in the dining room for a fabulous French meal, beside a warm wood-burning fireplace.
I had a dozen escagots for entrée, Heather had scallops on skewers, both with a fabulous sauce, followed by superbly cooked steak from those beautiful beef cattle, and a bottle of Macon wine.
A real treat, after a wet ad confusing day—a la Pentecostal Monday holiday!!!
We will both sleep well tonight, and bugger the weather!!!

21st May

Strange as it may seem, I must confess that I am unable to walk on water, let alone turn it into wine.
Or beer for that matter, without appropriate additions of malted barley, hops and yeast, plus a modicum of ancient alchemy.
Possibly due to the constraints of Newtonian physics, and my lack of any metaphysical powers, I have also been unable to alter the weather.
It has now rained incessantly for over two days, our spirits remain high but the fields of France are soaked, and it is not sightseeing weather.
From Paray-le-Monial we followed the broad Canal du Centre for some distance, past a few locks. The canals in France are much wider that those of the UK, as are their ‘bateaux’.
Always on the secondary roads which are excellent, and which pass through small villages and open countryside, without entering the bigger towns and cities.
We drove in consistent rain towards Moulins, where we pulled into a small side road in search of  something for breakfast.
At the only café open we had coffee, hot chocolate for me, and the only accompaniment available; fresh crusty bread, plonked on the bar with a container of butter and a knife.
Other locals were enjoying the same fare, and it was simple, warming and adequate.
The rain continued as I stopped to take photos of the tasty Charolais cattle whose friends we dined on last evening.
They too looked a bit despondent in the mud and rain soaked paddocks.
Then through avenues of giant plane trees and the ancient oak forests of Nevers, and left the main road near Cosne-Cours-sur Loire and ‘discovered’ the rather large town of Gien spread along either side of the river Loire.
The town was heavily bombed by the Luftwaffe during WW2 with much damage inflicted, but the main target, the historic bridge, remains intact.
We booked into a modern hotel in this ancient town, with a room overlooking the Liore and the castle formerly of Phillip 11.
A magic sight, if only the sun would come out for a while.
But it continued to drizzle all day.
All we wanted for lunch was a bowl of soup, and the chef in the adjoining restaurant obliged with a superb creation of creamy mushroom and prawn bisque, served of course with fresh crusty bread.
The lobby area of the pub had a quaint raised seating area with what looked like a lectern.
And so having missed the Whit Monday services, I took to the pulpit and delivered an impromptu ‘mass’.
It impressed no one as the lobby was deserted and the receptionist just scratched her head, bewildered.
The bar here didn’t seem to exist, nor were evening meals evident; so we walked in the rain to a real workers pub a few blocks away.
After a pint of REAL ale (Munchen I think), and a vin for Heather, we bought great take away pizza and smuggled it back to our room.
May the bloody sun shine tomorrow, for us to explore more of this area!

Wed 22nd May

I was up early in Gien and went for a bit of a tourist drive at 7am, before the towns peak hour rush.
The castle was severely damaged during the war also, and except the ancient tower, much has since been rebuilt.
The Loire river here is flowing rapidly, and is very broad; of course being one of the three major rivers of France.
Ancient wooden river boats still ply the river with cargo or in search of fish.
Just outside the town, the long railway bridge was damaged by war time bombing raids but has been restored, and Giens contribution to global warming is in full swing nearby.
Avenues of neatly pruned plane trees extend along the river banks for miles.
Heading towards Chartres, we followed the river through the village of Sully-sur-Loire and turned into the tiny hamlet of Dampierre-en Burly for breakfast at 9am.
Again, crusty chunks of fresh husband beaters with butter and jam also this time, and very strong coffee.
Close to Orleans the googly needed breakfast also, and we topped up with diesel at E1.37/l—the cheapest we’ve seen since Hungary.
At 12:30 we had covered 200Km and decided to leave the main roads and find a spot to settle in, and soak up some small village atmosphere.
By 1pm it was lunch o’clock and we turned into an impossibly narrow driveway to the tiny car park of a quaint French/Turkish restaurant at Acquigny, some 40Km south of Rouen in Normandy.
Perhaps it was something we ate, but all I can remember is that it must have been over lunch that I fell into a deep trance and dreamt vividly.
There was this discordant music in the background, and the overwhelming aroma of chick peas rolled in cumin and bubbling cauldrons of meatballs with beans and peas and chicken and boiled potatoes sizzling in earthernware pots. 
I remember ordering the chicken, and when the brightly coloured rooster arrived with a knife and fork, I asked him to get some salt and pepper too. Fortunately, he never returned.
After lunch, this lady from the la Kasbah eating house beckoned us to follow and I did without question.
She would lead us to distant lands to where their would be accommodation, pre-arranged on an instrument she called a mobile phone.
Only five kilometres away, and I followed her in her black chariot without question, with the passenger beside me, whom I assumed to be my wife.
Five kilometres became six and then fifteen and we finally came to a huge sliding steel gate topped with ominous spikes, but with a narrow opening.
And we followed, and entered this strange land.
I drove on and on following the black chariot and we passed many strange houses where very poor people must live; so poor that they grow potatoes on the grass roofs or their houses.
There were brown rabbits running around everywhere and ravins following us, and the sky darkened.
At last we pulled up at a strange old and decrepit castle, and secret numbers were required to be pressed on the door to allow entry.
The only one present was Morticia with whom the lady from la Kasbah had spoken secretly on her electric machine.
They conversed in a strange language and then my partner embraced la Kasbah with a kiss on each cheek and she disappeared back through the menacing steel gates.
I awoke at this point, to discover that we were at the du Vaudreuil Golf ‘Hotel’, located in the midst of a huge golf complex where men and women of all ages were hitting small balls with sticks as far away from themselves as they could.
And they were paying dearly for that privilege.
Motricia took some details, gave us a key to a third floor room in the Adams Family home up an improbably steep staircase, told us about the secret numbers to enter the front door, and to re-enter the prison gates after 8pm if we desired.
And then locked the only semblance of a dining or lounge area, and vanished for the night.
A strange, strange place—the clubhouse which we were told was for hotel guests to eat also closed at 4pm, and I had left my bloody hat back at Aquigny!!
With nothing to eat, I escaped through the gates, bought a couple of ‘sandwiches’ and came back just before being trapped in the outside world!!!
What a strange day, and what a pity it’s all true too, but we will laugh about it when we escape in the morning.
And truly, NOTHING to drink!!

Thurs 23rd May

We rose early and were pleased to have survived the night.
The charges set to demolish this crumbling castle at midnight, had failed, probably due to a wet fuse.
It had of course, rained all night.
And the pitchfork above out ‘bathroom’ entrance had not been touched.
Morticia appeared right on seven am and we paid our dues; although I was expecting her to pay us.
But that’s just how it is in these strange places.
We were offered some breakfast which she has prepared, but as it would surely be laced with hemlock and laudanum, we politely refused.
In the rain we quickly escaped through the threatening gates and entered the real world again.
Just as the strange people who are obsessed with their little white balls were advancing en masse in their expensive motorcars.
Or walking to the vast lawn areas with their ball-hitting sticks, from their houses with the grass roofs and potato patches on top.
We both pinched ourselves, but alas, it had been real.
I am aware of obsessions some have with strange automobiles and flying machines and even I have been guilty of flirting with other gods.
But this bizarre pass-time is more than a harmless obsession. It is a cult with secret rituals and strange talking in tongues and the shouting of ‘four’ to all who encroach on their lawns and sandpits.
And I am told by persons of worldly knowledge that the winner of the contest is he or she who achieves the LOWEST score.
Very strange!
In the outside world we quickly found a tiny café to eat some breakfast, which would not be laced with poisons.
And then continued at great speed to retreat towards Calais.
The secondary roads in France however are excellent and the countryside beautiful.
Again in the rain, I called into the Aero Club De La Somme, but apart from a Robin doing circuits and a Chipmonk parked on the grass and a chopper practicing rescues, there was nobody home.
A great run into Calais and purchased a ticket for the ferry for tomorrow and booked into a nearby pub.
Into the land of the poms and Scotts and Welsh for five weeks, tomorrow.
Rule Britannia, God save the Queen and all that stuff.
And driving the googly on the right side of the road from the left side of the car should be fun!!

Frid 24th May

Our hotel in Calais was basic, pleasant and reasonably priced, with free wifi in all rooms.
Qualities not common near ports and airports, without spending way above our means.
The manager was helpful and spoke excellent English, but overlooked reminding me tomorrow is the start of a Bank Holiday weekend in Britain, AND the start of the mid-year school break until June 2nd.
This created a degree of urgency to find initial accommodation, as we had neglected to pack tents and sleeping bags.
It was up to Google and such sites as ‘Last minute beds’ and ‘Late rooms.com’ to come to the rescue.
We had decided to start our pub crawl up the East coast, of course avoiding London, having visited Her Majesty’s village last time.
Alas, every coastal place I googled, was fully booked.
The poms get quite adventurous when they have a holiday and even in appalling weather, head for the sea.
After much gnashing of teeth I finally found a room in the Victory at Mersea, Colchester and booked the last room.
Perhaps it was a cancelation, or just good luck as it seems a great place, on an ‘island’, right on the coast, about 90 miles from Dover.
With no haunted castle or electrified gates!
Getting a place in Dover itself was also a feat, finally booking a room in the Premier Inn close to the port.
Not very premier, except for the price.
We headed for the Calais port early and were able to drive onto the P&O ferry almost immediately, and the crossing was only about ninety minutes.
After lunch, we drove a couple of miles to the Battle of Britain memorial to fill in time until we could book in to the ‘Inn’.
And so tomorrow we will start our British adventure as we work our way up the East coast and into Scotland and then down through Wales.
And I am confident we won’t have to sleep in the car.

Sat 25th May
There are 51,380 pubs in Britain and so our task is quite a challenge.
So, an early start from Dover to get to the Victory of Mersea before closing time.
From Dover if was 116 miles, or 187 Km.
Flossy was a bit confused with the units, and displayed the speed limits in MPH, and the distance in Km.
So a bit of en route conversion was needed to avoid the local bobbies, who were out in force for the Bank Holiday weekend.
The route to Mersea took us VERY close to London city.
I guess we virtually passed Liz and Phil and Andrew and Kate and Charlie and Camilla, no doubt all with their ‘bathers’ on, for the beach.
It is close to seventeen degrees today, the sun is shining and it is possibly an late spring heatwave.
At one stage we passed the turn off to Maldon, and I was sure we had taken the wrong road.
The poms are funny buggers that way—they have named many of their towns after places in Australia—they also have a Taradale, a Malsbury, an Elphinstone, a Harcourt, and I’m sure they’ll have invented a Faraday too.
This bank holiday business is taken very seriously.
When we found the Victory at Mersea, it was crowded with lily white forms braving the harsh sun on the lawn area.
No problem with our accommodation booking, but we had to book for dinner too!—they must be expecting a big rush when the tide recedes.
For Mersea is an island, reached via a causeway.
We had been told that when the tide is in there could be up to a two hour wait to drive across.
We were lucky as the road was still wet, but the tide was out.
But hopefully it will not be out when I try my first cask ale at six o’clock—I haven’t had a drink since BEFORE we stayed at the Adams mansion!!

26th May

I tried a couple for real ales at the Victory of Mersea and they were from Scotland—possibly single malts??!!
Only the French onion soup for dinner, which was superb.
Plus platters of local breads and an olive oil and balsamic dip, which we didn’t order.
The poms speak a kind of Australian, but some things are still lost in the translation!
After a great sleep and a full English breakfast, it was time to establish a base for today, again in the middle of the Bank Holiday weekend and the school half-term break.
Last evening we met a bloke from Perth who lives here with his UK wife, and got a few clues on places to stay, but they would have involved back-tracking a bit.
By chance, I discovered an old pub (not that old really—established in 1545!!!!) with a vacancy for tonight.
Only 70Km further up the track in the tiny village of Cretingham, near Woodbridge, in Suffolk.
And what a real gem the ‘Cretingham Bell’ is.
About an hours drive from Mersea on decent roads, and then some 5Km up the narrowest of narrow English lanes.
Impossible to pass without pulling off into one of the occasional sidings for that purpose.
The ‘village’ of Cretingham consists of a dozen or so cottages, and the ‘Bell' which is the centre of community life.
Not just for a pint or two, but it is also the local restaurant, meeting place and village green.
The couple who own the place were very welcoming and run a great little typical village pub.  Hidden from the masses in a maze of tiny lanes.
Many came for lunch, mostly locals I guess as it is well off the beaten track.
In the afternoon, I went for a drive up more very narrow lanes, to find the airstrip at Monewden, while Heather enjoyed the ‘sunshine’ with a few of the friendly natives.
I found this private grass strip, formerly the Horizon Flying Club, just as a young chap and his girlfriend landed in a C150.
The only hangar there contains a Stearman, a Harvard and a Bonanza, all locked up and just visible through the cracks in the shed.
And during the day quite a number of warbirds flew over, on their way to or from the airshow at the Duxford museum, up the road a bit in Cambridgeshire.
After a couple of pints of Woodfords Nelson’s and scampi for tea, I watched the Monaco GP with publican Charles and his mate David, who at one time worked for the ‘MARCH’ F1 team in the US. Recorded earlier, to watch after the pub emptied.
Rosberg, Vettel, Weber, Hamilton.
The owners expect another busy day for lunch tomorrow, being the Bank Holiday Monday.
The weather has been beautiful and we could easily spend another day here.

27th May

Another beautiful sunny day in Cretingham and after breakfast we hung around for a while chatting to the couple who own/run the place.
It would be s shit of a job, 7am to 11pm everyday, from cooking and serving breakfasts, to kicking the last pisshead out at 11pm.
Only one other couple had stayed the night and they left early, so we listened to our hosts’ life stories over, and after breakfast.
Charles is a pretty handy chef and does all the cooking.
Sunday lunches are their busiest time and it is traditional for all the locals to down a few pints and have their weekly outing for a full roast dinner.
Usually pork and beef, with roast spuds, peas, gravy and of course Yorkshire pudding, even though it is not Yorkshire.
Sarah is stuck with all the blowflies in the bar all day while Charles is in the kitchen.
And she is quite a handy artist, painting local scenes in watercolours in her ‘spare time’.
They don’t get much of that, and we heard all the whinging and bitching about owing and running a pub.
Of the 51,380 pubs in England (2012) apparently some thirteen close each month, so my challenge of a pint in each one is becoming more achievable.
We left about 11am heading up through Norwich and into Norfolk, this time winging it again without anything booked, as it is the Bank Holiday Monday.
Every place I looked at on the www was booked out.
We drove off, along and beside the Norfolk Broads, and it seemed every pom was heading there for the ‘holiday’.
Beautiful weather, but we got stuck in a traffic jam for an hour to cross a tiny narrow bridge.
And most of the holiday makers will probably get there just as they have to head back to work tomorrow.
Through some lovely Norfolk countryside, and purely by chance, came across the Kings Head pub in East Dereham, some 15 miles west of Norwich in Norfolk.
It was a bit of a blood house but they had plenty of accommodation, so we propped there.
It is a pretty tired pub, with a new owner who is a real pain in the arse.  I doubt if he will still be there at Xmas.
Our downstairs room out the back was clean and small, and no wifi except in the pub.
The owner gave me the wifi code and then went ‘home’, wherever that is.
No wifi as he had given me the wrong password, even though it included his own initials, what a dickhead.
Hence, these notes are now a day behind.
There was nothing inspirational to write about anyway, so no real loss.

Tues 28th May

A good full English breakfast at the Kings Head, during which the girl in charge gave us the corrected wifi code, and I spend some time looking for an interesting destination.
We have decided to go a bit upmarket for one day, to make up for the rather down and out town of East Dereham.
I discovered the Washingborough Hall hotel and restaurant, only four miles from the big town of Lincoln, which is on the route up to York where we will meet a bloke I knew from back home many years ago, and join him on his house boat for a trip up the river Ouse to York itself.
They have ONE room left at Washingborough Hall for tonight, and so without taking our usual changes on finding a gem, I booked it online.
This is a grand 250 year old mansion, up a curving treed driveway, very flash and not cheap.
Shorts and a tee short may even challenge the dress code of the place for dinner and diminish the ambience for others!!
So be it.  It looks a bit like the place out of the TV series ‘Monarch of the Glen’
Lincolnshire is in general a very flat area with numerous open fields of rich soil, producing much of the countries wheat, canola and other cereal crops.
There are also a couple of serious RAF bases nearby—RAF Digby and RAF Waddington which is very close to here.
We heard Hornets, MQ9-Reapers and RC-135 Air Seeker aircraft doing their tricks during the afternoon.
The bombing range of RAF Wainfleet is also in Lincolnshire, but we feel pretty safe.
We were here by about lunchtime and had beautiful cream of cauliflower soup with truffle oil ‘dressing’ for lunch.
I have strained a finger on my right hand, so typing is a bit difficult.
Off to the local pharmacy, which had closed for lunch, so bought some ‘drugs’ from the supermarket for the pain.
If it’s not cured by the morning, back to the pharmacy to ‘con’ some stronger anti-inflammatory tablets.
The funeral today for our friend who died ten days ago, so we had a small wake in his honour  after dinner.

Wed 29th May
After last night at the Washingborough Hall, we decided breakfast might be a bit over the top!!
But we had had a beautiful meal, and the bank hasn’t caught up with us yet.
For starters, Heather had pressed pork hock terrine with fresh asparagus and a poached duck egg, I had tomato soup, definitely not out of a can!!
We both followed with chicken breast stuffed with pumpkin squash and spinach, tightly wrapped in a thin ‘skin’ of something like proscuito, and cut transversely.
Superbly cooked and presented, with crusted mashed potato, and greens.
As the poms can’t cook, they probably had a frog chef in for the night.
The wines started at $45 a bottle and then the prices became stratospheric, but a couple of double scotches as an aperitif, was sufficient.
We left at 8:30, heading for York, only about 95Km away, again on secondary roads, to enjoy the countryside and avoid the trucks on the motorways.
At about 9:30 we joined the truckies however, at a roadside ‘all day breakfast’ place.
A great full English breakfast, for 4GBP each.
Full English breakfasts are comprehensive, identical everywhere and usually provide enough calories and lipids for a month, so can usually keep us going till a light dinner at night.
Sausages, eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomato, baked beans and toast.
Followed by the daily cholesterol lowering tablet.
It has rained all day, yet we were surprised at the uncongested roads as we approached within 4Km of York, to the lanes leading to the York Marina where Bernie and Sue have their house barge moored.
This is a pretty good home on the water, in a beautiful setting.
The boat is some sixty feet long and wider than the canal narrow boats.
With all the mod cons and separate lounge with pot belly stove, fully equipped kitchen, bedroom, laundry and bathroom.
It is driven from the blunt end by a diesel Isusu motor, and only uses 2 litres an hour at a pleasant four knots.
And with a sundeck out the pointy end for whenever it doesn’t rain.
Bernie booked us into the Black Bull Inn a few Km away, but we may move into their ‘local’ near the marina tomorrow.
Probably into the historic walled town of York on the bus tomorrow, as they both will be working.
And we will have a trip up the Ouse river on their boat the ‘Green Finch’ over the weekend.

Thurs 30th May
The Black Bull Inn is a very family oriented pub, in the small village of Escrick, just on the outskirts of York.
Run by Geoff Boycott and his wife.
Actually, a much younger version of Geoffrey, but with that great Yorkshire drawl I love.
They are both very friendly, and haven’t rubbed too much salt in about the current Aussie Test team.
The locals stream in for a meal and a couple of pints, and like most pommy pubs no one gets off their face.
A pot of real ale at cellar temperature can be enjoyed over half an hour or so—it starts off flat so doesn’t need to be tossed down like our tap beer at home.
I am becoming a ‘real ale’ aficionado; it suits the climate, is part of the lifestyle, and doesn’t build up enough gas to blast the false teeth out when you burp!
And the variety is immense and many are unique to each particular ‘free house’ pub.
It poured raining all night and in the morning there was a lot of water on the roadsides.
We decided on a full day in the historic town of York.
Drove to what they call a ‘park and drive’, and caught the bus into the centre of the walled city.
And then it is all on foot with no cars allowed in the city centre.
A fabulous historic town steeped in history.
Founded in 71 ACE, but there is archaeological evidence of Mesolithic settlement in the area between 8000 and 7000BCE. (Google 101, 2013)
Many early buildings are intact, as is much of the city wall, which stretch for miles.
We visited Minster, St Marys church, and climbed the ancient steps to the top of Cliffords Tower, part of the original York Castle.
A great town for a walking tour of the historic centre including the Manor House of the Lord Mayor, the Shambles, Viking centre, Museum and bridge over the river Ouse.
Regarded as the second most visited city of England, it is packed with tourists all year round, even on a cool misty and overcast day like today.
After a full day walking this fascinating place, we got the bus back to the ‘park and drive’, and then drove the ‘googly’ back to the Black Bull Inn for another night.
My hooves need a trim and the finger is still a bit sore, so I’ll make an appointment with James Harriot and Tristen in the morning!!

31st May
After a late breakfast at the Black Bull Inn, I spent some time in their extensive library of classics and historical works on Great Britain.
And York in particular; a bit of local research could serve us well in this area.
We said our fond farewells to Geoffrey Boycott, and drove the four or five Km to the Blacksmiths Arms In Naburn, Bernie and Sues ‘local’.
Right on the river bank and almost adjacent to the York Marina.
We have booked in here to the only cottage attached to the pub, self catering.
With a ‘welcome breakfast basket’ of eggs, fresh bread, milk, chocolate and a bottle of sparkling wine.
Our stay here is for Friday and Saturday.
Still nursing my sore finger I decided not to drive much today, and as James and Tristen have no surgery hours on Fridays, we settled into this quaint cottage for a rest.
For lunch in the pub I had the broccoli and blue cheese soup, unusual but delicious.
Mid-afternoon I checked my email and there was a brief note from a certain Peter McC of Faraday, mentioning an aircraft museum just up the road a bit.
This disrupted my afternoon rest, so I quickly checked their web site and the opening hours are 10am to 5pm daily.
It was now 3pm and the museum is located on an airfield 16Km away, at Elvington, Yorkshire, close to York.
I sprinted off in the googly and was there by 3:20pm.
The ‘old flyer’ on the gate let me in for half price and tossed in a free Guide Book to boot, as it was getting late and ‘they usually start packing up at 4:30pm’.
The first outside exhibit was a Spitfire ‘replica’. A pity, not a REAL one.
Twenty two thousand Spitties were built, yet there are only a handful left worldwide.
Of course many were lost in training and combat, but many thousands more were scrapped after the war.
An unforgivable lack of foresight.
Major exhibits include the massive Halifax bomber in the Canadian Memorial Hangar, an Avro Anson, Douglas Dakota, Hawker Hurricane, Canberra bomber and De Havilland Mosquito; all in flying condition.
The Mosquito airframe is made mainly of wood; with twin 12 cylinder Rolls Royce Merlin engines.
Our own 92 Y/O member at YKTN, Col Griffin, flew the Mosquito for the RAF during the war.
And he reckons it’s much better to fly, and superior to a Spitfire!!
Many buildings hold special displays including uniforms, library, air gunners display, French officers mess, and even a chapel.
Many large aircraft in the open desperately need hangarage.
Even though it was late in the day, I certainly got my 3GBP worth.
Back at our cottage we met Bernie and Sue again, and had dinner with them in the pub.

1st June

Last night I had a local speciality for dinner—battered Spam with mushy peas.
Yes, real genuine Spam out of a tin, sliced thickly and done in a light beer batter.
None of that cheap imitation stuff!!
Loaded with salt, nitrites and sulphites and totally devoid of any gastronomic or nutritional value.
And the same menu price as beautiful fresh cod, which we have had for dinner, twice.
It’s quite a popular pub meal in York, so again—when in Rome…
We slept in at our little cottage this morning, perhaps Spam is a good sedative; it certainly induces a healthy thirst!
And cooked breakfast ourselves, a break from the usual Full English!!
The start of the British summer today and its about 12 degrees at midday.
However, the weather was superb yesterday, so we can’t be greedy.
We are just resting today before tackling the track up towards Scotland tomorrow.
We WILL call in at the ‘World of James Herriot’  centre tomorrow morning, only a few miles from here at Thirsk in North Yorkshire, and possibly at Whitby, which is also on the way north.
Bernie and Sue called over for a farewell drink, and we thanked them for looking after us.

2nd June

Off on the way through Herriot country to Thirsk, in North Yorkshire, only about 35 miles north of Naburn.
The countryside of the Yorkshire dales is as majestic as depicted in the ‘All Creatures’ story.
Except that we almost bowled over a kangaroo on the way to ‘Darrowby’.
The village of Thirsk  is so typical of small Yorkshire villages, and the Herriot heritage museum is a very fitting memorial to that great vet and author.
This is the actual surgery where vet Afl Wight aka James Herriot (author) practiced for years.
And the church just down the street is where he married his wife, and is the one seen in the series.
Alf adopted the nom de plume James Herriot to avoid his books being construed as professional advertising.
Much of the surgery remains as it was when Alf, ‘Siegfried’ and ‘Tristan’ practiced here at Skeldale House in the 1940’s.
The dispensary, a wide display of surgical devices of the day, the office and living areas as they were in the films.
The 1937Austin Seven used in the series has been restored, and at the rear of the building in a darkened ‘Yorkshire barn’ a fifteen minute film is shown, featuring the actors from the series, and excerpts from a talk show interviewing Alf himself.
He was an extraordinary man, both as a country vet and author.
And he must have been a good bloke as he also trained as a pilot during the war!
After a couple of hours at Darrowby we headed north planning to bypass Newcastle, but Flossy took us right through the centre!!
Just north of there, we called in at the very busy Ridley Arms in Morpeth, Northumberland for lunch.
It was packed with hundreds out for the traditional Sunday roast, but we settled for a great bowl of soup each.
Our destination for the day was Berwick on Tweed, a fascinating old town with a massive ancient bridge over the mouth or the river Tweed.
We found the small quiet pub, the Cats Inn and booked for the night.
Very friendly hosts who have only taken over five weeks ago.
George, 52 y/o  still races fast historic motorbikes in circuit racing.
Lara his wife, befriended Heather and was very welcoming.
There were only a few in the bar when we arrived, and an old bloke with a broad Scottish accent noticed we were Australian and wondered why we were driving a car with French plates.
I explained, and then said ‘with an accent like that, you would have to be Italian wouldn’t you?’  ‘Aye lad, have lived up road all me life’
I think something was lost in the translation!!
I had to try a pint of ‘The Village Bike’ before bed—why not!!

3rd June

Berwick was only 5 minutes south of the Scottish border, and of course we had to stop and take a picture.
And then on to Dundee, and the beginning of a difficult search for anywhere to stay.
We arrived at midday, and called at several nice hotels, but all booked out.
We tried many more, without luck.
Could my non-booking policy be letting us down?
Eventually, at a nice pub which of course was fully booked, the lady proprietor called a friend nearby with a B & B.
And we were lucky to get an ensuite at Cameron House, in the very busy centre of Broughty Ferry, the old fishing village centre of Dundee.
It was quite adequate except for the steep stairs and the fast rail almost at the back door!!
We skyped Ceara Collins, Terrys’ daughter who we hoped to visit in Aberdeen tomorrow, and then tried to find accommodation.
I searched over fifty hotels in Aberdeen, ALL booked out!!!
A glitch in my system??
It took most of the afternoon to search for a place to stay, and we finally got about the last bed in the Premier Inn, right in the centre of the city.
So we will meet up with Ceara and Nathan for dinner and a Scotch or two, tomorrow night.
We walked round this historic town, and had tea at the busy pub, The Anchor, then back to our B & B.

Tues 4th June

We are so far north now that it is daylight at 3:45am and doesn’t get dark at night until 9:45PM.
The Scots living north of Edinburgh need to take great care not to overdose on Vitamin D.
And the sun shone again for most of the day as we headed to Aberdeen on the A90.
Our pub is right in the centre of town, and with limited hotel parking we wanted to get there early and get into their off-street garage.
This we did with ease, and Flossy took us right to the place before the lunchtime rush.
Aberdeen is a bustling old city loaded with gothic architecture, almost all buildings are granite which glitters when the sun shines and when it rains.
Accommodation is plentiful with many expensive hotels which are always full.
Workers and managers of the many North Sea oil rigs fly in and out by chopper with their big pay packets, and hotel prices have skyrocketed.
We walked the beat for a while admiring the many structures with intricate spires and towers of granite, and then rested during the afternoon.
Ceara Collins and Nathan met us at 5pm; it was great to catch up with her again and to meet Nathan.
We had a great night out together for dinner at the  Archibold Simpson, a great pub serving good meals and a wide range of single malts and ales.
We all had Aberdeen Angus steaks of course, which were superb. In later years my father changed from dairying to Angus stud cattle, and after all, this is the home of the famous breed.
At 9:30pm we all came back to our hotel room and Skyped Terry, Cearas dad back at Faraday.
We got him out of bed at about 6:30am back home and all had a long video chat with him.
Plenty of rain back home so the tanks are full, caught up with the local Faraday news, and it was great for Ceara to see and talk to her dad.
Tomorrow we head off west to Loch Ness, to solve that mystery once and for all!!
And are booked into the Loch Ness Inn at Drumnadrochit, from where my mothers ancestors stole their loaf of bread a few generations ago.

5th June

Well, we have survived the ‘Cullen Skink with White Bloomer’, consumed for lunch yesterday!!
The WHAT???...
….I wasn’t able to check until this morning, but it tasted superb, and looked quite innocuous.
Cullen Skink is a traditional North Eastern Scottish broth made with potatoes, onion and smoked haddock.
And White Bloomer is a local ‘heavy’ bread, which when  cut into croutons and toasted, is floated in the soup. (Google 201)
Another unique challenge, and quite delicious.
We left Aberdeen at 9am, missing the peak hour rush.
On the A96 for a few miles and then on to good secondary roads, just like country Victoria.
No complaints from Flossy OR her assistant, and we all enjoyed this pleasant scenic drive.
We pulled into a roadside spot in the farming area of Pitcaple, to a novel roadhouse for breakfast.
Located in a ‘dead bus’ firmly set into the ground, the ‘Pit Stop’ was doing a roaring trade.
Fitted out with a kitchen up one end and table seating along the length of the bus.
‘The Breakfast’ was very popular and the menu quite extensive.
The ‘bus’ windows were fogged over with steam from the ‘kitchen’ and sheep grazing in the adjacent paddock were unperturbed.
The proprietor entertained some regulars in broken Gaelic with brilliant expletives which echoed throughout the establishment. What a scream!
Really quite amusing, and I had to chuckle at the hose from her four wheel drive parked beside the place, supplying the gas cooker in the bus!!
After breakfast we continued along the ‘whiskey trail’ of the ‘Northern Glen’ country.
Through Huntly, Elgin and Nairn, then over the river Ness bridge at Inverness and down the west side of the Loch.
A brief diversion to the Inverness airport, but nothing much of interest here for a ‘weekend warrior’.
We arrived at the very pretty village of Lewiston Nr Drumnadrochit, and checked in to the Loch Ness Inn.
This is at the widest section of the Loch, and I am confident I can solve that long standing mystery in the morning.
There is much more to see here including the Urquhart Castle and the Loch Ness Centre, before we head down past Fort William to ‘Campbell country’ and the Kilchurn Castle in Argyll.
And I have a couple of very ‘smokey’ and ‘peaty’ single malts to sip before I settle for the night.
The range is immense, and life is too short to drink cheap whiskey.
Just ask a Scotsman!!

6th June

Another beautiful, warm and sunny day in the Highlands.
Which aren’t ‘high’ at all in altitude, but certainly in latitude.
Ben Nevis, at the heady height of 4,409 feet is just above ‘circuit joining height’ for YKTN, and a big higher that Macedon or Alexander.
But then, there are grown men here, who wear colourful skirts!
In public!!!
With ‘coin-purses’ dangling at the front!!
And they regard the noise emitted from giant leather bags tucked under the armpits, as music!!
Oh Dear----
Things are a bit different here.
The ‘high’ in Highlands probably refers to a state of  euphoric bliss, which still exists, and is contagious.
A state that long preceded the invention of the motorcar, or the dreaded breathalyser.
Since the beginning of time ‘Brewing was vital—from breakfast to supper, everyone drank ale, even children.’ (Stadtbibliothek, Nurnberg, date unknown)
And things became even hazier with the discovery of the still!!
After all, many of them are convinced there is some giant serpent that has lived in the water here for over five hundred years!!
More of that later.
Just when we thought we were ‘castled out’ from tripping round Europe, we discovered Urquhart Castle, right here on Loch Ness.
Castles are everywhere on our journey, and after a while they become monotonous clones of each other, many both physically and historically re-invented.
Urquhart Castle has nothing of that!
Following centuries of plunder and attack from the hated English, and conflicts with the MacDonalds, in 1692 it was partially ‘blown up’ by the Clan Grant owners, to prevent its use by the invading Jacobites.
What remains has been tastefully maintained rather than restored, becoming one of the most visited sites of Scotland.
It clings to the edge of the loch, and with a moat and drawbridge, would have been difficult to assault by land or water.
(Mr Google has much of the story.)
The visitor entry is on the side of an adjacent hill, with access via a downstairs ‘lobby’ which opens through the inevitable souvenir and refreshment area, onto a viewing platform, with spectacular views over Loch Ness.
Prior to viewing the castle itself, a short film is shown of its history.
From a mediaeval fortress on the site, to the present castle, and its partial demise.
Very professionally done with actors in full battle costume, and realistic action.
Shown in a large semi-circular, totally darkened theatre.
All are asked not to stand until the film ends and the lights come on.
And the ending is dramatic!
As the gatehouse to the castle is destroyed by kegs of gunpowder, set by the departing Grants, the screen erupts into a fiery and deafening inferno.
At that moment, the lights come on, the screen disappears and the dark curtains are retracted to reveal the castle in its entirety, just beyond the vast glass windows, in brilliant sunshine, right on the loch!!
The audience is quite awe struck!
Very impressive, and more than a little moving!!
After climbing all over the castle, we both came back and watched the film again—it was soooo good!!
And refreshments in the souvenir area, and prices of all things Scottish, were quite reasonable.
An uplifting change, after similar attractions.
We are staying here a further two nights as there is much more to do and see, including the dreaded Loch Ness centre attraction, and solving the mystery itself!!
Aye, yer gotta love the Scottish!!!

7th June

Our first call today was at the Loch Ness Centre, less than a mile up the way in Drumnadochit.
In a grand 18th century homestead, beside and attached to the Drumnadochit Hotel.
Inside, this stately old building has been gutted and refurnished like something from Luna Park.
Visitors stream in through the grand entrance, pay their seven quid, and then in groups of about twenty, are drafted like sheep into a darkened cavern with imitation rock walls.
A strange narrative, with clips of film shown on the walls follows, as all proceed from one papier-mâché cave to the next.
The narrative continues with images of early sightings of strange ripples, waves, logs of wood, fish, and birds in flight against the glassy water.
Then more recent follies of the ‘70’s including submarine descents and high powered sonar.
All of which have found nothing unusual.
But have led to the discovery of John Cobbs’ speedboat which crashed at 209MPH in 1952, killing him instantly.
And the wreckage of a Wellington bomber, which crashed into the depths during the war.
And of course several largish sturgeon, and an area of the loch where large bubbles of methane gas rise to the surface from rotting organic matter far below.
Or perhaps merely the quiet farts of some wayward seal, lost in the loch.
But alas, no evidence of a monster.
Isn’t it fascinating that none of the sightings, none of the blurred photos and none of the blatant hoaxes, originated from here!!
For there is no Loch Ness Monster, yet the pulling power of this myth is immense.
We all have childhood beliefs, torn away at an early age.
How could there be no Santa, no tooth fairy?
They are soon replaced by giants that live up bean stalks or bunyips or similar creatures.
Our adult myths, mysteries and beliefs are often more bizarre.
All part of the great unknown.
By ten years of age, all ‘wee Scots’ have had a whiff of whisky, the universal panacea for cuts and scratches.
And no doubt burned their tender lips on the ‘ole mans bottle too!
As adults, this golden liquid becomes part of life itself.
The angels take their modest drop, and leave the rest for all to share.
Scottish pride would never admit to overindulgence, or a state of altered consciousness.
They know of course their cousins across the water DO have leprechauns and make and drink fiery liquids.
And occasionally imbibe to excess.
Deep in the Scottish psyche, the soothing property of their precious liquid is long established.
Life’s crises, challenges, conquests, and disappointments are all bathed in the mellow glow of this mysterious remedy.
It requires no innate logic, no justification, just the mystery of life itself.
A glint of sunshine on a bottle resting in the shallows of the loch, just beyond the reach of hand, is a mystic sight, more by far than a lingering mystery----
----It didn’t get dark till twenty to eleven last night, and it was light again at a quarter to three in the morning.
With so many hours of daylight to while away, you’d have to spend some time sippin a wee drachm, now and then!
It will be difficult to leave this area where a sip of eighteen year old Bowmore, Islay, Cragganmore or Glen Elgin won’t burn a hole in the pocket!!
I’ve found no evidence of my mothers’ bread stealing ancestors here yet.
Even the local servo proprietor has never heard of Achnahannet, not far south of here, where they could have been from.
The old cemetery in Drumnadrochit is full of MacDonalds, Grants (I guess associated with the Castle) a couple of Urquharts and one or two Frasers.
Perhaps we may come across that place as we drive south through Fort William and into Campbell country tomorrow.
It is brilliant that Gaelic has been re-introduced into the school curriculum; and all the signposts are marked in that way, with that ‘other language’ underneath!!
Yes, we do love Scotland!!

8th June

First light was 2:45 at Drumnadochit, but we didn’t surface till 8.
Another beautiful, sunny day in the Scottish Highlands.
At 9:30 we left our great little Loch Ness Inn at Lewiston and headed down the west coast of the loch to Fort Augustus.
And I found Achnahannet after all, a few miles south of Drumnadochit!!
Blink and you’d miss it, as I almost did.
Up a steep narrow gravel track to a couple of old cottages perched high above the loch.
A very secluded and lonely spot, alas, it should have been a perfect place to hide a stolen loaf!!
We drove across the Caledonian Canal, along the west coast of Loch Oich, and through the town of Invergarry.
A superb drive along an ever curving trail, a bit like our Great Ocean Road.
A bikies paradise, and the googly revelled in it too.
Long sweeping avenues of tall trees with dappled sunlight, tight corners close to the lock, and lush fields with sheep grazing on the hillsides.
Over a swing bridge and hence down the east side of Loch Lochy, then back west to Fort William, on the banks of Loch Linnhe.
Past that 4009 foot giant Ben Nevis, still with a sprinkling of melting show on the peak, through Glencoe to Inveraray on the edge of Loch Fyne.
A continuous swathe of lochs and rivers almost cuts a slice through Scotland from the North East to the South West.
Magnificent scenery, we love it!!
And so here we are at the Argyll Hotel, with views over the loch and within walking distance of Inveraray Castle, the seat of the Campbell Clan, now home to the  5th Duke of Argyll.
A very pretty spot, surrounded by hills and overlooking the tidal loch.
We will explore the Argyll of the Campbells in the morning.

9th June

Yesterdays’ ramblings didn’t happen till this morning due to a serious incursion into my (air)space in the lounge.
Just sat down and opened the ‘puter, and was joined by a local Scotsman and his wife.
Martin and Sharon MacCrae had just returned from a sixteen mile walk and had worked up a lust for a drop.
Guess they assumed I wasn’t a local—the shorts and Blundstones give it away every time!
Many questions about why I was in Scotland, and then Martin insisted he propose a toast.
He returned from the bar with two double Dalwhinnies and plonked one in front of me.
Eighteen year old single malt Dalwhinnie!!
After a lecture on single malts and how you NEVER add ice, only half a teaspoonful of water, he recited the following:
‘I take this glass unto my hand
and drink to all that’s here.
What’s come to pass and may come to pass
in the coming years.
Some may be wed, some may be dead,
some may be lying low
on a foreign shore,
not knowing which way to go.
If life was a thing that money could buy,
the rich would live and the poor would die.
But god in his wisdom has made it so,
that the rich and the poor together must go.
And so must this,
 Slaite-mhath!!’
(pronounced slengeva)
At the cry of Slaite-mhath, glasses are clinked and a gentle sip of the golden drop is rolled into the mouth.
The trickle of water releases all the flavours and aromatics.
More serious than a wine wanker at a cup of Penfolds Grange!
They take single malts seriously!!
The first sip makes the eyes water, and after that it caresses the senses into gentle oblivion.
Slengeva indeed!!
Through the misty haze, it was soon my turn to ‘shout’ and I proudly placed a twenty quid note on the bar and ordered two double Dalwhinnies.
‘That’ll be twenty two pounds fifty, thankyou sir’, so it was out with the Travel Card!!
The two of them certainly have something to celebrate.
Martin needs a kidney after renal failure caused by some bug in the Amazon.
He has been haemodialyzing himself for two hours a day for just on twelve months.
Finally a recent law change in Scotland allows a healthy and willing spouse to donate one kidney to an unknown recipient, in exchange for the other partner receiving a kidney from a willing living donor, in similar circumstances.
No cadaveric kidneys required, a very progressive change of law.
They will both have surgery on 3rd July, Sharon donating a healthy kidney and Martin receiving a healthy, tissue matched one from a live donor.
So what about drinking whisky??—‘No problem, I can’t drink beer because of the fluid retention, and am careful what I can and can’t eat’.
We finished that double too, and he insisted on another!!
By this time we were great mates, it was ten to midnight and I got a Skype call from a mate back home, and we all joined in for a video call!! (C.Mc)
I crept into bed at ten past midnight, slept like a log, and as promised by Martin, no hangover whatsoever!!
------After breakfast this morning, we were the first visitors to Inveraray Castle, right on 10am.
Just before the bus loads arrived.
What a magnificent place.
Surrounded by acres of formal gardens, with natural woodlands up the long driveway.
The Castle is the ‘home’ of the 13th Duke and Dutchess of Inveraray---a Sir Ian Campbell and his misses, and their young kids!!
Many rooms are of course closed to the public, after all the Duke and family need a couple of hundred for themselves and guests.
The treasures on display are priceless.
Heather of course loved the place, and even signed the guest book with her birth name of Campbell.
I don’t think they would have had much to with the bloodthirsty Elliots, Armstrongs and Scots.
Our border rievers were a murderous mob, always ready to protect their lands from that uncouth lot down south.
We will visit their domains for a day or so, from tomorrow.
In the meantime, the Canadian F1 Grand Prix is on today and I can watch it here in Inveraray, from 6:15pm local time.
Possibly over another Dalwhinnie or two.
Without ice, of course!!

