Not Ready For Iceland

With Neal at work again Tuesday, Paul and I did some sightseeing. It was very enjoyable to have a tour guide (many thanks, Paul!) instead of wandering aimlessly and missing the not-so-obvious landmarks which is easy to do when you're on your own.

The day started, however, with a visit to the Clapham Police station to report my camera lost/stolen :-(. I do have one memory card with original pics, but I'm not sure exactly what's survived and what's been lost on the card still in the camera. But, as they say, there's no point crying over spilt milk.

We ended up meeting Gerry for lunch next to the Tate Modern, which we explored all too briefly. The stunning mock-sunset in the entrance Turbine Hall had us captivated for some time, and I'm hoping some of Gerry's accidental* pics can be published online soon for the world to see!

We only managed to make it around the 5th floor, stopping many times to intelligently discuss the installations, before we had to head off. Paul had kindly made an appointment at the local doctor's surgery as I'd decided to get some antibiotics for my sinus/chest infection that didn't seem to be healing properly of its own accord. And of course I didn't want to be late for the appointment because that would mean missing out on sitting in the waiting room until I'd paid up front, then sitting in the waiting room to be seen to. For 1.5 minutes of consultation.

*'Accidental' because Gerry's camera is fucked and the shutter button is stuck down. This means it simply takes random pictures at time intervals of its own choosing which, we discovered, were often better than those silly set-up pics that involve human interference in the camera's picture-taking abilities.

Neal went into work today at Headline, which proved to be all at once a far, far greater trauma and a far, far lesser hurdle than he had imagined. They are terribly English here, you know. The Northern Line derailment didn't help, as it took poor Neal 1 hour and 40 minutes to do the trip, thanks to a (start sarcasm) delightful (end sarcasm) interaction with the train station attendant after the ticket machine swallowed a £10 note and gave exactly nothing in return.

After a relaxed wander around the city (which included an investigation of a couple of the new train stations on the Jublilee line that borders on anorak-wearing geek-ism) I met up with Gerry in Soho and we went to Kasbar (Clapham High St) for drinks then to Indian for dinner: Tim, Neal, Paul, Chiv, Sonia, Gerry. Great fun, and stuffed ourselves (so what's new?). While it's still fresh in my mind, Chiv says a big hello to everyone back home!

There was a derailment on the Northern line yesterday, so the Tube was more packed than ever, but Gerry and I still managed to talk non-stop. Tip to travellers: when walking along the (very narrow) Clapham North platform towards the exit with one Geraldine Chang, beware the Emergency Point telephones which, due to excessive levels of 'rah-rah-rah' between self and said Ms Chang, can jump out and wallop you in the head.

Finally, we managed to catch up with the elusive Gerry-san today for lunch! Well, that's probably not totally fair, as we too have been elusive, as have 16 million other (greater) Londoners. But after numerous phone calls and texts, we did coordinate to meet up at the pizza place opposite Clapham North station for wine and calzone. Needless to say, Gerry was glamourous even after two nights in a row, and it was great fun to catch up along with Sonia, Beck and Paul.

[Editor's note: Without wanting to point out any names in particular, I will issue a warning here to everyone back home: be careful about what you decide to SMS half way round the world when spastic on substance in the Colombian. At some point sooner than you think, there may be travellers from your own neighbourhood who can bear witness to those very same rambling, soliloquy-like texts once they arrive in London. The names 'Anthony' and 'John' may or may not be involved here; I couldn't possibly comment.]

After checking through a number of options for planes, trains and automobiles, we caught a Virgin train back to London (£31 each) after our adventures west and north. By comparison, we could have caught a RyanAir flight for £12.99, but that was from Prestwick airport, some 50 minutes south of Glasgow, and flying to Luton. So all round the train seemed like less hassle and more relaxation. And a very big thank you to Nick and Zoe for their delightful company and neverending hospitality. Who knows: we may even recover before your next trip to Sydney.