10th June

And so it was Vettel, Alonso, and Hamilton in Montreal.
The telecast in the bar had to compete with the serenade of the bagpipes outside.
After centuries you’d think they could make ‘em understand semitones—they could possibly almost sound musical.
Each to his own.
The drive around the highland lochs was superb. Very little traffic, excellent yet narrow roads and more special Scottish scenery.
Around loch Fyne, along ‘the banks of Loch Lomond’, through Balloch and Dumbarton, and onto the M8 through Paisley, and past the Glasgow airport.
Flossy almost got me lost and into Glasgow, but after a few roundabouts and minor corrections we were back on the motorway.
A busy road past Douglas, and then onto minor roads through Moffat and into Dumphryshire.
The sign to Lockerbie drew us off the main road to this small village where Pan Am flight 103 exploded 31,000 feet above, in 1988.
We found the memorial gardens located in a quiet spot at the rear of the Dryfesdale cemetery.
A quiet and beautifully serene place to pause for a moment and remember that horrific disaster.
From the brochure in the memorial centre---
‘Just after 7pm on 21st December, 1988 the unthinkable happened. The Pan Am Boeing 747 airliner “Maid of the Seas”, on its way from London Heathrow to New York Kennedy airport, suffered an explosion at 31,000 feet over Lockerbie. All on board, 243 passengers and 16 crew members were killed, together with 11 residents of Lockerbie. Five residents required hospital treatment for injuries, 2 of them for long periods.’
That bastard Gaddafi who ordered the bombing, was ‘eliminated’ in 2011.
But in a terrible twist of justice, the ‘towel head' responsible for planting the bomb, has been released.
The shit was convicted to serve a life sentence in gaol in Glasgow, but is now a freed man.
Generally regarded as a sick US ‘deal’, in exchange for continued access to Libyan oil!!!
And Pan Am, for fifty years the symbol of American aviation, has gone to the wall, largely as a result of the disaster.
Only the yanks!!
We left the memorial with heavy hearts, and in need of a couple of tissues.
That horrific disaster occurred just ten days before Heather and I were married!!
We then drove on to the border area of Scotland, where those bloodthirsty Elliots originated.
We have booked into the Grapes Hotel in Newcastletown, Liddesdale.
We stayed here in 2009, but will explore in more detail tomorrow.

11th June

The  lady volunteer at the Liddesdale Heritage centre, where the Elliot mob are the main topic, confessed that she was not an Elliot herself, but a Fawkes.
A distant relation to Guy of the failed gunpower plot, of 5th November 1605.
She quickly added that Fawkes was her married name; there aren’t many of them in Scotland and she is not a Holy Roman.
Not that the Scots would care if the House of Lords had been blown up, I guess.
I went for a drive around some of the border villages, haunts of the barbarous Elliots.
Hermitage Castle, where they held court for a while between raids, along with the Armstrongs, Douglas’s and Scotts
And at one stage even sheltered the injured Mary Queen of Scots along with her lover, Lord Bothwell.
Then on to Hawick, pronounced ‘Hoik’ and to Denholm slightly south.
Past ancient peel towers, many in disrepair.
Then to the nearby village of Minto, seat of the present 7th Earl of Minto, Lord Timothy Elliot-Murray-Kynynmould.
Bugger me, the scots also copy place names, they obviously stole this one from us!!
A friendly lady in the village explained that the House of Minto had been destroyed, apparently following a bitter dispute with the 6th Earl’s former wife.
Seems the roof was ‘removed in’ some vain effort to claim insurance monies, and a financial quagmire followed.
Later, the place was demolished!
There were of course, no winners.
The present Earl has his ‘home’ in Minto, and I drove up the long drive to this rather large mansion.
‘Tim’ wasn’t home, but a friendly neighbour gave me his email address, so I may contact him for a loan.
All of the former Earls rest in the churchyard at Minto.
What this has to do with our genealogy is of little significance.
Our ancestors who migrated to Australia may have been from other areas of the borders, or even the highlands.
Some known, some not.
But since the dim ages, this ancient poem has in general applied:
‘Double L and single T
Elliots of Minto and Wolflee,
Double T and single L
Eliotts they in Stobs do dwell.
Single L and single T
The Eliots of St Germains be,
But double L and double T,
The dev’l may ken wha they may be’.
I visited Lady Margaret Elliot(t) at Redheaugh, present Chief of the Elliot Clan, just a few clicks up the road.
Visited the Clan Room, and bought an Elliot sweater and a map of the early Elliot border territories, including all the above.
And as she noted, with regard to the spelling, “most of them never learned to read or write, let alone spell their own names”!!

12th June

Breakfast at the Grapes Hotel included Elliot black pudding, and they also have Elliot haggis on the dinner menu.
The butcher round the corner is also an Elliot (3rd generation), and a Mrs Elliot runs the local corner store.
Why name a Scottish pub the Grapes, when there’s no sign of a vineyard anywhere in Scotland?
Possibly sometime before the last Ice age the Borders would have been a tropical region, which cooled to temperate.
Maybe.
However, the Grapes is a  ‘listed’ building, built in 1790, and retains its original name.
It was not very tropical this morning, in fact is has rained on and off all day.
After leaving Newcastletown, we said farewell to the Borders and Scotland within the first 30Km, and headed back into the land of marmalade and jam.
Through Carlisle and onto the M6 motorway, heading south.
In pouring rain conditions, we find the best way to drive is to join the throngs on the motorway and scoot along at 110Km/h.
Our target today was the ancient walled town of Chester in Cheshire.
The town has evolved from the 70’s ACE Roman fortress settlement, known as Deva Victrix. (Ref:G—gle)
After 285Km in the wet, we left the motorway and have booked into a modern pub on the outskirts of the town, almost on the Welsh border.
A Mercure pub, part of the ‘chain’, but we need a couple of days in a good modern place; no stairs, reliable wifi, and very convenient.
We have a ‘Studio Room’, a bit upmarket but just within out budget.
We are (almost) within walking distance of the ‘Cheshire Cat’, a traditional old inn with great atmosphere and good value meals.
The canal is right behind the inn, and many of the narrow boat folk moor here, and come in for a good feed and a few ales.
And we’re almost next door to the ‘park and drive’ bus station.
Tomorrow we will catch the bus into the town centre and explore this historic old city.

13th June

A rainy, but warm day in Chester didn’t dampen our enthusiasm to wander around this historic city.
From the nearby ‘park and drive’, the bus ride into the city centre was only about three miles.
Chester was the largest walled Roman fortress in Britain, built around the same time as York.
The old central area is ‘private car free’ with only delivery and service vehicles allowed.
Hence walking along the cobbled roads is fine until it rains and everyone heads for the sheltered footpaths.
Not normally one for churches, but Chester Cathedral was an exception.
Founded in 1092 as a Benedictine abbey by Hugh ‘the Wolf’ Lupus, nephew of the Norman king, ‘Bill the Oneth’.
By around 1220 the Romanesque style was considered ‘old fashioned', and over many years the building was updated in the Gothic style. (modified from Tour Guide Booklet, Scala Publishers Ltd., 2009)
It was saved from destruction by being raised to cathedral status by Henry 8th, in 1541.
Henrys’ falling out with the Pope over a marriage annulment started the movement, which ultimately lead to the poms changing sides, from Micks to Anglicans.
Thus what was once a Benedictine abbey has evolved into a largely C or E cathedral with millions of visitors today, and very few parishioners.
Recent uproar over the practice of charging to visit the cathedral has led to a change of policy.
Rather than visitors having to ‘pay to pray’, they are encouraged to donate towards the upkeep of the building. (adapted from: Chester Cathedral, Deans Newsletter, June 2013.)
The cathedral however, is an extraordinary example of  a mix of Norman and Gothic architecture, and a great shelter from the continuing rain.
The inside is dimly lit, and photography whilst allowed, is difficult with an iPad and no flash.
Like many ancient towns and cities, most of the historic buildings have been converted internally, into modern shops.
The clock tower above a walled entrance, was constructed in 1897 to mark the 60th anniversary of the coronation of Queen Victoria.
The rain continued, as we made our way back to our hotel by bus.
And we had tea at the nearby Cheshire Cat, still smiling!

June 14th

Left our pub in Chester at 7:30am to try and avoid the peak hour rush.
Within ten minutes we were virtually in the countryside, following the Llangollen canal beside the road, with numerous narrow boat dwellers getting up for breakfast.
There are over 15,000 people living permanently on narrow boats on the canals of the UK.
Many retirees are living a sort of ‘Stray Gonad’ existence on the water.
With over two thousand five hundred miles of canals, and a pub around every bend.
A pretty good life.
Just float along from lock to lock, and when the pension cheque is banked, a night out at one of the pubs!!
Our destination today was Swansea (Abertawe) on the coast in South Wales.
Why Wales?
We thought that as Charlie is doing it a bit tough, it was only fair we should inject a few bob into his Princedom.
After all Camillas’ makeovers are getting a bit out of hand.
And every shilling counts.
Oops—hope she’s not offended when she reads this—we really ARE good Monarchists.
God save the Queen, in preference to a dictatorship; and all that!
Again, it rained most of the day, but not cold.
Flossy took us right to our hotel, or so I thought.
We parked in the underground car park and I took the lift to the first floor, looking for reception.
Was met by a lady, quite confused, until I realized it was a private block of flats, and she directed me down stairs again.
The bloody pub was around the next corner!!
Can’t trust these Sat-Navs (GT)!!
There are things to see here over the weekend, and there is also an airfield nearby.
The local aero club had a ‘fly-out’ to Ireland in May.
Bugger, I missed that, but will visit them tomorrow.
Even though more rain is forecast, and quite strong winds.
We shall see.

15th June

Heather skyped her mum this morning as she does most days, and was a bit surprised that a member of staff answered, then handed the phone to Thelma.
She sounded well and contented, but at almost one hundred and one, Heather has had an uneasy feeling all day.
Later, we heard she had been admitted to hospital with pneumonia.
And so our trip could be somewhat truncated, and return details altered.
Heather phoned the hospital at 11pm our time (7am back home) and Thelma is doing OK.
We will drive towards a ferry port tomorrow and get back to France in case we need to fly home early.
Watch this space----
----after driving up impossibly narrow lanes, I DID find the local airport, in the only flat area of South Wales.
A 29Kt wind was howling, it was raining, and so no flying was happening today.
Three long sealed runways, no controlled airspace for miles and close to the bay, it would be a great place to fly from in good WX.
Only a couple of PA38 Tommies and a PA28 tied up, but they said there are a lot of private a/c in the large hangar waiting for fine weather.

16th June

Another wet and windy day in downtown Abertawe, and good reason to stay inside.
We spent quite a while sorting out our next movements, and of course contacting the Castlemaine Hospital.
Heather called early in the morning our time ( about 4pm at home).
She spoke to the charge nurse, and then was able to speak to her mum for a minute.
Thelma sounded bright but a little confused, yet was still able to have a bit of a laugh.
With IV antibiotics and oxygen she is stable and we hope she will pull through.
She is a real fighter.
Tomorrow we will drive on to Poole in Dorset, and I have booked us on the ferry to Cherbourg, France, leaving 7:30 Tuesday morning.
It is about a five hour ferry trip, so we can relax in the lounge, with the googly stowed below.
We will then be within a 3 to 4 hour drive to CDG Paris if we need to return urgently.
Will keep in tough with the hospital, and play it by ear.

----------------As a bit of a diversion, I drove in the rain, to the National Waterfront Museum, featuring Wales’ Story of  Industry and Innovation.
Some interesting, if not so innovative exhibits.
As we drive through Normandy on Tuesday, I may even get a chance to see ‘MY’ Hispano-Suiza in Thierville.
Now owned by Hanns Vennabos whom we met up with in Oostvorne, Netherlands, it is undergoing one of the most protracted ‘rebuilds’ ever.
It was ‘almost finished’ when we were there four years ago!!!!
I sold this car twenty six years ago, and bought theUGlyDuckling with the proceeds.
Prior to that I drove it vigorously for twenty years, and no one has yet driven it since!!!
The bill will be massive!!

Mon 17th June

Our ‘patient’ is stable and doing well. Heather skyped the hospital this morning and also spoke to her mum for a minute.
Thelma will remain in the acute ward for at least a week, and our thoughts are with her.
We will contact the hospital each morning.

After leaving Abertawe at 7:30 we were soon on the M4 motorway in light rain and light traffic.
The rain eased as we passed round Cardiff and Newport, then over the l-o-n-g Severn suspension bridge from Chepstow in Wales to Aust, England.
No, not a typo, Aust is a tiny village on the South Glostershire side of the bridge.
The bridge is only 12 metres short of a ‘click’.
Then on past Bristol, leaving the motorway, and into the beautiful Dorset countryside.
Through tiny villages with chocolate box thatched cottages, and cars brushing against the roadside hedges.
We had not planned on visiting Poole, but are so pleased we have.
It is a mixture of the very old, and contemporary.
The ‘old town’ is virtually pedestrian free, as I found out when I inadvertently drove into a private courtyard.
An old dear out sweeping her footpath, kindly directed me back to the road, as she held up her broom to stop pedestrians crossing.
All Flossys fault, and my good fortune her assistant was back at the hotel!!
With headlines predicting a ‘heat wave’ this week, we must escape the sweltering conditions and head back to France.
Our ferry leaves Poole at 7:30 tomorrow for Cherbourg, France, and we will ‘lose’ an hour in the process.

Tues 18th June

Heathers mum continues to remain stable in Castlemaine Hospital, and has had many visitors and phone calls for which we are very grateful.
We contact her and the hospital staff daily.
She keeps insisting we should not rush back, but of course we would if necessary.
Our return flight is from CDG on 4th July unless changes are needed.

We arrived at the Britanny ferry wharf in Poole at 6:30 this morning, and were one of the first cars to drive on.
A four and a half crossing to Cherbourg, in very smooth seas.
These days you can drive through a dozen countries in Europe without any passport checks.
But the frogs still insist in stamping a page, both entering and leaving their space.
The cop in customs had to leave his post to find an ink pad for this task, while dozens of cars waited behind.
Driving off towards Caen the worms were starting to bite.
At 1pm we pulled off the road into a tiny village near Carentan, Normandy and joined the locals for lunch at a great little café.
Seated ourselves at a vacant table, which hadn’t been cleared from the previous diners.
A young girl scooped up the dishes, brushed the table with the back of her hand, and turned the table mats over, sweeping the crumbs to the floor.
She then plonked a half empty basket of bread in front of us, left over from a table nearby.
Then a couple of wine glasses, and a carafe of chilled water.
And a wine bottle of vinegar, and another of olive oil.
I guess she was waitress, cook, bottlewash and proprietor.
There was a sort of a salad bar, so we grabbed a plate each and served ourselves.
Wafer thin slices of salami, pickled herring and potato salad, button mushrooms in some sort of sauce, pickled leeks, cucumber, shredded beetroot, sliced tomato and slabs of soft cheese.
A feast fit for royalty!
The local workers were enjoying their Tuesday lunch washed down with carafes of red wine and litres of white, from topped-up recycled soft drink bottles.
No fancy tables here, and not a quiche eater in sight.
After lunch we drove on and settled for the night at a boring Novotel in Bayeux, Normandy. But it has wifi which we need.
There are D-Day landing site memorials in this area, including Omaha and Utah beaches.
And nearby today, a commemoration was held for De Gaulle and his June 1946 speech, which led to a new post-war constitution, and the re-unification of France.
These days Bayeuxs’ claim to fame is as the world centre of that breathtaking pastime of tapestry.!!!
How lucky am I to visit this iconic spot?!!.

Wed 19th June

Heather spoke to her mum this morning and she continues to improve.
We are now within striking distance of Paris, and decided to try and find a self contained cottage for perhaps a week.
Not so easy searching the web for a gem of a‘Gite’ .
Hundreds around Normandy, but not many for just two.
Eventually found one that looked great on google, as they always do.
Owners supposedly spoke French, Spanish and English, so I skyped the number and got a recorded message in French.
Then sent an email enquiry, to which no reply came by our check out time.
So I fed the address into Flossy and we headed off towards Pont l’Eveque, to have a look for ourselves.
On the A13 motorway past Caen, and then off and up narrow tree lined lanes, looking for a needle in a haystack.
Looking for ‘La Courtille Chicamour’, in Saint-Julien-sur-Calone.
We found the general area and by chance stumbled upon ‘Chicamour’, a superb little Gite on a hillside, overlooking the rural valley below.
For once, it looked exactly as it did on the web.
There was a car parked inside the high steel gates, but it seemed nobody was home.
Like a previous place I’ll never forget, ‘Chicamour’ also needed ‘secret numbers (on the gate) to gain entry’, and we had no idea what they were!!
Very disappointed, we headed back towards Pont-l’Eveque.
Another old town, and many original buildings with part-timber frames filled in with a rock, cement and mud mix.
After getting hoplessly lost, we chanced upon the Hotel Le Lion d’Or, in the outskirts of Pont l’Eveque.
A great little place, with downstairs rooms, wifi and a sort of French ‘wellness centre’.
We have booked in here for a couple of nights.
The wellness centre has a timber box arrangement with vapours gushing out an exhaust at the side.
I thought of calling the fire brigade, but apparently it is some form of device for steaming humans alive, and they happily pay to be cooked in this way.
We are looking at another place nearby, right on the edge of the Lac du Pont l’Eveque, and may stay there for a couple of days also.
The brochure says they also take dogs, so even I should be welcome!!

Thurs 20th June

I have spent this afternoon with an amazing old friend.
A very dear friend I met long, long ago.
She was twenty years older that me, but her beauty transcended her age.
It was love at first sight, and in the warm summer glow, we were both swept away.
My devotion was deep and enduring, and full of the passion of youth.
She returned my affections ten fold, and answered the gentlest touch.
We shared twenty inseparable years, through life’s endless challenges and triumphs.
Never pausing to question, my family accepted my plight.
They too shared many happy times with her.
Our separation was traumatic and painful, full of sadness and regret.
Yet, somehow we just drifted apart.
In the autumn of her years and the restlessness of mine, yet remaining enduring friends.
She has never known true love since, but hopefully one day will.
In recent years she has been in specialist care, in a private facility in Normandy, France.
In the tiny village of Thieville, population one hundred.
The surgeon nodded knowingly as I visited today, and her gentle touch sent my ageing heart racing again.
And then I quietly walked away, trusting she will soon live and be loved again.

Frid 21st June

Tilting the world on its axis is no little challenge.
Flights to be altered, a car to return, a time zone to bridge, the chess game of life.
We will drive back to Paris and get on a Sunday flight that is fully booked!!
It can be done.
Floating houses, a goat for a gatekeeper, a bit of a blur---No doubt the sun will still rise in the East in the morning.


22nd June

Drove to Paris this morning, and returned the googly.  Total distance 10, 247Km, and I still haven’t found out how to open the bonnet.
I assume it has some sort of diesel engine, and is probably front wheel drive.
A manual in English would have helped.
It has performed faultlessly, only the driver and co-pilot have been wanting!!
Would I buy one??
No.  But I would drive someone else’s!!
Poor gear changes, hesitant response to throttle, a few other small bitches.
The frogs need a lesson from the krauts and the wogs!!
With considerable hassle and numerous phone calls we will now leave this pox ridden, towel head infested place at 1200 tomorrow, and should arrive Melbourne about 0755 Tuesday morning.
First class to KL, business to Melbourne.
Desperately needing some sleep.
There will be a huge insurance claim when we get back!!!!

23/24th June

We are now in the Malaysian lounge in KL, wondering how the hell we can pile up a few zeds with sixteen hours till be catch our next flight to Melbourne.
The A380 flight in First was amazing—I wonder how all the poor people back where we usually are survived!!
Leave here at 2200 KL time and get into Tulla at 0755 tomorrow EST, I guess that will be Tuesday morning.
Our brains still think its 2am Paris time but its 8am here, and our bodies don’t know if it’s the day before yesterday or the twelth of never.
Heather has spoken to her mum on spyke a few minutes ago and she is hanging in there.

And, so, ‘What’s it all about,  Alfie?’
We have set foot on less than a trillionth of this amazing planet, and the tiny surprises around each corner continue to astound me.
Treasures that haven’t made it onto a map yet and possibly never will.
Places where people have lived, loved, breed and died for centuries.
Every nameless spot is somebody’s home.
And we have had some unique, stupid, remarkable, pointless, mundane, exciting, memorable and forgettable moments.
We have generally left the icons alone.
Big cities are not our thing.
They will always appear on film, in the news, and its all on google.
You can take the boy out of the country, but you can never take the country out of the boy.
Special times, special places.
Eating sausages and chips in Bruges; Roosendall and $5 a bottle vodka; Murphys pub in Oostvoorne; ancient chessnuts and elms.
‘The doctor of  Gymnich’; hot Croatian slivovic with ‘Freddie; the Mercedes museum; Anzac day in Germany and their WW2 memorial; the cop in uniform pissing on the roadside; skinless pork sausages from a local butcher in Bavaria; King Ludwigs castle on the island in Bernau am Chiemsee lake.
The locals at the pub in the tiny village of Friedersbach; the farmer driving home on his ancient tractor as drunk as a skunk, on the wrong side of the road.
The vacant chairs in the square in Krakow; Shindlers’ factory; the Apteka Pod Orlem.
The tiny Eurofox factory in Nitra, Slovenia; a great little pub on the Buda side or the Danube for E39 including breakfast; the wellness hotel in Bad Gleichenberg.
The beautiful village of Bovec in Slovenia; the look on Karls’ brothers face when we showed him some photos; real kransky sausage and distilled blueberries with Miran and Metka.
The Fazioli fortress in Sacile; our stay in the ‘monastery’ in Ravenna; a brilliant week in Greve in our villa San Stefano in Tuscany; a Tuscan feast with some Belgian blokes there; hot Sienese pork rolls in Greve.
A Ferrari round the streets of Maranello; La Dogana agriturismo in Greta; Lake Maggiore and the ferry to a market on the island of Intra; the val de Aosta; the Mont Blanc tunnel; the village of le Fayet at the foot of Mont Blanc.
Our best French meal in the tiny village of Paray-le-Monial; French arrogance.
la Kasbah in Acuigny and the Adams family castle.
Fields of golden canola, apple trees in blossom, vines at budburst, bluebells and heather.
Across the channel; the Victory of Mersea; the Cretingham Bell; the Monewden airstrip; Washingborough Hall near Lincoln.
York and meeting up with an old acquaintance; an aircraft museum at Elvington nr York; battered spam and mushy peas.
Thirsk (Darrowby) and the James Herriot centre; the Cats Inn at Berwick on Tweed; Aberdeen and an evening with a neighbour from homes' daughter and boyfriend.
The Pitcaple ‘bus kitchen’; Drumnadrochit and the Loch Ness monster; Cullen Skink; Urquhart Castle; finding Achnahannet; Inveraray Castle and the Campbells; too much eighteen year old Dalwhinnie single malt at the Argyll Hotel.
The Lockerbie memorial; the Scotgtish borders and Elliot territory; Chester; Swansea airfield; Poole;  a ferry to Cherbourg.
The Hispano in Thieville; lunch at a tiny café in Carentan; Bayeux and the de Gaulle ceremony; Pont l’eveque; and now working our way back home.
Countless special memories to cherish.
Indeed, what IS it all about??!!

25th June

The final episode of this adventure has ended where it all began.
At the place we call home.
The sixteen hour layover in KL passed with little sleep, but in the comfort of the Malaysia Golden Lounge.
Our flight back to Melbourne in business was both long, and tiring.
We were met by good friends and neighbours, who drove us back to the best spot on the planet.
Heather has visited her mum in hospital.
She has hung in there, and delighted her daughter is home.
We are both very tired and very happy, and have no regrets.
We journeyed as explorers, not tourists.
There are now many new adventures to plan.





















































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































After a good nights rest in our quaint little Dunkirk pub, a decent continental breakfast and a local walk, we battled to set the GPS in the car and headed off towards Belgium.  


























































































































I remember my long discarded copy of The Lonely Planet almost writing Belgium off as a rather boring and lifeless region of Europe, generally uninteresting and forgettable. However, on our last trip, after avoiding Brussels and heading east, we stumbled on Hasselt, a small 'city' with 'onion ring' streets like many others in the region. In a little pub here we had the largest and most exquisite olives stuffed with magic, and ate them on the sidewalk with a couple of glasses of Belgium beer. It was Easter and the breakfast we had in a nearby cafe the next morning included the usual cold meats, cheeses and the ever present tub of Nutella,  and included Easter eggs and hot chocolate as only the Belgians can make.



 We had heard of Bruges and so headed off towards this remarkable ancient Flemish city. On the way, I broke one of our unwritten rules to stay off major freeways. We started on a minor road following a canal, but eventually back into the traffic. It is hard to get from place to place without motorways, so we exit where possible to look for the gems.
This is NOT the tourist season, but one such exit took us to Bruges where we spent several hours, walking this amazing old city. Prague had previously been our favourite as old cities go but Bruges has many more remarkable examples of architecture dating back centuries. Being a Vespa fan, and not averse to an occasional beer, I found this one interesting--bikes and scooters only in Bruges!!
After driving up narrow cobbled stone streets looking for a park, with hundreds of people walking all  over the roads, we realised this was a 'walk-only heritage city', and eventually found a pay-park--more luck that fortune.
It is crowded with tourists even in April-- would be an improbable place to visit in July-August.
We had been told about the unique Bruges 'chips'--they look just like Maccas 'fries' but are oh so delicious--served with dipping mayo, plus sausages and raw chopped onions and a superb sauce--a great 'healthy' lunch-since 1900!!



I have often pondered why anyone would choose to be a pharmacist and have been even more intrigued to find that some poor soles even today seem to relish the profession. Each to his own. However, in non-English speaking countries, calling in to a pharmacy usually finds someone with reasonable linguistic skills to provide a source of information including directions and accommodation.
As we wandered the ancient streets of Bruges I called into the local 'chemist' and this guy was so excited about the whole scene. He dragged out the current copy of Retail Pharmacy (Australian) and showed me with great enthusiasm a three page article about himself and his very historic appotek--ancient labelled jars and artefacts everywhere in the dispensary. I was invited to sign his large book of pharmacists who had visited and he promised to include me on his email list for some journal he is involved in.  And of course insisted on a photo.
Horse and carts constantly taking tourists for tours of the ancient city centre, over miles of cobbled stone lanes, and shops selling every conceivable item including of course Belgian chocolate in every shape and form and 20 litre canisters of their famous Juliper beer.
After lingering far too long in this spectacular spot it was time to head off towards Holland, but by about 4pm we again left the busy roads to look for small village and chanced upon Zelzate population-- about a small Castlemaine. Several pub options, but we settled on De Hof, a classical old pub with ancient wooden floors, spiral staircase and luxurious antique furnishings, in a quaint park setting, with a VERY modern annex in the grounds, with rooms only opened within the last two weeks.

We were settled into the new annex, in the grounds of the old pub, with a lift for geriatrics and only a short walk to the bar and restruarant.
It was to bed early and a great nights sleep in a beautiful new room after a l-o-n-g hot shower.

With rows of sculptured trees, many espallied in neat rows.


After another great breakfast of crousants, cold meats, cheese, juices, coffee and yoghurt, we dialled up Rotterdam on the GPS--having no intention of going there, but in that general direction until we find our little village. Roosendaal is just inside the NL border as the photo showns--a biggish town/city with the same name of Bianca and Davids’ farm back home!!
This is the Boulevard Roosendaal which is about 25Km long and starts in Belgium and continues into the Neatherlands. Just over the border in NL we stopped at this small 'supermarket'--Carroufoure?? and bought a couple of essentials--a 'handbag' of Australian vino blanc, and TWO bottles of Vodka for E16 for the two ie: E8 each bottle Vodka--about $10AU.!!  Why would anyone be a teetotaller here??  These buildings in central Roosendaal would have been covered in snow, as was the rest of northern Europe, only a couple of weeks ago--hence the steep roof on all buildings. After re-setting the GPS from 'fastest' to 'shortest' route, we were directed off the busy roads into the smaller places, looking for a small village to stay. We again happened on a 'gem' Oostvoorne, right on the coast west of Rotterdam, and where the bloke who now owns my Hispano-Suiza lives. Visiting him was not a priority as the car is still being restored in France, but he called in at the pub to see us--a charming and no doubt filthy rich bloke who was delighted to  get some photos I had, and to learn a bit more about MY car!!  Just before Ooostvoorne we came across the essential dutch windmill, and then crossed a quaint little canal on a car ferry!!
And then on into the great little village of Oostvoorne--just our size--and of all places booked into a motel room at Murphys Station hotel--quaint, quiet, reasonably priced, and the odd looking 'motel' rooms are very modern and comfortable inside. And its sunny, brisk, and still-- spring weather with giant chessnut trees everywhere, and tulips and daffodils in full bloom.
Very friendly people here and they speak good English, and even understand Australian!!
But of course there's always a thorn amongst the daffodils.
To offset the effects of the Vodka, Heineken, too much good food and the handbag du vin, we slept like logs in our room and in the morning went for a long walk in the 'forest' of giant chessnuts and elms in a large park behind our pub.
We decided to stay another night in this little village, so had a good walking tour of the town. Also met up with the Hispano bloke again, and swapped notes about THAT car!!~
Spring is certainly sprunging in Oostvoorne albiet very late, according to the locals.
I am using the iPad Mini for photos and it is far better than any camera I've used--but the blog pics don't do justice to it. On the A380 leg to Paris, to my surprise the GPS worked even though we were in the centre rows, and it accurately showed the lat and long and altitude (about 38,000') coinciding with that on the aircrafts tracking display on our TV.
And when we went for a walk here, it shows that our room is about 50' BELOW mean sea level.  Thank kryst someone still has a finger in the dyke, or we'd be under water all the time!!
And so tomorrow we will head off towards/into Germany via Masstrich which is the 'corner' of the Netherlands, Belgium and Germany.  Stuttgart and the M/Benz museum coming up soon!! Our next village will be another surprise that we stumble upon.

Mon 22nd April

The Doctor of Gymnich

Well, I almost pulled off a real clanger today.  After breakfast of cold meats, a fried egg, cheese slices and toast with Nutella, we packed up and set the GPS towards Aachen, Germany.
There are three GPS modes to select—‘fastest’, ‘shortest’, and a combination of the two—probably a bit of motorway and a bit of side roads— a sort of a motoring mixed grill. The ‘fastest’ option is always further than the ‘shortest’, which seems pretty Irish.
Our general idea is set ‘fastest first’, which gets us on a 130Km/h road with Mercs, Audis and Beamers flashing past at improbable speed in the outer lanes.
When we have travelled far enough and are ready to get into the back-blocks to find a small town/village, we change to ‘shortest’, leave the major roads and just follow the voice prompts from Flossie, our electronic GPS guide.

After leaving Oostvoorne, we passed the massive oil refinery and holding tanks of the area, through the little beach and yachting bay, and onto the motorway.

In next to no time we were near Aaachen, and  pulled off to find a quite spot to eat our breakfast extras for lunch. We pulled into a village and parked opposite the local cemetery, with horse paddocks opposite. Again, a beautiful but rather strange lunch spot!
After confusing Flossie, she directed us back to the Autobahn towards Cologne (Koln). At 14:30 I decided to give Heather a break and get into the side roads for a small village.
Re-set ‘Flos’ and she soon directed us onto the small roads and to a little Hotel in the unlikely village of Gymnich, population about 2,500. I parked nearby and asked a local if the pub had accommodation.. (on the door it had 11:00-14:30, and 17:30 to 23:00).
Not a word was understood, but in an instant I was taken by the giant hand of a convivial local, in overalls and covered in paint and plaster; led through a rear gate and into ‘reception’ where he thrust a pen and guest form in front of me to fill out.
There was no option—just fill it out—and when he saw me write Australian be became quite ecstatic.
Heather was still waiting in the car unaware of her ‘different’ accommodation for the night.
And different it was!!  Still alone, I was led up two VERY steep flights of stairs and shown room number one—small, clean—but up those bloody stairs???.
I was given the keys, and my new friend disappeared, leaving me to go and get Heather.  We returned to our abode, to find it seriously locked, but found access to the rear ‘beer garden’ to sit out the time till 17:30.
My friend returned, and let us into the reception/bar area, and his only response to all my questions about where to park, the price, WiFi etc was ‘the doctor coming after, she knowing all’!!!.
So we just sat and waited for the doctor after he’d poured Heather a large glass of white wine and pocketed the cash.

I didn’t feel I needed a manual rectal examination or any procedure for that matter at this stage, but I guess I’ll just have to leave that to the doctor.
In about an hour, a nice lady appeared—she too confirmed that 'the doctor knew all' and would be here soon (no words understood by either party).
Somehow I ordered a slivovic which appears the same in all languages; she poured me a large glass and disappeared with it, to return with the glass almost boiling!!, no doubt microwaved in the glass!! Almost got pissed on the fumes waiting for it to cool a bit—but what beautiful moonshine!!!!
And so we both sat in the ‘waiting room’; we seemed to be the only patients for the day, and the unique aroma of warmed slivovic filled the room like surgical antiseptic.

Some time later, a pretty young thing in her mid-twenties emerged with the madam—and finally the penny dropped---the doctor was the DAUGHTER!!!  What a relief—no medical procedures to endure; and the daughter spoke excellent English.
Indeed, ‘the doctor IS knowing all!!’
The daughter was able to tell me there was no WiFi, where to park the car safely, why we were the only victims as they are really a restaurant but do let rooms occasionally for local workers.
Also, our room would be E68 including breakfast, the TV DID have the BBC in English, and a bit of local information.
And so what started out as a potential nightmare turned out to be another great little gem after all.
A very clean and tidy but small room up those stairs, a lovely restaurant at which we were treated like royalty at dinner—Zouppe Goulash, followed by some sort of mixed grill.
The father returned after scrubbing up a bit, and it turns out they are Croatian, not German, and hence his joy at my admiration of his slivovic!!  Soon we were great mates although simply in sign language plus an occasional word of broken German/English.
A couple of Croation beers and a further warmed slivovic and several vins blanc for Heather and we climbed those stairs as if in an elevator, and slept soundly till 6am!!

23rd April

Gymnich to Stuttgart

Before vanishing to her own quarters, ‘the doctor’ had advised us that breakfast would be from 7am, and we rose at 6am, scrubbed and descended the narrow stairs with some trepidation. It was time to explore a bit of Gymnich on foot.
Directly opposite the pub was a large cathedral, and in the courtyard nearby something written on stonework at the base of a cross about Pappa John Paul 11 and some dates. Perhaps the boss could explain at breakfast. Also who was Jan Von Werth, 1591-1652 whose drawing appeared on all the Reissdorf kolsh beer coasters at our pub?
Mr Google tells me he was a general of some note during the thirty day war; history buffs can delve further.  However, he seems to be something of a major figure to our hosts.
At breakfast, we all had an extended conversation in sign language, and with pen and paper.  The ‘bosses’ name is Miroslaw (calls himself ‘Freddie’) and his wife is Catarina.  Catarina is the chef and ‘Freddie’ does most of the talking.
The writing at the base of the cross commemorates a visit by Pappa John Paul 11.  Other important visitors to the town include Henry Kissinger, the Beetles (1960) and former President Gerald Ford.
Buggered if I know why or was able to understand; perhaps they were at a loose end or just got a bit way laid like us.
However, Freddie is very proud of these famous visitors to his small village of Gymnich.  And why not.
Catarina laid on a spread of sliced salami, ham, cheese, butter and fresh crusty bread rolls, while Freddie made a pot of fresh REAL coffee and glasses of orange juice.
The family moved from Croatia nineteen years ago, looking for a better life in the ‘west’ and have run the pub/restaurant ever since.
After an extended breakfast conversation, we bid farewell to our new found dear friends, and headed off in the car, which had sat out on the street overnight, totally unscathed.
I dialled up Stuttgart, and Flossie soon had us on the Autobahn again, at 130Km plus. By 9am we had covered over 100Km and stopped at a roadside park for our first ‘stretch’, and by 10:15 we had covered over 200Km, with less than 100Km to Stuttgart.

Another stop for a Pissour, and then started looking for a hotel to prop at close to Stuttgart, but within striking distance of the Mercedes Benz museum.
Flossie took us very close to the M/B museum and we pulled into a side street to an interesting little pub.  But, it was booked out.
I then drove a short distance to another pub, and a very nice young chap there regretfully told us they were also booked out.
However he phoned another three nearby hotels without luck, and the forth, had accommodation available and he booked us in!!
I asked why all the booked out pubs??—“Stuttgart is always like that for the M/B museum”, and also there is a festival this weekend—the Stuttgart Beer Festival, held twice a year.  Of course!!
So we were lucky to get any accommodation close to the museum.
By now it was well past lunchtime, so we each had a bratwurst in a roll with mustard at a local servo, and checked into the hotel for two nights—too late to visit the museum this arvo, so will spend a good part of tomorrow there, have a good rest and head off towards Munich on Thursday (25th).
A great bowl of Zouppe and a couple of Stuttgart hoffbrauhaus beers, and another early night.



24th April Mercedes Benz Museum

We are staying within spitting distance of the Mercedes Benz museum here, but with divided roads and under and overpasses it was still a E14 taxi ride. Along the main drag which of course is Mercedes Strausse, past the Mercedes Benz football stadium and then just follow the giant Mercedes star, shining in the morning sun, slowly revolving above the new vehicle showrooms next to the museum.
The museum building itself is quite a masterpiece—very modern and appearing all metallic silver and glass.
Inside everything is spotless from the marble and  parquetry  floors on each level to the multilingual and impeccably dressed  staff, of whom there are hundreds.  Entry is only E8 for a full days visit, and I spent an enthralling five hours there.
There were visitors pouring in at opening time (9am) and that continued all day.
Firstly, multi media devices are handed out, with headsets for audio in the selected language, and a handpiece which when pointed at an exhibit explains all about it. Select general details, technical info, history. etc.
A glass elevator whisks everyone to the top level (8th floor) and then everything is in chronological order as you work downwards.
From the genesis of the motorcar in 1888 to the very latest and everything along the way, plus futuristic concept vehicles including a working hydrogen powered vehicle.
There is a gently sloping walkway spiraling downwards allowing views of exhibits from above, or at each floor level one can get up close and personal, but not touch!!
A stunning display of hundreds of cars, commercial vehicles, early racing cars and modern M/Benz powered F1 cars.
The historical audio and visual descriptions treat the war years accurately but with sensitivity, however it was notable that no military vehicles were on display other than M/Benz aircraft engines used in many Messerschmit a/craft.
Far too much for me to do justice to, so I’ll let the pictures tell a bit of the story.
A bit of an indulgence for me, but Heather was happy to walk in the sunshine around this quaint area of Stuttgart, rest, and read a book.  The weather so far has been brilliant wherever we’ve been. Lets hope it continues.

25th April

Bernau am Chiemsee--Anzac Day in Germany

From our Autohof  Hotel on the outskirts of Stuttgart, we set sail for Munchen right into the peak hour traffic at 8:30.  Flossie retained her calm however, even with long delays at traffic lights and when road works forced us to ignore her instructions and detour now and then.
Before long we on the Autobahn, set the spinnaker, retracted the landing gear and joined the fleet at 130Km/h with Audis, Mercs, Skodas and VW’s blasting past in the outer lanes. At least most of the trucks and cars were heading into Stuttgart and not our way.
Our little ‘Googly’ (Peugeot 208 Diesel) is doing a great job and even in auto can whip down a cog and zap past slower vehicles at 160Km/h with ease. Or flick it into manual and the response is instantaneous.
A pity the French speaking Asian guy who gave us a five minute rundown plus an owners manual in fluent French didn’t show me a few of the finer points.
Our last experience with 'Peugeot Open Europe' in 2009 was much more customer friendly—a choice of color, drivers manual in English sent to us a month before leaving Australia, and more assistance when we picked it up at Calais.
And without GPS, we were given an excellent map of Europe and good directions to leave the terminal.
This time, no color selection and no customer service to speak of. Just show them the receipt for the payment made six months ago, and piss off.
I think they are getting a bit too big for their thongs, with a yard full of new Peugeots and those godforsaken Citroens and Renaults of similar size and cost.
Our car had 2.8Km on the clock when we drove off—obviously only enough to get onto and off a transporter from the factory.
After just on 2000Km I am starting to get the hang of it, and we pulled in for the third tank of fuel (about E50) 150Km south of Stuttgart.
It was also time to inform Flossie we really wanted to set the little village of Bernau as our target for the day; about 80Km south of Munchen.
We stop for rest breaks now and then------(We had to laugh at a cop car pulled up at a servo with a cop in uniform having a good long piss on the grass verge, while his mate waited in the car with lights flashing!!---)
All the truckies and most others do the same; so why should we pay for that pleasure either?.)
So, I don’t.
But if Heather does, and I respect her modesty, it is E0.70, and you get a voucher for E0.50 off any purchase at the servo shop!!
So, owning a Pissour is a pretty lucrative business!! Minimal capital outlay, no complaints department, casual staff only, a no returns policy and every client gets a gift voucher on the way out!!
Flossie soon directed us off the Autobahn and into the real countryside and soon we were in the oh-so-beautiful village of Bernau am Chiemsee.  A village beside the largest lake in Barvaria, and at the foot of mountains with snow still hanging on the peaks.
This is the town where Kerstin Schubert lived as a kid-- Biancas friend who lived at Outrim with her and David for about three months last year, tending and grooming the horses. They have kept in touch, and we also know Kerstin and will meet up with her when she comes down from Munchen tomorrow evening.
And get some good local advice in English, infact Australian ‘English’!!
It was just on lunch o’clock as we drove into Bernau and pulled into a pretty little parking area beside a creek and ate our ham and cheese rolls and bananas.
And then for a drive to find a pub, and the three or four in town all look great.  We visited the lake area where the tourist info is located, and were pleasantly surprised at the service offered for gratis. The Council staff at Castlemaine info centre could do with a lesson here, but as I’ve threatened to do an odd day there as a volunteer, perhaps they’ll take note from a geriatric former Councillor.
We booked in to the Gastof Alter Wirt, a fabulous old inn right in the centre of the village—reasonably priced, excellent bar and meals, and loads of character and history.  Apparently first constructed about 900ACE but of course rebuild, refurbished, renovated and restored over many years.
I Skyped Kerstin, and she will meet us here about 6pm tomorrow evening.  She suggested we might like to have a ride in the cable car to the mountain top tomorrow, and perhaps a ferry to an island in the lake where there is a castle; with her on Saturday.  Sounds OK with us.
It is ANZAC day, and out of respect we toasted the moment in the early evening, about the time of dawn services back home.  Lest we forget.
And let us also acknowledge that those poor souls commemorated at the local monument beside out hotel were also conscripted by the immoral, corrupt and hideous regime of the time, to serve their country.






26th April

In is very warm here today and in fact 30+C in the googly, so aircon on.  The ground is still very soft and the fresh green grass is just pushing through after very heavy snow which covered the area until two weeks ago. Still snow on the mountain peaks, but it won’t last much longer in this heat.
I drove about 5Km towards Auchau, through open countryside with newly planted crops everywhere, and came to another tiny town. The signs here indicated Munchen to the right—no thanks; and ‘non comprende’ the signs to the left which may have been up to the mountain top.
So I retreated. Back through Bernau village towards the lake, but came across a road block with the police very excited, but eventually was waved through.
After getting lost in a residential area, I turned back, and the cops now had an ambulance blocking the road, and a chopper landed in a very small grassed area beside the road.  Not a car accident, most likely a local resident with a major problem, my guess an AMI. The chopper was in no hurry to take off, sadly I don’t think the outcome was good.
After lunch, we drove to the lake and tourist info centre again, and the cable car is ‘being serviced’ today, but will be running again over the weekend.
Back at the pub, I was fascinated by some of the detail and the intricate lead light windows throughout.  It seems the proprietor also owns the wellness centre pub behind this one—not many people getting wellness there, and also the local butcher who specialises in his ‘home made’ Barvarian sausages.
We both had the skinless pork snags with potato salad for lunch—pretty good.
Kerstin arrived about 6:30pm—her train from Munchen had broken down about 25Km from here and she had called her mother who lives in Bernau to drive and pick her up.
We had tea together at Alter Wirt and afterwards Kerstin took us to a quaint little bar close by for a couple of beers—and a beer here is 0.5 litre for the smallest!!
Tomorrow she will pick us up at 10am and we will drive to the ferry and go out to the island in the lake and visit the ‘castle’

27th April

Kerstin called at our pub at 10am, and she was the designated chauffer for the day in the ‘googly’.
Off to the large lake wharf, and lined up and boarded a large ferry for the big island with the castle.
Now this castle is no mere beach house or weekend fishing shack.
It seems that a certain King Ludwig of Barvaria was a rather different chap in many ways.
He had a fetish for creating lavish palaces, which he had constructed with his own funds, eventually becoming seriously bankrupt without using money from his subjects but borrowing heavily from Royalty all over Europe.
Perhaps his most ambitious project was attempting to recreate the Palace of Versailles right here on an island in the middle of the Bernau am Chiemsee lake.
We visited the island by ferry, followed by a ride through the former kings parklands by horse and carriage.
The tour through the palace was fascinating and our English guide was adamant no photos are allowed inside.
Her description was a rather watered down account of Ludwig and his unconventional behaviour.
However it is clear he was quite eccentric.  He had no time for administrative matters from his ‘seat’ in Munchen, was a devotee of Richard Wagner, much his elder; but the relationship was perhaps more that musicology.
Ludwig never married although be became engaged at one stage but only briefly, he had many very close male companions and hence his sexual preferences were often questioned.
None the less, he was warmly loved by his Barvarian subjects, despite being regarded as quite mad and mentally deranged.
This perception was strengthened by the reality that his younger brother was indeed regarded as clinically insane.
Eventually his own ministers deposed him, and his mysterious death followed.
It is believed he drowned in a Barvarian lake along with his assigned physician, both of whom were strong swimmers. And the bodies were found in only waist high water!
The mystery remains unresolved today, yet the State benefits from his palaces as fabulously important tourist attractions creating great wealth well beyond their cost; making Barvaria the richest region of Germany today.
And many visitors to his ‘Versailles’ are French—to research the stairway to Ludwigs palace—the original in France having been destroyed during wartime.
Afterwards, we had lunch at the Monastry on the island, then returned and back in Bernau had traditional apple strudel at Kerstins mothers home.
Then an early night at our pub, and off through Austria in the morning.


28th APRIL  (****Continue corrections here****

Austria to Friedersbach
After dialling up Vienna  and setting the ‘fastest’ option, Flossie was rather confused and a bit sluggish to react getting us out of Bernau.
I guess too, she occasionally gets a hangover.
We expected to be directed onto an Autobahn almost immediately, but perhaps as it was Sunday she felt it appropriate for a quite drive through the countryside.
And it was a long drive at that.
But through numerous small villages and towns both in Germany and Austria.
Before crossing the border we called in at a small servo for diesel, E1.33/l, the cheapest so far, and also a coffee.  It seems the fuel but not necessarily the coffee, is a bit cheaper off the major roads, like to home.
We drove into Austria and with still over 200Km to Vienna it was time for our lunch.
And then on through dozens of beautiful little towns and villages until 3:30pm by which time Flossie had had enough, as had her female assistant.
For no reason whatsoever, we took a small side road and entered the tiny village of  Friedersbach.
And they don’t come much smaller than Friedersbach, population almost three hundred.
In a pretty valley in a distinctly rural area, the village is little more than a row of quaint houses each side of the main street with farmland beyond.
We booked into the only accommodation in town,  quaint and traditional from the street but very modern inside.
Expensive décor throughout, an extensive dining room, resident chef, modern cocktail bar, lifts to the rooms, and tariff to match.
Why such a lavish pub in a such a miniature village, off the beaten track??
Very comfortable but not exactly my cuppa tea, so off to explore this little gem.
It is virtually only one street, one Km long. No shops or retail centre at all, but there are several villages within one or two Km.
And of course a huge church with a tiny pub opposite, where the sins to be absolved are committed.
We entered the latter, to find one table of about ten blokes and one girl, all socking down some clear liquid, which they had obviously been doing since the morning service.
Not to be outdone, but with some linguistic challenges we ordered a glass of white wine for Heather and a schnapps for me.
Only E0.90 for the schnapps, served in a traditional shot glass, not measured, just straight from the bottle.
The fire chief from the ‘locals table’ joined us.  In uniform, red faced and as pissed as a fart, he
proceeded to tell me repeatedly in German, something about his friend in Australia who has grown up children.
I found this breathtaking news, but after half an hour of repetition and droplets of spit emitted from his foetid breath, the novelty wore off a bit.
A couple of his mates joined us; I guess Australians in Friedersbach are a peculiarity.
Probably any tourists for that matter.
Of course, I was offered and accepted another schnapps and then it was time for me to wish them well and retreat to the car, leaving Heather to happily entertain them.
While I waited for her, one of the guys staggered out of the bar, almost fell on his face and then mounted his ancient tractor and drove off home, mostly on the wrong side of the road!!  Hilarious!!
A nice dinner in the ‘Hilton’, wild garlic soup followed by schnitzel and salad, superbly presented. I  think there were four others staying here and the hotel could perhaps sleep fifty.
Another great day, and off to bed.

29th April

We dialled Brno, Czech Republic, and Flossie obeyed without question, again on secondary roads with the ‘fastest’ option chosen.
I guess there are a paucity of motorways between Friedersbach and Brno.
The scenery however was beautiful, and even though early Monday morning, the traffic very light.
At the Czech border we pulled in to buy the compulsory ‘permit’ for a maximum of ten days on their road system.
The scenery remained stunning, with apple orchards in blossom and vineyards coming into bud and plenty of open country where potatoes and wheat are the main crops.
In the villages and smaller towns, plenty of evidence of an independent country still coming to terms with capitalism and former Soviet oppression.
The roads in Czeski are in need of much upgrading, and hence the E10 permits will be put to good use.
Gone were the plentiful expensive Audis, Mercs and VW’s of Austria, and the Czech residents mainly drive older Skodas and much older Fords, Seats and small FIAT’s.
And even the trucks where older and shabbier.
As in Austria, we saw numerous piles of wooden stakes neatly stacked beside open farm land.  Our guess is they are to erect temporary fences for strip grazing.
Religion has certainly clung to the lives of a suppressed people, with church spires in every village and numerous tiny roadside chapels and memorials; many ancient, and sadly, some erected following recent accidents.
By 3pm we had bypassed Brno and it was the agreed hour to seek a gem for the night, together with some local culture and perhaps a splattering of English.
We left the main road much to Flossies displeasure, and into a small village.
There was no obvious accommodation, so I again resorted to the local ‘lekarne’.  Yes, she spoke some broken English, and suggested a road side hotel with ‘excellent to eat’, some 12Km further towards the Polish border.
We found this place and booked in promptly as it was obviously popular, and we were the only non-CZ car in the place.
We are at Zastrizly in the Buchlovske hory forest of Cheski, high up on a mountain top overlooking open farmlands and a distant town beyond—through the smog—it is a still day with no breeze to clear the air.
A great barman with some English helped us book in, and I got a room on the ground floor which is not common.
The price was exorbitant—E31 for a double room—clean, comfortable and with an ensuite!!!!.
The place is very popular and was very busy at mealtime.
We both tried a local speciality—venison with a mushroom cream sauce, washed down with a couple of shots of local slivovic (me) and white wine (Heather)
And 0.5l of local ‘Starobrno’ beer for me—local from Brno, and  nice and bitter, a bit like an IPA on tap.
All that cost next to nothing, so we tipped them E5 and I bought a REAL slivovic glass for Friday nights back home with Karl, our Slovenian/Australian neighbour.
It was offered for gratis, but they reluctantly accepted E2.
We have wifi in our room, so time to update these ramblings before an early night, and off to Krakow in Poland tomorrow.

Zastrizly to Krakow, Poland 30th APRIL
We left at 7:30am and covered about 100Km before pulling in for breakfast at 8:30, just as a nice roadside restaurant was opening.
We were offered the menu in English, and both ordered a ‘full English breakfast’--yes, in the Czech Republic. It was a bit different, particularly the sausages, but did include baked beans, two eggs, bacon and mushrooms.
And the coffee came on a small tray with a shot glass of clear liquid beside it, and a wrapped boiled lolly!!
The clear liquid was a bit of a test, as I know many Eastern Europeans down a slivovic with their coffee before heading off to work, but fortunately it was plain H2O.
Breakfast cost something like 900Kr, whatever they are, about E14 after the conversion was accomplished.
We reached the Polish border with just over 100Km to run to Krakow.
Poland is not for the fun seeking tourist.
A sad and depressing place, so why did we bother?
Heather would rather avoid an area where the memories of our previous visit to Auschwitz and Berkenau remain so powerful .
We had visited hell there before.
Yet there is something strangely mesmeric about a country where the unspeakable happened during our own lifetimes.
A powerful magnet, drawing us towards a beautiful city, in a country with an horrendous past and its proud and defiant people.
A place to reflect, and to remind us we must never forget.
Krakow was once the capital of Poland, and as its second biggest city today, is more accessible that Warsaw.
Or so we thought.
As we drove into the country it was difficult to feel light hearted, or in holiday mode.
The majority of roads are appalling, the traffic is chaos and GPS is less than useless with detours and road blockages everywhere.
Before long we passed signs to places, the names of which make me shudder. Oswiecim (Auschwitz), Berkenau, and of course the Krakow getto.
We passed the hideous modern hotel we stayed at in 2009, within 5Km of Auschwitz—right next door to a childrens fun park!!
It was lunchtime in Poland, but we couldn’t pull off at one of the many cafes near here.
The sight of happy school children in their lunch hour was both uplifting and thought provoking.  Their nearest connection to the area would be through grandparents or great-grandparents.
How could anyone of our age live in a village named Oswiecim?
At one of the many detours directed by a young cop, a very old man staggered along the street almost unable to stay upright.
Perhaps he was a young youth at the time of the horror, and should be forgiven for remaining drunk for the past seventy years.
The young cop observed him knowingly and just let things be!
We got within 25Km of Krakow, and detours due to accidents and roadwork’s sent us in many directions, and that sign to Oswiecim kept appearing to haunt us.
Finally, within 4Km of the centre of Krakow we had both had enough, and pulled off a ‘freeway’ into what seemed like the Toorak of Krakow at a sign to a hotel.
In a side street, a young lady, well dressed and driving a new Alfa had turned into her driveway, waiting for the automatic entrance doors to open.
Well to do young people are obviously getting on with their lives in Krakow.
I quickly parked illegally and asked her about a hotel-and she spoke excellent English and directed us to the Farmona Hotel, Jugowicka, Krakow—just around the corner.
A first class hotel in a parkland setting.
We booked in, had a nice meal without speaking much, and headed back to our very nice room.
Tomorrow is May Day in Poland and most of Europe—a public holiday—and I hope they find something to celebrate.
(For aviators and mariners, May Day is a phrase we never want to hear, or utter!!)
All we ask is a peaceful night here, and a visit to the ‘old’ centre of Krakow in the morning.
It is quite deliberate that here are no photos to post today!

Krakow, Poland 1st May

Being a public holiday, the traffic in Krakow was light, and we had no trouble ordering a taxi at reception and were soon into the centre of the old city.
We walked the old town square and marvelled at the well preserved ancient buildings. The town hall, the market buildings, the royal palace and the many churches of which there are over three hundred throughout Krakow.
Of fifty thousand Jews in Krakow in 1941, there are less then three hundred there today.  But as our young guide remarked, most now mix in a secular society, the three hundred churches are mainly empty and religion amongst the young is in decline universally.
Unlike Warsaw, Krakow was spared bombing raids during WW2 and the ancient city remains largely extant.
And then it was off to the ghetto area some distance away, with an English speaking guide, and in the comfort of an electric ‘car’—a sort of elongated golf buggy.
Past what remains of traditional Jewish shops with their original facades and window displays retained, but many now coffee shops inside.
The only remaining section of the ghetto wall which at the time was topped with coils of razor wire.
Oscar Schindler’s factory with many relics and visual displays.
And then, the Apteka Pod Orlem—“the Pharmacy Under the Eagle”.
Established by his father in 1909, Tadeuz Pankiewic took over the pharmacy shortly before the outbreak of war, and in 1941 it became enclosed in the ghetto.
Three thousand Polish residents had to move from the area designated for the ghetto to make room for some 16,000 Jews.
Tadeuz was asked to move but refused and was reluctantly allowed to continue. His three female assistants also decided to remain and help with his aid to the people of the Ghetto.
It was a place where ‘prescriptions for survival’ were prepared and administered—sedatives to keep small children quiet during Gestapo raids, tranquillisers for the distressed and depressed and general first aid.
Some of the dispensary items on display include many strong barbiturates, ‘strychnine’ and vitamin compounds.
Tadeuz and his staff also offered somewhere to hide in the back rooms of the pharmacy, at great personal risk.
With original photos and excellent audio visual displays including film and voices of some survivors of the ghetto, the pharmacy under the Eagle only re-opened to the public after many years, on 1st March this year.
The Apteka Pod Orlem faces onto a huge square in what was the ghetto, containing nothing but empty chairs, representing the thousands who never survived or were transported to extermination camps.
An enormously touching monument, a place to reflect and an appropriate place to end out ghetto visit and return to our hotel.
We drove off out of Krakow, again in chaotic traffic, towards Slovakia.
After a TWO hour traffic jam outside Krakow, we eventually drove through some picturesque countryside to the Slovak border, for the compulsory ‘Vignette’ pass for their roads.
The flat landscape gave way to hilly country with huge fields of canola and Heather remarked on the profuse lilac bushes everywhere, which we hadn’t noticed in Poland.
At beer o’clock we looked unsuccessfully for a gem and ended up at a boring roadside motel.
We had driven far enough, so booked in and paid E30 cash.
I left Heather in charge of a warm beer and a bored to death young girl running the empty place, and drove off determined to find another ‘gem’.
Within 5Km I had left the main ‘road’ and into a tiny village of Benice where I booked in to a quaint little place—Kastiel Benice in---.
Also E30, lovely young couple running the place, excellent English and very welcoming.
So I collected Heather and abandoned the E30 from the ‘dump’ and we had a great meal and quite night at Benice, for still only E60 total!!

Benice, Slovakia to Budapest, Hungary 2nd May.

We were up early and after home brewed coffee, left our little ‘castle’ at 8am, planning to pull off the road early, say 12:30pm.
The plan was to travel via Nitra, Slovakia and visit the Eurofox aircraft factory, where they make the Recreational ‘light’ aircraft that Horsham Aviation are Australian distributors for. (My Cessna is always serviced at Horsham)
We were there by 10:30 and I was warmly welcomed and manager Peter, showed me all over the works.
They produce about forty aircraft per year in a tiny ‘factory’ with about 8 workers.
A very light two-seater with folding wings, ideal for ‘Stray Gonads’ to tow behind a campervan for an occasional aviation fix in the backblocks.
Wishful thinking I guess, but a local flight was not possible as their newest production was not quite ready for a test flight!!
And they are right next to the Slovak Aero Club, with a taxiway to a 1000m grass runway, also used extensively for gliding ops.
A warm day, even 30 degrees at times, but a few drops (maybe two) later.
It was only a further 120 Km to Budapest, so we decided to drive on a bit, stop for fuel and lunch and then re-assess.
By 2:00 pm we were only 40Km from Budapest, our last big city stopover, so decided to press on.
Unlike getting into Krakow, we were able to continue on a great ‘freeway’ right into the centre of the city, well before the evening peak hour.
After a couple of laps of the city centre with nowhere to park and no obvious signs to a hotel, we asked a young bloke, and he directed us to one nearby—the White Lion.
Very flash, but why bother about another E250 for somewhere to sleep!
The nice English speaking girl on the desk seemed incredulous when I requested a room, but didn’t have a booking!!
All good pubs in Budapest are booked out, except perhaps the Ibis—NO BLOODY WAY!!
She kindly gave me directions to a good pub on the Buda side of the Danube, but we got hopelessly lost and Flossie took us up a narrow street to a tiny private  house.
Things were getting a bit tense, but at the penultimate moment we discovered a great little place on a busy street for the outrageous price of E39 for a double room including breakfast, an English speaking proprietor, WiFi and a locked car park.
And a great restaurant next door, where we both had ‘pork knuckle’ with veg and salad—great.


FRIDAY 3rd May

During the night there was a severe thunderstorm that went on for quite a few hours but by morning the rain had ceased and in was in the high 20’s and humid.
We have decided to stay another night here, so after a nice breakfast it was off to explore this historic city.
Our pub is almost opposite the local ‘suburban’ rail station and after a short walk and a bit of local help, we were on our way into the centre of Buda.
The public transport system is very fast and efficient.
From the central station, only a short walk to the river Danube, with loads of boats waiting to take river tours.
We boarded a hop-on-hop-off ferry at a wharf, right opposite the beautiful houses of parliament on the Pest side. This took us up the Danube in both directions under many bridges and with excellent views of historic buildings on both sides, to disembark on the Pest side, quite near the central market area.
Our walk included the river bank area where many former historic buildings have been turned (tastefully) into luxury hotels, and up into the central square and  café precinct.
We had lunch at a sidewalk café just as the clouds were starting to re-form!
On the way back to the wharf the sky opened and it really pissed down.  We both got soaked to the skin, which has solved the laundry problem for the next few days!!
We will have a good rest this afternoon and tonight, and head off towards Slovenia tomorrow.
I skyped Miran, our neighbour Karl’s nephew who we have met at Faraday, and warned him that we should be in his village of Bovec, Slovenia, probably Sunday evening.
He hates a slivovic also!!!!

4th May

We left our little pub in Budapest at 8am, right amongst the peak hour traffic.
Flossie did a fine job and we were soon on the outskirts of the city and onto country roads.
About 60Km South-West of Budapest we came across a busy local Saturday market at Gardony, and called in for a coffee break and a good look around.
Interesting local dried fruits, wine, halva and chocolate, and the usual stalls of made in China junk.
It was getting busy early, and the local cops were directing traffic to park, including us.
We then drove on a bit, stopped for diesel which cost 32,000 ‘minglebars’, paid with Visa travel card, about E30  for 25 litres.
The persistence with local currencies in EU countries is rather strange, but everywhere they are happy to convert to Euros, and seem to prefer them. The travel card on-line statements usually agree with the conversions, +/- a few cents.
At lunch time we stopped beside a river in Hosok Utja, Molnoszecsod, Hungary, and ate our cheese, salami, egg, pickles and mustard rolls, washed down with diet Coke, which incidentally doesn’t work in Europe either.
Before long we were back in Austria, cutting across the corner towards Slovenia.
By 2:30pm it was time to exit the secondary roads and find a place to camp.
We found a great hotel with an ancient façade but very modern inside, the Allmer ‘wellness hotel’ in the village of Bad Gleichenberg, Austria, not far before the Slovenian border.
Now ‘Bad’ in German/Austrian means spa/spring and the area has many natural springs and ‘wellness centres’.
The bar however, is apparently not regarded as a wellness centre per se, yet there were many there partaking of strong liquids including bier and pizza.
After dinner, including the above, we visited the flash indoor pool and undertook of some ‘wellness’ ourselves!!
Many ancient bodies of similar decline had also participated in ‘wellness’ prior to visiting the bar; refreshed and oh so bloody wholesome.
After all that wellness, it was time for bed; and into Slovenia in the morning.

5th May  

We left our Allmer hotel before breakfast, while all the ageing ‘wellness’ people were probably still trying to figure out what to do with their multi-pronged, strawberry flavoured condoms from the dispenser in the  ‘wellness centre’—perhaps--“should we eat them just like that, or mix them with our gluten free, sugarless, free range yoghurt?”
Flossie directed us on secondary, user friendly roads, and being Sunday the traffic was very light, and of course no trucks on the minor roads.
This is the way to see the REAL countryside.
We again passed through numerous small villages, and stopped for our ‘wellness breakfast’ of cheese and salami rolls and coffee, not long before the Slovenian border.
Then into Slovenia, a small yet stunningly beautiful country with green manicured fields and tiny villages with postcard perfect houses in vivid colours.
We had fallen in love with Slovenia in 2009 when we stumbled on the strikingly attractive village of Bled with its ancient castle and lake surrounded by show capped mountains.
Our destination today was the village of Bovec, at the foot of the Julian Alps, which separate Slovenia from Italy.
And the main purpose was to visit the niece of our neighbour Karl—Metka, and her husband Miran. Miran has visited Faraday several times and last year we had him and Karl for meals at our home.
Karl is very special to us, and as his extended family all live in Bovec, including his eighty two year old brother whom he has not seem for almost twenty years.
Hence this visit was rather personal for us, and some of the photos may be meaningless for some followers of our blog. (yes, I must  have a few followers, we are averaging 83 ‘hits’ per day—why I don’t know, but please persevere!!!)
To reach Bovec without resorting to autobahns is interesting to say the least.
Firstly, about 40Km through the ‘edge’ of Austria to the Slovenian border, 40Km through winding roads in Slovenia, but with no or little traffic, and again arrived at the Austrian border.
Back into Austria and climbing through the mountains for a while, and then we came to the Italian border!!
Could Flossie be wrong??—no way.
This was a road for BWM motorbikes or Ferraris only, and a challenge in our little ‘googly’. Numerous switchbacks, hairpin bends and bridges over deep ravines.
And all the time climbing, eventually reaching the peak of the mountain pass at 1165 metres, at the Slovenian border again; with only 15Km, all down hill, to Bovec.
Located in a valley beside the river Soca, with mountains rising on both sides, this village is our best ‘find’ so far.
The snow capped mountains each side are so steep and close that Bovec is shaded from sunlight for three months of the year in winter, but this time of the year in Spring it is hypnotic.
We booked into the Kanin Hotel—recently renovated and very nice—room and breakfast E78 for both of us including a huge breakfast.  Kanini is the name of the highest peak which the hotel faces, covered in snow, and Italy is beyond!
I skyped Miran, and he and Metka met us at our pub, and after a drink, shouted us out to a local restaurant for a VERY local meal.
The aperitif was a powerful concoction made from tiny local blueberries, distilled, with some drunken berries and sediment in the glass.
Only some 25ml each, but about 150 Octane!! Only made in the Soca valley, and they presented me with a bottle of it to smuggle back home and share with Karl.
Then, cabbage and bean soup, followed by REAL Kranski sausages with vegetables and a local sweet speciality—a pasta/pastry casing filled with a mixture of ground walnuts and cacao—superb.

Monday 6th May

After breakfast including slices of Kranski, cheese, cold meats, coffee and ‘local’ croissants, Miran and Metka picked us up from the Kanin, and we had the grand tour of  Bovec, and the nearby village where Karl lived until he escaped and eventually got to Australia as a sixteen your old during the war.
We visited the actual house he was born in and lived as a child, and then his brothers home and took many pictures of Vinco and his wife for Karl, and one to prove that I can also work in a vegi patch—at Faraday Karl regards his very productive garden as his ‘office’.
And then back to Miran and Metkas unit for coffee, apple juice and some quaint specially home made croissant-like cakes.
And Miran phoned Kark, and we hat a chat. All is well at home, he is a great caretaker.
Miran then drove us around the mountain roads, in pouring rain at well above the speed I was allowed to, and even the rosary beads hanging from the gear stick of his Skoda did nothing for Heathers confidence.
However, he has driven these roads for years and it was very safe.
In the Soca valley we visited an ancient Napoleonic fort, beside a bridge and with a very deep ravine on two sides.
Apparently when the bridge was blown up, the fort was impregnable for the advancing cavalry and they were simple lost into the river, or retreated.
The water in the Soca river is crystal clear and aqua blue, apparently from the limestone it cuts through.
The valley and river are very popular with white-water canoeists and rafters and infact the European kayak championships will be held here in a couple of months.
It may surprise some that I visited the local airfield. C172 rides are offered from here, but there was no activity except a young bloke attempting to launch a paraglider, without success.
The 1000 metre runway is like a bowling green, but wow!!—after taking off in either direction there would be an immediate climb to 3,500 feet to get out of the valley. And no room for a ‘circuit’ approach, the mountains are far too close.
The memorial marker pictured, sadly again shows the folly of mountain flying in IMC
However, Miran assures me they regularly take off with four on board in a C172 with no problems. Perhaps 10 litres in each wing??
We bid our fond farewells, and headed off again towards Italy, towards the Trieste/Venice area.
It poured raining most of the day and again we had miles of mountain driving before descending into Italy and towards Sacile
We stopped for a VERY late lunch at a small café and had coffee/chocolate, and asked for a Panini to take away!!  This was a giant loaf of bread filled with sausage meat, eggplant and capsicum (heated).  We had it cut in four and wrapped in foil, it would be at least two meals.
The lady running this place has no children, but numerous ‘birds’ and pets. To my amazement she has seventeen sulphur crested cockatoos which cost E700 each!!
I offered to supply her with as many as she liked, slightly ‘damaged’, at no cost!!
And then on to Sacile where we eventually found a brilliant Agritourisimo.—fortunately more Agri, and not much tourisimo!!—a REAL farm with a vineyard and animals in a rural setting, and I think we are the only guests tonight.
We shared a bottle of their local La Pioppa vino with our pannini—yes, even me!!—when in Rome----

Tuesday 7th May
Of course there was an alterior motive for visiting Sacile, the home of  the Fazioli piano manufacturing facility, and their demonstration concert hall.
The Fazioli concert grand piano is now considered the finest (and by far the most expensive) in the world.
In exceeds the New York Steinway an even the German built Steinway, and all the leading Japanese pianos.
Very accomplished professional pianists are PAID to perform on a Steinway;  the very finest insist on the Fazioli, and usually have to pay for the privilege.
I promised Heather I would be no more than an hour, how wrong I was.
Outside the entrance to Fazioli there were about 30 secondary students with their teacher. The sliding gates were secured with no obvious means of entry other than with an oxy torch.
Luckily for me, the teacher spoke excellent English and explained that his group of students from Rome and arranged their visit months ago.
Further, he suggested I would have little hope of entering without a letter of introduction, but as I was from Australia, perhaps he could persuade them to let me in.
At 9am the sliding gates opened and the teacher and his students all entered, and I followed at a respectable distance.
After some time a nice lady came out and respecrtfully advised that a visit without notice was not possible, and suggested I get a letter from the Australian agents in Perth!!
However, she directed me to her assistant who took copies of my passport, and email address, and auggested I write formally,requesting a visit, on one of three selected dates, about ten days from today!!
Shit, talk about Fort Knox, getting into the Fazioli empire without prior notice is exceptionally difficult.
Perhaps after our week in a villa in Toscana, perhaps!!
We drove on past Venice and eventually found a bed for the night in an old orphanage in the ancient town of Ravenna about 60Km south of Venice.

May 8th

Our unusual accommodation last night was a direct consequence of my policy of   ‘----through life just freely
roam--‘  we never book ahead, or travel in the tourist season, and hence every place is a surprise, and a new experience.
And occasionally a disappointment, as with the Fazioli place in Sacile.
After bypassing Venice yesterday, we called at a small town on the Adriatic coast which was ancient and beautiful, but our search for accommodation proved fruitless, and hence we drove further south to Ravenna.
Ravenna is a large coastal town, steeped in history and is a national heritage listed place.
Even though it is out of season, it is a large university town with a constant flow of visitors.
The town centre is pedestrian only, and getting to our ‘bed and breakfast’ ‘hotel’ was a real challenge, after asking at a number of good hotels, which were fully booked.
We were directed to this place, which required driving illegally up several one way streets to get into the courtyard parking space through an ancient gateway just wide enough for Simpson and his donkey.
The very flash and modern interior of an ancient home for orphaned girls and wayward Catholics of days long past, now nominally called a B & B---complete with superb period furniture, numerous small rooms with en-suites, and even an old interior church for those in need of forgiveness or spiritual guidance.
We needed guidance to the dining room which we were told was only for breakfast, and the well lit yet unattended bar, which we were told would not be open till 9pm!!!—is it Lent or something, or simply Holy Roman abstinence?
So off to the local ‘supermarket’ for some supplies for ‘dinner’, and of course the bar never opened!!
I thought we were the only guests, but there was a constant trickle of customers later.
However, our room, small as it was, was clean and adequate and there was a very comprehensive breakfast in the morning before we escaped through the ancient walls in the ‘googly’-----
---and then on to Tuscany.  We entered Greve in the GPS, an historic town midway between Florence and Sienna. We had previously stayed in a villa near Greve in 2009, booked through the www, and were a bit disappointed.
But it is the heart of the Chianti Classico region of Toscana, within striking distance of Volterra, Orvietto, Firenze, Sienna, San Gimignagno and all the spectacular little hilltop villages and vineyards of Tuscany.
And so we arrived ‘cold turkey’ as it were, in the square in Greve at 1pm.
We had driven on secondary roads over the alps at 50Km/h most of the way—yet seeing far more of the countryside that on the autostradas.
The city square was packed and our chances of finding a gem of a villa for a weeks stay seemed remote.
While Heather waited in a café we had haunted regularly on our last trip, I came across a superb ancient, self-contained apartment, purely by chance,  only 4Km from the centre of Greve.
Up a good dirt road, well away from the town.
Their large group of visitors had moved out just this morning, and we took their best villa for E650 for seven nights—way below the E1500 for the busy season.
A real gem—our own bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, sitting room, balcony and terrace; open fireplace if it gets cold, and totally separated from anyone in the rest of the place.
Brilliant views over the Tuscan countryside, with vineyards, olive groves and mountains all the way to Greve, and also a shared swimming pool in the extensive gardens.
And the place is a working vineyard and winery, with excellent Chianti Classico vino at E5 for patrons, and we may join other visitors for an optional traditional Tuscan dinner tomorrow evening.
In the morning, I will get some provisions in Greve, and am looking forward to cooking some real wog tucka.
Heather is contented, and we will have a weeks R and R here before heading off towards Switzerland, whenever!!
We have spent most of the day resting, and settling into this gem near Greve—San Stefano. The proprietor, Agostino, speaks reasonable English and with my Italian phrase pocket book we get on well.
He is an excellent host, and suggested many places of interest to visit around Greve.

9th May

I drove the 4Km into Greve in the morning to get some basic provisions for our own cooking—finding a parking spot near the central square or the Co-Op supermarket outside the square is very challenging.
We are stocked up with the basics—bread, milk, eggs, butter, cheese, garlic, onions, real wog sausages, pork/beef mince (maybe a little horse??), tomato paste, pasta, sugar, salt and pepper—sold by weighing from bulk into a plastic container!!  And real ground coffee for our little coffee boiler in the kitchen.
Breakfast of cheese, bread and coffee at midday, as we have decided to accept the offer of a traditional Tuscan dinner with a group staying here tonight, E35 each including many courses, and of course vino too.
I have caught up on a couple of emails, and written to Fazioli requesting a short visit after we leave here, on 16th May, one of their 3 possible dates! And also emailed the Perth distributors, sucking eggs and asking for some sort of introduction.
The dinner turned out to be a great night. With six Belgian blokes, on a ‘4 day trip’ they do together each year, all former basketball players, perfect English speakers, and all in for a big night.
We had antipasto including proscuito, salami and cheese with slices of bread dipped in olive oil. Followed by superb spagetti with tomatoes and fresh herbs cooked perfectly, then ‘roast beef’ with roasted potato pieces and an eggplant cheese and tomato ‘slice’ (hot of course.)  Salad with a nice balsamic and olive dressing, and sweets of strawberries with cream, and a slice of some local cake, to be dipped into a small glass of something like sherry.
The bottles of Cianti Classico red wine flowed freely and the Belgians set a cracking pace whilst we downed plenty of Trebbiano de casa. (Red just stuffs me up in the head these days, and my favourite wine is now beer)
However the shot glass of grappa with the strong coffee really hit the spot, and Heather and I departed for our casa before 11pm.
The Belgians will still be going for quite a while; our hosts joined in after diner, but they too were ready for bed.

10th May

We were up bright and bushy tailed in our villa, but the
Belgian quarters across the road were silent, and they didn’t surface till much mater.
We made fresh coffee and had crusty bread and tomatoes for breakfast.
There is misty fog hanging in the valley this morning and quite overcast but our view is still beautiful; and it is so quiet with no traffic nearby and only the sound of a mopoke somewhere in the distance.
Somewhat overdue for a visit to the trichologist, I drove the 4Km down our mountain track to Greve and found a traditional ‘barber’.
Straight into the ancient chair, and he was down to work on a pretty scruffy canvas with a variety of surgically sharp instruments. My Italian phrase book helped a bit as he spoke no English.
Much trimming with scissors only and then tackled my beard and mow until we were both satisfied.
And then out with shaving brush and foam and the cut throat razor to clear all the weeds under my chin and neck.
This old master craftsman (possibly not much younger that me) spend a good hour at his easel; a true artisan.
E20 for the experience, which considering the enormity of the task was very reasonable.
Got an email from Fazioli regretting they are unable to permit a visit and suggesting I write for an appointment when next in Italy!!!!
Bugger.
The weather here is cool, very still, but we got some rain and thunder in the afternoon.
Not doing much during our ‘holiday within a holiday’ except resting.
This arvo I drove to the Panzano area of Chianti, near where we stayed last time we were here—much higher up in the hills, about 610 metres on Flossie.
In the evening I cooked our first wog meal, which of course had to be pasta.  Got some fresh sage from Agostinos garden,  cooked the spag, drained and mixed with big chunks of garlic, tiny cherry tomatoes, olive oil, grated parmesan. Also made meat sauce separately and again we had crusty bread.
Agostino also insisted I picked some globe artichokes from the veg patch to try—full of earwigs like our veg at home—but when boiled in salty water and drizzled with olive oil they were superb.
Great wog tucka!!
Tomorrow is the weekly Saturday market in Greve (pronounced Grevay).
The market was packed last time we were here, and they had superb local Sienese pork  (‘wild chinguali’) with crackling, freshly cooked and sliced for rolls,
And I think we can’t resist

11thMay

A still sunny morning in San Stefano and had breakfast of toast and coffee.
Mid morning, we drove the 4Km down the hill into Greve.  The centre was packed and we took ages to find a parking spot.
The village square had been cleared of cars and the whole place was one big outdoor market, a regular Saturday event.
Clothes, both new and pre-owed, shoes, fruit and veg, kitchen gadgets, books, hats, sunglasses and every kind of every local food.
The same stall selling freshly roasted pork paninis was again doing exceptional business and we each ate one as we walked around.
Thick slices cut off a whole roasted pig, with pepper and herb seasoning, in a fresh ‘roll’.
As the huge bell in the town tower struck midday, the crowds started to thin out and the stall holders were packing up for another week.
On our way back to the car park, the local ‘supermarket’ was just closing and we missed out on a few top-up items.
But at a tiny fruit/veg shop we bought giant fresh tomatoes and some nice local vin blanc at E3.30/bottle.
Back home for an afternoon nap, after being shown over the San Stefano’s ancient cellars, by Agostino.
The grapes and picked, crushed, fermented and the wine stored here, but any lab work and chemistry is farmed out.
And the olives are picked and sent for processing. The superb oil is stored in stainless steel containers today, but the family have worked this property for centuries and there are many ancient amphora’s still kept in the cellar.
Our villa has everything we could wish for, including NO TV!!!
We don’t know what’s happening in the rest of the world but would have heard about any serious dramas on the Toscana Telephone.
I do know however that tomorrow is Domenica, and that  most red-blooded Italians will be wishing for a couple of Ferraris on the podium at the Spanish Grand Prix!!
And I can watch live timing from the F1 site, on the laptop.

12th May
Happy Mothers Day to all Mothers, and also time to reflect and fondly remember the
Mother we once had.
Here in Italy it is also Mothers Day today, whilst back in Slovenia, the last country we visited, it was celebrated on 8th March.
Whilst the ‘Sherman Tanks’ claim to have invented mothers day, in ancient  times a whole weekend of celebrations were held in May in recognition of Juno, the goddess of marriage and motherhood. (Google 101)
Today in Italy it is simply a day for families to get together for a meal in the family home, or to dine out.
It is the most popular day of the year to dine out, and flower sellers line the piazzas all day.
Not a good time for visitors to find a special restaurant, so I made toast and coffee for Heather, and have borrowed a white flower from the gardens in remembrance of my Mum.
And Heather sykped her Mum back home.
(For the history buffs I have come across a fascinating web site (Italian) depicting an oil on canvas painting by Benardino d’angelo Bucatini of an enormous ‘mamma’ giving birth by Caesarean section to seven live wolves!!!—allegedly representing the hills of Roma. Not for the faint hearted; it goes into great detail of the bizzare origins of the Roman  ‘giorno madre’  There is a flag on the top RHS for a vague English translation. Click on http://giornomadre.messaggiospagliato.it  )
The six Belgian blokes left this morning, after a very long day yesterday working all the tasting rooms of Chianti.
They played up a bit in the pool till 11:30 last night, which didn’t make Agostino very happy.
We were oblivious to it all our villa is quite separate.
We had a bit of rain here this afternoon, and two loud claps of thunder, but it soon cleared and is now quite warm.
------And Ferrari came one, three in Spain with Alonso winning his ‘home’ GP!!

13th May
WARNING: THESE PAGES MAY CONTAIN ADULT MATERIAL. PARENTAL GUIDANCE IS RECOMMENDED. KINDLY REGARD THIS MESSAGE AS HAVING APPLIED SINCE DAY ONE. THANKYOU.
It is a beautiful sunny day at Santo Stefano near Greve and our resolve to do next to nothing but rest here, persists.
It is so quiet you can hear a mosquito fart, which in itself has a valuable purpose, as the occasional one that penetrates out defences at night can be detected before it strikes.
The swallows that visit Greve each Spring have begun to build their little mud houses, and on the indoor staircase to our villa, Agostino has erected permanent terracotta platforms for this purpose.
I guess it could be regarded as some form of cross species symbiosis—they benefit from a safe and protected place to nurture their young, whilst we are spared their crap on our heads.
I can’t be absolutely certain, but as these amazing aviators do migrate each season, I am pretty sure the one that has taken up residence outside out door is the very same that nested in our shed last year.
They do however, look quite similar; perhaps I could be mistaken.
In less that two months, Firenze will be crawling with experts counting how many ‘goolies’ David has or the length of his ‘mister wobbly’.
Many similar nether parts from statues in Rome and elsewhere, have been removed as souvenirs, including from the Vatican museum itself !!.
Sienna will be crawling with objectionable Yanks fighting for a place at a tiny restaurant, or pushing to get their postcard picture in one of the many piazzas.
San Gimignano, Assisi, Arrezo, Radda and Pisa will be invaded by  ‘ethnics’ such as we are, and all the villas of Toscano, so many of which are now owned and run by yanks, poms and frogs, will be crowded.
We have previously been guilty of joining such impersonal throngs, and it saddens me that so many ‘ancient villas’, circa 2013, are still being built by entrepreneurial non-wogs.
With no character, charm or history.
Each to his own, but to just happen upon a real Tuscan working farm, vineyard, olive grove and villa, is what I call Italy.  And there are thousands of them!
For us, much better to absorb the atmosphere, and explore the intricacies of one ancient town and its people, than draw a mere brushstroke across a broader canvas.
And so what of today.
I drove into Greve at 7:30, found a parking spot and entered the ‘co-op’ as it opened at 8am.
Salami, cheese, mortadella, panni and the inevitable Nutella, plus some tea bags, for a change from coffee for breakfast.
After brunch I acquired a giant gelato as only the Italians can make, and sat in the sunshine trying to consume more than the sun could melt.
Resting in the afternoon here is a serious activity, yet requires few special skills other that reasonable dexterity with a corkscrew, and the ability to relax and nod off at will.
For those in need of spiritual fulfilment this ancient winery even has its own private chapel.  (I should know better, but thought it was the bar!!)

14th May
My warning that today readers could expect to see some red motorcars was not to be taken lightly.
Indeed it has been an exceptional red letter day.
After leaving our superb villa near Greve at 9am, we set Flossy to take us on the autostrada to the town of Maranello near Modena, a mere 165Km north.
After battling the trucks at 130Km and cars blasting past much faster in the outer lanes, we were in Maranello just on 11am, almost opposite the Ferrari factory, and beside the museum.
It took some time to find accommodation, a few pubs being booked out as the ‘vintage’ re-run of the Milli Miglia ends here of Saturday.
However we happened upon the Maranello Palace hotel, a pleasant modern place within 3Km of the Ferrari Museum, and almost behind the factory.
Heather was happy to rest here while I proceeded to tick another item of my barrel list.
Over the years I have come to reconcile myself with the the depressing  reality that I may never own a Ferrari, excepting by the remote possibility of an Oz Lotto killing.
I have been told however that even that improbability of instant riches requires the purchase of a ticket.
And so why not hire one for a drive around the streets and outskirts of their home town.
On either side of the museum are operators offering drives in a variety of Ferraris.
On the www there were some requesting payment with a booking form downloaded and sent in, not my modus operandi.
I was able to rock up to a group called ‘Kick Start’ and book the Ferrari of my choice for 3:30 in the afternoon.
I chose a 458 Italia, open cockpit, with all gears and clutch ‘paddle operated’ on the steering wheel, al la F1, and only a stop and go pedal on the floor.
E200 for 30 minutes with a ‘guide’ in the passengers seat to direct me onto the back roads and to tell me when to press on the ‘gas’.
After following a truck for a bit, he directed me onto a side road and kept calling ‘gas’ ‘gas’!!
At one stage we were doing 170Km in 4th gear, and he pushed my right knee down as he called ‘gas’!!, and the acceleration was astonishing.
I don’t think I quite got to 200Km/h, but I at least got into fifth gear, and the acceleration was still immense.
What it would do in 6th gear is for a longer straight, or on the track only!!
Top speed is allegedly 325Kph (202MPH)
Because of the truck following, he gave me a few more minutes of an extraordinary experience.
The thing was fully insured except for wheel or rim damage, which has an excess of E10,000!!!
I was bloody careful to avoid that.
While still on cloud nine I wandered over to the Ferrari museum, with a particular interest in their F1 cars over the years, up to almost the very latest.
Turning one corner on the second level, one is confronted by an perfect wax ‘model’ of Enzo himself, sitting at his original desk. It is so realistic, I found it a bit confronting.
Enzo died in Maranello in 1988 at the age of 90, but it was as though the master was still at his desk!!
Back at our hotel there were TWELVE Ferraris, all from France, in the car park. Magnificent, but why on earth would anyone ever buy a yellow, blue, or black Ferrari.
But then again the frogs are a strange lot!! Sour grapes??
I hope the pictures tell some of the story, I am still speechless!!

15th May

Up at 7:30 in our ‘palace’ in Maranello, and already the occasional Ferrari is playing symphonic music along the streets below.
We had a superb breakfast in the dining room, included in the E130 for the night.  The usual sliced meats, cheeses, yoghurt, juices, caffee Americana, croissants and a variety of ‘wellness’ options for the connoisseurs of chaff and fibre.
Paid our dues at reception, and admired the autographed photos on the lobby wall.
Phillipe Massa (Ferrari F1 driver) who stays here before the Italian GP; that dropkick chef Gordon Ramsay who has stayed and no doubt annoyed the shit out of management, and many members of the Ferrari F1 support team.
We watched the frog Ferrari group depart en mass, and then snuck out inconspicuously to the ‘googly’.
Set Flossy for Milano and headed off in pouring rain at 10:30am, on non-autostrada roads.
It poured rain all day, and by 2pm we had only covered 165Km, all on secondary roads, and it was time to look for somewhere to stay.
We are in the Lombardi plains area of Italy; as flat as a shit carters hat; not the most attractive region of this beautiful country.
After finding a stunning ennoteca which advertised accommodation, but was not open yet for the coming season, the helpful proprietor printed out directions to a ‘nearby’ agriturismo.
Directions in the Italian countryside leave a lot to be desired—few street (via) names, and vague signs with exaggeratedly short distances to places to stay.
And so in heavy rain, it took us almost two hours to find the place he recommended.
Eventually we arrived at this modest agriturismo, on the peak of about the only hill in the region, pretty basic, but with superb views in all directions over rolling vineyards.
La Dogana, adjacent to the Castle of Luzzano, in the tiny village of Greta. La Dogana apparently means something like ‘go through customs’, but I think we got through without being challenged!!
A strange name for an Agriturismo.
The rain stopped, and we had our ‘picnic dinner’ outside, washed down with some vin ordinaire
A quite spot, and again I think we are the only takers.
But I don’t have to milk the cow (Schnook)!!
A friendly ‘petroni’ with minimal English, and it is E95 including breakfast.
Our ‘camerra’ is up a spiral staircase which is a challenge for this old fart, but I will only carry my pills and a toothbrush up those stairs!!
We have no wifi here, and so this post will appear hopefully, tomorrow.
By which time we should be close to the Swiss border in the north of Italy, and possibly heading through the Saint Bernard tunnel (18KM) on Saturday.