Turned out to be a very enjoyable train ride back down to London, on yet another glorious day. The train was late and not one of the flash new Pendolinos that Virgin shows on the billboards. But then, they have been censured four times this year for misleading advertising so that was to be expected. (They apparently defend this by saying that they advertise a whole lot more than anyone else. A whole lot more falsely, it would seem.)

We were also diverted via Stoke-on-Trent (hi again, Aaron!) because of a derailment, and things did move slowly for a while, but that was just fine by us. So much pretty countryside and a book or two to read made for a pleasant trip, and although the scheduled time was something like 6.5 hours, it didn't really seem that long. We both find that train journeys of such duration are far less stressful than planes, not the least reason being that on the ground we all have our required quota of oxygen. The bonus with a plane, of course, is that you can still use the loo when it's stopped. Only you can't get out of your seat.

Once in London at Euston, swapped onto the Tube to get the Northern line to Clapham Common then grabbed a minicab to Paul's place in Kings Avenue.

Back again now after a couple of days of extremely enjoyable touring and sightseeing. Left Glasgow and headed up the A814 past Garelochhead, stopped off for a walk through Ardkinglas Woodland Garden then stopped for (a huge!) lunch at a fantastic seafood restaurant at Cairndow on the banks of Loch Fyne.

Passed the fairy-tale Inveraray Castle, up the A819 then A85 to Oban, where we caught the ferry across to Craignure on the Isle of Mull. The whole of this trip in Scotland has been incredibly beautiful, and we've been blessed with great weather for this time of year. Yes it's cold, but by no means cold enough to stop you walking or enjoying the fresh air.

Stayed in the postcard-scene village of Tobermory at the Western Isles Hotel, where Nick and Zoe stayed in the the very capacious Glenlivet room and Neal and I in the Staffa. A quick wander round the village, drink a the pub, and then three-course meal finished off a very pleasant day.

Next morning, breakfast then a drive where we spotted some seals on the sand bars. Came across the MacQuarie Mausoleum (which seemed to be very tucked away), dedicated to our very own Governer MacQuarie and his family who, we found out, came from this very Isle of Mull. The people you meet!

Wandered around Duart and Torosay Castles, then onto the ferry and back to Oban, which this time we had a chance to look around. Headed home up the A828 to Ballachulish, A82 to Tyndrum then Crianlarich, and down the western side of Loch Lomond back to Glasgow.

Yesterday Nick and Zoe took us to Edinburgh, where we wandered and ambled and tried in vain to avoid parking officers. A much prettier place than Glasgow, but without as much vibrancy and life. We looked around (but not in) the castle, and then went on a barrel-ride tour of the Scotch Whisky Museum.

Today we're heading to the Isle of Mull for a mini-break: we've decided we need a holiday after last weekend.

We went to Boutique at the Arches and had the odd dance... sheesh! It's all returned to Nick and Zoe's lounge room, where many bodies lie. We caught up with young Stuart, who seems terrible 'home-sick' for Sydney (he's only been back 3 weeks). So hopefully we'll see him at home permanently soon!

Quote of the evening (so far): "AAHHH! I just found a pill in my kazoo! That almost never happens!" -- Jen

Nick and Zoe are bad, bad people.

Editorial note: remember to check back over previous entries, as we've been going back and adding details & web links as time permits...

We've arrived, via M6 -- A74(A) -- M74 -- M8 -- A82, at Nick and Zoe's lovely flat in Glasgow, and it's a lovely thing to be in Scotland with a couple we met in Sydney months ago. We had a leisurely day driving through the exquisite Lakes District, stopping off at Beatrix Potter World at Windermere on the way. Although that's not intended to take any thunder away from the lovely motorway stop where, as Neal so eloquently put it, the gents looked like they were "ready to take a crap in the urinals".