17h May
After a generous breakfast for two in the dining area below those dreaded stairs, we set off again planning to cover 150-200Km by lunchtime by which time we would be within striking distance of the Swizz and French borders.
Again on secondary roads, avoiding the autostradas, but through many small villages with numerous roundabouts.
In fact in two hours we had only covered 100Km.
We passed the Malpensa airport, which is one that serves Milano, but is a long way north west of that city.
We stopped for a roadside break nearby, in a forest of giant chessnut trees. Our one at home will be that big in a couple of centuries.
And then on to the township of Laveno Mombello, and found a great hotel which was fully booked. The girl in reception phoned around and booked us in to the Hotel Meuble Moderno, right on the shores of Lago Magggiore.
So we stayed and had lunch at the flash pub, and both had a superb dish of creamy fettuccini with fungi.
And then a 7Km drive to Meuble Moderno, which is not very ‘moderno’ at all, but clean and comfortable with superb views over the lake from our balcony.
We had not had wifi for two days, and when I opened my email and skype I was shocked to find out that a good flying friend John Livsey, had passed away.  Terribly sad, and we later got ‘details’ from his best mate.  Not a flying accident, but so very sad.
John and I had flown around Australia last year, and Heather and I had befriended him.
He stayed at our place numerous Saturdays after coming up to Kyneton for a fly.
This was during a ‘rough spell’; which we thought he had recently overcome.  And Heather listened to all his problems, and offered counsel, as she is so adept at.
And now it is all over. And so bloody pointless.
We toasted him over a couple of Belgian beers and vin bianco respectively last evening.
Sad as that is, we have a holiday to get on with, and had a walk around this beautiful spot, right at the foot of the Alps.
Lake Maggiore is enormous, over 68Km in length, and the Swizz border runs across it some 35Km from where we are.
The people we might have visited near Bern, Switzerland are away; and everything in Switzerland was oh so expensive on our last visit.
So we will stay here an extra day now, regroup, and on Sunday head off towards the Mont Blanc tunnel and into France where all those silly bloody frogs live.
Give me wogs anyday!!  Viva Italia!!

18th May

Up early at our ‘moderno’ in Laveno, and had a nice breakfast downstairs with the other five people staying here.
A bit of serious electronic financial juggling was then required between Peter, Paul and Mary, to keep Alan and Heather in the black.
The ANZ need to be told that whilst their travel card is excellent and saves heaps on currency transfer fees, their web site is less than bloody useless.
Perhaps they also need reminding that we have an EEU these days, and only one currency needs to be loaded.
Even in all the Eastern European countries we have visited, the price is automatically converted from whatever their local ‘minglebars’ are, to Euros, give or take a couple of cents, without fees.
Impending travellers, look into this and just load the card with either GBP or E depending on the best exchange rate.
And if you load a travel card with a Credit card, it is considered a purchase!!  Thus you get a lot of Qantas FF points (in our case),  which can be transferred from those useless pricks to another airline’s points scheme.
Enough of all that!, from the worlds most useless financial advisor.
---------J.L.’s premature demise has vindicated my philosophy that life has to be lived to the full—let’s do it all and more, and stuff the bloody expense!!!
It is fine but overcast here and rain is expected by about 3pm. So we decided to take a ferry to Intra, across the lake from here, for their Saturday market.
Only a short crossing, and possibly mainly locals taking their cars over on the short ferry trip.
Great scenery on the way over—castles, mountains on all sides and the quaint small town of Intra with a bustling market.
Our only purchase was a coffee each, and Heather bought an umbrella for E3!
And it DID rain when we got back, right on three o’clock!!
And rained steadily for the rest of the day, but still quite mild.
Which didn’t prevent us walking down the street and getting a real wog pizza, and a not-so-wog but none the less very nice takeaway kebab, to polish off in our ‘moderno’
Note the 24 hour coin-in-the-slot pharmacy--I should have had one of these and I might have made a few quid from all the 'innocents' who were too embarrassed to come in and ask.  Note, at least the three top shelves are good 'ole 'wellness products'!!!

19th May
The rain continued all night and it was still pissing down while we were having our yoghurt, sliced meats, cheese, bread rolls and coffee for breakfast.
But Indigo Jones, our ‘moderno host’ assured us it would stop by 9am.
After leaving right on 9am we headed towards the autostrada to get a few Km up towards the alps and Monte Bianco, to drive under the mountains into France
And of course the smart arse was right again, by 9:15 the rain had stopped, the sun was out, and in the light Sunday traffic we were able to sit on 130Kph comfortably for almost 200 clicks.
By 11am we were driving through the beautiful val de Aosta, where we stayed for a couple of days in 2009.
Right at the foot of the Alps, in the North-West corner of Italy, about 40km from the St Bernard tunnel to Switzerland (last trip) or the Mont Blanc tunnel into France.
Almost at the latter, and on the Italian Monte Bianco side, we stopped for a breather (OK, a pee/smoke), to take it all in.
Surrounded by snow covered cliffs, with ribbons of water streaming down vertically from the melting snow, and the entrance to the 11.6km tunnel directly ahead.
And the peak of Monte Bianco, at 15,781 feet, way above its cloud shrouded base.
A couple of hang gliders were gently soaring the cool fresh air, high above the snow line.
The entrance is about one hundred metres inside the French border, so it is rightly called the Mont Blanc tunnel.
So we purchased our ‘pass’ from the frogs on duty and were careful to maintain sixty Km/h all the way through—the ‘50 minimum and 70 maximum’ are strictly enforced.
The tunnel exit is still some 6000 feet AMSL and we stopped again for some photos.
And then down for about 20Km and took the first exit to hunt for a base for the rest of the day and night.
We happened upon the Saint-Gervais area in the Chamonix region—a group of small and very pretty villages with numerous Swiss-type ski resorts.
But it seemed that nobody was home.
After getting hopelessly lost I chanced upon a couple of locals outside a café and managed to get the name of a hotel written on a scrap of paper—‘Les 2 Gares’ in le Fayet.
I fed this into Flossy, and she immediately took us to a closed road with no alternates.
After driving round hopelessly for half an hour with no success, I came across a THIRD resident of the region!
This old chap stared at my scrap of paper, scratched his head for a while, then proceeded to hop in the back seat of the ‘googly’ and direct me with sign language to les 2 gares.
I assumed it was just around the block, but after numerous turns and roundabouts, many of which seemed familiar, we drove on for over ten Km.
I kept thinking if he does take us to the pub, how in hell will I be able to drive him back to where we found him, and then get back to the pub without getting lost again.
At last we entered the small village of le Fayet which had three or four hotels, including the Les 2 Gares.
He hopped out very pleased with himself, and greeted two blokes he obviously knew with the usual kiss in each cheek!
I tried to explain that I would drive him back, but fortunately I think he intended visiting his mates here anyway, and had got a free ride.
And so there were now at least FIVE inhabitants of Saint-Gervais!
We booked in to this great place with the mountains hanging just outside the front, and profusely thanked the old chap and his mates for their help.
As most know, the frogs in general are reluctant to speak English, even though many can.
To overcome this impasse, I never ask ‘do you speak English?’, but rather say ‘I am from Australia, can you help?’
The results are often very positive.
They distinguish us from the ‘poms’ immediately. No offense intended, my good pommie friends have been Australians for over forty years!! (P&B)
After going through the kangaroo impersonation for a while, full of smiles, they go out of the way to help, even if there don’t speak ‘English’.
We had a great 3pm lunch in a nearby café, and back to out 3-star ‘Swiss ski resort’—E59, and it’s a real gem.
The streets were deserted by 4pm, perhaps they’ll all come out to play tomorrow!!







20th May


After breakfast and a bit of a wander around the village, we set Moulins in the GPS.
And were surprised that it is further away by far that Paris. Perhaps there is a Moulins in the Arctic somewhere. So I altered the setting to Nevers, home of the ancient oak forests, which produce the best, and most expensive wine barrels.
We started off on the toll roads to get through the alps without too much mountaineering, and again the roads seemed almost deserted.
No trucks, and few cars, and at 130km plus it was a breeze.
After 150Km and having descended to the Liore valley region, we left the toll road system and onto excellent secondary roads, and continued on through the beautiful French countryside.
In the Challone province, we headed off into some small villages through typical rural farming country, with those famous white beef cattle grazing happily in lush fields.
These pure white coated beef cattle are raised for their their high quality meat, sometimes crossed with Angus or Herreford stock.
The rain continued to piss down, and the forecast is for much of the same all this week in France.
We called into the small village of  Paray-le-Monial looking for a small hotel in the countryside.
After calling at four places, we came across a fine restaurant, and an English teacher dining there recommended a Hotel called le St Cyr at Montmerlard, some 20Km away.
We drove there on great rural roads, to find this superb hilltop spot was closed.
So in the pouring rain we retreated, only to find that there were many beautiful little accommodation places, but all were closed—nobody home!!!
No one had told us that is Whit Monday, a religious public holiday in France—not a good day for athiests to find somewhere to stay, or eat!!.
Back at Paray-le-Monial we chanced upon a small hotel—open, and booked in for the night.
Having not eaten since 7am,  I drove on for many Km trying to find some sort of ‘snack’.
The supermarket in a nearby larger town was closed, no cafes were open, and back at our little hotel we had to wait until 7pm till the dining room opened.
We are located beside the Canal du Centre, not far from  Macon on the Saone river, close to where we stayed in Tournous on our last trip here.
Hunger is great for the appetite, and at 7pm we joined many others in the dining room for a fabulous French meal, beside a warm wood-burning fireplace.
I had a dozen escagots for entrée, Heather had scallops on skewers, both with a fabulous sauce, followed by superbly cooked steak from those beautiful beef cattle, and a bottle of Macon wine.
A real treat, after a wet ad confusing day—a la Pentecostal Monday holiday!!!
We will both sleep well tonight, and bugger the weather!!!

21st May

Strange as it may seem, I must confess that I am unable to walk on water, let alone turn it into wine.
Or beer for that matter, without appropriate additions of malted barley, hops and yeast, plus a modicum of ancient alchemy.
Possibly due to the constraints of Newtonian physics, and my lack of any metaphysical powers, I have also been unable to alter the weather.
It has now rained incessantly for over two days, our spirits remain high but the fields of France are soaked, and it is not sightseeing weather.
From Paray-le-Monial we followed the broad Canal du Centre for some distance, past a few locks. The canals in France are much wider that those of the UK, as are their ‘bateaux’.
Always on the secondary roads which are excellent, and which pass through small villages and open countryside, without entering the bigger towns and cities.
We drove in consistent rain towards Moulins, where we pulled into a small side road in search of  something for breakfast.
At the only café open we had coffee, hot chocolate for me, and the only accompaniment available; fresh crusty bread, plonked on the bar with a container of butter and a knife.
Other locals were enjoying the same fare, and it was simple, warming and adequate.
The rain continued as I stopped to take photos of the tasty Charolais cattle whose friends we dined on last evening.
They too looked a bit despondent in the mud and rain soaked paddocks.
Then through avenues of giant plane trees and the ancient oak forests of Nevers, and left the main road near Cosne-Cours-sur Loire and ‘discovered’ the rather large town of Gien spread along either side of the river Loire.
The town was heavily bombed by the Luftwaffe during WW2 with much damage inflicted, but the main target, the historic bridge, remains intact.
We booked into a modern hotel in this ancient town, with a room overlooking the Liore and the castle formerly of Phillip 11.
A magic sight, if only the sun would come out for a while.
But it continued to drizzle all day.
All we wanted for lunch was a bowl of soup, and the chef in the adjoining restaurant obliged with a superb creation of creamy mushroom and prawn bisque, served of course with fresh crusty bread.
The lobby area of the pub had a quaint raised seating area with what looked like a lectern.
And so having missed the Whit Monday services, I took to the pulpit and delivered an impromptu ‘mass’.
It impressed no one as the lobby was deserted and the receptionist just scratched her head, bewildered.
The bar here didn’t seem to exist, nor were evening meals evident; so we walked in the rain to a real workers pub a few blocks away.
After a pint of REAL ale (Munchen I think), and a vin for Heather, we bought great take away pizza and smuggled it back to our room.
May the bloody sun shine tomorrow, for us to explore more of this area!

Wed 22nd May

I was up early in Gien and went for a bit of a tourist drive at 7am, before the towns peak hour rush.
The castle was severely damaged during the war also, and except the ancient tower, much has since been rebuilt.
The Loire river here is flowing rapidly, and is very broad; of course being one of the three major rivers of France.
Ancient wooden river boats still ply the river with cargo or in search of fish.
Just outside the town, the long railway bridge was damaged by war time bombing raids but has been restored, and Giens contribution to global warming is in full swing nearby.
Avenues of neatly pruned plane trees extend along the river banks for miles.
Heading towards Chartres, we followed the river through the village of Sully-sur-Loire and turned into the tiny hamlet of Dampierre-en Burly for breakfast at 9am.
Again, crusty chunks of fresh husband beaters with butter and jam also this time, and very strong coffee.
Close to Orleans the googly needed breakfast also, and we topped up with diesel at E1.37/l—the cheapest we’ve seen since Hungary.
At 12:30 we had covered 200Km and decided to leave the main roads and find a spot to settle in, and soak up some small village atmosphere.
By 1pm it was lunch o’clock and we turned into an impossibly narrow driveway to the tiny car park of a quaint French/Turkish restaurant at Acquigny, some 40Km south of Rouen in Normandy.
Perhaps it was something we ate, but all I can remember is that it must have been over lunch that I fell into a deep trance and dreamt vividly.
There was this discordant music in the background, and the aroma of chick peas rolled in cumin and bubbling cauldrons of meatballs with beans and peas and chicken and boiled potatoes sizzling in earthernware pots; was overwhelming.
I remember ordering the chicken, and when the brightly coloured rooster arrived with a knife and fork, I asked him to get some salt and pepper too. Fortunately, he never returned.
After lunch, this lady from the la Kasbah eating house beckoned us to follow and I did without question.
She would lead us to distant lands to where their would be accommodation, pre-arranged on an instrument she called a mobile phone.
Only five kilometres away, and I followed her in her black chariot without question, with the passenger beside me, whom I assumed to be my wife.
Five kilometres became six and then fifteen and we finally came to a huge sliding steel gate topped with ominous spikes, but with a narrow opening.
And we followed, and entered this strange land.
I drove on and on following the black chariot and we passed many strange houses where very poor people must live; so poor that they grow potatoes on the grass roofs or their houses.
There were brown rabbits running around everywhere and ravins following us, and the sky darkened.
At last we pulled up at a strange old and decrepit castle, and secret numbers were required to be pressed on the door to allow entry.
The only one present was Morticia with whom the lady from la Kasbah had spoken secretly on her electric machine.
They conversed in a strange language and then my partner embraced la Kasbah with a kiss on each cheek and she disappeared back through the menacing steel gates.
I awoke at this point, to discover that we were at the du Vaudreuil Golf ‘Hotel’, located in the midst of a huge golf complex where men and women of all ages were hitting small balls with sticks as far away from themselves as they could.
And they were paying dearly for that privilege.
Motricia took some details, gave us a key to a third floor room in the Adams Family home up an improbably steep staircase, told us about the secret numbers to enter the front door, and to re-enter the prison gates after 8pm if we desired.
And then locked the only semblance of a dining or lounge area, and vanished for the night.
A strange, strange place—the clubhouse which we were told was for hotel guests to eat also closed at 4pm, and I had left my bloody hat back at Aquigny!!
With nothing to eat, I escaped through the gates, bought a couple of ‘sandwiches’ and came back just before being trapped in the outside world!!!
What a strange day, and what a pity it’s all true too, but we will laugh about it when we escape in the morning.
And truly, NOTHING to drink!!

Thurs 23rd May

We rose early and were pleased to have survived the night.
The charges set to demolish this crumbling castle at midnight, had failed, probably due to a wet fuse.
It had of course, rained all night.
And the pitchfork above out ‘bathroom’ entrance had not been touched.
Morticia appeared right on seven am and we paid our dues; although I was expecting her to pay us.
But that’s just how it is in these strange places.
We were offered some breakfast which she has prepared, but as it would surely be laced with hemlock and laudanum, we politely refused.
In the rain we quickly escaped through the threatening gates and entered the real world again.
Just as the strange people who are obsessed with their little white balls were advancing en masse in their expensive motorcars.
Or walking to the vast lawn areas with their ball-hitting sticks, from their houses with the grass roofs and potato patches on top.
We both pinched ourselves, but alas, it had been real.
I am aware of obsessions some have with strange automobiles and flying machines and even I have been guilty of flirting with other gods.
But this bizarre pass-time is more than a harmless obsession. It is a cult with secret rituals and strange talking in tongues and the shouting of ‘four’ to all who encroach on their lawns and sandpits.
And I am told by persons of worldly knowledge that the winner of the contest is he or she who achieves the LOWEST score.
Very strange!
In the outside world we quickly found a tiny café to eat some breakfast, which would not be laced with poisons.
And then continued at great speed to retreat towards Calais.
The secondary roads in France however are excellent and the countryside beautiful.
Again in the rain, I called into the Aero Club De La Somme, but apart from a Robin doing circuits and a Chipmonk parked on the grass and a chopper practicing rescues, there was nobody home.
A great run into Calais and purchased a ticket for the ferry for tomorrow and booked into a nearby pub.
Into the land of the poms and Scotts and Welsh for five weeks, tomorrow.
Rule Britannia, God save the Queen and all that stuff.
And driving the googly on the right side of the road from the left side of the car should be fun!!

Frid 24th May

Our hotel in Calais was basic, pleasant and reasonably priced, with free wifi in all rooms.
Qualities not common near ports and airports, without spending way above our means.
The manager was helpful and spoke excellent English, but overlooked reminding me tomorrow is the start of a Bank Holiday weekend in Britain, AND the start of the mid-year school break until June 2nd.
This created a degree of urgency to find initial accommodation, as we had neglected to pack tents and sleeping bags.
It was up to Google and such sites as ‘Last minute beds’ and ‘Late rooms.com’ to come to the rescue.
We had decided to start our pub crawl up the East coast, of course avoiding London, having visited Her Majesty’s village last time.
Alas, every coastal place I googled, was fully booked.
The poms get quite adventurous when they have a holiday and even in appalling weather, head for the sea.
After much gnashing of teeth I finally found a room in the Victory at Mersea, Colchester and booked the last room.
Perhaps it was a cancelation, or just good luck as it seems a great place, on an ‘island’, right on the coast, about 90 miles from Dover.
With no haunted castle or electrified gates!
Getting a place in Dover itself was also a feat, finally booking a room in the Premier Inn close to the port.
Not very premier, except for the price.
We headed for the Calais port early and were able to drive onto the P&O ferry almost immediately, and the crossing was only about ninety minutes.
After lunch, we drove a couple of miles to the Battle of Britain memorial to fill in time until we could book in to the ‘Inn’.
And so tomorrow we will start our British adventure as we work our way up the East coast and into Scotland and then down through Wales.
And I am confident we won’t have to sleep in the car.

Sat 25th May
There are 51,380 pubs in Britain and so our task is quite a challenge.
So, an early start from Dover to get to the Victory of Mersea before closing time.
From Dover if was 116 miles, or 187 Km.
Flossy was a bit confused with the units, and displayed the speed limits in MPH, and the distance in Km.
So a bit of en route conversion was needed to avoid the local bobbies, who were out in force for the Bank Holiday weekend.
The route to Mersea took us VERY close to London city.
I guess we virtually passed Liz and Phil and Andrew and Kate and Charlie and Camilla, no doubt all with their ‘bathers’ on, for the beach.
It is close to seventeen degrees today, the sun is shining and it is possibly an late spring heatwave.
At one stage we passed the turn off to Maldon, and I was sure we had taken the wrong road.
The poms are funny buggers that way—they have named many of their towns after places in Australia—they also have a Taradale, a Malsbury, an Elphinstone, a Harcourt, and I’m sure they’ll have invented a Faraday too.
This bank holiday business is taken very seriously.
When we found the Victory at Mersea, it was crowded with lily white forms braving the harsh sun on the lawn area.
No problem with our accommodation booking, but we had to book for dinner too!—they must be expecting a big rush when the tide recedes.
For Mersea is an island, reached via a causeway.
We had been told that when the tide is in there could be up to a two hour wait to drive across.
We were lucky as the road was still wet, but the tide was out.
But hopefully it will not be out when I try my first cask ale at six o’clock—I haven’t had a drink since BEFORE we stayed at the Adams mansion!!

26th May

I tried a couple for real ales at the Victory of Mersea and they were from Scotland—possibly single malts??!!
Only the French onion soup for dinner, which was superb.
Plus platters of local breads and an olive oil and balsamic dip, which we didn’t order.
The poms speak a kind of Australian, but some things are still lost in the translation!
After a great sleep and a full English breakfast, it was time to establish a base for today, again in the middle of the Bank Holiday weekend and the school half-term break.
Last evening we met a bloke from Perth who lives here with his UK wife, and got a few clues on places to stay, but they would have involved back-tracking a bit.
By chance, I discovered an old pub (not that old really—established in 1545!!!!) with a vacancy for tonight.
Only 70Km further up the track in the tiny village of Cretingham, near Woodbridge, in Suffolk.
And what a real gem the ‘Cretingham Bell’ is.
About an hours drive from Mersea on decent roads, and then some 5Km up the narrowest of narrow English lanes.
Impossible to pass without pulling off into one of the occasional sidings for that purpose.
The ‘village’ of Cretingham consists of a dozen or so cottages, and the ‘Bell' which is the centre of community life.
Not just for a pint or two, but it is also the local restaurant, meeting place and village green.
The couple who own the place were very welcoming and run a great little typical village pub.  Hidden from the masses in a maze of tiny lanes.
Many came for lunch, mostly locals I guess as it is well off the beaten track.
In the afternoon, I went for a drive up more very narrow lanes, to find the airstrip at Monewden, while Heather enjoyed the ‘sunshine’ with a few of the friendly natives.
I found this private grass strip, formerly the Horizon Flying Club, just as a young chap and his girlfriend landed in a C150.
The only hangar there contains a Stearman, a Harvard and a Bonanza, all locked up and just visible through the cracks in the shed.
And during the day quite a number of warbirds flew over, on their way to or from the airshow at the Duxford museum, up the road a bit in Cambridgeshire.
After a couple of pints of Woodfords Nelson’s and scampi for tea, I watched the Monaco GP with publican Charles and his mate David, who at one time worked for the ‘MARCH’ F1 team in the US. Recorded earlier, to watch after the pub emptied.
Rosberg, Vettel, Weber, Hamilton.
The owners expect another busy day for lunch tomorrow, being the Bank Holiday Monday.
The weather has been beautiful and we could easily spend another day here.

27th May

Another beautiful sunny day in Cretingham and after breakfast we hung around for a while chatting to the couple who own/run the place.
It would be s shit of a job, 7am to 11pm everyday, from cooking and serving breakfasts, to kicking the last pisshead out at 11pm.
Only one other couple had stayed the night and they left early, so we listened to our hosts’ life stories over, and after breakfast.
Charles is a pretty handy chef and does all the cooking.
Sunday lunches are their busiest time and it is traditional for all the locals to down a few pints and have their weekly outing for a full roast dinner.
Usually pork and beef, with roast spuds, peas, gravy and of course Yorkshire pudding, even though it is not Yorkshire.
Sarah is stuck with all the blowflies in the bar all day while Charles is in the kitchen.
And she is quite a handy artist, painting local scenes in watercolours in her ‘spare time’.
They don’t get much of that, and we heard all the whinging and bitching about owing and running a pub.
Of the 51,380 pubs in England (2012) apparently some thirteen close each month, so my challenge of a pint in each one is becoming more achievable.
We left about 11am heading up through Norwich and into Norfolk, this time winging it again without anything booked, as it is the Bank Holiday Monday.
Every place I looked at on the www was booked out.
We drove off, along and beside the Norfolk Broads, and it seemed every pom was heading there for the ‘holiday’.
Beautiful weather, but we got stuck in a traffic jam for an hour to cross a tiny narrow bridge.
And most of the holiday makers will probably get there just as they have to head back to work tomorrow.
Through some lovely Norfolk countryside, and purely by chance, came across the Kings Head pub in East Dereham, some 15 miles west of Norwich in Norfolk.
It was a bit of a blood house but they had plenty of accommodation, so we propped there.
It is a pretty tired pub, with a new owner who is a real pain in the arse.  I doubt if he will still be there at Xmas.
Our downstairs room out the back was clean and small, and no wifi except in the pub.
The owner gave me the wifi code and then went ‘home’, wherever that is.
No wifi as he had given me the wrong password, even though it included his own initials, what a dickhead.
Hence, these notes are now a day behind.
There was nothing inspirational to write about anyway, so no real loss.

Tues 28th May

A good full English breakfast at the Kings Head, during which the girl in charge gave us the corrected wifi code, and I spend some time looking for an interesting destination.
We have decided to go a bit upmarket for one day, to make up for the rather down and out town of East Dereham.
I discovered the Washingborough Hall hotel and restaurant, only four miles from the big town of Lincoln, which is on the route up to York where we will meet a bloke I knew from back home many years ago, and join him on his house boat for a trip up the river Ouse to York itself.
They have ONE room left at Washingborough Hall for tonight, and so without taking our usual changes on finding a gem, I booked it online.
This is a grand 250 year old mansion, up a curving treed driveway, very flash and not cheap.
Shorts and a tee short may even challenge the dress code of the place for dinner and diminish the ambience for others!!
So be it.  It looks a bit like the place out of the TV series ‘Monarch of the Glen’
Lincolnshire is in general a very flat area with numerous open fields of rich soil, producing much of the countries wheat, canola and other cereal crops.
There are also a couple of serious RAF bases nearby—RAF Digby and RAF Waddington which is very close to here.
We heard Hornets, MQ9-Reapers and RC-135 Air Seeker aircraft doing their tricks during the afternoon.
The bombing range of RAF Wainfleet is also in Lincolnshire, but we feel pretty safe.
We were here by about lunchtime and had beautiful cream of cauliflower soup with truffle oil ‘dressing’ for lunch.
I have strained a finger on my right hand, so typing is a bit difficult.
Off to the local pharmacy, which had closed for lunch, so bought some ‘drugs’ from the supermarket for the pain.
If it’s not cured by the morning, back to the pharmacy to ‘con’ some stronger anti-inflammatory tablets.
The funeral today for our friend who died ten days ago, so we had a small wake in his honour  after dinner.

Wed 29th May
After last night at the Washingborough Hall, we decided breakfast might be a bit over the top!!
But we had had a beautiful meal, and the bank hasn’t caught up with us yet.
For starters, Heather had pressed pork hock terrine with fresh asparagus and a poached duck egg, I had tomato soup, definitely not out of a can!!
We both followed with chicken breast stuffed with pumpkin squash and spinach, tightly wrapped in a thin ‘skin’ of something like proscuito, and cut transversely.
Superbly cooked and presented, with crusted mashed potato, and greens.
As the poms can’t cook, they probably had a frog chef in for the night.
The wines started at $45 a bottle and then the prices became stratospheric, but a couple of double scotches as an aperitif, was sufficient.
We left at 8:30, heading for York, only about 95Km away, again on secondary roads, to enjoy the countryside and avoid the trucks on the motorways.
At about 9:30 we joined the truckies however, at a roadside ‘all day breakfast’ place.
A great full English breakfast, for 4GBP each.
Full English breakfasts are comprehensive, identical everywhere and usually provide enough calories and lipids for a month, so can usually keep us going till a light dinner at night.
Sausages, eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomato, baked beans and toast.
Followed by the daily cholesterol lowering tablet.
It has rained all day, yet we were surprised at the uncongested roads as we approached within 4Km of York, to the lanes leading to the York Marina where Bernie and Sue have their house barge moored.
This is a pretty good home on the water, in a beautiful setting.
The boat is some sixty feet long and wider than the canal narrow boats.
With all the mod cons and separate lounge with pot belly stove, fully equipped kitchen, bedroom, laundry and bathroom.
It is driven from the blunt end by a diesel Isusu motor, and only uses 2 litres an hour at a pleasant four knots.
And with a sundeck out the pointy end for whenever it doesn’t rain.
Bernie booked us into the Black Bull Inn a few Km away, but we may move into their ‘local’ near the marina tomorrow.
Probably into the historic walled town of York on the bus tomorrow, as they both will be working.
And we will have a trip up the Ouse river on their boat the ‘Green Finch’ over the weekend.

Thurs 30th May
The Black Bull Inn is a very family oriented pub, in the small village of Escrick, just on the outskirts of York.
Run by Geoff Boycott and his wife.
Actually, a much younger version of Geoffrey, but with that great Yorkshire drawl I love.
They are both very friendly, and haven’t rubbed too much salt in about the current Aussie Test team.
The locals stream in for a meal and a couple of pints, and like most pommy pubs no one gets off their face.
A pot of real ale at cellar temperature can be enjoyed over half an hour or so—it starts off flat so doesn’t need to be tossed down like our tap beer at home.
I am becoming a ‘real ale’ aficionado; it suits the climate, is part of the lifestyle, and doesn’t build up enough gas to blast the false teeth out when you burp!
And the variety is immense and many are unique to each particular ‘free house’ pub.
It poured raining all night and in the morning there was a lot of water on the roadsides.
We decided on a full day in the historic town of York.
Drove to what they call a ‘park and drive’, and caught the bus into the centre of the walled city.
And then it is all on foot with no cars allowed in the city centre.
A fabulous historic town steeped in history.
Founded in 71 ACE, but there is archaeological evidence of Mesolithic settlement in the area between 8000 and 7000BCE. (Google 101, 2013)
Many early buildings are intact, as is much of the city wall, which stretch for miles.
We visited Minster, St Marys church, and climbed the ancient steps to the top of Cliffords Tower, part of the original York Castle.
A great town for a walking tour of the historic centre including the Manor House of the Lord Mayor, the Shambles, Viking centre, Museum and bridge over the river Ouse.
Regarded as the second most visited city of England, it is packed with tourists all year round, even on a cool misty and overcast day like today.
After a full day walking this fascinating place, we got the bus back to the ‘park and drive’, and then drove the ‘googly’ back to the Black Bull Inn for another night.
My hooves need a trim and the finger is still a bit sore, so I’ll make an appointment with James Harriot and Tristen in the morning!!

31st May
After a late breakfast at the Black Bull Inn, I spent some time in their extensive library of classics and historical works on Great Britain.
And York in particular; a bit of local research could serve us well in this area.
We said our fond farewells to Geoffrey Boycott, and drove the four or five Km to the Blacksmiths Arms In Naburn, Bernie and Sues ‘local’.
Right on the river bank and almost adjacent to the York Marina.
We have booked in here to the only cottage attached to the pub, self catering.
With a ‘welcome breakfast basket’ of eggs, fresh bread, milk, chocolate and a bottle of sparkling wine.
Our stay here is for Friday and Saturday.
Still nursing my sore finger I decided not to drive much today, and as James and Tristen have no surgery hours on Fridays, we settled into this quaint cottage for a rest.
For lunch in the pub I had the broccoli and blue cheese soup, unusual but delicious.
Mid-afternoon I checked my email and there was a brief note from a certain Peter McC of Faraday, mentioning an aircraft museum just up the road a bit.
This disrupted my afternoon rest, so I quickly checked their web site and the opening hours are 10am to 5pm daily.
It was now 3pm and the museum is located on an airfield 16Km away, at Elvington, Yorkshire, close to York.
I sprinted off in the googly and was there by 3:20pm.
The ‘old flyer’ on the gate let me in for half price and tossed in a free Guide Book to boot, as it was getting late and ‘they usually start packing up at 4:30pm’.
The first outside exhibit was a Spitfire ‘replica’. A pity, not a REAL one.
Twenty two thousand Spitties were built, yet there are only a handful left worldwide.
Of course many were lost in training and combat, but many thousands more were scrapped after the war.
An unforgivable lack of foresight.
Major exhibits include the massive Halifax bomber in the Canadian Memorial Hangar, an Avro Anson, Douglas Dakota, Hawker Hurricane, Canberra bomber and De Havilland Mosquito; all in flying condition.
The Mosquito airframe is made mainly of wood; with twin 12 cylinder Rolls Royce Merlin engines.
Our own 92 Y/O member at YKTN, Col Griffin, flew the Mosquito for the RAF during the war.
And he reckons it’s much better to fly, and superior to a Spitfire!!
Many buildings hold special displays including uniforms, library, air gunners display, French officers mess, and even a chapel.
Many large aircraft in the open desperately need hangarage.
Even though it was late in the day, I certainly got my 3GBP worth.
Back at our cottage we met Bernie and Sue again, and had dinner with them in the pub.

1st June

Last night I had a local speciality for dinner—battered Spam with mushy peas.
Yes, real genuine Spam out of a tin, sliced thickly and done in a light beer batter.
None of that cheap imitation stuff!!
Loaded with salt, nitrites and sulphites and totally devoid of any gastronomic or nutritional value.
And the same menu price as beautiful fresh cod, which we have had for dinner, twice.
It’s quite a popular pub meal in York, so again—when in Rome…
We slept in at our little cottage this morning, perhaps Spam is a good sedative; it certainly induces a healthy thirst!
And cooked breakfast ourselves, a break from the usual Full English!!
The start of the British summer today and its about 12 degrees at midday.
However, the weather was superb yesterday, so we can’t be greedy.
We are just resting today before tackling the track up towards Scotland tomorrow.
We WILL call in at the ‘World of James Herriot’  centre tomorrow morning, only a few miles from here at Thirsk in North Yorkshire, and possibly at Whitby, which is also on the way north.
Bernie and Sue called over for a farewell drink, and we thanked them for looking after us.

2nd June

Off on the way through Herriot country to Thirsk, in North Yorkshire, only about 35 miles north of Naburn.
The countryside of the Yorkshire dales is as majestic as depicted in the ‘All Creatures’ story.
Except that we almost bowled over a kangaroo on the way to ‘Darrowby’.
The village of Thirsk  is so typical of small Yorkshire villages, and the Herriot heritage museum is a very fitting memorial to that great vet and author.
This is the actual surgery where vet Afl Wight aka James Herriot (author) practiced for years.
And the church just down the street is where he married his wife, and is the one seen in the series.
Alf adopted the nom de plume James Herriot to avoid his books being construed as professional advertising.
Much of the surgery remains as it was when Alf, ‘Siegfried’ and ‘Tristan’ practiced here at Skeldale House in the 1940’s.
The dispensary, a wide display of surgical devices of the day, the office and living areas as they were in the films.
The 1937Austin Seven used in the series has been restored, and at the rear of the building in a darkened ‘Yorkshire barn’ a fifteen minute film is shown, featuring the actors from the series, and excerpts from a talk show interviewing Alf himself.
He was an extraordinary man, both as a country vet and author.
And he must have been a good bloke as he also trained as a pilot during the war!
After a couple of hours at Darrowby we headed north planning to bypass Newcastle, but Flossy took us right through the centre!!
Just north of there, we called in at the very busy Ridley Arms in Morpeth, Northumberland for lunch.
It was packed with hundreds out for the traditional Sunday roast, but we settled for a great bowl of soup each.
Our destination for the day was Berwick on Tweed, a fascinating old town with a massive ancient bridge over the mouth or the river Tweed.
We found the small quiet pub, the Cats Inn and booked for the night.
Very friendly hosts who have only taken over five weeks ago.
George, 52 y/o  still races fast historic motorbikes in circuit racing.
Lara his wife, befriended Heather and was very welcoming.
There were only a few in the bar when we arrived, and an old bloke with a broad Scottish accent noticed we were Australian and wondered why we were driving a car with French plates.
I explained, and then said ‘with an accent like that, you would have to be Italian wouldn’t you?’  ‘Aye lad, have lived up road all me life’
I think something was lost in the translation!!
I had to try a pint of ‘The Village Bike’ before bed—why not!!

3rd June

Berwick was only 5 minutes south of the Scottish border, and of course we had to stop and take a picture.
And then on to Dundee, and the beginning of a difficult search for anywhere to stay.
We arrived at midday, and called at several nice hotels, but all booked out.
We tried many more, without luck.
Could my non-booking policy be letting us down?
Eventually, at a nice pub which of course was fully booked, the lady proprietor called a friend nearby with a B & B.
And we were lucky to get an ensuite at Cameron House, in the very busy centre of Broughty Ferry, the old fishing village centre of Dundee.
It was quite adequate except for the steep stairs and the fast rail almost at the back door!!
We skyped Ceara Collins, Terrys’ daughter who we hoped to visit in Aberdeen tomorrow, and then tried to find accommodation.
I searched over fifty hotels in Aberdeen, ALL booked out!!!
A glitch in my system??
It took most of the afternoon to search for a place to stay, and we finally got about the last bed in the Premier Inn, right in the centre of the city.
So we will meet up with Ceara and Nathan for dinner and a Scotch or two, tomorrow night.
We walked round this historic town, and had tea at the busy pub, The Anchor, then back to our B & B.

Tues 4th June

We are so far north now that it is daylight at 3:45am and doesn’t get dark at night until 9:45PM.
The Scots living north of Edinburgh need to take great care not to overdose on Vitamin D.
And the sun shone again for most of the day as we headed to Aberdeen on the A90.
Our pub is right in the centre of town, and with limited hotel parking we wanted to get there early and get into their off-street garage.
This we did with ease, and Flossy took us right to the place before the lunchtime rush.
Aberdeen is a bustling old city loaded with gothic architecture, almost all buildings are granite which glitters when the sun shines and when it rains.
Accommodation is plentiful with many expensive hotels which are always full.
Workers and managers of the many North Sea oil rigs fly in and out by chopper with their big pay packets, and hotel prices have skyrocketed.
We walked the beat for a while admiring the many structures with intricate spires and towers of granite, and then rested during the afternoon.
Ceara Collins and Nathan met us at 5pm; it was great to catch up with her again and to meet Nathan.
We had a great night out together for dinner at the  Archibold Simpson, a great pub serving good meals and a wide range of single malts and ales.
We all had Aberdeen Angus steaks of course, which were superb. In later years my father changed from dairying to Angus stud cattle, and after all, this is the home of the famous breed.
At 9:30pm we all came back to our hotel room and Skyped Terry, Cearas dad back at Faraday.
We got him out of bed at about 6:30am back home and all had a long video chat with him.
Plenty of rain back home so the tanks are full, caught up with the local Faraday news, and it was great for Ceara to see and talk to her dad.
Tomorrow we head off west to Loch Ness, to solve that mystery once and for all!!
And are booked into the Loch Ness Inn at Drumnadrochit, from where my mothers ancestors stole their loaf of bread a few generations ago.

5th June

Well, we have survived the ‘Cullen Skink with White Bloomer’, consumed for lunch yesterday!!
The WHAT???...
….I wasn’t able to check until this morning, but it tasted superb, and looked quite innocuous.
Cullen Skink is a traditional North Eastern Scottish broth made with potatoes, onion and smoked haddock.
And White Bloomer is a local ‘heavy’ bread, which when  cut into croutons and toasted, is floated in the soup. (Google 201)
Another unique challenge, and quite delicious.
We left Aberdeen at 9am, missing the peak hour rush.
On the A96 for a few miles and then on to good secondary roads, just like country Victoria.
No complaints from Flossy OR her assistant, and we all enjoyed this pleasant scenic drive.
We pulled into a roadside spot in the farming area of Pitcaple, to a novel roadhouse for breakfast.
Located in a ‘dead bus’ firmly set into the ground, the ‘Pit Stop’ was doing a roaring trade.
Fitted out with a kitchen up one end and table seating along the length of the bus.
‘The Breakfast’ was very popular and the menu quite extensive.
The ‘bus’ windows were fogged over with steam from the ‘kitchen’ and sheep grazing in the adjacent paddock were unperturbed.
The proprietor entertained some regulars in broken Gaelic with brilliant expletives which echoed throughout the establishment. What a scream!
Really quite amusing, and I had to chuckle at the hose from her four wheel drive parked beside the place, supplying the gas cooker in the bus!!
After breakfast we continued along the ‘whiskey trail’ of the ‘Northern Glen’ country.
Through Huntly, Elgin and Nairn, then over the river Ness bridge at Inverness and down the west side of the Loch.
A brief diversion to the Inverness airport, but nothing much of interest here for a ‘weekend warrior’.
We arrived at the very pretty village of Lewiston Nr Drumnadrochit, and checked in to the Loch Ness Inn.
This is at the widest section of the Loch, and I am confident I can solve that long standing mystery in the morning.
There is much more to see here including the Urquhart Castle and the Loch Ness Centre, before we head down past Fort William to ‘Campbell country’ and the Kilchurn Castle in Argyll.
And I have a couple of very ‘smokey’ and ‘peaty’ single malts to sip before I settle for the night.
The range is immense, and life is too short to drink cheap whiskey.
Just ask a Scotsman!!

6th June

Another beautiful, warm and sunny day in the Highlands.
Which aren’t ‘high’ at all in altitude, but certainly in latitude.
Ben Nevis, at the heady height of 4,409 feet is just above ‘circuit joining height’ for YKTN, and a big higher that Macedon or Alexander.
But then, there are grown men here, who wear colourful skirts!
In public!!!
With ‘coin-purses’ dangling at the front!!
And they regard the noise emitted from giant leather bags tucked under the armpits, as music!!
Oh Dear----
Things are a bit different here.
The ‘high’ in Highlands probably refers to a state of  euphoric bliss, which still exists, and is contagious.
A state that long preceded the invention of the motorcar, or the dreaded breathalyser.
Since the beginning of time ‘Brewing was vital—from breakfast to supper, everyone drank ale, even children.’ (Stadtbibliothek, Nurnberg, date unknown)
And things became even hazier with the discovery of the still!!
After all, many of them are convinced there is some giant serpent that has lived in the water here for over five hundred years!!
More of that later.
Just when we thought we were ‘castled out’ from tripping round Europe, we discovered Urquhart Castle, right here on Loch Ness.
Castles are everywhere on our journey, and after a while they become monotonous clones of each other, many both physically and historically re-invented.
Urquhart Castle has nothing of that!
Following centuries of plunder and attack from the hated English, and conflicts with the MacDonalds, in 1692 it was partially ‘blown up’ by the Clan Grant owners, to prevent its use by the invading Jacobites.
What remains has been tastefully maintained rather than restored, becoming one of the most visited sites of Scotland.
It clings to the edge of the loch, and with a moat and drawbridge, would have been difficult to assault by land or water.
(Mr Google has much of the story.)
The visitor entry is on the side of an adjacent hill, with access via a downstairs ‘lobby’ which opens through the inevitable souvenir and refreshment area, onto a viewing platform, with spectacular views over Loch Ness.
Prior to viewing the castle itself, a short film is shown of its history.
From a mediaeval fortress on the site, to the present castle, and its partial demise.
Very professionally done with actors in full battle costume, and realistic action.
Shown in a large semi-circular, totally darkened theatre.
All are asked not to stand until the film ends and the lights come on.
And the ending is dramatic!
As the gatehouse to the castle is destroyed by kegs of gunpowder, set by the departing Grants, the screen erupts into a fiery and deafening inferno.
At that moment, the lights come on, the screen disappears and the dark curtains are retracted to reveal the castle in its entirety, just beyond the vast glass windows, in brilliant sunshine, right on the loch!!
The audience is quite awe struck!
Very impressive, and more than a little moving!!
After climbing all over the castle, we both came back and watched the film again—it was soooo good!!
And refreshments in the souvenir area, and prices of all things Scottish, were quite reasonable.
An uplifting change, after similar attractions.
We are staying here a further two nights as there is much more to do and see, including the dreaded Loch Ness centre attraction, and solving the mystery itself!!
Aye, yer gotta love the Scottish!!!