So yesterday, we left the delightful Conwy [Hi Mum! - Ed] and headed east. I'd arranged to meet up with Aaron Cogle (I suspect Anthony might be the only one back home who's familiar with that name) who now lives in Derby and works in Stoke-on-Trent. He and we ('im and us?) were approximately the same distance either side of Chester, which is back in the Old Blightey. We made arrangements by mobile to meet "at the pub opposite the train station" which, for anyone who's travelling, is always a safe bet for a meeting place.

(Aside: Aaron asked me on the mobile, "are the Welsh strange?", which seems to be a common question for anyone in the UK, or fans of The League of Gentlemen. Experiences varied, of course, but our Fiat has one of those European radios that displays the name of the station, and frequently when we hit the Search button in Wales the display said There's Nothing For You Here.)

It was great fun to meet up with Aaron again, although there was one point where the interruptions of a toothless drunkard seemed likely to taint the reunion. He fell into the Chesterfield beside us and emitted a loud belch, which we understand now to be the local customary greeting to foreigners.

Addressing Neal, he slurs: "Oi, Cockney! We continue our conversation, although he has now irrevocably entered it.

OI! COCKNEY! Yer football?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Yer football team?"

"Oh, sorry, we're just visitors." Neal attempts to return his attentions to me and Aaron.

"Yer rugby?"

"Ah, we don't follow the football."

"Yer what?"

"We don't follow the football. Or the rugby."

[he hhrrmpph's.] "Don't folla? So what yer like, into?"

(Under his breath:) "Oh, you know, fetishwear..."

(Tim interjects:) "Actually, golf's a good game..."

"So yer into, art? Like, Andy Warhol?"

"We have to leave now. Our food's ready."

After what went on to be a very enjoyable catch-up, we made a tentative agreement to meet up again in Canal Street, Manchester. We headed to that Mancunian capital as Aaron did the 'right thing' and went back to work in Stoke. Before we knew it, vodka had flowed and Canal Street was blurry.

Since I know that Aaron will be reading this, I can't tell you all what really happened last night, but let's just say that the fact that Aaron's phone number ends with The Mark of The Beast is no coincidence. No, just kidding. Or am I?

Didn't we have a lov-er-ly time the day we went to Ban-gor!

Tim, shut the fuck up. We did not have a loverly time, as it was dark when we arrived, there was no room at the inn, and we drove round in circles trying to get the hell out of the township.

Well yes, that may be true, but it meant that we had to continue driving and that's why we've ended up here at the most gorgeous village of Conwy. A walled community with castle that dates back to 1230ish, it just reeks of bucholic quaintness.

And don't forget our Arthurian encounter on the way to Bangor yesterday afternoon. Intrigued by the signs pointing to King Arthur's Labyrinth, we sought out the promise of a meal and an underground boat tour of Arthur's days in Wales. Of course, it was really a disused lead mine with a couple of reclaimed shop mannequins and a few coloured lights. (In Neal's best western suburbs accent:) "Well if you'd come last week, love, you could have seen the Lady of the Lake, but now 'er hand's broken and I'm afraid Excalibur's blown a fuse. We're waitin' for a chap from Cardiff to come and fix 'er."

But of course all of this day-we-went-to-Bangor stuff was preceded by a most delightful visit to the village of Portmeirion on the coast of Wales just outside of Porthmadog. This amazing construct was the work of architect Clough Williams-Ellis during his time there from 1925 to 1975. I remember it as being the setting of the '60s English television series The Prisoner with Patrick McGoohan and it was downright freaky to be visiting this place. I watched the series with a bunch of friends in college in the early '80s, and sitting on Bruce's floor back then it would never have entered my head that one day I'd be visiting this place.

Portmeirion is filled with small-scale grandeur and pieces of architecture and buildings taken from many locations and brought here. There are a number of self-contained cottages which can be rented, and the overwhelming impression is that this would be one helluva place to take a few dozen people for a party weekend!

We stayed last night at a small but cliche B&B in Builth Wells, where Neal insists the owner, a fine Welsh gent, had been the lucky recipient of a mail-order bride from Russia. I reckon he's being unfair, but only because I wasn't convinced of her accent, and besides the other woman may have been his wife.

Lots of incredibly beautiful scenery whiz by when you're doing 60mph on an A-road, with a single narrow lane and stone walls on either side. Overcast but surprisingly not too cold, not even at night (yet).

Wales is a place of many colours and even more syllables and our map is in the car so you'll have to use your imagination. For instance we lunched in Aberystwyth or somat like that. One of those classically bleak west coast resort of days gone by which are so cheerfully depicted in British rail posters. Now of course the poorest of the poor British holiday makers can afford hollibags in Spain so only students at the university fill the digs. Neal loves these places, but as Morrisey sang of a similarly bleak northern town, Come Armageddon, Come!

And a note for the travel guides: the museum here while it has a fine collection of Welsh history, is probably not "the most beautiful in all of the UK". No doubt the curator of the V&A would have other thoughts on such a proclamation.

We picked up our car from Heathrow, which was rather less painful than we thought all things considered. A baby-puke coloured Fiat Punto which, I can tell you, is not particularly suited to highway cruising (124dB of road and wind noise never sounded so good!). Neal drove from London to Bath, and took us via one of England's legendary Welcome Break stops where we wrestled with a large and notably elderly lunch crowd for a cafeteria table before proceeding to Bath.

Spent the afternoon looking around, including the obvious Roman Baths. To be honest, I found this far more engrossing than I would have imagined. It was full of a busload of French schoolchildren at the time, but we managed to work around them...

And much to our dismay, the bath spa has not yet opened, despite a planned launch of 'June 2003'. We suspect the Taylor Square contractors have had additional trouble translating the plans into English.

One lost weekend in London which went much as most of you will suspect, with a night of Big Daddy G's grooves and Neal asleep on a couch in Club 3 while Tim danced the night away in far less clothing than is suitable for this climate.

N: 'Can we go home yet, and where is it tonight'?

T: 'Um?'

Saturday was trains to Shepparton to visit Bex and Ross and a splitting headache that may have been the result of the five bottles of red we found in the lounge upon waking the next day. [Has anyone noticed the pattern emerging here involving the number five? - Ed]

N: 'So apart from both having full blown colds now we're doing quite well aren't we Tim?'

T: 'Just a small medicinal brandy for me, please.'

N: 'And the Indian restaurant last night in Bath was the business, wasn't it?'

T: 'Bloody expensive for we south-of-the-continent. Can a cup of yoghurt and a cucumber really add up to $50?'

N: 'But we didn't have to pay, we put it on that plastic thing you carry about didn't we?'

T: 'That plastic thing you flick about with gay abandon will have much to answer for my dear, and our time of reckoning is yet to come. I hope you haven't become too settled with that four-day-a-week routine you've got yourself into.'

Today in some way like the first 'normal' day we've had. I suspect that's much to do with jet lag and its insidious effects: you don't seem to realise how icky it is until it's passed. And regardless of what many profess, it does hit you! But perhaps more important that just getting over jet lag was the five bottles of wine we went through once we got to Grant's place...

We arrived last night at Heathrow after our final day in Vienna, most of which was taken up with a thorough poke around the museum of armaments, weapons and musical instruments, which fit together much more naturally than they sound (scene: smoke, fire, horses blaze across hilltops, trumpets blare). Really enjoyed this, and am never sick of seeing the myriad methods humans have constructed for ripping each other apart. Which reminds me ... we saw Phone Booth on the way over, which I cannot recommended for small children, or other humans, and which sticks in my mind for its obscene violence and overdubbing of swear words (visualise this: huge car expolosion, body parts flying, criminal screams FUCK OFF but somehow manages to sound like 'go away'). Goddam those Americans know their priorities.