7th June

Our first call today was at the Loch Ness Centre, less than a mile up the way in Drumnadochit.
In a grand 18th century homestead, beside and attached to the Drumnadochit Hotel.
Inside, this stately old building has been gutted and refurnished like something from Luna Park.
Visitors stream in through the grand entrance, pay their seven quid, and then in groups of about twenty, are drafted like sheep into a darkened cavern with imitation rock walls.
A strange narrative, with clips of film shown on the walls follows, as all proceed from one papier-mâché cave to the next.
The narrative continues with images of early sightings of strange ripples, waves, logs of wood, fish, and birds in flight against the glassy water.
Then more recent follies of the ‘70’s including submarine descents and high powered sonar.
All of which have found nothing unusual.
But have led to the discovery of John Cobbs’ speedboat which crashed at 209MPH in 1952, killing him instantly.
And the wreckage of a Wellington bomber, which crashed into the depths during the war.
And of course several largish sturgeon, and an area of the loch where large bubbles of methane gas rise to the surface from rotting organic matter far below.
Or perhaps merely the quiet farts of some wayward seal, lost in the loch.
But alas, no evidence of a monster.
Isn’t it fascinating that none of the sightings, none of the blurred photos and none of the blatant hoaxes, originated from here!!
For there is no Loch Ness Monster, yet the pulling power of this myth is immense.
We all have childhood beliefs, torn away at an early age.
How could there be no Santa, no tooth fairy?
They are soon replaced by giants that live up bean stalks or bunyips or similar creatures.
Our adult myths, mysteries and beliefs are often more bizarre.
All part of the great unknown.
By ten years of age, all ‘wee Scots’ have had a whiff of whisky, the universal panacea for cuts and scratches.
And no doubt burned their tender lips on the ‘ole mans bottle too!
As adults, this golden liquid becomes part of life itself.
The angels take their modest drop, and leave the rest for all to share.
Scottish pride would never admit to overindulgence, or a state of altered consciousness.
They know of course their cousins across the water DO have leprechauns and make and drink fiery liquids.
And occasionally imbibe to excess.
Deep in the Scottish psyche, the soothing property of their precious liquid is long established.
Life’s crises, challenges, conquests, and disappointments are all bathed in the mellow glow of this mysterious remedy.
It requires no innate logic, no justification, just the mystery of life itself.
A glint of sunshine on a bottle resting in the shallows of the loch, just beyond the reach of hand, is a mystic sight, more by far than a lingering mystery----
----It didn’t get dark till twenty to eleven last night, and it was light again at a quarter to three in the morning.
With so many hours of daylight to while away, you’d have to spend some time sippin a wee drachm, now and then!
It will be difficult to leave this area where a sip of eighteen year old Bowmore, Islay, Cragganmore or Glen Elgin won’t burn a hole in the pocket!!
I’ve found no evidence of my mothers’ bread stealing ancestors here yet.
Even the local servo proprietor has never heard of Achnahannet, not far south of here, where they could have been from.
The old cemetery in Drumnadrochit is full of MacDonalds, Grants (I guess associated with the Castle) a couple of Urquharts and one or two Frasers.
Perhaps we may come across that place as we drive south through Fort William and into Campbell country tomorrow.
It is brilliant that Gaelic has been re-introduced into the school curriculum; and all the signposts are marked in that way, with that ‘other language’ underneath!!
Yes, we do love Scotland!!

8th June

First light was 2:45 at Drumnadochit, but we didn’t surface till 8.
Another beautiful, sunny day in the Scottish Highlands.
At 9:30 we left our great little Loch Ness Inn at Lewiston and headed down the west coast of the loch to Fort Augustus.
And I found Achnahannet after all, a few miles south of Drumnadochit!!
Blink and you’d miss it, as I almost did.
Up a steep narrow gravel track to a couple of old cottages perched high above the loch.
A very secluded and lonely spot, alas, it should have been a perfect place to hide a stolen loaf!!
We drove across the Caledonian Canal, along the west coast of Loch Oich, and through the town of Invergarry.
A superb drive along an ever curving trail, a bit like our Great Ocean Road.
A bikies paradise, and the googly revelled in it too.
Long sweeping avenues of tall trees with dappled sunlight, tight corners close to the lock, and lush fields with sheep grazing on the hillsides.
Over a swing bridge and hence down the east side of Loch Lochy, then back west to Fort William, on the banks of Loch Linnhe.
Past that 4009 foot giant Ben Nevis, still with a sprinkling of melting show on the peak, through Glencoe to Inveraray on the edge of Loch Fyne.
A continuous swathe of lochs and rivers almost cuts a slice through Scotland from the North East to the South West.
Magnificent scenery, we love it!!
And so here we are at the Argyll Hotel, with views over the loch and within walking distance of Inveraray Castle, the seat of the Campbell Clan, now home to the  5th Duke of Argyll.
A very pretty spot, surrounded by hills and overlooking the tidal loch.
We will explore the Argyll of the Campbells in the morning.

9th June

Yesterdays’ ramblings didn’t happen till this morning due to a serious incursion into my (air)space in the lounge.
Just sat down and opened the ‘puter, and was joined by a local Scotsman and his wife.
Martin and Sharon MacCrae had just returned from a sixteen mile walk and had worked up a lust for a drop.
Guess they assumed I wasn’t a local—the shorts and Blundstones give it away every time!
Many questions about why I was in Scotland, and then Martin insisted he propose a toast.
He returned from the bar with two double Dalwhinnies and plonked one in front of me.
Eighteen year old single malt Dalwhinnie!!
After a lecture on single malts and how you NEVER add ice, only half a teaspoonful of water, he recited the following:
‘I take this glass unto my hand
and drink to all that’s here.
What’s come to pass and may come to pass
in the coming years.
Some may be wed, some may be dead,
some may be lying low
on a foreign shore,
not knowing which way to go.
If life was a thing that money could buy,
the rich would live and the poor would die.
But god in his wisdom has made it so,
that the rich and the poor together must go.
And so must this,
 Slaite-mhath!!’
(pronounced slengeva)
At the cry of Slaite-mhath, glasses are clinked and a gentle sip of the golden drop is rolled into the mouth.
The trickle of water releases all the flavours and aromatics.
More serious than a wine wanker at a cup of Penfolds Grange!
They take single malts seriously!!
The first sip makes the eyes water, and after that it caresses the senses into gentle oblivion.
Slengeva indeed!!
Through the misty haze, it was soon my turn to ‘shout’ and I proudly placed a twenty quid note on the bar and ordered two double Dalwhinnies.
‘That’ll be twenty two pounds fifty, thankyou sir’, so it was out with the Travel Card!!
The two of them certainly have something to celebrate.
Martin needs a kidney after renal failure caused by some bug in the Amazon.
He has been haemodialyzing himself for two hours a day for just on twelve months.
Finally a recent law change in Scotland allows a healthy and willing spouse to donate one kidney to an unknown recipient, in exchange for the other partner receiving a kidney from a willing living donor, in similar circumstances.
No cadaveric kidneys required, a very progressive change of law.
They will both have surgery on 3rd July, Sharon donating a healthy kidney and Martin receiving a healthy, tissue matched one from a live donor.
So what about drinking whisky??—‘No problem, I can’t drink beer because of the fluid retention, and am careful what I can and can’t eat’.
We finished that double too, and he insisted on another!!
By this time we were great mates, it was ten to midnight and I got a Skype call from a mate back home, and we all joined in for a video call!! (C.Mc)
I crept into bed at ten past midnight, slept like a log, and as promised by Martin, no hangover whatsoever!!
------After breakfast this morning, we were the first visitors to Inveraray Castle, right on 10am.
Just before the bus loads arrived.
What a magnificent place.
Surrounded by acres of formal gardens, with natural woodlands up the long driveway.
The Castle is the ‘home’ of the 13th Duke and Dutchess of Inveraray---a Sir Ian Campbell and his misses, and their young kids!!
Many rooms are of course closed to the public, after all the Duke and family need a couple of hundred for themselves and guests.
The treasures on display are priceless.
Heather of course loved the place, and even signed the guest book with her birth name of Campbell.
I don’t think they would have had much to with the bloodthirsty Elliots, Armstrongs and Scots.
Our border rievers were a murderous mob, always ready to protect their lands from that uncouth lot down south.
We will visit their domains for a day or so, from tomorrow.
In the meantime, the Canadian F1 Grand Prix is on today and I can watch it here in Inveraray, from 6:15pm local time.
Possibly over another Dalwhinnie or two.
Without ice, of course!!

10th June

And so it was Vettel, Alonso, and Hamilton in Montreal.
The telecast in the bar had to compete with the serenade of the bagpipes outside.
After centuries you’d think they could make ‘em understand semitones—they could possibly almost sound musical.
Each to his own.
The drive around the highland lochs was superb. Very little traffic, excellent yet narrow roads and more special Scottish scenery.
Around loch Fyne, along ‘the banks of Loch Lomond’, through Balloch and Dumbarton, and onto the M8 through Paisley, and past the Glasgow airport.
Flossy almost got me lost and into Glasgow, but after a few roundabouts and minor corrections we were back on the motorway.
A busy road past Douglas, and then onto minor roads through Moffat and into Dumphryshire.
The sign to Lockerbie drew us off the main road to this small village where Pan Am flight 103 exploded 31,000 feet above, in 1988.
We found the memorial gardens located in a quiet spot at the rear of the Dryfesdale cemetery.
A quiet and beautifully serene place to pause for a moment and remember that horrific disaster.
From the brochure in the memorial centre---
‘Just after 7pm on 21st December, 1988 the unthinkable happened. The Pan Am Boeing 747 airliner “Maid of the Seas”, on its way from London Heathrow to New York Kennedy airport, suffered an explosion at 31,000 feet over Lockerbie. All on board, 243 passengers and 16 crew members were killed, together with 11 residents of Lockerbie. Five residents required hospital treatment for injuries, 2 of them for long periods.’
That bastard Gaddafi who ordered the bombing, was ‘eliminated’ in 2011.
But in a terrible twist of justice, the ‘towel head' responsible for planting the bomb, has been released.
The shit was convicted to serve a life sentence in gaol in Glasgow, but is now a freed man.
Generally regarded as a sick US ‘deal’, in exchange for continued access to Libyan oil!!!
And Pan Am, for fifty years the symbol of American aviation, has gone to the wall, largely as a result of the disaster.
Only the yanks!!
We left the memorial with heavy hearts, and in need of a couple of tissues.
That horrific disaster occurred just ten days before Heather and I were married!!
We then drove on to the border area of Scotland, where those bloodthirsty Elliots originated.
We have booked into the Grapes Hotel in Newcastletown, Liddesdale.
We stayed here in 2009, but will explore in more detail tomorrow.

11th June

The  lady volunteer at the Liddesdale Heritage centre, where the Elliot mob are the main topic, confessed that she was not an Elliot herself, but a Fawkes.
A distant relation to Guy of the failed gunpower plot, of 5th November 1605.
She quickly added that Fawkes was her married name; there aren’t many of them in Scotland and she is not a Holy Roman.
Not that the Scots would care if the House of Lords had been blown up, I guess.
I went for a drive around some of the border villages, haunts of the barbarous Elliots.
Hermitage Castle, where they held court for a while between raids, along with the Armstrongs, Douglas’s and Scotts
And at one stage even sheltered the injured Mary Queen of Scots along with her lover, Lord Bothwell.
Then on to Hawick, pronounced ‘Hoik’ and to Denholm slightly south.
Past ancient peel towers, many in disrepair.
Then to the nearby village of Minto, seat of the present 7th Earl of Minto, Lord Timothy Elliot-Murray-Kynynmould.
Bugger me, the scots also copy place names, they obviously stole this one from us!!
A friendly lady in the village explained that the House of Minto had been destroyed, apparently following a bitter dispute with the 6th Earl’s former wife.
Seems the roof was ‘removed in’ some vain effort to claim insurance monies, and a financial quagmire followed.
Later, the place was demolished!
There were of course, no winners.
The present Earl has his ‘home’ in Minto, and I drove up the long drive to this rather large mansion.
‘Tim’ wasn’t home, but a friendly neighbour gave me his email address, so I may contact him for a loan.
All of the former Earls rest in the churchyard at Minto.
What this has to do with our genealogy is of little significance.
Our ancestors who migrated to Australia may have been from other areas of the borders, or even the highlands.
Some known, some not.
But since the dim ages, this ancient poem has in general applied:
‘Double L and single T
Elliots of Minto and Wolflee,
Double T and single L
Eliotts they in Stobs do dwell.
Single L and single T
The Eliots of St Germains be,
But double L and double T,
The dev’l may ken wha they may be’.
I visited Lady Margaret Elliot(t) at Redheaugh, present Chief of the Elliot Clan, just a few clicks up the road.
Visited the Clan Room, and bought an Elliot sweater and a map of the early Elliot border territories, including all the above.
And as she noted, with regard to the spelling, “most of them never learned to read or write, let alone spell their own names”!!

12th June

Breakfast at the Grapes Hotel included Elliot black pudding, and they also have Elliot haggis on the dinner menu.
The butcher round the corner is also an Elliot (3rd generation), and a Mrs Elliot runs the local corner store.
Why name a Scottish pub the Grapes, when there’s no sign of a vineyard anywhere in Scotland?
Possibly sometime before the last Ice age the Borders would have been a tropical region, which cooled to temperate.
Maybe.
However, the Grapes is a  ‘listed’ building, built in 1790, and retains its original name.
It was not very tropical this morning, in fact is has rained on and off all day.
After leaving Newcastletown, we said farewell to the Borders and Scotland within the first 30Km, and headed back into the land of marmalade and jam.
Through Carlisle and onto the M6 motorway, heading south.
In pouring rain conditions, we find the best way to drive is to join the throngs on the motorway and scoot along at 110Km/h.
Our target today was the ancient walled town of Chester in Cheshire.
The town has evolved from the 70’s ACE Roman fortress settlement, known as Deva Victrix. (Ref:G—gle)
After 285Km in the wet, we left the motorway and have booked into a modern pub on the outskirts of the town, almost on the Welsh border.
A Mercure pub, part of the ‘chain’, but we need a couple of days in a good modern place; no stairs, reliable wifi, and very convenient.
We have a ‘Studio Room’, a bit upmarket but just within out budget.
We are (almost) within walking distance of the ‘Cheshire Cat’, a traditional old inn with great atmosphere and good value meals.
The canal is right behind the inn, and many of the narrow boat folk moor here, and come in for a good feed and a few ales.
And we’re almost next door to the ‘park and drive’ bus station.
Tomorrow we will catch the bus into the town centre and explore this historic old city.

13th June

A rainy, but warm day in Chester didn’t dampen our enthusiasm to wander around this historic city.
From the nearby ‘park and drive’, the bus ride into the city centre was only about three miles.
Chester was the largest walled Roman fortress in Britain, built around the same time as York.
The old central area is ‘private car free’ with only delivery and service vehicles allowed.
Hence walking along the cobbled roads is fine until it rains and everyone heads for the sheltered footpaths.
Not normally one for churches, but Chester Cathedral was an exception.
Founded in 1092 as a Benedictine abbey by Hugh ‘the Wolf’ Lupus, nephew of the Norman king, ‘Bill the Oneth’.
By around 1220 the Romanesque style was considered ‘old fashioned', and over many years the building was updated in the Gothic style. (modified from Tour Guide Booklet, Scala Publishers Ltd., 2009)
It was saved from destruction by being raised to cathedral status by Henry 8th, in 1541.
Henrys’ falling out with the Pope over a marriage annulment started the movement, which ultimately lead to the poms changing sides, from Micks to Anglicans.
Thus what was once a Benedictine abbey has evolved into a largely C or E cathedral with millions of visitors today, and very few parishioners.
Recent uproar over the practice of charging to visit the cathedral has led to a change of policy.
Rather than visitors having to ‘pay to pray’, they are encouraged to donate towards the upkeep of the building. (adapted from: Chester Cathedral, Deans Newsletter, June 2013.)
The cathedral however, is an extraordinary example of  a mix of Norman and Gothic architecture, and a great shelter from the continuing rain.
The inside is dimly lit, and photography whilst allowed, is difficult with an iPad and no flash.
Like many ancient towns and cities, most of the historic buildings have been converted internally, into modern shops.
The clock tower above a walled entrance, was constructed in 1897 to mark the 60th anniversary of the coronation of Queen Victoria.
The rain continued, as we made our way back to our hotel by bus.
And we had tea at the nearby Cheshire Cat, still smiling!

June 14th

Left our pub in Chester at 7:30am to try and avoid the peak hour rush.
Within ten minutes we were virtually in the countryside, following the Llangollen canal beside the road, with numerous narrow boat dwellers getting up for breakfast.
There are over 15,000 people living permanently on narrow boats on the canals of the UK.
Many retirees are living a sort of ‘Stray Gonad’ existence on the water.
With over two thousand five hundred miles of canals, and a pub around every bend.
A pretty good life.
Just float along from lock to lock, and when the pension cheque is banked, a night out at one of the pubs!!
Our destination today was Swansea (Abertawe) on the coast in South Wales.
Why Wales?
We thought that as Charlie is doing it a bit tough, it was only fair we should inject a few bob into his Princedom.
After all Camillas’ makeovers are getting a bit out of hand.
And every shilling counts.
Oops—hope she’s not offended when she reads this—we really ARE good Monarchists.
God save the Queen, in preference to a dictatorship; and all that!
Again, it rained most of the day, but not cold.
Flossy took us right to our hotel, or so I thought.
We parked in the underground car park and I took the lift to the first floor, looking for reception.
Was met by a lady, quite confused, until I realized it was a private block of flats, and she directed me down stairs again.
The bloody pub was around the next corner!!
Can’t trust these Sat-Navs (GT)!!
There are things to see here over the weekend, and there is also an airfield nearby.
The local aero club had a ‘fly-out’ to Ireland in May.
Bugger, I missed that, but will visit them tomorrow.
Even though more rain is forecast, and quite strong winds.
We shall see.

15th June

Heather skyped her mum this morning as she does most days, and was a bit surprised that a member of staff answered, then handed the phone to Thelma.
She sounded well and contented, but at almost one hundred and one, Heather has had an uneasy feeling all day.
Later, we heard she had been admitted to hospital with pneumonia.
And so our trip could be somewhat truncated, and return details altered.
Heather phoned the hospital at 11pm our time (7am back home) and Thelma is doing OK.
We will drive towards a ferry port tomorrow and get back to France in case we need to fly home early.
Watch this space----
----after driving up impossibly narrow lanes, I DID find the local airport, in the only flat area of South Wales.
A 29Kt wind was howling, it was raining, and so no flying was happening today.
Three long sealed runways, no controlled airspace for miles and close to the bay, it would be a great place to fly from in good WX.
Only a couple of PA38 Tommies and a PA28 tied up, but they said there are a lot of private a/c in the large hangar waiting for fine weather.

16th June

Another wet and windy day in downtown Abertawe, and good reason to stay inside.
We spent quite a while sorting out our next movements, and of course contacting the Castlemaine Hospital.
Heather called early in the morning our time ( about 4pm at home).
She spoke to the charge nurse, and then was able to speak to her mum for a minute.
Thelma sounded bright but a little confused, yet was still able to have a bit of a laugh.
With IV antibiotics and oxygen she is stable and we hope she will pull through.
She is a real fighter.
Tomorrow we will drive on to Poole in Dorset, and I have booked us on the ferry to Cherbourg, France, leaving 7:30 Tuesday morning.
It is about a five hour ferry trip, so we can relax in the lounge, with the googly stowed below.
We will then be within a 3 to 4 hour drive to CDG Paris if we need to return urgently.
Will keep in tough with the hospital, and play it by ear.

----------------As a bit of a diversion, I drove in the rain, to the National Waterfront Museum, featuring Wales’ Story of  Industry and Innovation.
Some interesting, if not so innovative exhibits.
As we drive through Normandy on Tuesday, I may even get a chance to see ‘MY’ Hispano-Suiza in Thierville.
Now owned by Hanns Vennabos whom we met up with in Oostvorne, Netherlands, it is undergoing one of the most protracted ‘rebuilds’ ever.
It was ‘almost finished’ when we were there four years ago!!!!
I sold this car twenty six years ago, and bought theUGlyDuckling with the proceeds.
Prior to that I drove it vigorously for twenty years, and no one has yet driven it since!!!
The bill will be massive!!

Mon 17th June

Our ‘patient’ is stable and doing well. Heather skyped the hospital this morning and also spoke to her mum for a minute.
Thelma will remain in the acute ward for at least a week, and our thoughts are with her.
We will contact the hospital each morning.

After leaving Abertawe at 7:30 we were soon on the M4 motorway in light rain and light traffic.
The rain eased as we passed round Cardiff and Newport, then over the l-o-n-g Severn suspension bridge from Chepstow in Wales to Aust, England.
No, not a typo, Aust is a tiny village on the South Glostershire side of the bridge.
The bridge is only 12 metres short of a ‘click’.
Then on past Bristol, leaving the motorway, and into the beautiful Dorset countryside.
Through tiny villages with chocolate box thatched cottages, and cars brushing against the roadside hedges.
We had not planned on visiting Poole, but are so pleased we have.
It is a mixture of the very old, and contemporary.
The ‘old town’ is virtually pedestrian free, as I found out when I inadvertently drove into a private courtyard.
An old dear out sweeping her footpath, kindly directed me back to the road, as she held up her broom to stop pedestrians crossing.
All Flossys fault, and my good fortune her assistant was back at the hotel!!
With headlines predicting a ‘heat wave’ this week, we must escape the sweltering conditions and head back to France.
Our ferry leaves Poole at 7:30 tomorrow for Cherbourg, France, and we will ‘lose’ an hour in the process.

Tues 18th June

Heathers mum continues to remain stable in Castlemaine Hospital, and has had many visitors and phone calls for which we are very grateful.
We contact her and the hospital staff daily.
She keeps insisting we should not rush back, but of course we would if necessary.
Our return flight is from CDG on 4th July unless changes are needed.

We arrived at the Britanny ferry wharf in Poole at 6:30 this morning, and were one of the first cars to drive on.
A four and a half crossing to Cherbourg, in very smooth seas.
These days you can drive through a dozen countries in Europe without any passport checks.
But the frogs still insist in stamping a page, both entering and leaving their space.
The cop in customs had to leave his post to find an ink pad for this task, while dozens of cars waited behind.
Driving off towards Caen the worms were starting to bite.
At 1pm we pulled off the road into a tiny village near Carentan, Normandy and joined the locals for lunch at a great little café.
Seated ourselves at a vacant table, which hadn’t been cleared from the previous diners.
A young girl scooped up the dishes, brushed the table with the back of her hand, and turned the table mats over, sweeping the crumbs to the floor.
She then plonked a half empty basket of bread in front of us, left over from a table nearby.
Then a couple of wine glasses, and a carafe of chilled water.
And a wine bottle of vinegar, and another of olive oil.
I guess she was waitress, cook, bottlewash and proprietor.
There was a sort of a salad bar, so we grabbed a plate each and served ourselves.
Wafer thin slices of salami, pickled herring and potato salad, button mushrooms in some sort of sauce, pickled leeks, cucumber, shredded beetroot, sliced tomato and slabs of soft cheese.
A feast fit for royalty!
The local workers were enjoying their Tuesday lunch washed down with carafes of red wine and litres of white, from topped-up recycled soft drink bottles.
No fancy tables here, and not a quiche eater in sight.
After lunch we drove on and settled for the night at a boring Novotel in Bayeux, Normandy. But it has wifi which we need.
There are D-Day landing site memorials in this area, including Omaha and Utah beaches.
And nearby today, a commemoration was held for De Gaulle and his June 1946 speech, which led to a new post-war constitution, and the re-unification of France.
These days Bayeuxs’ claim to fame is as the world centre of that breathtaking pastime of tapestry.!!!
How lucky am I to visit this iconic spot?!!.

Wed 19th June

Heather spoke to her mum this morning and she continues to improve.
We are now within striking distance of Paris, and decided to try and find a self contained cottage for perhaps a week.
Not so easy searching the web for a gem of a‘Gite’ .
Hundreds around Normandy, but not many for just two.
Eventually found one that looked great on google, as they always do.
Owners supposedly spoke French, Spanish and English, so I skyped the number and got a recorded message in French.
Then sent an email enquiry, to which no reply came by our check out time.
So I fed the address into Flossy and we headed off towards Pont l’Eveque, to have a look for ourselves.
On the A13 motorway past Caen, and then off and up narrow tree lined lanes, looking for a needle in a haystack.
Looking for ‘La Courtille Chicamour’, in Saint-Julien-sur-Calone.
We found the general area and by chance stumbled upon ‘Chicamour’, a superb little Gite on a hillside, overlooking the rural valley below.
For once, it looked exactly as it did on the web.
There was a car parked inside the high steel gates, but it seemed nobody was home.
Like a previous place I’ll never forget, ‘Chicamour’ also needed ‘secret numbers (on the gate) to gain entry’, and we had no idea what they were!!
Very disappointed, we headed back towards Pont-l’Eveque.
Another old town, and many original buildings with part-timber frames filled in with a rock, cement and mud mix.
After getting hoplessly lost, we chanced upon the Hotel Le Lion d’Or, in the outskirts of Pont l’Eveque.
A great little place, with downstairs rooms, wifi and a sort of French ‘wellness centre’.
We have booked in here for a couple of nights.
The wellness centre has a timber box arrangement with vapours gushing out an exhaust at the side.
I thought of calling the fire brigade, but apparently it is some form of device for steaming humans alive, and they happily pay to be cooked in this way.
We are looking at another place nearby, right on the edge of the Lac du Pont l’Eveque, and may stay there for a couple of days also.
The brochure says they also take dogs, so even I should be welcome!!

Thurs 20th June

I have spent this afternoon with an amazing old friend.
A very dear friend I met long, long ago.
She was twenty years older that me, but her beauty transcended her age.
It was love at first sight, and in the warm summer glow, we were both swept away.
My devotion was deep and enduring, and full of the passion of youth.
She returned my affections ten fold, and answered the gentlest touch.
We shared twenty inseparable years, through life’s endless challenges and triumphs.
Never pausing to question, my family accepted my plight.
They too shared many happy times with her.
Our separation was traumatic and painful, full of sadness and regret.
Yet, somehow we just drifted apart.
In the autumn of her years and the restlessness of mine, yet remaining enduring friends.
She has never known true love since, but hopefully one day will.
In recent years she has been in specialist care, in a private facility in Normandy, France.
In the tiny village of Thieville, population one hundred.
The surgeon nodded knowingly as I visited today, and her gentle touch sent my ageing heart racing again.
And then I quietly walked away, trusting she will soon live and be loved again.

Frid 21st June

Tilting the world on its axis is no little challenge.
Flights to be altered, a car to return, a time zone to bridge, the chess game of life.
We will drive back to Paris and get on a Sunday flight that is fully booked!!
It can be done.
Floating houses, a goat for a gatekeeper, a bit of a blur---No doubt the sun will still rise in the East in the morning.


22nd June

Drove to Paris this morning, and returned the googly.  Total distance 10, 247Km, and I still haven’t found out how to open the bonnet.
I assume it has some sort of diesel engine, and is probably front wheel drive.
A manual in English would have helped.
It has performed faultlessly, only the driver and co-pilot have been wanting!!
Would I buy one??
No.  But I would drive someone else’s!!
Poor gear changes, hesitant response to throttle, a few other small bitches.
The frogs need a lesson from the krauts and the wogs!!
With considerable hassle and numerous phone calls we will now leave this pox ridden, towel head infested place at 1200 tomorrow, and should arrive Melbourne about 0755 Tuesday morning.
First class to KL, business to Melbourne.
Desperately needing some sleep.
There will be a huge insurance claim when we get back!!!!

23/24th June

We are now in the Malaysian lounge in KL, wondering how the hell we can pile up a few zeds with sixteen hours till be catch our next flight to Melbourne.
The A380 flight in First was amazing—I wonder how all the poor people back where we usually are survived!!
Leave here at 2200 KL time and get into Tulla at 0755 tomorrow EST, I guess that will be Tuesday morning.
Our brains still think its 2am Paris time but its 8am here, and our bodies don’t know if it’s the day before yesterday or the twelth of never.
Heather has spoken to her mum on spyke a few minutes ago and she is hanging in there.

And, so, ‘What’s it all about,  Alfie?’
We have set foot on less than a trillionth of this amazing planet, and the tiny surprises around each corner continue to astound me.
Treasures that haven’t made it onto a map yet and possibly never will.
Places where people have lived, loved, breed and died for centuries.
Every nameless spot is somebody’s home.
And we have had some unique, stupid, remarkable, pointless, mundane, exciting, memorable and forgettable moments.
We have generally left the icons alone.
Big cities are not our thing.
They will always appear on film, in the news, and its all on google.
You can take the boy out of the country, but you can never take the country out of the boy.
Special times, special places.
Eating sausages and chips in Bruges; Roosendall and $5 a bottle vodka; Murphys pub in Oostvoorne; ancient chessnuts and elms.
‘The doctor of  Gymnich’; hot Croatian slivovic with ‘Freddie; the Mercedes museum; Anzac day in Germany and their WW2 memorial; the cop in uniform pissing on the roadside; skinless pork sausages from a local butcher in Bavaria; King Ludwigs castle on the island in Bernau am Chiemsee lake.
The locals at the pub in the tiny village of Friedersbach; the farmer driving home on his ancient tractor as drunk as a skunk, on the wrong side of the road.
The vacant chairs in the square in Krakow; Shindlers’ factory; the Apteka Pod Orlem.
The tiny Eurofox factory in Nitra, Slovenia; a great little pub on the Buda side or the Danube for E39 including breakfast; the wellness hotel in Bad Gleichenberg.
The beautiful village of Bovec in Slovenia; the look on Karls’ brothers face when we showed him some photos; real kransky sausage and distilled blueberries with Miran and Metka.
The Fazioli fortress in Sacile; our stay in the ‘monastery’ in Ravenna; a brilliant week in Greve in our villa San Stefano in Tuscany; a Tuscan feast with some Belgian blokes there; hot Sienese pork rolls in Greve.
A Ferrari round the streets of Maranello; La Dogana agriturismo in Greta; Lake Maggiore and the ferry to a market on the island of Intra; the val de Aosta; the Mont Blanc tunnel; the village of le Fayet at the foot of Mont Blanc.
Our best French meal in the tiny village of Paray-le-Monial; French arrogance.
la Kasbah in Acuigny and the Adams family castle.
Fields of golden canola, apple trees in blossom, vines at budburst, bluebells and heather.
Across the channel; the Victory of Mersea; the Cretingham Bell; the Monewden airstrip; Washingborough Hall near Lincoln.
York and meeting up with an old acquaintance; an aircraft museum at Elvington nr York; battered spam and mushy peas.
Thirsk (Darrowby) and the James Herriot centre; the Cats Inn at Berwick on Tweed; Aberdeen and an evening with a neighbour from homes' daughter and boyfriend.
The Pitcaple ‘bus kitchen’; Drumnadrochit and the Loch Ness monster; Cullen Skink; Urquhart Castle; finding Achnahannet; Inveraray Castle and the Campbells; too much eighteen year old Dalwhinnie single malt at the Argyll Hotel.
The Lockerbie memorial; the Scotgtish borders and Elliot territory; Chester; Swansea airfield; Poole;  a ferry to Cherbourg.
The Hispano in Thieville; lunch at a tiny café in Carentan; Bayeux and the de Gaulle ceremony; Pont l’eveque; and now working our way back home.
Countless special memories to cherish.
Indeed, what IS it all about??!!

25th June

The final episode of this adventure has ended where it all began.
At the place we call home.
The sixteen hour layover in KL passed with little sleep, but in the comfort of the Malaysia Golden Lounge.
Our flight back to Melbourne in business was both long, and tiring.
We were met by good friends and neighbours, who drove us back to the best spot on the planet.
Heather has visited her mum in hospital.
She has hung in there, and delighted her daughter is home.
We are both very tired and very happy, and have no regrets.
We journeyed as explorers, not tourists.
There are now many new adventures to plan.



































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































After a good nights rest in our quaint little Dunkirk pub, a decent continental breakfast and a local walk, we battled to set the GPS in the car and headed off towards Belgium.  


























































































































I remember my long discarded copy of The Lonely Planet almost writing Belgium off as a rather boring and lifeless region of Europe, generally uninteresting and forgettable. However, on our last trip, after avoiding Brussels and heading east, we stumbled on Hasselt, a small 'city' with 'onion ring' streets like many others in the region. In a little pub here we had the largest and most exquisite olives stuffed with magic, and ate them on the sidewalk with a couple of glasses of Belgium beer. It was Easter and the breakfast we had in a nearby cafe the next morning included the usual cold meats, cheeses and the ever present tub of Nutella,  and included Easter eggs and hot chocolate as only the Belgians can make.



 We had heard of Bruges and so headed off towards this remarkable ancient Flemish city. On the way, I broke one of our unwritten rules to stay off major freeways. We started on a minor road following a canal, but eventually back into the traffic. It is hard to get from place to place without motorways, so we exit where possible to look for the gems.
This is NOT the tourist season, but one such exit took us to Bruges where we spent several hours, walking this amazing old city. Prague had previously been our favourite as old cities go but Bruges has many more remarkable examples of architecture dating back centuries. Being a Vespa fan, and not averse to an occasional beer, I found this one interesting--bikes and scooters only in Bruges!!
After driving up narrow cobbled stone streets looking for a park, with hundreds of people walking all  over the roads, we realised this was a 'walk-only heritage city', and eventually found a pay-park--more luck that fortune.
It is crowded with tourists even in April-- would be an improbable place to visit in July-August.
We had been told about the unique Bruges 'chips'--they look just like Maccas 'fries' but are oh so delicious--served with dipping mayo, plus sausages and raw chopped onions and a superb sauce--a great 'healthy' lunch-since 1900!!



I have often pondered why anyone would choose to be a pharmacist and have been even more intrigued to find that some poor soles even today seem to relish the profession. Each to his own. However, in non-English speaking countries, calling in to a pharmacy usually finds someone with reasonable linguistic skills to provide a source of information including directions and accommodation.
As we wandered the ancient streets of Bruges I called into the local 'chemist' and this guy was so excited about the whole scene. He dragged out the current copy of Retail Pharmacy (Australian) and showed me with great enthusiasm a three page article about himself and his very historic appotek--ancient labelled jars and artefacts everywhere in the dispensary. I was invited to sign his large book of pharmacists who had visited and he promised to include me on his email list for some journal he is involved in.  And of course insisted on a photo.
Horse and carts constantly taking tourists for tours of the ancient city centre, over miles of cobbled stone lanes, and shops selling every conceivable item including of course Belgian chocolate in every shape and form and 20 litre canisters of their famous Juliper beer.
After lingering far too long in this spectacular spot it was time to head off towards Holland, but by about 4pm we again left the busy roads to look for small village and chanced upon Zelzate population-- about a small Castlemaine. Several pub options, but we settled on De Hof, a classical old pub with ancient wooden floors, spiral staircase and luxurious antique furnishings, in a quaint park setting, with a VERY modern annex in the grounds, with rooms only opened within the last two weeks.

We were settled into the new annex, in the grounds of the old pub, with a lift for geriatrics and only a short walk to the bar and restruarant.
It was to bed early and a great nights sleep in a beautiful new room after a l-o-n-g hot shower.

With rows of sculptured trees, many espallied in neat rows.


After another great breakfast of crousants, cold meats, cheese, juices, coffee and yoghurt, we dialled up Rotterdam on the GPS--having no intention of going there, but in that general direction until we find our little village. Roosendaal is just inside the NL border as the photo showns--a biggish town/city with the same name of Bianca and Davids’ farm back home!!
This is the Boulevard Roosendaal which is about 25Km long and starts in Belgium and continues into the Neatherlands. Just over the border in NL we stopped at this small 'supermarket'--Carroufoure?? and bought a couple of essentials--a 'handbag' of Australian vino blanc, and TWO bottles of Vodka for E16 for the two ie: E8 each bottle Vodka--about $10AU.!!  Why would anyone be a teetotaller here??  These buildings in central Roosendaal would have been covered in snow, as was the rest of northern Europe, only a couple of weeks ago--hence the steep roof on all buildings. After re-setting the GPS from 'fastest' to 'shortest' route, we were directed off the busy roads into the smaller places, looking for a small village to stay. We again happened on a 'gem' Oostvoorne, right on the coast west of Rotterdam, and where the bloke who now owns my Hispano-Suiza lives. Visiting him was not a priority as the car is still being restored in France, but he called in at the pub to see us--a charming and no doubt filthy rich bloke who was delighted to  get some photos I had, and to learn a bit more about MY car!!  Just before Ooostvoorne we came across the essential dutch windmill, and then crossed a quaint little canal on a car ferry!!
And then on into the great little village of Oostvoorne--just our size--and of all places booked into a motel room at Murphys Station hotel--quaint, quiet, reasonably priced, and the odd looking 'motel' rooms are very modern and comfortable inside. And its sunny, brisk, and still-- spring weather with giant chessnut trees everywhere, and tulips and daffodils in full bloom.
Very friendly people here and they speak good English, and even understand Australian!!
But of course there's always a thorn amongst the daffodils.
To offset the effects of the Vodka, Heineken, too much good food and the handbag du vin, we slept like logs in our room and in the morning went for a long walk in the 'forest' of giant chessnuts and elms in a large park behind our pub.
We decided to stay another night in this little village, so had a good walking tour of the town. Also met up with the Hispano bloke again, and swapped notes about THAT car!!~
Spring is certainly sprunging in Oostvoorne albiet very late, according to the locals.
I am using the iPad Mini for photos and it is far better than any camera I've used--but the blog pics don't do justice to it. On the A380 leg to Paris, to my surprise the GPS worked even though we were in the centre rows, and it accurately showed the lat and long and altitude (about 38,000') coinciding with that on the aircrafts tracking display on our TV.
And when we went for a walk here, it shows that our room is about 50' BELOW mean sea level.  Thank kryst someone still has a finger in the dyke, or we'd be under water all the time!!
And so tomorrow we will head off towards/into Germany via Masstrich which is the 'corner' of the Netherlands, Belgium and Germany.  Stuttgart and the M/Benz museum coming up soon!! Our next village will be another surprise that we stumble upon.

Mon 22nd April

The Doctor of Gymnich

Well, I almost pulled off a real clanger today.  After breakfast of cold meats, a fried egg, cheese slices and toast with Nutella, we packed up and set the GPS towards Aachen, Germany.
There are three GPS modes to select—‘fastest’, ‘shortest’, and a combination of the two—probably a bit of motorway and a bit of side roads— a sort of a motoring mixed grill. The ‘fastest’ option is always further than the ‘shortest’, which seems pretty Irish.
Our general idea is set ‘fastest first’, which gets us on a 130Km/h road with Mercs, Audis and Beamers flashing past at improbable speed in the outer lanes.
When we have travelled far enough and are ready to get into the back-blocks to find a small town/village, we change to ‘shortest’, leave the major roads and just follow the voice prompts from Flossie, our electronic GPS guide.

After leaving Oostvoorne, we passed the massive oil refinery and holding tanks of the area, through the little beach and yachting bay, and onto the motorway.

In next to no time we were near Aaachen, and  pulled off to find a quite spot to eat our breakfast extras for lunch. We pulled into a village and parked opposite the local cemetery, with horse paddocks opposite. Again, a beautiful but rather strange lunch spot!
After confusing Flossie, she directed us back to the Autobahn towards Cologne (Koln). At 14:30 I decided to give Heather a break and get into the side roads for a small village.
Re-set ‘Flos’ and she soon directed us onto the small roads and to a little Hotel in the unlikely village of Gymnich, population about 2,500. I parked nearby and asked a local if the pub had accommodation.. (on the door it had 11:00-14:30, and 17:30 to 23:00).
Not a word was understood, but in an instant I was taken by the giant hand of a convivial local, in overalls and covered in paint and plaster; led through a rear gate and into ‘reception’ where he thrust a pen and guest form in front of me to fill out.
There was no option—just fill it out—and when he saw me write Australian be became quite ecstatic.
Heather was still waiting in the car unaware of her ‘different’ accommodation for the night.
And different it was!!  Still alone, I was led up two VERY steep flights of stairs and shown room number one—small, clean—but up those bloody stairs???.
I was given the keys, and my new friend disappeared, leaving me to go and get Heather.  We returned to our abode, to find it seriously locked, but found access to the rear ‘beer garden’ to sit out the time till 17:30.
My friend returned, and let us into the reception/bar area, and his only response to all my questions about where to park, the price, WiFi etc was ‘the doctor coming after, she knowing all’!!!.
So we just sat and waited for the doctor after he’d poured Heather a large glass of white wine and pocketed the cash.

I didn’t feel I needed a manual rectal examination or any procedure for that matter at this stage, but I guess I’ll just have to leave that to the doctor.
In about an hour, a nice lady appeared—she too confirmed that 'the doctor knew all' and would be here soon (no words understood by either party).
Somehow I ordered a slivovic which appears the same in all languages; she poured me a large glass and disappeared with it, to return with the glass almost boiling!!, no doubt microwaved in the glass!! Almost got pissed on the fumes waiting for it to cool a bit—but what beautiful moonshine!!!!
And so we both sat in the ‘waiting room’; we seemed to be the only patients for the day, and the unique aroma of warmed slivovic filled the room like surgical antiseptic.

Some time later, a pretty young thing in her mid-twenties emerged with the madam—and finally the penny dropped---the doctor was the DAUGHTER!!!  What a relief—no medical procedures to endure; and the daughter spoke excellent English.
Indeed, ‘the doctor IS knowing all!!’
The daughter was able to tell me there was no WiFi, where to park the car safely, why we were the only victims as they are really a restaurant but do let rooms occasionally for local workers.
Also, our room would be E68 including breakfast, the TV DID have the BBC in English, and a bit of local information.
And so what started out as a potential nightmare turned out to be another great little gem after all.
A very clean and tidy but small room up those stairs, a lovely restaurant at which we were treated like royalty at dinner—Zouppe Goulash, followed by some sort of mixed grill.
The father returned after scrubbing up a bit, and it turns out they are Croatian, not German, and hence his joy at my admiration of his slivovic!!  Soon we were great mates although simply in sign language plus an occasional word of broken German/English.
A couple of Croation beers and a further warmed slivovic and several vins blanc for Heather and we climbed those stairs as if in an elevator, and slept soundly till 6am!!

23rd April

Gymnich to Stuttgart

Before vanishing to her own quarters, ‘the doctor’ had advised us that breakfast would be from 7am, and we rose at 6am, scrubbed and descended the narrow stairs with some trepidation. It was time to explore a bit of Gymnich on foot.
Directly opposite the pub was a large cathedral, and in the courtyard nearby something written on stonework at the base of a cross about Pappa John Paul 11 and some dates. Perhaps the boss could explain at breakfast. Also who was Jan Von Werth, 1591-1652 whose drawing appeared on all the Reissdorf kolsh beer coasters at our pub?
Mr Google tells me he was a general of some note during the thirty day war; history buffs can delve further.  However, he seems to be something of a major figure to our hosts.
At breakfast, we all had an extended conversation in sign language, and with pen and paper.  The ‘bosses’ name is Miroslaw (calls himself ‘Freddie’) and his wife is Catarina.  Catarina is the chef and ‘Freddie’ does most of the talking.
The writing at the base of the cross commemorates a visit by Pappa John Paul 11.  Other important visitors to the town include Henry Kissinger, the Beetles (1960) and former President Gerald Ford.
Buggered if I know why or was able to understand; perhaps they were at a loose end or just got a bit way laid like us.
However, Freddie is very proud of these famous visitors to his small village of Gymnich.  And why not.
Catarina laid on a spread of sliced salami, ham, cheese, butter and fresh crusty bread rolls, while Freddie made a pot of fresh REAL coffee and glasses of orange juice.
The family moved from Croatia nineteen years ago, looking for a better life in the ‘west’ and have run the pub/restaurant ever since.
After an extended breakfast conversation, we bid farewell to our new found dear friends, and headed off in the car, which had sat out on the street overnight, totally unscathed.
I dialled up Stuttgart, and Flossie soon had us on the Autobahn again, at 130Km plus. By 9am we had covered over 100Km and stopped at a roadside park for our first ‘stretch’, and by 10:15 we had covered over 200Km, with less than 100Km to Stuttgart.

Another stop for a Pissour, and then started looking for a hotel to prop at close to Stuttgart, but within striking distance of the Mercedes Benz museum.
Flossie took us very close to the M/B museum and we pulled into a side street to an interesting little pub.  But, it was booked out.
I then drove a short distance to another pub, and a very nice young chap there regretfully told us they were also booked out.
However he phoned another three nearby hotels without luck, and the forth, had accommodation available and he booked us in!!
I asked why all the booked out pubs??—“Stuttgart is always like that for the M/B museum”, and also there is a festival this weekend—the Stuttgart Beer Festival, held twice a year.  Of course!!
So we were lucky to get any accommodation close to the museum.
By now it was well past lunchtime, so we each had a bratwurst in a roll with mustard at a local servo, and checked into the hotel for two nights—too late to visit the museum this arvo, so will spend a good part of tomorrow there, have a good rest and head off towards Munich on Thursday (25th).
A great bowl of Zouppe and a couple of Stuttgart hoffbrauhaus beers, and another early night.



24th April Mercedes Benz Museum

We are staying within spitting distance of the Mercedes Benz museum here, but with divided roads and under and overpasses it was still a E14 taxi ride. Along the main drag which of course is Mercedes Strausse, past the Mercedes Benz football stadium and then just follow the giant Mercedes star, shining in the morning sun, slowly revolving above the new vehicle showrooms next to the museum.
The museum building itself is quite a masterpiece—very modern and appearing all metallic silver and glass.
Inside everything is spotless from the marble and  parquetry  floors on each level to the multilingual and impeccably dressed  staff, of whom there are hundreds.  Entry is only E8 for a full days visit, and I spent an enthralling five hours there.
There were visitors pouring in at opening time (9am) and that continued all day.
Firstly, multi media devices are handed out, with headsets for audio in the selected language, and a handpiece which when pointed at an exhibit explains all about it. Select general details, technical info, history. etc.
A glass elevator whisks everyone to the top level (8th floor) and then everything is in chronological order as you work downwards.
From the genesis of the motorcar in 1888 to the very latest and everything along the way, plus futuristic concept vehicles including a working hydrogen powered vehicle.
There is a gently sloping walkway spiraling downwards allowing views of exhibits from above, or at each floor level one can get up close and personal, but not touch!!
A stunning display of hundreds of cars, commercial vehicles, early racing cars and modern M/Benz powered F1 cars.
The historical audio and visual descriptions treat the war years accurately but with sensitivity, however it was notable that no military vehicles were on display other than M/Benz aircraft engines used in many Messerschmit a/craft.
Far too much for me to do justice to, so I’ll let the pictures tell a bit of the story.
A bit of an indulgence for me, but Heather was happy to walk in the sunshine around this quaint area of Stuttgart, rest, and read a book.  The weather so far has been brilliant wherever we’ve been. Lets hope it continues.

25th April

Bernau am Chiemsee--Anzac Day in Germany

From our Autohof  Hotel on the outskirts of Stuttgart, we set sail for Munchen right into the peak hour traffic at 8:30.  Flossie retained her calm however, even with long delays at traffic lights and when road works forced us to ignore her instructions and detour now and then.
Before long we on the Autobahn, set the spinnaker, retracted the landing gear and joined the fleet at 130Km/h with Audis, Mercs, Skodas and VW’s blasting past in the outer lanes. At least most of the trucks and cars were heading into Stuttgart and not our way.
Our little ‘Googly’ (Peugeot 208 Diesel) is doing a great job and even in auto can whip down a cog and zap past slower vehicles at 160Km/h with ease. Or flick it into manual and the response is instantaneous.
A pity the French speaking Asian guy who gave us a five minute rundown plus an owners manual in fluent French didn’t show me a few of the finer points.
Our last experience with 'Peugeot Open Europe' in 2009 was much more customer friendly—a choice of color, drivers manual in English sent to us a month before leaving Australia, and more assistance when we picked it up at Calais.
And without GPS, we were given an excellent map of Europe and good directions to leave the terminal.
This time, no color selection and no customer service to speak of. Just show them the receipt for the payment made six months ago, and piss off.
I think they are getting a bit too big for their thongs, with a yard full of new Peugeots and those godforsaken Citroens and Renaults of similar size and cost.
Our car had 2.8Km on the clock when we drove off—obviously only enough to get onto and off a transporter from the factory.
After just on 2000Km I am starting to get the hang of it, and we pulled in for the third tank of fuel (about E50) 150Km south of Stuttgart.
It was also time to inform Flossie we really wanted to set the little village of Bernau as our target for the day; about 80Km south of Munchen.
We stop for rest breaks now and then------(We had to laugh at a cop car pulled up at a servo with a cop in uniform having a good long piss on the grass verge, while his mate waited in the car with lights flashing!!---)
All the truckies and most others do the same; so why should we pay for that pleasure either?.)
So, I don’t.
But if Heather does, and I respect her modesty, it is E0.70, and you get a voucher for E0.50 off any purchase at the servo shop!!
So, owning a Pissour is a pretty lucrative business!! Minimal capital outlay, no complaints department, casual staff only, a no returns policy and every client gets a gift voucher on the way out!!
Flossie soon directed us off the Autobahn and into the real countryside and soon we were in the oh-so-beautiful village of Bernau am Chiemsee.  A village beside the largest lake in Barvaria, and at the foot of mountains with snow still hanging on the peaks.
This is the town where Kerstin Schubert lived as a kid-- Biancas friend who lived at Outrim with her and David for about three months last year, tending and grooming the horses. They have kept in touch, and we also know Kerstin and will meet up with her when she comes down from Munchen tomorrow evening.
And get some good local advice in English, infact Australian ‘English’!!
It was just on lunch o’clock as we drove into Bernau and pulled into a pretty little parking area beside a creek and ate our ham and cheese rolls and bananas.
And then for a drive to find a pub, and the three or four in town all look great.  We visited the lake area where the tourist info is located, and were pleasantly surprised at the service offered for gratis. The Council staff at Castlemaine info centre could do with a lesson here, but as I’ve threatened to do an odd day there as a volunteer, perhaps they’ll take note from a geriatric former Councillor.
We booked in to the Gastof Alter Wirt, a fabulous old inn right in the centre of the village—reasonably priced, excellent bar and meals, and loads of character and history.  Apparently first constructed about 900ACE but of course rebuild, refurbished, renovated and restored over many years.
I Skyped Kerstin, and she will meet us here about 6pm tomorrow evening.  She suggested we might like to have a ride in the cable car to the mountain top tomorrow, and perhaps a ferry to an island in the lake where there is a castle; with her on Saturday.  Sounds OK with us.
It is ANZAC day, and out of respect we toasted the moment in the early evening, about the time of dawn services back home.  Lest we forget.
And let us also acknowledge that those poor souls commemorated at the local monument beside out hotel were also conscripted by the immoral, corrupt and hideous regime of the time, to serve their country.






26th April

In is very warm here today and in fact 30+C in the googly, so aircon on.  The ground is still very soft and the fresh green grass is just pushing through after very heavy snow which covered the area until two weeks ago. Still snow on the mountain peaks, but it won’t last much longer in this heat.
I drove about 5Km towards Auchau, through open countryside with newly planted crops everywhere, and came to another tiny town. The signs here indicated Munchen to the right—no thanks; and ‘non comprende’ the signs to the left which may have been up to the mountain top.
So I retreated. Back through Bernau village towards the lake, but came across a road block with the police very excited, but eventually was waved through.
After getting lost in a residential area, I turned back, and the cops now had an ambulance blocking the road, and a chopper landed in a very small grassed area beside the road.  Not a car accident, most likely a local resident with a major problem, my guess an AMI. The chopper was in no hurry to take off, sadly I don’t think the outcome was good.
After lunch, we drove to the lake and tourist info centre again, and the cable car is ‘being serviced’ today, but will be running again over the weekend.
Back at the pub, I was fascinated by some of the detail and the intricate lead light windows throughout.  It seems the proprietor also owns the wellness centre pub behind this one—not many people getting wellness there, and also the local butcher who specialises in his ‘home made’ Barvarian sausages.
We both had the skinless pork snags with potato salad for lunch—pretty good.
Kerstin arrived about 6:30pm—her train from Munchen had broken down about 25Km from here and she had called her mother who lives in Bernau to drive and pick her up.
We had tea together at Alter Wirt and afterwards Kerstin took us to a quaint little bar close by for a couple of beers—and a beer here is 0.5 litre for the smallest!!
Tomorrow she will pick us up at 10am and we will drive to the ferry and go out to the island in the lake and visit the ‘castle’

27th April

Kerstin called at our pub at 10am, and she was the designated chauffer for the day in the ‘googly’.
Off to the large lake wharf, and lined up and boarded a large ferry for the big island with the castle.
Now this castle is no mere beach house or weekend fishing shack.
It seems that a certain King Ludwig of Barvaria was a rather different chap in many ways.
He had a fetish for creating lavish palaces, which he had constructed with his own funds, eventually becoming seriously bankrupt without using money from his subjects but borrowing heavily from Royalty all over Europe.
Perhaps his most ambitious project was attempting to recreate the Palace of Versailles right here on an island in the middle of the Bernau am Chiemsee lake.
We visited the island by ferry, followed by a ride through the former kings parklands by horse and carriage.
The tour through the palace was fascinating and our English guide was adamant no photos are allowed inside.
Her description was a rather watered down account of Ludwig and his unconventional behaviour.
However it is clear he was quite eccentric.  He had no time for administrative matters from his ‘seat’ in Munchen, was a devotee of Richard Wagner, much his elder; but the relationship was perhaps more that musicology.
Ludwig never married although be became engaged at one stage but only briefly, he had many very close male companions and hence his sexual preferences were often questioned.
None the less, he was warmly loved by his Barvarian subjects, despite being regarded as quite mad and mentally deranged.
This perception was strengthened by the reality that his younger brother was indeed regarded as clinically insane.
Eventually his own ministers deposed him, and his mysterious death followed.
It is believed he drowned in a Barvarian lake along with his assigned physician, both of whom were strong swimmers. And the bodies were found in only waist high water!
The mystery remains unresolved today, yet the State benefits from his palaces as fabulously important tourist attractions creating great wealth well beyond their cost; making Barvaria the richest region of Germany today.
And many visitors to his ‘Versailles’ are French—to research the stairway to Ludwigs palace—the original in France having been destroyed during wartime.
Afterwards, we had lunch at the Monastry on the island, then returned and back in Bernau had traditional apple strudel at Kerstins mothers home.
Then an early night at our pub, and off through Austria in the morning.


28th APRIL  (****Continue corrections here****

Austria to Friedersbach
After dialling up Vienna  and setting the ‘fastest’ option, Flossie was rather confused and a bit sluggish to react getting us out of Bernau.
I guess too, she occasionally gets a hangover.
We expected to be directed onto an Autobahn almost immediately, but perhaps as it was Sunday she felt it appropriate for a quite drive through the countryside.
And it was a long drive at that.
But through numerous small villages and towns both in Germany and Austria.
Before crossing the border we called in at a small servo for diesel, E1.33/l, the cheapest so far, and also a coffee.  It seems the fuel but not necessarily the coffee, is a bit cheaper off the major roads, like to home.
We drove into Austria and with still over 200Km to Vienna it was time for our lunch.
And then on through dozens of beautiful little towns and villages until 3:30pm by which time Flossie had had enough, as had her female assistant.
For no reason whatsoever, we took a small side road and entered the tiny village of  Friedersbach.
And they don’t come much smaller than Friedersbach, population almost three hundred.
In a pretty valley in a distinctly rural area, the village is little more than a row of quaint houses each side of the main street with farmland beyond.
We booked into the only accommodation in town,  quaint and traditional from the street but very modern inside.
Expensive décor throughout, an extensive dining room, resident chef, modern cocktail bar, lifts to the rooms, and tariff to match.
Why such a lavish pub in a such a miniature village, off the beaten track??
Very comfortable but not exactly my cuppa tea, so off to explore this little gem.
It is virtually only one street, one Km long. No shops or retail centre at all, but there are several villages within one or two Km.
And of course a huge church with a tiny pub opposite, where the sins to be absolved are committed.
We entered the latter, to find one table of about ten blokes and one girl, all socking down some clear liquid, which they had obviously been doing since the morning service.
Not to be outdone, but with some linguistic challenges we ordered a glass of white wine for Heather and a schnapps for me.
Only E0.90 for the schnapps, served in a traditional shot glass, not measured, just straight from the bottle.
The fire chief from the ‘locals table’ joined us.  In uniform, red faced and as pissed as a fart, he
proceeded to tell me repeatedly in German, something about his friend in Australia who has grown up children.
I found this breathtaking news, but after half an hour of repetition and droplets of spit emitted from his foetid breath, the novelty wore off a bit.
A couple of his mates joined us; I guess Australians in Friedersbach are a peculiarity.
Probably any tourists for that matter.
Of course, I was offered and accepted another schnapps and then it was time for me to wish them well and retreat to the car, leaving Heather to happily entertain them.
While I waited for her, one of the guys staggered out of the bar, almost fell on his face and then mounted his ancient tractor and drove off home, mostly on the wrong side of the road!!  Hilarious!!
A nice dinner in the ‘Hilton’, wild garlic soup followed by schnitzel and salad, superbly presented. I  think there were four others staying here and the hotel could perhaps sleep fifty.
Another great day, and off to bed.

29th April

We dialled Brno, Czech Republic, and Flossie obeyed without question, again on secondary roads with the ‘fastest’ option chosen.
I guess there are a paucity of motorways between Friedersbach and Brno.
The scenery however was beautiful, and even though early Monday morning, the traffic very light.
At the Czech border we pulled in to buy the compulsory ‘permit’ for a maximum of ten days on their road system.
The scenery remained stunning, with apple orchards in blossom and vineyards coming into bud and plenty of open country where potatoes and wheat are the main crops.
In the villages and smaller towns, plenty of evidence of an independent country still coming to terms with capitalism and former Soviet oppression.
The roads in Czeski are in need of much upgrading, and hence the E10 permits will be put to good use.
Gone were the plentiful expensive Audis, Mercs and VW’s of Austria, and the Czech residents mainly drive older Skodas and much older Fords, Seats and small FIAT’s.
And even the trucks where older and shabbier.
As in Austria, we saw numerous piles of wooden stakes neatly stacked beside open farm land.  Our guess is they are to erect temporary fences for strip grazing.
Religion has certainly clung to the lives of a suppressed people, with church spires in every village and numerous tiny roadside chapels and memorials; many ancient, and sadly, some erected following recent accidents.
By 3pm we had bypassed Brno and it was the agreed hour to seek a gem for the night, together with some local culture and perhaps a splattering of English.
We left the main road much to Flossies displeasure, and into a small village.
There was no obvious accommodation, so I again resorted to the local ‘lekarne’.  Yes, she spoke some broken English, and suggested a road side hotel with ‘excellent to eat’, some 12Km further towards the Polish border.
We found this place and booked in promptly as it was obviously popular, and we were the only non-CZ car in the place.
We are at Zastrizly in the Buchlovske hory forest of Cheski, high up on a mountain top overlooking open farmlands and a distant town beyond—through the smog—it is a still day with no breeze to clear the air.
A great barman with some English helped us book in, and I got a room on the ground floor which is not common.
The price was exorbitant—E31 for a double room—clean, comfortable and with an ensuite!!!!.
The place is very popular and was very busy at mealtime.
We both tried a local speciality—venison with a mushroom cream sauce, washed down with a couple of shots of local slivovic (me) and white wine (Heather)
And 0.5l of local ‘Starobrno’ beer for me—local from Brno, and  nice and bitter, a bit like an IPA on tap.
All that cost next to nothing, so we tipped them E5 and I bought a REAL slivovic glass for Friday nights back home with Karl, our Slovenian/Australian neighbour.
It was offered for gratis, but they reluctantly accepted E2.
We have wifi in our room, so time to update these ramblings before an early night, and off to Krakow in Poland tomorrow.

Zastrizly to Krakow, Poland 30th APRIL
We left at 7:30am and covered about 100Km before pulling in for breakfast at 8:30, just as a nice roadside restaurant was opening.
We were offered the menu in English, and both ordered a ‘full English breakfast’--yes, in the Czech Republic. It was a bit different, particularly the sausages, but did include baked beans, two eggs, bacon and mushrooms.
And the coffee came on a small tray with a shot glass of clear liquid beside it, and a wrapped boiled lolly!!
The clear liquid was a bit of a test, as I know many Eastern Europeans down a slivovic with their coffee before heading off to work, but fortunately it was plain H2O.
Breakfast cost something like 900Kr, whatever they are, about E14 after the conversion was accomplished.
We reached the Polish border with just over 100Km to run to Krakow.
Poland is not for the fun seeking tourist.
A sad and depressing place, so why did we bother?
Heather would rather avoid an area where the memories of our previous visit to Auschwitz and Berkenau remain so powerful .
We had visited hell there before.
Yet there is something strangely mesmeric about a country where the unspeakable happened during our own lifetimes.
A powerful magnet, drawing us towards a beautiful city, in a country with an horrendous past and its proud and defiant people.
A place to reflect, and to remind us we must never forget.
Krakow was once the capital of Poland, and as its second biggest city today, is more accessible that Warsaw.
Or so we thought.
As we drove into the country it was difficult to feel light hearted, or in holiday mode.
The majority of roads are appalling, the traffic is chaos and GPS is less than useless with detours and road blockages everywhere.
Before long we passed signs to places, the names of which make me shudder. Oswiecim (Auschwitz), Berkenau, and of course the Krakow getto.
We passed the hideous modern hotel we stayed at in 2009, within 5Km of Auschwitz—right next door to a childrens fun park!!
It was lunchtime in Poland, but we couldn’t pull off at one of the many cafes near here.
The sight of happy school children in their lunch hour was both uplifting and thought provoking.  Their nearest connection to the area would be through grandparents or great-grandparents.
How could anyone of our age live in a village named Oswiecim?
At one of the many detours directed by a young cop, a very old man staggered along the street almost unable to stay upright.
Perhaps he was a young youth at the time of the horror, and should be forgiven for remaining drunk for the past seventy years.
The young cop observed him knowingly and just let things be!
We got within 25Km of Krakow, and detours due to accidents and roadwork’s sent us in many directions, and that sign to Oswiecim kept appearing to haunt us.
Finally, within 4Km of the centre of Krakow we had both had enough, and pulled off a ‘freeway’ into what seemed like the Toorak of Krakow at a sign to a hotel.
In a side street, a young lady, well dressed and driving a new Alfa had turned into her driveway, waiting for the automatic entrance doors to open.
Well to do young people are obviously getting on with their lives in Krakow.
I quickly parked illegally and asked her about a hotel-and she spoke excellent English and directed us to the Farmona Hotel, Jugowicka, Krakow—just around the corner.
A first class hotel in a parkland setting.
We booked in, had a nice meal without speaking much, and headed back to our very nice room.
Tomorrow is May Day in Poland and most of Europe—a public holiday—and I hope they find something to celebrate.
(For aviators and mariners, May Day is a phrase we never want to hear, or utter!!)
All we ask is a peaceful night here, and a visit to the ‘old’ centre of Krakow in the morning.
It is quite deliberate that here are no photos to post today!

Krakow, Poland 1st May

Being a public holiday, the traffic in Krakow was light, and we had no trouble ordering a taxi at reception and were soon into the centre of the old city.
We walked the old town square and marvelled at the well preserved ancient buildings. The town hall, the market buildings, the royal palace and the many churches of which there are over three hundred throughout Krakow.
Of fifty thousand Jews in Krakow in 1941, there are less then three hundred there today.  But as our young guide remarked, most now mix in a secular society, the three hundred churches are mainly empty and religion amongst the young is in decline universally.
Unlike Warsaw, Krakow was spared bombing raids during WW2 and the ancient city remains largely extant.
And then it was off to the ghetto area some distance away, with an English speaking guide, and in the comfort of an electric ‘car’—a sort of elongated golf buggy.
Past what remains of traditional Jewish shops with their original facades and window displays retained, but many now coffee shops inside.
The only remaining section of the ghetto wall which at the time was topped with coils of razor wire.
Oscar Schindler’s factory with many relics and visual displays.
And then, the Apteka Pod Orlem—“the Pharmacy Under the Eagle”.
Established by his father in 1909, Tadeuz Pankiewic took over the pharmacy shortly before the outbreak of war, and in 1941 it became enclosed in the ghetto.
Three thousand Polish residents had to move from the area designated for the ghetto to make room for some 16,000 Jews.
Tadeuz was asked to move but refused and was reluctantly allowed to continue. His three female assistants also decided to remain and help with his aid to the people of the Ghetto.
It was a place where ‘prescriptions for survival’ were prepared and administered—sedatives to keep small children quiet during Gestapo raids, tranquillisers for the distressed and depressed and general first aid.
Some of the dispensary items on display include many strong barbiturates, ‘strychnine’ and vitamin compounds.
Tadeuz and his staff also offered somewhere to hide in the back rooms of the pharmacy, at great personal risk.
With original photos and excellent audio visual displays including film and voices of some survivors of the ghetto, the pharmacy under the Eagle only re-opened to the public after many years, on 1st March this year.
The Apteka Pod Orlem faces onto a huge square in what was the ghetto, containing nothing but empty chairs, representing the thousands who never survived or were transported to extermination camps.
An enormously touching monument, a place to reflect and an appropriate place to end out ghetto visit and return to our hotel.
We drove off out of Krakow, again in chaotic traffic, towards Slovakia.
After a TWO hour traffic jam outside Krakow, we eventually drove through some picturesque countryside to the Slovak border, for the compulsory ‘Vignette’ pass for their roads.
The flat landscape gave way to hilly country with huge fields of canola and Heather remarked on the profuse lilac bushes everywhere, which we hadn’t noticed in Poland.
At beer o’clock we looked unsuccessfully for a gem and ended up at a boring roadside motel.
We had driven far enough, so booked in and paid E30 cash.
I left Heather in charge of a warm beer and a bored to death young girl running the empty place, and drove off determined to find another ‘gem’.
Within 5Km I had left the main ‘road’ and into a tiny village of Benice where I booked in to a quaint little place—Kastiel Benice in---.
Also E30, lovely young couple running the place, excellent English and very welcoming.
So I collected Heather and abandoned the E30 from the ‘dump’ and we had a great meal and quite night at Benice, for still only E60 total!!

Benice, Slovakia to Budapest, Hungary 2nd May.

We were up early and after home brewed coffee, left our little ‘castle’ at 8am, planning to pull off the road early, say 12:30pm.
The plan was to travel via Nitra, Slovakia and visit the Eurofox aircraft factory, where they make the Recreational ‘light’ aircraft that Horsham Aviation are Australian distributors for. (My Cessna is always serviced at Horsham)
We were there by 10:30 and I was warmly welcomed and manager Peter, showed me all over the works.
They produce about forty aircraft per year in a tiny ‘factory’ with about 8 workers.
A very light two-seater with folding wings, ideal for ‘Stray Gonads’ to tow behind a campervan for an occasional aviation fix in the backblocks.
Wishful thinking I guess, but a local flight was not possible as their newest production was not quite ready for a test flight!!
And they are right next to the Slovak Aero Club, with a taxiway to a 1000m grass runway, also used extensively for gliding ops.
A warm day, even 30 degrees at times, but a few drops (maybe two) later.
It was only a further 120 Km to Budapest, so we decided to drive on a bit, stop for fuel and lunch and then re-assess.
By 2:00 pm we were only 40Km from Budapest, our last big city stopover, so decided to press on.
Unlike getting into Krakow, we were able to continue on a great ‘freeway’ right into the centre of the city, well before the evening peak hour.
After a couple of laps of the city centre with nowhere to park and no obvious signs to a hotel, we asked a young bloke, and he directed us to one nearby—the White Lion.
Very flash, but why bother about another E250 for somewhere to sleep!
The nice English speaking girl on the desk seemed incredulous when I requested a room, but didn’t have a booking!!
All good pubs in Budapest are booked out, except perhaps the Ibis—NO BLOODY WAY!!
She kindly gave me directions to a good pub on the Buda side of the Danube, but we got hopelessly lost and Flossie took us up a narrow street to a tiny private  house.
Things were getting a bit tense, but at the penultimate moment we discovered a great little place on a busy street for the outrageous price of E39 for a double room including breakfast, an English speaking proprietor, WiFi and a locked car park.
And a great restaurant next door, where we both had ‘pork knuckle’ with veg and salad—great.


FRIDAY 3rd May

During the night there was a severe thunderstorm that went on for quite a few hours but by morning the rain had ceased and in was in the high 20’s and humid.
We have decided to stay another night here, so after a nice breakfast it was off to explore this historic city.
Our pub is almost opposite the local ‘suburban’ rail station and after a short walk and a bit of local help, we were on our way into the centre of Buda.
The public transport system is very fast and efficient.
From the central station, only a short walk to the river Danube, with loads of boats waiting to take river tours.
We boarded a hop-on-hop-off ferry at a wharf, right opposite the beautiful houses of parliament on the Pest side. This took us up the Danube in both directions under many bridges and with excellent views of historic buildings on both sides, to disembark on the Pest side, quite near the central market area.
Our walk included the river bank area where many former historic buildings have been turned (tastefully) into luxury hotels, and up into the central square and  café precinct.
We had lunch at a sidewalk café just as the clouds were starting to re-form!
On the way back to the wharf the sky opened and it really pissed down.  We both got soaked to the skin, which has solved the laundry problem for the next few days!!
We will have a good rest this afternoon and tonight, and head off towards Slovenia tomorrow.
I skyped Miran, our neighbour Karl’s nephew who we have met at Faraday, and warned him that we should be in his village of Bovec, Slovenia, probably Sunday evening.
He hates a slivovic also!!!!

4th May

We left our little pub in Budapest at 8am, right amongst the peak hour traffic.
Flossie did a fine job and we were soon on the outskirts of the city and onto country roads.
About 60Km South-West of Budapest we came across a busy local Saturday market at Gardony, and called in for a coffee break and a good look around.
Interesting local dried fruits, wine, halva and chocolate, and the usual stalls of made in China junk.
It was getting busy early, and the local cops were directing traffic to park, including us.
We then drove on a bit, stopped for diesel which cost 32,000 ‘minglebars’, paid with Visa travel card, about E30  for 25 litres.
The persistence with local currencies in EU countries is rather strange, but everywhere they are happy to convert to Euros, and seem to prefer them. The travel card on-line statements usually agree with the conversions, +/- a few cents.
At lunch time we stopped beside a river in Hosok Utja, Molnoszecsod, Hungary, and ate our cheese, salami, egg, pickles and mustard rolls, washed down with diet Coke, which incidentally doesn’t work in Europe either.
Before long we were back in Austria, cutting across the corner towards Slovenia.
By 2:30pm it was time to exit the secondary roads and find a place to camp.
We found a great hotel with an ancient façade but very modern inside, the Allmer ‘wellness hotel’ in the village of Bad Gleichenberg, Austria, not far before the Slovenian border.
Now ‘Bad’ in German/Austrian means spa/spring and the area has many natural springs and ‘wellness centres’.
The bar however, is apparently not regarded as a wellness centre per se, yet there were many there partaking of strong liquids including bier and pizza.
After dinner, including the above, we visited the flash indoor pool and undertook of some ‘wellness’ ourselves!!
Many ancient bodies of similar decline had also participated in ‘wellness’ prior to visiting the bar; refreshed and oh so bloody wholesome.
After all that wellness, it was time for bed; and into Slovenia in the morning.

5th May  

We left our Allmer hotel before breakfast, while all the ageing ‘wellness’ people were probably still trying to figure out what to do with their multi-pronged, strawberry flavoured condoms from the dispenser in the  ‘wellness centre’—perhaps--“should we eat them just like that, or mix them with our gluten free, sugarless, free range yoghurt?”
Flossie directed us on secondary, user friendly roads, and being Sunday the traffic was very light, and of course no trucks on the minor roads.
This is the way to see the REAL countryside.
We again passed through numerous small villages, and stopped for our ‘wellness breakfast’ of cheese and salami rolls and coffee, not long before the Slovenian border.
Then into Slovenia, a small yet stunningly beautiful country with green manicured fields and tiny villages with postcard perfect houses in vivid colours.
We had fallen in love with Slovenia in 2009 when we stumbled on the strikingly attractive village of Bled with its ancient castle and lake surrounded by show capped mountains.
Our destination today was the village of Bovec, at the foot of the Julian Alps, which separate Slovenia from Italy.
And the main purpose was to visit the niece of our neighbour Karl—Metka, and her husband Miran. Miran has visited Faraday several times and last year we had him and Karl for meals at our home.
Karl is very special to us, and as his extended family all live in Bovec, including his eighty two year old brother whom he has not seem for almost twenty years.
Hence this visit was rather personal for us, and some of the photos may be meaningless for some followers of our blog. (yes, I must  have a few followers, we are averaging 83 ‘hits’ per day—why I don’t know, but please persevere!!!)
To reach Bovec without resorting to autobahns is interesting to say the least.
Firstly, about 40Km through the ‘edge’ of Austria to the Slovenian border, 40Km through winding roads in Slovenia, but with no or little traffic, and again arrived at the Austrian border.
Back into Austria and climbing through the mountains for a while, and then we came to the Italian border!!
Could Flossie be wrong??—no way.
This was a road for BWM motorbikes or Ferraris only, and a challenge in our little ‘googly’. Numerous switchbacks, hairpin bends and bridges over deep ravines.
And all the time climbing, eventually reaching the peak of the mountain pass at 1165 metres, at the Slovenian border again; with only 15Km, all down hill, to Bovec.
Located in a valley beside the river Soca, with mountains rising on both sides, this village is our best ‘find’ so far.
The snow capped mountains each side are so steep and close that Bovec is shaded from sunlight for three months of the year in winter, but this time of the year in Spring it is hypnotic.
We booked into the Kanin Hotel—recently renovated and very nice—room and breakfast E78 for both of us including a huge breakfast.  Kanini is the name of the highest peak which the hotel faces, covered in snow, and Italy is beyond!
I skyped Miran, and he and Metka met us at our pub, and after a drink, shouted us out to a local restaurant for a VERY local meal.
The aperitif was a powerful concoction made from tiny local blueberries, distilled, with some drunken berries and sediment in the glass.
Only some 25ml each, but about 150 Octane!! Only made in the Soca valley, and they presented me with a bottle of it to smuggle back home and share with Karl.
Then, cabbage and bean soup, followed by REAL Kranski sausages with vegetables and a local sweet speciality—a pasta/pastry casing filled with a mixture of ground walnuts and cacao—superb.

Monday 6th May

After breakfast including slices of Kranski, cheese, cold meats, coffee and ‘local’ croissants, Miran and Metka picked us up from the Kanin, and we had the grand tour of  Bovec, and the nearby village where Karl lived until he escaped and eventually got to Australia as a sixteen your old during the war.
We visited the actual house he was born in and lived as a child, and then his brothers home and took many pictures of Vinco and his wife for Karl, and one to prove that I can also work in a vegi patch—at Faraday Karl regards his very productive garden as his ‘office’.
And then back to Miran and Metkas unit for coffee, apple juice and some quaint specially home made croissant-like cakes.
And Miran phoned Kark, and we hat a chat. All is well at home, he is a great caretaker.
Miran then drove us around the mountain roads, in pouring rain at well above the speed I was allowed to, and even the rosary beads hanging from the gear stick of his Skoda did nothing for Heathers confidence.
However, he has driven these roads for years and it was very safe.
In the Soca valley we visited an ancient Napoleonic fort, beside a bridge and with a very deep ravine on two sides.
Apparently when the bridge was blown up, the fort was impregnable for the advancing cavalry and they were simple lost into the river, or retreated.
The water in the Soca river is crystal clear and aqua blue, apparently from the limestone it cuts through.
The valley and river are very popular with white-water canoeists and rafters and infact the European kayak championships will be held here in a couple of months.
It may surprise some that I visited the local airfield. C172 rides are offered from here, but there was no activity except a young bloke attempting to launch a paraglider, without success.
The 1000 metre runway is like a bowling green, but wow!!—after taking off in either direction there would be an immediate climb to 3,500 feet to get out of the valley. And no room for a ‘circuit’ approach, the mountains are far too close.
The memorial marker pictured, sadly again shows the folly of mountain flying in IMC
However, Miran assures me they regularly take off with four on board in a C172 with no problems. Perhaps 10 litres in each wing??
We bid our fond farewells, and headed off again towards Italy, towards the Trieste/Venice area.
It poured raining most of the day and again we had miles of mountain driving before descending into Italy and towards Sacile
We stopped for a VERY late lunch at a small café and had coffee/chocolate, and asked for a Panini to take away!!  This was a giant loaf of bread filled with sausage meat, eggplant and capsicum (heated).  We had it cut in four and wrapped in foil, it would be at least two meals.
The lady running this place has no children, but numerous ‘birds’ and pets. To my amazement she has seventeen sulphur crested cockatoos which cost E700 each!!
I offered to supply her with as many as she liked, slightly ‘damaged’, at no cost!!
And then on to Sacile where we eventually found a brilliant Agritourisimo.—fortunately more Agri, and not much tourisimo!!—a REAL farm with a vineyard and animals in a rural setting, and I think we are the only guests tonight.
We shared a bottle of their local La Pioppa vino with our pannini—yes, even me!!—when in Rome----

Tuesday 7th May
Of course there was an alterior motive for visiting Sacile, the home of  the Fazioli piano manufacturing facility, and their demonstration concert hall.
The Fazioli concert grand piano is now considered the finest (and by far the most expensive) in the world.
In exceeds the New York Steinway an even the German built Steinway, and all the leading Japanese pianos.
Very accomplished professional pianists are PAID to perform on a Steinway;  the very finest insist on the Fazioli, and usually have to pay for the privilege.
I promised Heather I would be no more than an hour, how wrong I was.
Outside the entrance to Fazioli there were about 30 secondary students with their teacher. The sliding gates were secured with no obvious means of entry other than with an oxy torch.
Luckily for me, the teacher spoke excellent English and explained that his group of students from Rome and arranged their visit months ago.
Further, he suggested I would have little hope of entering without a letter of introduction, but as I was from Australia, perhaps he could persuade them to let me in.
At 9am the sliding gates opened and the teacher and his students all entered, and I followed at a respectable distance.
After some time a nice lady came out and respecrtfully advised that a visit without notice was not possible, and suggested I get a letter from the Australian agents in Perth!!
However, she directed me to her assistant who took copies of my passport, and email address, and auggested I write formally,requesting a visit, on one of three selected dates, about ten days from today!!
Shit, talk about Fort Knox, getting into the Fazioli empire without prior notice is exceptionally difficult.
Perhaps after our week in a villa in Toscana, perhaps!!
We drove on past Venice and eventually found a bed for the night in an old orphanage in the ancient town of Ravenna about 60Km south of Venice.

May 8th

Our unusual accommodation last night was a direct consequence of my policy of   ‘----through life just freely
roam--‘  we never book ahead, or travel in the tourist season, and hence every place is a surprise, and a new experience.
And occasionally a disappointment, as with the Fazioli place in Sacile.
After bypassing Venice yesterday, we called at a small town on the Adriatic coast which was ancient and beautiful, but our search for accommodation proved fruitless, and hence we drove further south to Ravenna.
Ravenna is a large coastal town, steeped in history and is a national heritage listed place.
Even though it is out of season, it is a large university town with a constant flow of visitors.
The town centre is pedestrian only, and getting to our ‘bed and breakfast’ ‘hotel’ was a real challenge, after asking at a number of good hotels, which were fully booked.
We were directed to this place, which required driving illegally up several one way streets to get into the courtyard parking space through an ancient gateway just wide enough for Simpson and his donkey.
The very flash and modern interior of an ancient home for orphaned girls and wayward Catholics of days long past, now nominally called a B & B---complete with superb period furniture, numerous small rooms with en-suites, and even an old interior church for those in need of forgiveness or spiritual guidance.
We needed guidance to the dining room which we were told was only for breakfast, and the well lit yet unattended bar, which we were told would not be open till 9pm!!!—is it Lent or something, or simply Holy Roman abstinence?
So off to the local ‘supermarket’ for some supplies for ‘dinner’, and of course the bar never opened!!
I thought we were the only guests, but there was a constant trickle of customers later.
However, our room, small as it was, was clean and adequate and there was a very comprehensive breakfast in the morning before we escaped through the ancient walls in the ‘googly’-----
---and then on to Tuscany.  We entered Greve in the GPS, an historic town midway between Florence and Sienna. We had previously stayed in a villa near Greve in 2009, booked through the www, and were a bit disappointed.
But it is the heart of the Chianti Classico region of Toscana, within striking distance of Volterra, Orvietto, Firenze, Sienna, San Gimignagno and all the spectacular little hilltop villages and vineyards of Tuscany.
And so we arrived ‘cold turkey’ as it were, in the square in Greve at 1pm.
We had driven on secondary roads over the alps at 50Km/h most of the way—yet seeing far more of the countryside that on the autostradas.
The city square was packed and our chances of finding a gem of a villa for a weeks stay seemed remote.
While Heather waited in a café we had haunted regularly on our last trip, I came across a superb ancient, self-contained apartment, purely by chance,  only 4Km from the centre of Greve.
Up a good dirt road, well away from the town.
Their large group of visitors had moved out just this morning, and we took their best villa for E650 for seven nights—way below the E1500 for the busy season.
A real gem—our own bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, sitting room, balcony and terrace; open fireplace if it gets cold, and totally separated from anyone in the rest of the place.
Brilliant views over the Tuscan countryside, with vineyards, olive groves and mountains all the way to Greve, and also a shared swimming pool in the extensive gardens.
And the place is a working vineyard and winery, with excellent Chianti Classico vino at E5 for patrons, and we may join other visitors for an optional traditional Tuscan dinner tomorrow evening.
In the morning, I will get some provisions in Greve, and am looking forward to cooking some real wog tucka.
Heather is contented, and we will have a weeks R and R here before heading off towards Switzerland, whenever!!
We have spent most of the day resting, and settling into this gem near Greve—San Stefano. The proprietor, Agostino, speaks reasonable English and with my Italian phrase pocket book we get on well.
He is an excellent host, and suggested many places of interest to visit around Greve.

9th May

I drove the 4Km into Greve in the morning to get some basic provisions for our own cooking—finding a parking spot near the central square or the Co-Op supermarket outside the square is very challenging.
We are stocked up with the basics—bread, milk, eggs, butter, cheese, garlic, onions, real wog sausages, pork/beef mince (maybe a little horse??), tomato paste, pasta, sugar, salt and pepper—sold by weighing from bulk into a plastic container!!  And real ground coffee for our little coffee boiler in the kitchen.
Breakfast of cheese, bread and coffee at midday, as we have decided to accept the offer of a traditional Tuscan dinner with a group staying here tonight, E35 each including many courses, and of course vino too.
I have caught up on a couple of emails, and written to Fazioli requesting a short visit after we leave here, on 16th May, one of their 3 possible dates! And also emailed the Perth distributors, sucking eggs and asking for some sort of introduction.
The dinner turned out to be a great night. With six Belgian blokes, on a ‘4 day trip’ they do together each year, all former basketball players, perfect English speakers, and all in for a big night.
We had antipasto including proscuito, salami and cheese with slices of bread dipped in olive oil. Followed by superb spagetti with tomatoes and fresh herbs cooked perfectly, then ‘roast beef’ with roasted potato pieces and an eggplant cheese and tomato ‘slice’ (hot of course.)  Salad with a nice balsamic and olive dressing, and sweets of strawberries with cream, and a slice of some local cake, to be dipped into a small glass of something like sherry.
The bottles of Cianti Classico red wine flowed freely and the Belgians set a cracking pace whilst we downed plenty of Trebbiano de casa. (Red just stuffs me up in the head these days, and my favourite wine is now beer)
However the shot glass of grappa with the strong coffee really hit the spot, and Heather and I departed for our casa before 11pm.
The Belgians will still be going for quite a while; our hosts joined in after diner, but they too were ready for bed.