Anyways, Vienna airport saw Tim get grumpy because he'd written Mark's phone number in the back of the Lonely Planet which Neal had packed in the checked-in luggage, and which Tim reached for just as the conveyor belt whisked it away. Heathrow, on the other hand, saw Neal get grumpy when the conductor on the station shoved him onto the Paddington Express and the doors closed, just as he realised he'd left the duty free in a plastic bag hanging from the luggage trolley. As the train pulled out and we both looked back at the trolley, we mused over the chances of the train station being evacuated and our Danish vodka and lovely Viennese sonnenblumen loaf being blown to Gatwick by a remote controlled army robot.

So with that in mind, perhaps the five bottles of wine are in better context? And I should also point out that (for those who know him) Mr Dodd was also present at Grant's. I'll say no more on the topic.

And Mr Dodd has been our guide for today, which so far is delightful. I've bought a new pair of shoes at Neal's favourite shop in London (Shelley's) and we've had breakfast and lunch on the town. Oh, and we grabbed a Virgin SIM card for the phone, so anyone can text us on +44 7906 647 196.

Gradually coming to terms with our jetlag, but not the German kezboards. Doing lots of sightseeing and being jolly good tourists, although an inordinate amount of time seems to have been spent on searching for the perfect snow-dome for Genevieve. Since they are all so truly dreadful, it's sparked much heated debate as to which is the one. We're leaning towards the Hundertwasser model which, in spite of the architect/painter's profound and particular aesthetic, is so cheaply made in garish colours that it would make Ken Done proud.

We visted a delightfully large and suitably half-deserted fairground yesterday, and took a trip back in time on a rollercoaster. Neal fought his inner demons with what is ostensibly the world's sickest fairground attraction, the Turbo Boost. We have photos, but our feet stayed on the ground. For the film afficionados (Em & Rob in particular), this fairground was the one Orson Welles used in his film The Third Man, and in particular that ferris wheel makes it big in the tourist trade (cue slow pan from real ferris wheel to snow-dome of same and pull focus).

Of course, to get something to eat after the thrill of the fair, we wandered into the Squalid Quarter, where lurid plastic flowers competed with drug peddling and trench-coats. Needless to say, the peddling won, though of course when in Vienna you should Just Say Nein.

Perhaps the most appropriate way to leave you is with those immortal words: "Ah. Vienna." - Ultravox

Well, we were served some canneloni on the plane that we didn't like, but we did get three extra hours today so that came out of nowhere, so that was something. And we seemed to occupy a total of six hours in the Kunsthistorisches museum in only two earth hours, which has partially done our heads in and partially been very satisfying. Neal says that possibly Vienna is the wormhole that we intended to find in Rejkyavik. All of this on no more than, say, 4.5 hours sleep, and it's only 7pm. But what is time, anyway?

But before any of that happened, we spent an inordinate amount of time on an aeroplane with a very screaming baby and a broken seat. Hotel Urania is a riot of post-Hapsburgian tack [Neal's words, not mine - Ed. Oh, and I'm doing this all on a German kezböard!], overseen by a chubby Divine-esque queen and a mangy terrier with a very sweet nature (the terrier) whose droppings are, as is the norm in Vienna, smeared on the steps to welcome us home.

Did you know that you can book a mini-limo thingy mid-flight to pic you up from the airport? NO, it's true! We used the inflight entertainment system to book an E-classe to collect us, and right there in front of us as we exited the sliding foreigners' entry doors at the airport, there was a chap holding up a piece of paper with my name on it. You see, in Austria, things just work. Niki would be proud (that's Niki Lauda, you know, as in Lauda Air) except that he sold the company to his arch enemy and now lives in exile. But I digress...

After 13km of walking, some very decent dining, the obligatory coffee from one of those things that Neal can't remember the name of and can't find in the Lonely Planet, we been as playful as one of Bruegel's peasants and now we're as exhausted as a Titian Christ. Christ!

"Twas the night before Europe, and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a kitty."

Yes, tomorrow we board Lauda Air to Vienna, adventure, tourism and just a hint of allegory...