10th May

We were up bright and bushy tailed in our villa, but the
Belgian quarters across the road were silent, and they didn’t surface till much mater.
We made fresh coffee and had crusty bread and tomatoes for breakfast.
There is misty fog hanging in the valley this morning and quite overcast but our view is still beautiful; and it is so quiet with no traffic nearby and only the sound of a mopoke somewhere in the distance.
Somewhat overdue for a visit to the trichologist, I drove the 4Km down our mountain track to Greve and found a traditional ‘barber’.
Straight into the ancient chair, and he was down to work on a pretty scruffy canvas with a variety of surgically sharp instruments. My Italian phrase book helped a bit as he spoke no English.
Much trimming with scissors only and then tackled my beard and mow until we were both satisfied.
And then out with shaving brush and foam and the cut throat razor to clear all the weeds under my chin and neck.
This old master craftsman (possibly not much younger that me) spend a good hour at his easel; a true artisan.
E20 for the experience, which considering the enormity of the task was very reasonable.
Got an email from Fazioli regretting they are unable to permit a visit and suggesting I write for an appointment when next in Italy!!!!
Bugger.
The weather here is cool, very still, but we got some rain and thunder in the afternoon.
Not doing much during our ‘holiday within a holiday’ except resting.
This arvo I drove to the Panzano area of Chianti, near where we stayed last time we were here—much higher up in the hills, about 610 metres on Flossie.
In the evening I cooked our first wog meal, which of course had to be pasta.  Got some fresh sage from Agostinos garden,  cooked the spag, drained and mixed with big chunks of garlic, tiny cherry tomatoes, olive oil, grated parmesan. Also made meat sauce separately and again we had crusty bread.
Agostino also insisted I picked some globe artichokes from the veg patch to try—full of earwigs like our veg at home—but when boiled in salty water and drizzled with olive oil they were superb.
Great wog tucka!!
Tomorrow is the weekly Saturday market in Greve (pronounced Grevay).
The market was packed last time we were here, and they had superb local Sienese pork  (‘wild chinguali’) with crackling, freshly cooked and sliced for rolls,
And I think we can’t resist

11thMay

A still sunny morning in San Stefano and had breakfast of toast and coffee.
Mid morning, we drove the 4Km down the hill into Greve.  The centre was packed and we took ages to find a parking spot.
The village square had been cleared of cars and the whole place was one big outdoor market, a regular Saturday event.
Clothes, both new and pre-owed, shoes, fruit and veg, kitchen gadgets, books, hats, sunglasses and every kind of every local food.
The same stall selling freshly roasted pork paninis was again doing exceptional business and we each ate one as we walked around.
Thick slices cut off a whole roasted pig, with pepper and herb seasoning, in a fresh ‘roll’.
As the huge bell in the town tower struck midday, the crowds started to thin out and the stall holders were packing up for another week.
On our way back to the car park, the local ‘supermarket’ was just closing and we missed out on a few top-up items.
But at a tiny fruit/veg shop we bought giant fresh tomatoes and some nice local vin blanc at E3.30/bottle.
Back home for an afternoon nap, after being shown over the San Stefano’s ancient cellars, by Agostino.
The grapes and picked, crushed, fermented and the wine stored here, but any lab work and chemistry is farmed out.
And the olives are picked and sent for processing. The superb oil is stored in stainless steel containers today, but the family have worked this property for centuries and there are many ancient amphora’s still kept in the cellar.
Our villa has everything we could wish for, including NO TV!!!
We don’t know what’s happening in the rest of the world but would have heard about any serious dramas on the Toscana Telephone.
I do know however that tomorrow is Domenica, and that  most red-blooded Italians will be wishing for a couple of Ferraris on the podium at the Spanish Grand Prix!!
And I can watch live timing from the F1 site, on the laptop.

12th May
Happy Mothers Day to all Mothers, and also time to reflect and fondly remember the
Mother we once had.
Here in Italy it is also Mothers Day today, whilst back in Slovenia, the last country we visited, it was celebrated on 8th March.
Whilst the ‘Sherman Tanks’ claim to have invented mothers day, in ancient  times a whole weekend of celebrations were held in May in recognition of Juno, the goddess of marriage and motherhood. (Google 101)
Today in Italy it is simply a day for families to get together for a meal in the family home, or to dine out.
It is the most popular day of the year to dine out, and flower sellers line the piazzas all day.
Not a good time for visitors to find a special restaurant, so I made toast and coffee for Heather, and have borrowed a white flower from the gardens in remembrance of my Mum.
And Heather sykped her Mum back home.
(For the history buffs I have come across a fascinating web site (Italian) depicting an oil on canvas painting by Benardino d’angelo Bucatini of an enormous ‘mamma’ giving birth by Caesarean section to seven live wolves!!!—allegedly representing the hills of Roma. Not for the faint hearted; it goes into great detail of the bizzare origins of the Roman  ‘giorno madre’  There is a flag on the top RHS for a vague English translation. Click on http://giornomadre.messaggiospagliato.it  )
The six Belgian blokes left this morning, after a very long day yesterday working all the tasting rooms of Chianti.
They played up a bit in the pool till 11:30 last night, which didn’t make Agostino very happy.
We were oblivious to it all our villa is quite separate.
We had a bit of rain here this afternoon, and two loud claps of thunder, but it soon cleared and is now quite warm.
------And Ferrari came one, three in Spain with Alonso winning his ‘home’ GP!!

13th May
WARNING: THESE PAGES MAY CONTAIN ADULT MATERIAL. PARENTAL GUIDANCE IS RECOMMENDED. KINDLY REGARD THIS MESSAGE AS HAVING APPLIED SINCE DAY ONE. THANKYOU.
It is a beautiful sunny day at Santo Stefano near Greve and our resolve to do next to nothing but rest here, persists.
It is so quiet you can hear a mosquito fart, which in itself has a valuable purpose, as the occasional one that penetrates out defences at night can be detected before it strikes.
The swallows that visit Greve each Spring have begun to build their little mud houses, and on the indoor staircase to our villa, Agostino has erected permanent terracotta platforms for this purpose.
I guess it could be regarded as some form of cross species symbiosis—they benefit from a safe and protected place to nurture their young, whilst we are spared their crap on our heads.
I can’t be absolutely certain, but as these amazing aviators do migrate each season, I am pretty sure the one that has taken up residence outside out door is the very same that nested in our shed last year.
They do however, look quite similar; perhaps I could be mistaken.
In less that two months, Firenze will be crawling with experts counting how many ‘goolies’ David has or the length of his ‘mister wobbly’.
Many similar nether parts from statues in Rome and elsewhere, have been removed as souvenirs, including from the Vatican museum itself !!.
Sienna will be crawling with objectionable Yanks fighting for a place at a tiny restaurant, or pushing to get their postcard picture in one of the many piazzas.
San Gimignano, Assisi, Arrezo, Radda and Pisa will be invaded by  ‘ethnics’ such as we are, and all the villas of Toscano, so many of which are now owned and run by yanks, poms and frogs, will be crowded.
We have previously been guilty of joining such impersonal throngs, and it saddens me that so many ‘ancient villas’, circa 2013, are still being built by entrepreneurial non-wogs.
With no character, charm or history.
Each to his own, but to just happen upon a real Tuscan working farm, vineyard, olive grove and villa, is what I call Italy.  And there are thousands of them!
For us, much better to absorb the atmosphere, and explore the intricacies of one ancient town and its people, than draw a mere brushstroke across a broader canvas.
And so what of today.
I drove into Greve at 7:30, found a parking spot and entered the ‘co-op’ as it opened at 8am.
Salami, cheese, mortadella, panni and the inevitable Nutella, plus some tea bags, for a change from coffee for breakfast.
After brunch I acquired a giant gelato as only the Italians can make, and sat in the sunshine trying to consume more than the sun could melt.
Resting in the afternoon here is a serious activity, yet requires few special skills other that reasonable dexterity with a corkscrew, and the ability to relax and nod off at will.
For those in need of spiritual fulfilment this ancient winery even has its own private chapel.  (I should know better, but thought it was the bar!!)

14th May
My warning that today readers could expect to see some red motorcars was not to be taken lightly.
Indeed it has been an exceptional red letter day.
After leaving our superb villa near Greve at 9am, we set Flossy to take us on the autostrada to the town of Maranello near Modena, a mere 165Km north.
After battling the trucks at 130Km and cars blasting past much faster in the outer lanes, we were in Maranello just on 11am, almost opposite the Ferrari factory, and beside the museum.
It took some time to find accommodation, a few pubs being booked out as the ‘vintage’ re-run of the Milli Miglia ends here of Saturday.
However we happened upon the Maranello Palace hotel, a pleasant modern place within 3Km of the Ferrari Museum, and almost behind the factory.
Heather was happy to rest here while I proceeded to tick another item of my barrel list.
Over the years I have come to reconcile myself with the the depressing  reality that I may never own a Ferrari, excepting by the remote possibility of an Oz Lotto killing.
I have been told however that even that improbability of instant riches requires the purchase of a ticket.
And so why not hire one for a drive around the streets and outskirts of their home town.
On either side of the museum are operators offering drives in a variety of Ferraris.
On the www there were some requesting payment with a booking form downloaded and sent in, not my modus operandi.
I was able to rock up to a group called ‘Kick Start’ and book the Ferrari of my choice for 3:30 in the afternoon.
I chose a 458 Italia, open cockpit, with all gears and clutch ‘paddle operated’ on the steering wheel, al la F1, and only a stop and go pedal on the floor.
E200 for 30 minutes with a ‘guide’ in the passengers seat to direct me onto the back roads and to tell me when to press on the ‘gas’.
After following a truck for a bit, he directed me onto a side road and kept calling ‘gas’ ‘gas’!!
At one stage we were doing 170Km in 4th gear, and he pushed my right knee down as he called ‘gas’!!, and the acceleration was astonishing.
I don’t think I quite got to 200Km/h, but I at least got into fifth gear, and the acceleration was still immense.
What it would do in 6th gear is for a longer straight, or on the track only!!
Top speed is allegedly 325Kph (202MPH)
Because of the truck following, he gave me a few more minutes of an extraordinary experience.
The thing was fully insured except for wheel or rim damage, which has an excess of E10,000!!!
I was bloody careful to avoid that.
While still on cloud nine I wandered over to the Ferrari museum, with a particular interest in their F1 cars over the years, up to almost the very latest.
Turning one corner on the second level, one is confronted by an perfect wax ‘model’ of Enzo himself, sitting at his original desk. It is so realistic, I found it a bit confronting.
Enzo died in Maranello in 1988 at the age of 90, but it was as though the master was still at his desk!!
Back at our hotel there were TWELVE Ferraris, all from France, in the car park. Magnificent, but why on earth would anyone ever buy a yellow, blue, or black Ferrari.
But then again the frogs are a strange lot!! Sour grapes??
I hope the pictures tell some of the story, I am still speechless!!

15th May

Up at 7:30 in our ‘palace’ in Maranello, and already the occasional Ferrari is playing symphonic music along the streets below.
We had a superb breakfast in the dining room, included in the E130 for the night.  The usual sliced meats, cheeses, yoghurt, juices, caffee Americana, croissants and a variety of ‘wellness’ options for the connoisseurs of chaff and fibre.
Paid our dues at reception, and admired the autographed photos on the lobby wall.
Phillipe Massa (Ferrari F1 driver) who stays here before the Italian GP; that dropkick chef Gordon Ramsay who has stayed and no doubt annoyed the shit out of management, and many members of the Ferrari F1 support team.
We watched the frog Ferrari group depart en mass, and then snuck out inconspicuously to the ‘googly’.
Set Flossy for Milano and headed off in pouring rain at 10:30am, on non-autostrada roads.
It poured rain all day, and by 2pm we had only covered 165Km, all on secondary roads, and it was time to look for somewhere to stay.
We are in the Lombardi plains area of Italy; as flat as a shit carters hat; not the most attractive region of this beautiful country.
After finding a stunning ennoteca which advertised accommodation, but was not open yet for the coming season, the helpful proprietor printed out directions to a ‘nearby’ agriturismo.
Directions in the Italian countryside leave a lot to be desired—few street (via) names, and vague signs with exaggeratedly short distances to places to stay.
And so in heavy rain, it took us almost two hours to find the place he recommended.
Eventually we arrived at this modest agriturismo, on the peak of about the only hill in the region, pretty basic, but with superb views in all directions over rolling vineyards.
La Dogana, adjacent to the Castle of Luzzano, in the tiny village of Greta. La Dogana apparently means something like ‘go through customs’, but I think we got through without being challenged!!
A strange name for an Agriturismo.
The rain stopped, and we had our ‘picnic dinner’ outside, washed down with some vin ordinaire
A quite spot, and again I think we are the only takers.
But I don’t have to milk the cow (Schnook)!!
A friendly ‘petroni’ with minimal English, and it is E95 including breakfast.
Our ‘camerra’ is up a spiral staircase which is a challenge for this old fart, but I will only carry my pills and a toothbrush up those stairs!!
We have no wifi here, and so this post will appear hopefully, tomorrow.
By which time we should be close to the Swiss border in the north of Italy, and possibly heading through the Saint Bernard tunnel (18KM) on Saturday.

17h May
After a generous breakfast for two in the dining area below those dreaded stairs, we set off again planning to cover 150-200Km by lunchtime by which time we would be within striking distance of the Swizz and French borders.
Again on secondary roads, avoiding the autostradas, but through many small villages with numerous roundabouts.
In fact in two hours we had only covered 100Km.
We passed the Malpensa airport, which is one that serves Milano, but is a long way north west of that city.
We stopped for a roadside break nearby, in a forest of giant chessnut trees. Our one at home will be that big in a couple of centuries.
And then on to the township of Laveno Mombello, and found a great hotel which was fully booked. The girl in reception phoned around and booked us in to the Hotel Meuble Moderno, right on the shores of Lago Magggiore.
So we stayed and had lunch at the flash pub, and both had a superb dish of creamy fettuccini with fungi.
And then a 7Km drive to Meuble Moderno, which is not very ‘moderno’ at all, but clean and comfortable with superb views over the lake from our balcony.
We had not had wifi for two days, and when I opened my email and skype I was shocked to find out that a good flying friend John Livsey, had passed away.  Terribly sad, and we later got ‘details’ from his best mate.  Not a flying accident, but so very sad.
John and I had flown around Australia last year, and Heather and I had befriended him.
He stayed at our place numerous Saturdays after coming up to Kyneton for a fly.
This was during a ‘rough spell’; which we thought he had recently overcome.  And Heather listened to all his problems, and offered counsel, as she is so adept at.
And now it is all over. And so bloody pointless.
We toasted him over a couple of Belgian beers and vin bianco respectively last evening.
Sad as that is, we have a holiday to get on with, and had a walk around this beautiful spot, right at the foot of the Alps.
Lake Maggiore is enormous, over 68Km in length, and the Swizz border runs across it some 35Km from where we are.
The people we might have visited near Bern, Switzerland are away; and everything in Switzerland was oh so expensive on our last visit.
So we will stay here an extra day now, regroup, and on Sunday head off towards the Mont Blanc tunnel and into France where all those silly bloody frogs live.
Give me wogs anyday!!  Viva Italia!!

18th May

Up early at our ‘moderno’ in Laveno, and had a nice breakfast downstairs with the other five people staying here.
A bit of serious electronic financial juggling was then required between Peter, Paul and Mary, to keep Alan and Heather in the black.
The ANZ need to be told that whilst their travel card is excellent and saves heaps on currency transfer fees, their web site is less than bloody useless.
Perhaps they also need reminding that we have an EEU these days, and only one currency needs to be loaded.
Even in all the Eastern European countries we have visited, the price is automatically converted from whatever their local ‘minglebars’ are, to Euros, give or take a couple of cents, without fees.
Impending travellers, look into this and just load the card with either GBP or E depending on the best exchange rate.
And if you load a travel card with a Credit card, it is considered a purchase!!  Thus you get a lot of Qantas FF points (in our case),  which can be transferred from those useless pricks to another airline’s points scheme.
Enough of all that!, from the worlds most useless financial advisor.
---------J.L.’s premature demise has vindicated my philosophy that life has to be lived to the full—let’s do it all and more, and stuff the bloody expense!!!
It is fine but overcast here and rain is expected by about 3pm. So we decided to take a ferry to Intra, across the lake from here, for their Saturday market.
Only a short crossing, and possibly mainly locals taking their cars over on the short ferry trip.
Great scenery on the way over—castles, mountains on all sides and the quaint small town of Intra with a bustling market.
Our only purchase was a coffee each, and Heather bought an umbrella for E3!
And it DID rain when we got back, right on three o’clock!!
And rained steadily for the rest of the day, but still quite mild.
Which didn’t prevent us walking down the street and getting a real wog pizza, and a not-so-wog but none the less very nice takeaway kebab, to polish off in our ‘moderno’
Note the 24 hour coin-in-the-slot pharmacy--I should have had one of these and I might have made a few quid from all the 'innocents' who were too embarrassed to come in and ask.  Note, at least the three top shelves are good 'ole 'wellness products'!!!

19th May
The rain continued all night and it was still pissing down while we were having our yoghurt, sliced meats, cheese, bread rolls and coffee for breakfast.
But Indigo Jones, our ‘moderno host’ assured us it would stop by 9am.
After leaving right on 9am we headed towards the autostrada to get a few Km up towards the alps and Monte Bianco, to drive under the mountains into France
And of course the smart arse was right again, by 9:15 the rain had stopped, the sun was out, and in the light Sunday traffic we were able to sit on 130Kph comfortably for almost 200 clicks.
By 11am we were driving through the beautiful val de Aosta, where we stayed for a couple of days in 2009.
Right at the foot of the Alps, in the North-West corner of Italy, about 40km from the St Bernard tunnel to Switzerland (last trip) or the Mont Blanc tunnel into France.
Almost at the latter, and on the Italian Monte Bianco side, we stopped for a breather (OK, a pee/smoke), to take it all in.
Surrounded by snow covered cliffs, with ribbons of water streaming down vertically from the melting snow, and the entrance to the 11.6km tunnel directly ahead.
And the peak of Monte Bianco, at 15,781 feet, way above its cloud shrouded base.
A couple of hang gliders were gently soaring the cool fresh air, high above the snow line.
The entrance is about one hundred metres inside the French border, so it is rightly called the Mont Blanc tunnel.
So we purchased our ‘pass’ from the frogs on duty and were careful to maintain sixty Km/h all the way through—the ‘50 minimum and 70 maximum’ are strictly enforced.
The tunnel exit is still some 6000 feet AMSL and we stopped again for some photos.
And then down for about 20Km and took the first exit to hunt for a base for the rest of the day and night.
We happened upon the Saint-Gervais area in the Chamonix region—a group of small and very pretty villages with numerous Swiss-type ski resorts.
But it seemed that nobody was home.
After getting hopelessly lost I chanced upon a couple of locals outside a café and managed to get the name of a hotel written on a scrap of paper—‘Les 2 Gares’ in le Fayet.
I fed this into Flossy, and she immediately took us to a closed road with no alternates.
After driving round hopelessly for half an hour with no success, I came across a THIRD resident of the region!
This old chap stared at my scrap of paper, scratched his head for a while, then proceeded to hop in the back seat of the ‘googly’ and direct me with sign language to les 2 gares.
I assumed it was just around the block, but after numerous turns and roundabouts, many of which seemed familiar, we drove on for over ten Km.
I kept thinking if he does take us to the pub, how in hell will I be able to drive him back to where we found him, and then get back to the pub without getting lost again.
At last we entered the small village of le Fayet which had three or four hotels, including the Les 2 Gares.
He hopped out very pleased with himself, and greeted two blokes he obviously knew with the usual kiss in each cheek!
I tried to explain that I would drive him back, but fortunately I think he intended visiting his mates here anyway, and had got a free ride.
And so there were now at least FIVE inhabitants of Saint-Gervais!
We booked in to this great place with the mountains hanging just outside the front, and profusely thanked the old chap and his mates for their help.
As most know, the frogs in general are reluctant to speak English, even though many can.
To overcome this impasse, I never ask ‘do you speak English?’, but rather say ‘I am from Australia, can you help?’
The results are often very positive.
They distinguish us from the ‘poms’ immediately. No offense intended, my good pommie friends have been Australians for over forty years!! (P&B)
After going through the kangaroo impersonation for a while, full of smiles, they go out of the way to help, even if there don’t speak ‘English’.
We had a great 3pm lunch in a nearby café, and back to out 3-star ‘Swiss ski resort’—E59, and it’s a real gem.
The streets were deserted by 4pm, perhaps they’ll all come out to play tomorrow!!







20th May


After breakfast and a bit of a wander around the village, we set Moulins in the GPS.
And were surprised that it is further away by far that Paris. Perhaps there is a Moulins in the Arctic somewhere. So I altered the setting to Nevers, home of the ancient oak forests, which produce the best, and most expensive wine barrels.
We started off on the toll roads to get through the alps without too much mountaineering, and again the roads seemed almost deserted.
No trucks, and few cars, and at 130km plus it was a breeze.
After 150Km and having descended to the Liore valley region, we left the toll road system and onto excellent secondary roads, and continued on through the beautiful French countryside.
In the Challone province, we headed off into some small villages through typical rural farming country, with those famous white beef cattle grazing happily in lush fields.
These pure white coated beef cattle are raised for their their high quality meat, sometimes crossed with Angus or Herreford stock.
The rain continued to piss down, and the forecast is for much of the same all this week in France.
We called into the small village of  Paray-le-Monial looking for a small hotel in the countryside.
After calling at four places, we came across a fine restaurant, and an English teacher dining there recommended a Hotel called le St Cyr at Montmerlard, some 20Km away.
We drove there on great rural roads, to find this superb hilltop spot was closed.
So in the pouring rain we retreated, only to find that there were many beautiful little accommodation places, but all were closed—nobody home!!!
No one had told us that is Whit Monday, a religious public holiday in France—not a good day for athiests to find somewhere to stay, or eat!!.
Back at Paray-le-Monial we chanced upon a small hotel—open, and booked in for the night.
Having not eaten since 7am,  I drove on for many Km trying to find some sort of ‘snack’.
The supermarket in a nearby larger town was closed, no cafes were open, and back at our little hotel we had to wait until 7pm till the dining room opened.
We are located beside the Canal du Centre, not far from  Macon on the Saone river, close to where we stayed in Tournous on our last trip here.
Hunger is great for the appetite, and at 7pm we joined many others in the dining room for a fabulous French meal, beside a warm wood-burning fireplace.
I had a dozen escagots for entrée, Heather had scallops on skewers, both with a fabulous sauce, followed by superbly cooked steak from those beautiful beef cattle, and a bottle of Macon wine.
A real treat, after a wet ad confusing day—a la Pentecostal Monday holiday!!!
We will both sleep well tonight, and bugger the weather!!!

21st May

Strange as it may seem, I must confess that I am unable to walk on water, let alone turn it into wine.
Or beer for that matter, without appropriate additions of malted barley, hops and yeast, plus a modicum of ancient alchemy.
Possibly due to the constraints of Newtonian physics, and my lack of any metaphysical powers, I have also been unable to alter the weather.
It has now rained incessantly for over two days, our spirits remain high but the fields of France are soaked, and it is not sightseeing weather.
From Paray-le-Monial we followed the broad Canal du Centre for some distance, past a few locks. The canals in France are much wider that those of the UK, as are their ‘bateaux’.
Always on the secondary roads which are excellent, and which pass through small villages and open countryside, without entering the bigger towns and cities.
We drove in consistent rain towards Moulins, where we pulled into a small side road in search of  something for breakfast.
At the only café open we had coffee, hot chocolate for me, and the only accompaniment available; fresh crusty bread, plonked on the bar with a container of butter and a knife.
Other locals were enjoying the same fare, and it was simple, warming and adequate.
The rain continued as I stopped to take photos of the tasty Charolais cattle whose friends we dined on last evening.
They too looked a bit despondent in the mud and rain soaked paddocks.
Then through avenues of giant plane trees and the ancient oak forests of Nevers, and left the main road near Cosne-Cours-sur Loire and ‘discovered’ the rather large town of Gien spread along either side of the river Loire.
The town was heavily bombed by the Luftwaffe during WW2 with much damage inflicted, but the main target, the historic bridge, remains intact.
We booked into a modern hotel in this ancient town, with a room overlooking the Liore and the castle formerly of Phillip 11.
A magic sight, if only the sun would come out for a while.
But it continued to drizzle all day.
All we wanted for lunch was a bowl of soup, and the chef in the adjoining restaurant obliged with a superb creation of creamy mushroom and prawn bisque, served of course with fresh crusty bread.
The lobby area of the pub had a quaint raised seating area with what looked like a lectern.
And so having missed the Whit Monday services, I took to the pulpit and delivered an impromptu ‘mass’.
It impressed no one as the lobby was deserted and the receptionist just scratched her head, bewildered.
The bar here didn’t seem to exist, nor were evening meals evident; so we walked in the rain to a real workers pub a few blocks away.
After a pint of REAL ale (Munchen I think), and a vin for Heather, we bought great take away pizza and smuggled it back to our room.
May the bloody sun shine tomorrow, for us to explore more of this area!

Wed 22nd May

I was up early in Gien and went for a bit of a tourist drive at 7am, before the towns peak hour rush.
The castle was severely damaged during the war also, and except the ancient tower, much has since been rebuilt.
The Loire river here is flowing rapidly, and is very broad; of course being one of the three major rivers of France.
Ancient wooden river boats still ply the river with cargo or in search of fish.
Just outside the town, the long railway bridge was damaged by war time bombing raids but has been restored, and Giens contribution to global warming is in full swing nearby.
Avenues of neatly pruned plane trees extend along the river banks for miles.
Heading towards Chartres, we followed the river through the village of Sully-sur-Loire and turned into the tiny hamlet of Dampierre-en Burly for breakfast at 9am.
Again, crusty chunks of fresh husband beaters with butter and jam also this time, and very strong coffee.
Close to Orleans the googly needed breakfast also, and we topped up with diesel at E1.37/l—the cheapest we’ve seen since Hungary.
At 12:30 we had covered 200Km and decided to leave the main roads and find a spot to settle in, and soak up some small village atmosphere.
By 1pm it was lunch o’clock and we turned into an impossibly narrow driveway to the tiny car park of a quaint French/Turkish restaurant at Acquigny, some 40Km south of Rouen in Normandy.
Perhaps it was something we ate, but all I can remember is that it must have been over lunch that I fell into a deep trance and dreamt vividly.
There was this discordant music in the background, and the aroma of chick peas rolled in cumin and bubbling cauldrons of meatballs with beans and peas and chicken and boiled potatoes sizzling in earthernware pots; was overwhelming.
I remember ordering the chicken, and when the brightly coloured rooster arrived with a knife and fork, I asked him to get some salt and pepper too. Fortunately, he never returned.
After lunch, this lady from the la Kasbah eating house beckoned us to follow and I did without question.
She would lead us to distant lands to where their would be accommodation, pre-arranged on an instrument she called a mobile phone.
Only five kilometres away, and I followed her in her black chariot without question, with the passenger beside me, whom I assumed to be my wife.
Five kilometres became six and then fifteen and we finally came to a huge sliding steel gate topped with ominous spikes, but with a narrow opening.
And we followed, and entered this strange land.
I drove on and on following the black chariot and we passed many strange houses where very poor people must live; so poor that they grow potatoes on the grass roofs or their houses.
There were brown rabbits running around everywhere and ravins following us, and the sky darkened.
At last we pulled up at a strange old and decrepit castle, and secret numbers were required to be pressed on the door to allow entry.
The only one present was Morticia with whom the lady from la Kasbah had spoken secretly on her electric machine.
They conversed in a strange language and then my partner embraced la Kasbah with a kiss on each cheek and she disappeared back through the menacing steel gates.
I awoke at this point, to discover that we were at the du Vaudreuil Golf ‘Hotel’, located in the midst of a huge golf complex where men and women of all ages were hitting small balls with sticks as far away from themselves as they could.
And they were paying dearly for that privilege.
Motricia took some details, gave us a key to a third floor room in the Adams Family home up an improbably steep staircase, told us about the secret numbers to enter the front door, and to re-enter the prison gates after 8pm if we desired.
And then locked the only semblance of a dining or lounge area, and vanished for the night.
A strange, strange place—the clubhouse which we were told was for hotel guests to eat also closed at 4pm, and I had left my bloody hat back at Aquigny!!
With nothing to eat, I escaped through the gates, bought a couple of ‘sandwiches’ and came back just before being trapped in the outside world!!!
What a strange day, and what a pity it’s all true too, but we will laugh about it when we escape in the morning.
And truly, NOTHING to drink!!

Thurs 23rd May

We rose early and were pleased to have survived the night.
The charges set to demolish this crumbling castle at midnight, had failed, probably due to a wet fuse.
It had of course, rained all night.
And the pitchfork above out ‘bathroom’ entrance had not been touched.
Morticia appeared right on seven am and we paid our dues; although I was expecting her to pay us.
But that’s just how it is in these strange places.
We were offered some breakfast which she has prepared, but as it would surely be laced with hemlock and laudanum, we politely refused.
In the rain we quickly escaped through the threatening gates and entered the real world again.
Just as the strange people who are obsessed with their little white balls were advancing en masse in their expensive motorcars.
Or walking to the vast lawn areas with their ball-hitting sticks, from their houses with the grass roofs and potato patches on top.
We both pinched ourselves, but alas, it had been real.
I am aware of obsessions some have with strange automobiles and flying machines and even I have been guilty of flirting with other gods.
But this bizarre pass-time is more than a harmless obsession. It is a cult with secret rituals and strange talking in tongues and the shouting of ‘four’ to all who encroach on their lawns and sandpits.
And I am told by persons of worldly knowledge that the winner of the contest is he or she who achieves the LOWEST score.
Very strange!
In the outside world we quickly found a tiny café to eat some breakfast, which would not be laced with poisons.
And then continued at great speed to retreat towards Calais.
The secondary roads in France however are excellent and the countryside beautiful.
Again in the rain, I called into the Aero Club De La Somme, but apart from a Robin doing circuits and a Chipmonk parked on the grass and a chopper practicing rescues, there was nobody home.
A great run into Calais and purchased a ticket for the ferry for tomorrow and booked into a nearby pub.
Into the land of the poms and Scotts and Welsh for five weeks, tomorrow.
Rule Britannia, God save the Queen and all that stuff.
And driving the googly on the right side of the road from the left side of the car should be fun!!

Frid 24th May

Our hotel in Calais was basic, pleasant and reasonably priced, with free wifi in all rooms.
Qualities not common near ports and airports, without spending way above our means.
The manager was helpful and spoke excellent English, but overlooked reminding me tomorrow is the start of a Bank Holiday weekend in Britain, AND the start of the mid-year school break until June 2nd.
This created a degree of urgency to find initial accommodation, as we had neglected to pack tents and sleeping bags.
It was up to Google and such sites as ‘Last minute beds’ and ‘Late rooms.com’ to come to the rescue.
We had decided to start our pub crawl up the East coast, of course avoiding London, having visited Her Majesty’s village last time.
Alas, every coastal place I googled, was fully booked.
The poms get quite adventurous when they have a holiday and even in appalling weather, head for the sea.
After much gnashing of teeth I finally found a room in the Victory at Mersea, Colchester and booked the last room.
Perhaps it was a cancelation, or just good luck as it seems a great place, on an ‘island’, right on the coast, about 90 miles from Dover.
With no haunted castle or electrified gates!
Getting a place in Dover itself was also a feat, finally booking a room in the Premier Inn close to the port.
Not very premier, except for the price.
We headed for the Calais port early and were able to drive onto the P&O ferry almost immediately, and the crossing was only about ninety minutes.
After lunch, we drove a couple of miles to the Battle of Britain memorial to fill in time until we could book in to the ‘Inn’.
And so tomorrow we will start our British adventure as we work our way up the East coast and into Scotland and then down through Wales.
And I am confident we won’t have to sleep in the car.

Sat 25th May
There are 51,380 pubs in Britain and so our task is quite a challenge.
So, an early start from Dover to get to the Victory of Mersea before closing time.
From Dover if was 116 miles, or 187 Km.
Flossy was a bit confused with the units, and displayed the speed limits in MPH, and the distance in Km.
So a bit of en route conversion was needed to avoid the local bobbies, who were out in force for the Bank Holiday weekend.
The route to Mersea took us VERY close to London city.
I guess we virtually passed Liz and Phil and Andrew and Kate and Charlie and Camilla, no doubt all with their ‘bathers’ on, for the beach.
It is close to seventeen degrees today, the sun is shining and it is possibly an late spring heatwave.
At one stage we passed the turn off to Maldon, and I was sure we had taken the wrong road.
The poms are funny buggers that way—they have named many of their towns after places in Australia—they also have a Taradale, a Malsbury, an Elphinstone, a Harcourt, and I’m sure they’ll have invented a Faraday too.
This bank holiday business is taken very seriously.
When we found the Victory at Mersea, it was crowded with lily white forms braving the harsh sun on the lawn area.
No problem with our accommodation booking, but we had to book for dinner too!—they must be expecting a big rush when the tide recedes.
For Mersea is an island, reached via a causeway.
We had been told that when the tide is in there could be up to a two hour wait to drive across.
We were lucky as the road was still wet, but the tide was out.
But hopefully it will not be out when I try my first cask ale at six o’clock—I haven’t had a drink since BEFORE we stayed at the Adams mansion!!

26th May

I tried a couple for real ales at the Victory of Mersea and they were from Scotland—possibly single malts??!!
Only the French onion soup for dinner, which was superb.
Plus platters of local breads and an olive oil and balsamic dip, which we didn’t order.
The poms speak a kind of Australian, but some things are still lost in the translation!
After a great sleep and a full English breakfast, it was time to establish a base for today, again in the middle of the Bank Holiday weekend and the school half-term break.
Last evening we met a bloke from Perth who lives here with his UK wife, and got a few clues on places to stay, but they would have involved back-tracking a bit.
By chance, I discovered an old pub (not that old really—established in 1545!!!!) with a vacancy for tonight.
Only 70Km further up the track in the tiny village of Cretingham, near Woodbridge, in Suffolk.
And what a real gem the ‘Cretingham Bell’ is.
About an hours drive from Mersea on decent roads, and then some 5Km up the narrowest of narrow English lanes.
Impossible to pass without pulling off into one of the occasional sidings for that purpose.
The ‘village’ of Cretingham consists of a dozen or so cottages, and the ‘Bell' which is the centre of community life.
Not just for a pint or two, but it is also the local restaurant, meeting place and village green.
The couple who own the place were very welcoming and run a great little typical village pub.  Hidden from the masses in a maze of tiny lanes.
Many came for lunch, mostly locals I guess as it is well off the beaten track.
In the afternoon, I went for a drive up more very narrow lanes, to find the airstrip at Monewden, while Heather enjoyed the ‘sunshine’ with a few of the friendly natives.
I found this private grass strip, formerly the Horizon Flying Club, just as a young chap and his girlfriend landed in a C150.
The only hangar there contains a Stearman, a Harvard and a Bonanza, all locked up and just visible through the cracks in the shed.
And during the day quite a number of warbirds flew over, on their way to or from the airshow at the Duxford museum, up the road a bit in Cambridgeshire.
After a couple of pints of Woodfords Nelson’s and scampi for tea, I watched the Monaco GP with publican Charles and his mate David, who at one time worked for the ‘MARCH’ F1 team in the US. Recorded earlier, to watch after the pub emptied.
Rosberg, Vettel, Weber, Hamilton.
The owners expect another busy day for lunch tomorrow, being the Bank Holiday Monday.
The weather has been beautiful and we could easily spend another day here.

27th May

Another beautiful sunny day in Cretingham and after breakfast we hung around for a while chatting to the couple who own/run the place.
It would be s shit of a job, 7am to 11pm everyday, from cooking and serving breakfasts, to kicking the last pisshead out at 11pm.
Only one other couple had stayed the night and they left early, so we listened to our hosts’ life stories over, and after breakfast.
Charles is a pretty handy chef and does all the cooking.
Sunday lunches are their busiest time and it is traditional for all the locals to down a few pints and have their weekly outing for a full roast dinner.
Usually pork and beef, with roast spuds, peas, gravy and of course Yorkshire pudding, even though it is not Yorkshire.
Sarah is stuck with all the blowflies in the bar all day while Charles is in the kitchen.
And she is quite a handy artist, painting local scenes in watercolours in her ‘spare time’.
They don’t get much of that, and we heard all the whinging and bitching about owing and running a pub.
Of the 51,380 pubs in England (2012) apparently some thirteen close each month, so my challenge of a pint in each one is becoming more achievable.
We left about 11am heading up through Norwich and into Norfolk, this time winging it again without anything booked, as it is the Bank Holiday Monday.
Every place I looked at on the www was booked out.
We drove off, along and beside the Norfolk Broads, and it seemed every pom was heading there for the ‘holiday’.
Beautiful weather, but we got stuck in a traffic jam for an hour to cross a tiny narrow bridge.
And most of the holiday makers will probably get there just as they have to head back to work tomorrow.
Through some lovely Norfolk countryside, and purely by chance, came across the Kings Head pub in East Dereham, some 15 miles west of Norwich in Norfolk.
It was a bit of a blood house but they had plenty of accommodation, so we propped there.
It is a pretty tired pub, with a new owner who is a real pain in the arse.  I doubt if he will still be there at Xmas.
Our downstairs room out the back was clean and small, and no wifi except in the pub.
The owner gave me the wifi code and then went ‘home’, wherever that is.
No wifi as he had given me the wrong password, even though it included his own initials, what a dickhead.
Hence, these notes are now a day behind.
There was nothing inspirational to write about anyway, so no real loss.

Tues 28th May

A good full English breakfast at the Kings Head, during which the girl in charge gave us the corrected wifi code, and I spend some time looking for an interesting destination.
We have decided to go a bit upmarket for one day, to make up for the rather down and out town of East Dereham.
I discovered the Washingborough Hall hotel and restaurant, only four miles from the big town of Lincoln, which is on the route up to York where we will meet a bloke I knew from back home many years ago, and join him on his house boat for a trip up the river Ouse to York itself.
They have ONE room left at Washingborough Hall for tonight, and so without taking our usual changes on finding a gem, I booked it online.
This is a grand 250 year old mansion, up a curving treed driveway, very flash and not cheap.
Shorts and a tee short may even challenge the dress code of the place for dinner and diminish the ambience for others!!
So be it.  It looks a bit like the place out of the TV series ‘Monarch of the Glen’
Lincolnshire is in general a very flat area with numerous open fields of rich soil, producing much of the countries wheat, canola and other cereal crops.
There are also a couple of serious RAF bases nearby—RAF Digby and RAF Waddington which is very close to here.
We heard Hornets, MQ9-Reapers and RC-135 Air Seeker aircraft doing their tricks during the afternoon.
The bombing range of RAF Wainfleet is also in Lincolnshire, but we feel pretty safe.
We were here by about lunchtime and had beautiful cream of cauliflower soup with truffle oil ‘dressing’ for lunch.
I have strained a finger on my right hand, so typing is a bit difficult.
Off to the local pharmacy, which had closed for lunch, so bought some ‘drugs’ from the supermarket for the pain.
If it’s not cured by the morning, back to the pharmacy to ‘con’ some stronger anti-inflammatory tablets.
The funeral today for our friend who died ten days ago, so we had a small wake in his honour  after dinner.

Wed 29th May
After last night at the Washingborough Hall, we decided breakfast might be a bit over the top!!
But we had had a beautiful meal, and the bank hasn’t caught up with us yet.
For starters, Heather had pressed pork hock terrine with fresh asparagus and a poached duck egg, I had tomato soup, definitely not out of a can!!
We both followed with chicken breast stuffed with pumpkin squash and spinach, tightly wrapped in a thin ‘skin’ of something like proscuito, and cut transversely.
Superbly cooked and presented, with crusted mashed potato, and greens.
As the poms can’t cook, they probably had a frog chef in for the night.
The wines started at $45 a bottle and then the prices became stratospheric, but a couple of double scotches as an aperitif, was sufficient.
We left at 8:30, heading for York, only about 95Km away, again on secondary roads, to enjoy the countryside and avoid the trucks on the motorways.
At about 9:30 we joined the truckies however, at a roadside ‘all day breakfast’ place.
A great full English breakfast, for 4GBP each.
Full English breakfasts are comprehensive, identical everywhere and usually provide enough calories and lipids for a month, so can usually keep us going till a light dinner at night.
Sausages, eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomato, baked beans and toast.
Followed by the daily cholesterol lowering tablet.
It has rained all day, yet we were surprised at the uncongested roads as we approached within 4Km of York, to the lanes leading to the York Marina where Bernie and Sue have their house barge moored.
This is a pretty good home on the water, in a beautiful setting.
The boat is some sixty feet long and wider than the canal narrow boats.
With all the mod cons and separate lounge with pot belly stove, fully equipped kitchen, bedroom, laundry and bathroom.
It is driven from the blunt end by a diesel Isusu motor, and only uses 2 litres an hour at a pleasant four knots.
And with a sundeck out the pointy end for whenever it doesn’t rain.
Bernie booked us into the Black Bull Inn a few Km away, but we may move into their ‘local’ near the marina tomorrow.
Probably into the historic walled town of York on the bus tomorrow, as they both will be working.
And we will have a trip up the Ouse river on their boat the ‘Green Finch’ over the weekend.

Thurs 30th May
The Black Bull Inn is a very family oriented pub, in the small village of Escrick, just on the outskirts of York.
Run by Geoff Boycott and his wife.
Actually, a much younger version of Geoffrey, but with that great Yorkshire drawl I love.
They are both very friendly, and haven’t rubbed too much salt in about the current Aussie Test team.
The locals stream in for a meal and a couple of pints, and like most pommy pubs no one gets off their face.
A pot of real ale at cellar temperature can be enjoyed over half an hour or so—it starts off flat so doesn’t need to be tossed down like our tap beer at home.
I am becoming a ‘real ale’ aficionado; it suits the climate, is part of the lifestyle, and doesn’t build up enough gas to blast the false teeth out when you burp!
And the variety is immense and many are unique to each particular ‘free house’ pub.
It poured raining all night and in the morning there was a lot of water on the roadsides.
We decided on a full day in the historic town of York.
Drove to what they call a ‘park and drive’, and caught the bus into the centre of the walled city.
And then it is all on foot with no cars allowed in the city centre.
A fabulous historic town steeped in history.
Founded in 71 ACE, but there is archaeological evidence of Mesolithic settlement in the area between 8000 and 7000BCE. (Google 101, 2013)
Many early buildings are intact, as is much of the city wall, which stretch for miles.
We visited Minster, St Marys church, and climbed the ancient steps to the top of Cliffords Tower, part of the original York Castle.
A great town for a walking tour of the historic centre including the Manor House of the Lord Mayor, the Shambles, Viking centre, Museum and bridge over the river Ouse.
Regarded as the second most visited city of England, it is packed with tourists all year round, even on a cool misty and overcast day like today.
After a full day walking this fascinating place, we got the bus back to the ‘park and drive’, and then drove the ‘googly’ back to the Black Bull Inn for another night.
My hooves need a trim and the finger is still a bit sore, so I’ll make an appointment with James Harriot and Tristen in the morning!!

31st May
After a late breakfast at the Black Bull Inn, I spent some time in their extensive library of classics and historical works on Great Britain.
And York in particular; a bit of local research could serve us well in this area.
We said our fond farewells to Geoffrey Boycott, and drove the four or five Km to the Blacksmiths Arms In Naburn, Bernie and Sues ‘local’.
Right on the river bank and almost adjacent to the York Marina.
We have booked in here to the only cottage attached to the pub, self catering.
With a ‘welcome breakfast basket’ of eggs, fresh bread, milk, chocolate and a bottle of sparkling wine.
Our stay here is for Friday and Saturday.
Still nursing my sore finger I decided not to drive much today, and as James and Tristen have no surgery hours on Fridays, we settled into this quaint cottage for a rest.
For lunch in the pub I had the broccoli and blue cheese soup, unusual but delicious.
Mid-afternoon I checked my email and there was a brief note from a certain Peter McC of Faraday, mentioning an aircraft museum just up the road a bit.
This disrupted my afternoon rest, so I quickly checked their web site and the opening hours are 10am to 5pm daily.
It was now 3pm and the museum is located on an airfield 16Km away, at Elvington, Yorkshire, close to York.
I sprinted off in the googly and was there by 3:20pm.
The ‘old flyer’ on the gate let me in for half price and tossed in a free Guide Book to boot, as it was getting late and ‘they usually start packing up at 4:30pm’.
The first outside exhibit was a Spitfire ‘replica’. A pity, not a REAL one.
Twenty two thousand Spitties were built, yet there are only a handful left worldwide.
Of course many were lost in training and combat, but many thousands more were scrapped after the war.
An unforgivable lack of foresight.
Major exhibits include the massive Halifax bomber in the Canadian Memorial Hangar, an Avro Anson, Douglas Dakota, Hawker Hurricane, Canberra bomber and De Havilland Mosquito; all in flying condition.
The Mosquito airframe is made mainly of wood; with twin 12 cylinder Rolls Royce Merlin engines.
Our own 92 Y/O member at YKTN, Col Griffin, flew the Mosquito for the RAF during the war.
And he reckons it’s much better to fly, and superior to a Spitfire!!
Many buildings hold special displays including uniforms, library, air gunners display, French officers mess, and even a chapel.
Many large aircraft in the open desperately need hangarage.
Even though it was late in the day, I certainly got my 3GBP worth.
Back at our cottage we met Bernie and Sue again, and had dinner with them in the pub.

1st June

Last night I had a local speciality for dinner—battered Spam with mushy peas.
Yes, real genuine Spam out of a tin, sliced thickly and done in a light beer batter.
None of that cheap imitation stuff!!
Loaded with salt, nitrites and sulphites and totally devoid of any gastronomic or nutritional value.
And the same menu price as beautiful fresh cod, which we have had for dinner, twice.
It’s quite a popular pub meal in York, so again—when in Rome…
We slept in at our little cottage this morning, perhaps Spam is a good sedative; it certainly induces a healthy thirst!
And cooked breakfast ourselves, a break from the usual Full English!!
The start of the British summer today and its about 12 degrees at midday.
However, the weather was superb yesterday, so we can’t be greedy.
We are just resting today before tackling the track up towards Scotland tomorrow.
We WILL call in at the ‘World of James Herriot’  centre tomorrow morning, only a few miles from here at Thirsk in North Yorkshire, and possibly at Whitby, which is also on the way north.
Bernie and Sue called over for a farewell drink, and we thanked them for looking after us.

2nd June

Off on the way through Herriot country to Thirsk, in North Yorkshire, only about 35 miles north of Naburn.
The countryside of the Yorkshire dales is as majestic as depicted in the ‘All Creatures’ story.
Except that we almost bowled over a kangaroo on the way to ‘Darrowby’.
The village of Thirsk  is so typical of small Yorkshire villages, and the Herriot heritage museum is a very fitting memorial to that great vet and author.
This is the actual surgery where vet Afl Wight aka James Herriot (author) practiced for years.
And the church just down the street is where he married his wife, and is the one seen in the series.
Alf adopted the nom de plume James Herriot to avoid his books being construed as professional advertising.
Much of the surgery remains as it was when Alf, ‘Siegfried’ and ‘Tristan’ practiced here at Skeldale House in the 1940’s.
The dispensary, a wide display of surgical devices of the day, the office and living areas as they were in the films.
The 1937Austin Seven used in the series has been restored, and at the rear of the building in a darkened ‘Yorkshire barn’ a fifteen minute film is shown, featuring the actors from the series, and excerpts from a talk show interviewing Alf himself.
He was an extraordinary man, both as a country vet and author.
And he must have been a good bloke as he also trained as a pilot during the war!
After a couple of hours at Darrowby we headed north planning to bypass Newcastle, but Flossy took us right through the centre!!
Just north of there, we called in at the very busy Ridley Arms in Morpeth, Northumberland for lunch.
It was packed with hundreds out for the traditional Sunday roast, but we settled for a great bowl of soup each.
Our destination for the day was Berwick on Tweed, a fascinating old town with a massive ancient bridge over the mouth or the river Tweed.
We found the small quiet pub, the Cats Inn and booked for the night.
Very friendly hosts who have only taken over five weeks ago.
George, 52 y/o  still races fast historic motorbikes in circuit racing.
Lara his wife, befriended Heather and was very welcoming.
There were only a few in the bar when we arrived, and an old bloke with a broad Scottish accent noticed we were Australian and wondered why we were driving a car with French plates.
I explained, and then said ‘with an accent like that, you would have to be Italian wouldn’t you?’  ‘Aye lad, have lived up road all me life’
I think something was lost in the translation!!
I had to try a pint of ‘The Village Bike’ before bed—why not!!

3rd June

Berwick was only 5 minutes south of the Scottish border, and of course we had to stop and take a picture.
And then on to Dundee, and the beginning of a difficult search for anywhere to stay.
We arrived at midday, and called at several nice hotels, but all booked out.
We tried many more, without luck.
Could my non-booking policy be letting us down?
Eventually, at a nice pub which of course was fully booked, the lady proprietor called a friend nearby with a B & B.
And we were lucky to get an ensuite at Cameron House, in the very busy centre of Broughty Ferry, the old fishing village centre of Dundee.
It was quite adequate except for the steep stairs and the fast rail almost at the back door!!
We skyped Ceara Collins, Terrys’ daughter who we hoped to visit in Aberdeen tomorrow, and then tried to find accommodation.
I searched over fifty hotels in Aberdeen, ALL booked out!!!
A glitch in my system??
It took most of the afternoon to search for a place to stay, and we finally got about the last bed in the Premier Inn, right in the centre of the city.
So we will meet up with Ceara and Nathan for dinner and a Scotch or two, tomorrow night.
We walked round this historic town, and had tea at the busy pub, The Anchor, then back to our B & B.

Tues 4th June

We are so far north now that it is daylight at 3:45am and doesn’t get dark at night until 9:45PM.
The Scots living north of Edinburgh need to take great care not to overdose on Vitamin D.
And the sun shone again for most of the day as we headed to Aberdeen on the A90.
Our pub is right in the centre of town, and with limited hotel parking we wanted to get there early and get into their off-street garage.
This we did with ease, and Flossy took us right to the place before the lunchtime rush.
Aberdeen is a bustling old city loaded with gothic architecture, almost all buildings are granite which glitters when the sun shines and when it rains.
Accommodation is plentiful with many expensive hotels which are always full.
Workers and managers of the many North Sea oil rigs fly in and out by chopper with their big pay packets, and hotel prices have skyrocketed.
We walked the beat for a while admiring the many structures with intricate spires and towers of granite, and then rested during the afternoon.
Ceara Collins and Nathan met us at 5pm; it was great to catch up with her again and to meet Nathan.
We had a great night out together for dinner at the  Archibold Simpson, a great pub serving good meals and a wide range of single malts and ales.
We all had Aberdeen Angus steaks of course, which were superb. In later years my father changed from dairying to Angus stud cattle, and after all, this is the home of the famous breed.
At 9:30pm we all came back to our hotel room and Skyped Terry, Cearas dad back at Faraday.
We got him out of bed at about 6:30am back home and all had a long video chat with him.
Plenty of rain back home so the tanks are full, caught up with the local Faraday news, and it was great for Ceara to see and talk to her dad.
Tomorrow we head off west to Loch Ness, to solve that mystery once and for all!!
And are booked into the Loch Ness Inn at Drumnadrochit, from where my mothers ancestors stole their loaf of bread a few generations ago.

5th June

Well, we have survived the ‘Cullen Skink with White Bloomer’, consumed for lunch yesterday!!
The WHAT???...
….I wasn’t able to check until this morning, but it tasted superb, and looked quite innocuous.
Cullen Skink is a traditional North Eastern Scottish broth made with potatoes, onion and smoked haddock.
And White Bloomer is a local ‘heavy’ bread, which when  cut into croutons and toasted, is floated in the soup. (Google 201)
Another unique challenge, and quite delicious.
We left Aberdeen at 9am, missing the peak hour rush.
On the A96 for a few miles and then on to good secondary roads, just like country Victoria.
No complaints from Flossy OR her assistant, and we all enjoyed this pleasant scenic drive.
We pulled into a roadside spot in the farming area of Pitcaple, to a novel roadhouse for breakfast.
Located in a ‘dead bus’ firmly set into the ground, the ‘Pit Stop’ was doing a roaring trade.
Fitted out with a kitchen up one end and table seating along the length of the bus.
‘The Breakfast’ was very popular and the menu quite extensive.
The ‘bus’ windows were fogged over with steam from the ‘kitchen’ and sheep grazing in the adjacent paddock were unperturbed.
The proprietor entertained some regulars in broken Gaelic with brilliant expletives which echoed throughout the establishment. What a scream!
Really quite amusing, and I had to chuckle at the hose from her four wheel drive parked beside the place, supplying the gas cooker in the bus!!
After breakfast we continued along the ‘whiskey trail’ of the ‘Northern Glen’ country.
Through Huntly, Elgin and Nairn, then over the river Ness bridge at Inverness and down the west side of the Loch.
A brief diversion to the Inverness airport, but nothing much of interest here for a ‘weekend warrior’.
We arrived at the very pretty village of Lewiston Nr Drumnadrochit, and checked in to the Loch Ness Inn.
This is at the widest section of the Loch, and I am confident I can solve that long standing mystery in the morning.
There is much more to see here including the Urquhart Castle and the Loch Ness Centre, before we head down past Fort William to ‘Campbell country’ and the Kilchurn Castle in Argyll.
And I have a couple of very ‘smokey’ and ‘peaty’ single malts to sip before I settle for the night.
The range is immense, and life is too short to drink cheap whiskey.
Just ask a Scotsman!!

6th June

Another beautiful, warm and sunny day in the Highlands.
Which aren’t ‘high’ at all in altitude, but certainly in latitude.
Ben Nevis, at the heady height of 4,409 feet is just above ‘circuit joining height’ for YKTN, and a big higher that Macedon or Alexander.
But then, there are grown men here, who wear colourful skirts!
In public!!!
With ‘coin-purses’ dangling at the front!!
And they regard the noise emitted from giant leather bags tucked under the armpits, as music!!
Oh Dear----
Things are a bit different here.
The ‘high’ in Highlands probably refers to a state of  euphoric bliss, which still exists, and is contagious.
A state that long preceded the invention of the motorcar, or the dreaded breathalyser.
Since the beginning of time ‘Brewing was vital—from breakfast to supper, everyone drank ale, even children.’ (Stadtbibliothek, Nurnberg, date unknown)
And things became even hazier with the discovery of the still!!
After all, many of them are convinced there is some giant serpent that has lived in the water here for over five hundred years!!
More of that later.
Just when we thought we were ‘castled out’ from tripping round Europe, we discovered Urquhart Castle, right here on Loch Ness.
Castles are everywhere on our journey, and after a while they become monotonous clones of each other, many both physically and historically re-invented.
Urquhart Castle has nothing of that!
Following centuries of plunder and attack from the hated English, and conflicts with the MacDonalds, in 1692 it was partially ‘blown up’ by the Clan Grant owners, to prevent its use by the invading Jacobites.
What remains has been tastefully maintained rather than restored, becoming one of the most visited sites of Scotland.
It clings to the edge of the loch, and with a moat and drawbridge, would have been difficult to assault by land or water.
(Mr Google has much of the story.)
The visitor entry is on the side of an adjacent hill, with access via a downstairs ‘lobby’ which opens through the inevitable souvenir and refreshment area, onto a viewing platform, with spectacular views over Loch Ness.
Prior to viewing the castle itself, a short film is shown of its history.
From a mediaeval fortress on the site, to the present castle, and its partial demise.
Very professionally done with actors in full battle costume, and realistic action.
Shown in a large semi-circular, totally darkened theatre.
All are asked not to stand until the film ends and the lights come on.
And the ending is dramatic!
As the gatehouse to the castle is destroyed by kegs of gunpowder, set by the departing Grants, the screen erupts into a fiery and deafening inferno.
At that moment, the lights come on, the screen disappears and the dark curtains are retracted to reveal the castle in its entirety, just beyond the vast glass windows, in brilliant sunshine, right on the loch!!
The audience is quite awe struck!
Very impressive, and more than a little moving!!
After climbing all over the castle, we both came back and watched the film again—it was soooo good!!
And refreshments in the souvenir area, and prices of all things Scottish, were quite reasonable.
An uplifting change, after similar attractions.
We are staying here a further two nights as there is much more to do and see, including the dreaded Loch Ness centre attraction, and solving the mystery itself!!
Aye, yer gotta love the Scottish!!!

7th June

Our first call today was at the Loch Ness Centre, less than a mile up the way in Drumnadochit.
In a grand 18th century homestead, beside and attached to the Drumnadochit Hotel.
Inside, this stately old building has been gutted and refurnished like something from Luna Park.
Visitors stream in through the grand entrance, pay their seven quid, and then in groups of about twenty, are drafted like sheep into a darkened cavern with imitation rock walls.
A strange narrative, with clips of film shown on the walls follows, as all proceed from one papier-mâché cave to the next.
The narrative continues with images of early sightings of strange ripples, waves, logs of wood, fish, and birds in flight against the glassy water.
Then more recent follies of the ‘70’s including submarine descents and high powered sonar.
All of which have found nothing unusual.
But have led to the discovery of John Cobbs’ speedboat which crashed at 209MPH in 1952, killing him instantly.
And the wreckage of a Wellington bomber, which crashed into the depths during the war.
And of course several largish sturgeon, and an area of the loch where large bubbles of methane gas rise to the surface from rotting organic matter far below.
Or perhaps merely the quiet farts of some wayward seal, lost in the loch.
But alas, no evidence of a monster.
Isn’t it fascinating that none of the sightings, none of the blurred photos and none of the blatant hoaxes, originated from here!!
For there is no Loch Ness Monster, yet the pulling power of this myth is immense.
We all have childhood beliefs, torn away at an early age.
How could there be no Santa, no tooth fairy?
They are soon replaced by giants that live up bean stalks or bunyips or similar creatures.
Our adult myths, mysteries and beliefs are often more bizarre.
All part of the great unknown.
By ten years of age, all ‘wee Scots’ have had a whiff of whisky, the universal panacea for cuts and scratches.
And no doubt burned their tender lips on the ‘ole mans bottle too!
As adults, this golden liquid becomes part of life itself.
The angels take their modest drop, and leave the rest for all to share.
Scottish pride would never admit to overindulgence, or a state of altered consciousness.
They know of course their cousins across the water DO have leprechauns and make and drink fiery liquids.
And occasionally imbibe to excess.
Deep in the Scottish psyche, the soothing property of their precious liquid is long established.
Life’s crises, challenges, conquests, and disappointments are all bathed in the mellow glow of this mysterious remedy.
It requires no innate logic, no justification, just the mystery of life itself.
A glint of sunshine on a bottle resting in the shallows of the loch, just beyond the reach of hand, is a mystic sight, more by far than a lingering mystery----
----It didn’t get dark till twenty to eleven last night, and it was light again at a quarter to three in the morning.
With so many hours of daylight to while away, you’d have to spend some time sippin a wee drachm, now and then!
It will be difficult to leave this area where a sip of eighteen year old Bowmore, Islay, Cragganmore or Glen Elgin won’t burn a hole in the pocket!!
I’ve found no evidence of my mothers’ bread stealing ancestors here yet.
Even the local servo proprietor has never heard of Achnahannet, not far south of here, where they could have been from.
The old cemetery in Drumnadrochit is full of MacDonalds, Grants (I guess associated with the Castle) a couple of Urquharts and one or two Frasers.
Perhaps we may come across that place as we drive south through Fort William and into Campbell country tomorrow.
It is brilliant that Gaelic has been re-introduced into the school curriculum; and all the signposts are marked in that way, with that ‘other language’ underneath!!
Yes, we do love Scotland!!

8th June

First light was 2:45 at Drumnadochit, but we didn’t surface till 8.
Another beautiful, sunny day in the Scottish Highlands.
At 9:30 we left our great little Loch Ness Inn at Lewiston and headed down the west coast of the loch to Fort Augustus.
And I found Achnahannet after all, a few miles south of Drumnadochit!!
Blink and you’d miss it, as I almost did.
Up a steep narrow gravel track to a couple of old cottages perched high above the loch.
A very secluded and lonely spot, alas, it should have been a perfect place to hide a stolen loaf!!
We drove across the Caledonian Canal, along the west coast of Loch Oich, and through the town of Invergarry.
A superb drive along an ever curving trail, a bit like our Great Ocean Road.
A bikies paradise, and the googly revelled in it too.
Long sweeping avenues of tall trees with dappled sunlight, tight corners close to the lock, and lush fields with sheep grazing on the hillsides.
Over a swing bridge and hence down the east side of Loch Lochy, then back west to Fort William, on the banks of Loch Linnhe.
Past that 4009 foot giant Ben Nevis, still with a sprinkling of melting show on the peak, through Glencoe to Inveraray on the edge of Loch Fyne.
A continuous swathe of lochs and rivers almost cuts a slice through Scotland from the North East to the South West.
Magnificent scenery, we love it!!
And so here we are at the Argyll Hotel, with views over the loch and within walking distance of Inveraray Castle, the seat of the Campbell Clan, now home to the  5th Duke of Argyll.
A very pretty spot, surrounded by hills and overlooking the tidal loch.
We will explore the Argyll of the Campbells in the morning.

9th June

Yesterdays’ ramblings didn’t happen till this morning due to a serious incursion into my (air)space in the lounge.
Just sat down and opened the ‘puter, and was joined by a local Scotsman and his wife.
Martin and Sharon MacCrae had just returned from a sixteen mile walk and had worked up a lust for a drop.
Guess they assumed I wasn’t a local—the shorts and Blundstones give it away every time!
Many questions about why I was in Scotland, and then Martin insisted he propose a toast.
He returned from the bar with two double Dalwhinnies and plonked one in front of me.
Eighteen year old single malt Dalwhinnie!!
After a lecture on single malts and how you NEVER add ice, only half a teaspoonful of water, he recited the following:
‘I take this glass unto my hand
and drink to all that’s here.
What’s come to pass and may come to pass
in the coming years.
Some may be wed, some may be dead,
some may be lying low
on a foreign shore,
not knowing which way to go.
If life was a thing that money could buy,
the rich would live and the poor would die.
But god in his wisdom has made it so,
that the rich and the poor together must go.
And so must this,
 Slaite-mhath!!’
(pronounced slengeva)
At the cry of Slaite-mhath, glasses are clinked and a gentle sip of the golden drop is rolled into the mouth.
The trickle of water releases all the flavours and aromatics.
More serious than a wine wanker at a cup of Penfolds Grange!
They take single malts seriously!!
The first sip makes the eyes water, and after that it caresses the senses into gentle oblivion.
Slengeva indeed!!
Through the misty haze, it was soon my turn to ‘shout’ and I proudly placed a twenty quid note on the bar and ordered two double Dalwhinnies.
‘That’ll be twenty two pounds fifty, thankyou sir’, so it was out with the Travel Card!!
The two of them certainly have something to celebrate.
Martin needs a kidney after renal failure caused by some bug in the Amazon.
He has been haemodialyzing himself for two hours a day for just on twelve months.
Finally a recent law change in Scotland allows a healthy and willing spouse to donate one kidney to an unknown recipient, in exchange for the other partner receiving a kidney from a willing living donor, in similar circumstances.
No cadaveric kidneys required, a very progressive change of law.
They will both have surgery on 3rd July, Sharon donating a healthy kidney and Martin receiving a healthy, tissue matched one from a live donor.
So what about drinking whisky??—‘No problem, I can’t drink beer because of the fluid retention, and am careful what I can and can’t eat’.
We finished that double too, and he insisted on another!!
By this time we were great mates, it was ten to midnight and I got a Skype call from a mate back home, and we all joined in for a video call!! (C.Mc)
I crept into bed at ten past midnight, slept like a log, and as promised by Martin, no hangover whatsoever!!
------After breakfast this morning, we were the first visitors to Inveraray Castle, right on 10am.
Just before the bus loads arrived.
What a magnificent place.
Surrounded by acres of formal gardens, with natural woodlands up the long driveway.
The Castle is the ‘home’ of the 13th Duke and Dutchess of Inveraray---a Sir Ian Campbell and his misses, and their young kids!!
Many rooms are of course closed to the public, after all the Duke and family need a couple of hundred for themselves and guests.
The treasures on display are priceless.
Heather of course loved the place, and even signed the guest book with her birth name of Campbell.
I don’t think they would have had much to with the bloodthirsty Elliots, Armstrongs and Scots.
Our border rievers were a murderous mob, always ready to protect their lands from that uncouth lot down south.
We will visit their domains for a day or so, from tomorrow.
In the meantime, the Canadian F1 Grand Prix is on today and I can watch it here in Inveraray, from 6:15pm local time.
Possibly over another Dalwhinnie or two.
Without ice, of course!!

10th June

And so it was Vettel, Alonso, and Hamilton in Montreal.
The telecast in the bar had to compete with the serenade of the bagpipes outside.
After centuries you’d think they could make ‘em understand semitones—they could possibly almost sound musical.
Each to his own.
The drive around the highland lochs was superb. Very little traffic, excellent yet narrow roads and more special Scottish scenery.
Around loch Fyne, along ‘the banks of Loch Lomond’, through Balloch and Dumbarton, and onto the M8 through Paisley, and past the Glasgow airport.
Flossy almost got me lost and into Glasgow, but after a few roundabouts and minor corrections we were back on the motorway.
A busy road past Douglas, and then onto minor roads through Moffat and into Dumphryshire.
The sign to Lockerbie drew us off the main road to this small village where Pan Am flight 103 exploded 31,000 feet above, in 1988.
We found the memorial gardens located in a quiet spot at the rear of the Dryfesdale cemetery.
A quiet and beautifully serene place to pause for a moment and remember that horrific disaster.
From the brochure in the memorial centre---
‘Just after 7pm on 21st December, 1988 the unthinkable happened. The Pan Am Boeing 747 airliner “Maid of the Seas”, on its way from London Heathrow to New York Kennedy airport, suffered an explosion at 31,000 feet over Lockerbie. All on board, 243 passengers and 16 crew members were killed, together with 11 residents of Lockerbie. Five residents required hospital treatment for injuries, 2 of them for long periods.’
That bastard Gaddafi who ordered the bombing, was ‘eliminated’ in 2011.
But in a terrible twist of justice, the ‘towel head' responsible for planting the bomb, has been released.
The shit was convicted to serve a life sentence in gaol in Glasgow, but is now a freed man.
Generally regarded as a sick US ‘deal’, in exchange for continued access to Libyan oil!!!
And Pan Am, for fifty years the symbol of American aviation, has gone to the wall, largely as a result of the disaster.
Only the yanks!!
We left the memorial with heavy hearts, and in need of a couple of tissues.
That horrific disaster occurred just ten days before Heather and I were married!!
We then drove on to the border area of Scotland, where those bloodthirsty Elliots originated.
We have booked into the Grapes Hotel in Newcastletown, Liddesdale.
We stayed here in 2009, but will explore in more detail tomorrow.

11th June

The  lady volunteer at the Liddesdale Heritage centre, where the Elliot mob are the main topic, confessed that she was not an Elliot herself, but a Fawkes.
A distant relation to Guy of the failed gunpower plot, of 5th November 1605.
She quickly added that Fawkes was her married name; there aren’t many of them in Scotland and she is not a Holy Roman.
Not that the Scots would care if the House of Lords had been blown up, I guess.
I went for a drive around some of the border villages, haunts of the barbarous Elliots.
Hermitage Castle, where they held court for a while between raids, along with the Armstrongs, Douglas’s and Scotts
And at one stage even sheltered the injured Mary Queen of Scots along with her lover, Lord Bothwell.
Then on to Hawick, pronounced ‘Hoik’ and to Denholm slightly south.
Past ancient peel towers, many in disrepair.
Then to the nearby village of Minto, seat of the present 7th Earl of Minto, Lord Timothy Elliot-Murray-Kynynmould.
Bugger me, the scots also copy place names, they obviously stole this one from us!!
A friendly lady in the village explained that the House of Minto had been destroyed, apparently following a bitter dispute with the 6th Earl’s former wife.
Seems the roof was ‘removed in’ some vain effort to claim insurance monies, and a financial quagmire followed.
Later, the place was demolished!
There were of course, no winners.
The present Earl has his ‘home’ in Minto, and I drove up the long drive to this rather large mansion.
‘Tim’ wasn’t home, but a friendly neighbour gave me his email address, so I may contact him for a loan.
All of the former Earls rest in the churchyard at Minto.
What this has to do with our genealogy is of little significance.
Our ancestors who migrated to Australia may have been from other areas of the borders, or even the highlands.
Some known, some not.
But since the dim ages, this ancient poem has in general applied:
‘Double L and single T
Elliots of Minto and Wolflee,
Double T and single L
Eliotts they in Stobs do dwell.
Single L and single T
The Eliots of St Germains be,
But double L and double T,
The dev’l may ken wha they may be’.
I visited Lady Margaret Elliot(t) at Redheaugh, present Chief of the Elliot Clan, just a few clicks up the road.
Visited the Clan Room, and bought an Elliot sweater and a map of the early Elliot border territories, including all the above.
And as she noted, with regard to the spelling, “most of them never learned to read or write, let alone spell their own names”!!

12th June

Breakfast at the Grapes Hotel included Elliot black pudding, and they also have Elliot haggis on the dinner menu.
The butcher round the corner is also an Elliot (3rd generation), and a Mrs Elliot runs the local corner store.
Why name a Scottish pub the Grapes, when there’s no sign of a vineyard anywhere in Scotland?
Possibly sometime before the last Ice age the Borders would have been a tropical region, which cooled to temperate.
Maybe.
However, the Grapes is a  ‘listed’ building, built in 1790, and retains its original name.
It was not very tropical this morning, in fact is has rained on and off all day.
After leaving Newcastletown, we said farewell to the Borders and Scotland within the first 30Km, and headed back into the land of marmalade and jam.
Through Carlisle and onto the M6 motorway, heading south.
In pouring rain conditions, we find the best way to drive is to join the throngs on the motorway and scoot along at 110Km/h.
Our target today was the ancient walled town of Chester in Cheshire.
The town has evolved from the 70’s ACE Roman fortress settlement, known as Deva Victrix. (Ref:G—gle)
After 285Km in the wet, we left the motorway and have booked into a modern pub on the outskirts of the town, almost on the Welsh border.
A Mercure pub, part of the ‘chain’, but we need a couple of days in a good modern place; no stairs, reliable wifi, and very convenient.
We have a ‘Studio Room’, a bit upmarket but just within out budget.
We are (almost) within walking distance of the ‘Cheshire Cat’, a traditional old inn with great atmosphere and good value meals.
The canal is right behind the inn, and many of the narrow boat folk moor here, and come in for a good feed and a few ales.
And we’re almost next door to the ‘park and drive’ bus station.
Tomorrow we will catch the bus into the town centre and explore this historic old city.

13th June

A rainy, but warm day in Chester didn’t dampen our enthusiasm to wander around this historic city.
From the nearby ‘park and drive’, the bus ride into the city centre was only about three miles.
Chester was the largest walled Roman fortress in Britain, built around the same time as York.
The old central area is ‘private car free’ with only delivery and service vehicles allowed.
Hence walking along the cobbled roads is fine until it rains and everyone heads for the sheltered footpaths.
Not normally one for churches, but Chester Cathedral was an exception.
Founded in 1092 as a Benedictine abbey by Hugh ‘the Wolf’ Lupus, nephew of the Norman king, ‘Bill the Oneth’.
By around 1220 the Romanesque style was considered ‘old fashioned', and over many years the building was updated in the Gothic style. (modified from Tour Guide Booklet, Scala Publishers Ltd., 2009)
It was saved from destruction by being raised to cathedral status by Henry 8th, in 1541.
Henrys’ falling out with the Pope over a marriage annulment started the movement, which ultimately lead to the poms changing sides, from Micks to Anglicans.
Thus what was once a Benedictine abbey has evolved into a largely C or E cathedral with millions of visitors today, and very few parishioners.
Recent uproar over the practice of charging to visit the cathedral has led to a change of policy.
Rather than visitors having to ‘pay to pray’, they are encouraged to donate towards the upkeep of the building. (adapted from: Chester Cathedral, Deans Newsletter, June 2013.)
The cathedral however, is an extraordinary example of  a mix of Norman and Gothic architecture, and a great shelter from the continuing rain.
The inside is dimly lit, and photography whilst allowed, is difficult with an iPad and no flash.
Like many ancient towns and cities, most of the historic buildings have been converted internally, into modern shops.
The clock tower above a walled entrance, was constructed in 1897 to mark the 60th anniversary of the coronation of Queen Victoria.
The rain continued, as we made our way back to our hotel by bus.
And we had tea at the nearby Cheshire Cat, still smiling!

June 14th

Left our pub in Chester at 7:30am to try and avoid the peak hour rush.
Within ten minutes we were virtually in the countryside, following the Llangollen canal beside the road, with numerous narrow boat dwellers getting up for breakfast.
There are over 15,000 people living permanently on narrow boats on the canals of the UK.
Many retirees are living a sort of ‘Stray Gonad’ existence on the water.
With over two thousand five hundred miles of canals, and a pub around every bend.
A pretty good life.
Just float along from lock to lock, and when the pension cheque is banked, a night out at one of the pubs!!
Our destination today was Swansea (Abertawe) on the coast in South Wales.
Why Wales?
We thought that as Charlie is doing it a bit tough, it was only fair we should inject a few bob into his Princedom.
After all Camillas’ makeovers are getting a bit out of hand.
And every shilling counts.
Oops—hope she’s not offended when she reads this—we really ARE good Monarchists.
God save the Queen, in preference to a dictatorship; and all that!
Again, it rained most of the day, but not cold.
Flossy took us right to our hotel, or so I thought.
We parked in the underground car park and I took the lift to the first floor, looking for reception.
Was met by a lady, quite confused, until I realized it was a private block of flats, and she directed me down stairs again.
The bloody pub was around the next corner!!
Can’t trust these Sat-Navs (GT)!!
There are things to see here over the weekend, and there is also an airfield nearby.
The local aero club had a ‘fly-out’ to Ireland in May.
Bugger, I missed that, but will visit them tomorrow.
Even though more rain is forecast, and quite strong winds.
We shall see.

15th June

Heather skyped her mum this morning as she does most days, and was a bit surprised that a member of staff answered, then handed the phone to Thelma.
She sounded well and contented, but at almost one hundred and one, Heather has had an uneasy feeling all day.
Later, we heard she had been admitted to hospital with pneumonia.
And so our trip could be somewhat truncated, and return details altered.
Heather phoned the hospital at 11pm our time (7am back home) and Thelma is doing OK.
We will drive towards a ferry port tomorrow and get back to France in case we need to fly home early.
Watch this space----
----after driving up impossibly narrow lanes, I DID find the local airport, in the only flat area of South Wales.
A 29Kt wind was howling, it was raining, and so no flying was happening today.
Three long sealed runways, no controlled airspace for miles and close to the bay, it would be a great place to fly from in good WX.
Only a couple of PA38 Tommies and a PA28 tied up, but they said there are a lot of private a/c in the large hangar waiting for fine weather.

16th June

Another wet and windy day in downtown Abertawe, and good reason to stay inside.
We spent quite a while sorting out our next movements, and of course contacting the Castlemaine Hospital.
Heather called early in the morning our time ( about 4pm at home).
She spoke to the charge nurse, and then was able to speak to her mum for a minute.
Thelma sounded bright but a little confused, yet was still able to have a bit of a laugh.
With IV antibiotics and oxygen she is stable and we hope she will pull through.
She is a real fighter.
Tomorrow we will drive on to Poole in Dorset, and I have booked us on the ferry to Cherbourg, France, leaving 7:30 Tuesday morning.
It is about a five hour ferry trip, so we can relax in the lounge, with the googly stowed below.
We will then be within a 3 to 4 hour drive to CDG Paris if we need to return urgently.
Will keep in tough with the hospital, and play it by ear.

----------------As a bit of a diversion, I drove in the rain, to the National Waterfront Museum, featuring Wales’ Story of  Industry and Innovation.
Some interesting, if not so innovative exhibits.
As we drive through Normandy on Tuesday, I may even get a chance to see ‘MY’ Hispano-Suiza in Thierville.
Now owned by Hanns Vennabos whom we met up with in Oostvorne, Netherlands, it is undergoing one of the most protracted ‘rebuilds’ ever.
It was ‘almost finished’ when we were there four years ago!!!!
I sold this car twenty six years ago, and bought theUGlyDuckling with the proceeds.
Prior to that I drove it vigorously for twenty years, and no one has yet driven it since!!!
The bill will be massive!!

Mon 17th June

Our ‘patient’ is stable and doing well. Heather skyped the hospital this morning and also spoke to her mum for a minute.
Thelma will remain in the acute ward for at least a week, and our thoughts are with her.
We will contact the hospital each morning.

After leaving Abertawe at 7:30 we were soon on the M4 motorway in light rain and light traffic.
The rain eased as we passed round Cardiff and Newport, then over the l-o-n-g Severn suspension bridge from Chepstow in Wales to Aust, England.
No, not a typo, Aust is a tiny village on the South Glostershire side of the bridge.
The bridge is only 12 metres short of a ‘click’.
Then on past Bristol, leaving the motorway, and into the beautiful Dorset countryside.
Through tiny villages with chocolate box thatched cottages, and cars brushing against the roadside hedges.
We had not planned on visiting Poole, but are so pleased we have.
It is a mixture of the very old, and contemporary.
The ‘old town’ is virtually pedestrian free, as I found out when I inadvertently drove into a private courtyard.
An old dear out sweeping her footpath, kindly directed me back to the road, as she held up her broom to stop pedestrians crossing.
All Flossys fault, and my good fortune her assistant was back at the hotel!!
With headlines predicting a ‘heat wave’ this week, we must escape the sweltering conditions and head back to France.
Our ferry leaves Poole at 7:30 tomorrow for Cherbourg, France, and we will ‘lose’ an hour in the process.

Tues 18th June

Heathers mum continues to remain stable in Castlemaine Hospital, and has had many visitors and phone calls for which we are very grateful.
We contact her and the hospital staff daily.
She keeps insisting we should not rush back, but of course we would if necessary.
Our return flight is from CDG on 4th July unless changes are needed.

We arrived at the Britanny ferry wharf in Poole at 6:30 this morning, and were one of the first cars to drive on.
A four and a half crossing to Cherbourg, in very smooth seas.
These days you can drive through a dozen countries in Europe without any passport checks.
But the frogs still insist in stamping a page, both entering and leaving their space.
The cop in customs had to leave his post to find an ink pad for this task, while dozens of cars waited behind.
Driving off towards Caen the worms were starting to bite.
At 1pm we pulled off the road into a tiny village near Carentan, Normandy and joined the locals for lunch at a great little café.
Seated ourselves at a vacant table, which hadn’t been cleared from the previous diners.
A young girl scooped up the dishes, brushed the table with the back of her hand, and turned the table mats over, sweeping the crumbs to the floor.
She then plonked a half empty basket of bread in front of us, left over from a table nearby.
Then a couple of wine glasses, and a carafe of chilled water.
And a wine bottle of vinegar, and another of olive oil.
I guess she was waitress, cook, bottlewash and proprietor.
There was a sort of a salad bar, so we grabbed a plate each and served ourselves.
Wafer thin slices of salami, pickled herring and potato salad, button mushrooms in some sort of sauce, pickled leeks, cucumber, shredded beetroot, sliced tomato and slabs of soft cheese.
A feast fit for royalty!
The local workers were enjoying their Tuesday lunch washed down with carafes of red wine and litres of white, from topped-up recycled soft drink bottles.
No fancy tables here, and not a quiche eater in sight.
After lunch we drove on and settled for the night at a boring Novotel in Bayeux, Normandy. But it has wifi which we need.
There are D-Day landing site memorials in this area, including Omaha and Utah beaches.
And nearby today, a commemoration was held for De Gaulle and his June 1946 speech, which led to a new post-war constitution, and the re-unification of France.
These days Bayeuxs’ claim to fame is as the world centre of that breathtaking pastime of tapestry.!!!
How lucky am I to visit this iconic spot?!!.

Wed 19th June

Heather spoke to her mum this morning and she continues to improve.
We are now within striking distance of Paris, and decided to try and find a self contained cottage for perhaps a week.
Not so easy searching the web for a gem of a‘Gite’ .
Hundreds around Normandy, but not many for just two.
Eventually found one that looked great on google, as they always do.
Owners supposedly spoke French, Spanish and English, so I skyped the number and got a recorded message in French.
Then sent an email enquiry, to which no reply came by our check out time.
So I fed the address into Flossy and we headed off towards Pont l’Eveque, to have a look for ourselves.
On the A13 motorway past Caen, and then off and up narrow tree lined lanes, looking for a needle in a haystack.
Looking for ‘La Courtille Chicamour’, in Saint-Julien-sur-Calone.
We found the general area and by chance stumbled upon ‘Chicamour’, a superb little Gite on a hillside, overlooking the rural valley below.
For once, it looked exactly as it did on the web.
There was a car parked inside the high steel gates, but it seemed nobody was home.
Like a previous place I’ll never forget, ‘Chicamour’ also needed ‘secret numbers (on the gate) to gain entry’, and we had no idea what they were!!
Very disappointed, we headed back towards Pont-l’Eveque.
Another old town, and many original buildings with part-timber frames filled in with a rock, cement and mud mix.
After getting hoplessly lost, we chanced upon the Hotel Le Lion d’Or, in the outskirts of Pont l’Eveque.
A great little place, with downstairs rooms, wifi and a sort of French ‘wellness centre’.
We have booked in here for a couple of nights.
The wellness centre has a timber box arrangement with vapours gushing out an exhaust at the side.
I thought of calling the fire brigade, but apparently it is some form of device for steaming humans alive, and they happily pay to be cooked in this way.
We are looking at another place nearby, right on the edge of the Lac du Pont l’Eveque, and may stay there for a couple of days also.
The brochure says they also take dogs, so even I should be welcome!!

Thurs 20th June

I have spent this afternoon with an amazing old friend.
A very dear friend I met long, long ago.
She was twenty years older that me, but her beauty transcended her age.
It was love at first sight, and in the warm summer glow, we were both swept away.
My devotion was deep and enduring, and full of the passion of youth.
She returned my affections ten fold, and answered the gentlest touch.
We shared twenty inseparable years, through life’s endless challenges and triumphs.
Never pausing to question, my family accepted my plight.
They too shared many happy times with her.
Our separation was traumatic and painful, full of sadness and regret.
Yet, somehow we just drifted apart.
In the autumn of her years and the restlessness of mine, yet remaining enduring friends.
She has never known true love since, but hopefully one day will.
In recent years she has been in specialist care, in a private facility in Normandy, France.
In the tiny village of Thieville, population one hundred.
The surgeon nodded knowingly as I visited today, and her gentle touch sent my ageing heart racing again.
And then I quietly walked away, trusting she will soon live and be loved again.

Frid 21st June

Tilting the world on its axis is no little challenge.
Flights to be altered, a car to return, a time zone to bridge, the chess game of life.
We will drive back to Paris and get on a Sunday flight that is fully booked!!
It can be done.
Floating houses, a goat for a gatekeeper, a bit of a blur---No doubt the sun will still rise in the East in the morning.


22nd June

Drove to Paris this morning, and returned the googly.  Total distance 10, 247Km, and I still haven’t found out how to open the bonnet.
I assume it has some sort of diesel engine, and is probably front wheel drive.
A manual in English would have helped.
It has performed faultlessly, only the driver and co-pilot have been wanting!!
Would I buy one??
No.  But I would drive someone else’s!!
Poor gear changes, hesitant response to throttle, a few other small bitches.
The frogs need a lesson from the krauts and the wogs!!
With considerable hassle and numerous phone calls we will now leave this pox ridden, towel head infested place at 1200 tomorrow, and should arrive Melbourne about 0755 Tuesday morning.
First class to KL, business to Melbourne.
Desperately needing some sleep.
There will be a huge insurance claim when we get back!!!!

23/24th June

We are now in the Malaysian lounge in KL, wondering how the hell we can pile up a few zeds with sixteen hours till be catch our next flight to Melbourne.
The A380 flight in First was amazing—I wonder how all the poor people back where we usually are survived!!
Leave here at 2200 KL time and get into Tulla at 0755 tomorrow EST, I guess that will be Tuesday morning.
Our brains still think its 2am Paris time but its 8am here, and our bodies don’t know if it’s the day before yesterday or the twelth of never.
Heather has spoken to her mum on spyke a few minutes ago and she is hanging in there.

And, so, ‘What’s it all about,  Alfie?’
We have set foot on less than a trillionth of this amazing planet, and the tiny surprises around each corner continue to astound me.
Treasures that haven’t made it onto a map yet and possibly never will.
Places where people have lived, loved, breed and died for centuries.
Every nameless spot is somebody’s home.
And we have had some unique, stupid, remarkable, pointless, mundane, exciting, memorable and forgettable moments.
We have generally left the icons alone.
Big cities are not our thing.
They will always appear on film, in the news, and its all on google.
You can take the boy out of the country, but you can never take the country out of the boy.
Special times, special places.
Eating sausages and chips in Bruges; Roosendall and $5 a bottle vodka; Murphys pub in Oostvoorne; ancient chessnuts and elms.
‘The doctor of  Gymnich’; hot Croatian slivovic with ‘Freddie; the Mercedes museum; Anzac day in Germany and their WW2 memorial; the cop in uniform pissing on the roadside; skinless pork sausages from a local butcher in Bavaria; King Ludwigs castle on the island in Bernau am Chiemsee lake.
The locals at the pub in the tiny village of Friedersbach; the farmer driving home on his ancient tractor as drunk as a skunk, on the wrong side of the road.
The vacant chairs in the square in Krakow; Shindlers’ factory; the Apteka Pod Orlem.
The tiny Eurofox factory in Nitra, Slovenia; a great little pub on the Buda side or the Danube for E39 including breakfast; the wellness hotel in Bad Gleichenberg.
The beautiful village of Bovec in Slovenia; the look on Karls’ brothers face when we showed him some photos; real kransky sausage and distilled blueberries with Miran and Metka.
The Fazioli fortress in Sacile; our stay in the ‘monastery’ in Ravenna; a brilliant week in Greve in our villa San Stefano in Tuscany; a Tuscan feast with some Belgian blokes there; hot Sienese pork rolls in Greve.
A Ferrari round the streets of Maranello; La Dogana agriturismo in Greta; Lake Maggiore and the ferry to a market on the island of Intra; the val de Aosta; the Mont Blanc tunnel; the village of le Fayet at the foot of Mont Blanc.
Our best French meal in the tiny village of Paray-le-Monial; French arrogance.
la Kasbah in Acuigny and the Adams family castle.
Fields of golden canola, apple trees in blossom, vines at budburst, bluebells and heather.
Across the channel; the Victory of Mersea; the Cretingham Bell; the Monewden airstrip; Washingborough Hall near Lincoln.
York and meeting up with an old acquaintance; an aircraft museum at Elvington nr York; battered spam and mushy peas.
Thirsk (Darrowby) and the James Herriot centre; the Cats Inn at Berwick on Tweed; Aberdeen and an evening with a neighbour from homes' daughter and boyfriend.
The Pitcaple ‘bus kitchen’; Drumnadrochit and the Loch Ness monster; Cullen Skink; Urquhart Castle; finding Achnahannet; Inveraray Castle and the Campbells; too much eighteen year old Dalwhinnie single malt at the Argyll Hotel.
The Lockerbie memorial; the Scotgtish borders and Elliot territory; Chester; Swansea airfield; Poole;  a ferry to Cherbourg.
The Hispano in Thieville; lunch at a tiny café in Carentan; Bayeux and the de Gaulle ceremony; Pont l’eveque; and now working our way back home.
Countless special memories to cherish.
Indeed, what IS it all about??!!

25th June

The final episode of this adventure has ended where it all began.
At the place we call home.
The sixteen hour layover in KL passed with little sleep, but in the comfort of the Malaysia Golden Lounge.
Our flight back to Melbourne in business was both long, and tiring.
We were met by good friends and neighbours, who drove us back to the best spot on the planet.
Heather has visited her mum in hospital.
She has hung in there, and delighted her daughter is home.
We are both very tired and very happy, and have no regrets.
We journeyed as explorers, not tourists.
There are now many new adventures to plan.