JandalsnAll

A few weeks at Chateau de Radetz was just what I need to escape the unforgiving German winter. The place came equipped with built in ‘mother’ hence I was treated to luxuries far greater than I deserved. Gone were the days of dried pasta drowned in a German Dolmio equivalent, the days of lumpy creaky 5 foot dwarf beds. Between bouts of lounging and eating, Mary showed me the town, and the surrounding towns. Day trips to Heidlburg, France (just ‘popped’ over for a day…), snowy walks in the hills (with real snow!), flamkuchen (german pizza) and even skiing (on real snow!) gave me a better taste of Germany than I would have gained on my own.

The two weeks flew by, after which I left the comforts of ‘home’ and the German winter for a warmer climate in Italy. Excited to be heading to Italy once more, but reluctant to leave behind family and the luxury and kindness that come with.

I landed in Pisa and caught a train to Livorno where I was planning to stay. Why did I go to Livorno? My reasoning escapes me at this moment. But I can save you the trouble now and tell you its not worth it. Livorno is a dump. If I were to have consulted Lonely Planet I would have seen that under the heading of Livorno the words ‘a bit of a dump’ are actually used. But of course I didnt read that. I think after two weeks of ocean depravity, in a state of landlocked insanity, I just assumed that since it was near the coast it might be a nice place to spend the night. I was wrong. Things were not starting out well my second time in Italy. Until… I booked into the hostel, was shown the dorm room and a few minutes later upgraded to a private double room with bathroom and TV (albeit Italian TV) due to the fact the place was rather empty. It seemed my life of luxury was not yet over. Yes, things were looking up….
[read on]

Two and a half years ago, fresh from NZ on my first trip outside my country of birth, I stepped out of frankfurt airport and into a new world. As I took those first steps on foreign soil I felt something akin to debilitating panic take me over. Here I am in a strange land surrounded by strange people (of who I know nothing but for an unnatural obsession with cabbage and funny pants) who say strange things to me and who all think the same of me in return. How would I survive? And what if I had to go to the toilet??

Luckily, second time round, an experienced traveller by comparison, I landed in Dusseldorf armed with the German word for toilet, and thus was spared any feelings of culture shock as I caught a bus, then a taxi through the snow lined streets to Dusseldorf Backpackers.

It was at the hostel I first began to notice strange things…
1. The pillows were all big and square.
2. The lightswitches were all big and square.
3. The top of the glass doors would swing down towards you if you were silly enough to turn the handle more than exactly one quarter turn.

As I didnt recall any of these oddities from my first trip to Germany I at first put these down to the unique character of this hostel only. I was later to find these odd dimensions extended to nearly all pillow, lightswitch and door dimensions across the whole of Germany….

While in Dusseldorf, I did find time out frome examining interior fittings to indulge my artistic sensibilities at Dusseldorf’s excellent K21 Contemporary art gallery. Where upon my inadequacies when it comes to the German language were exposed. It is one thing to ask for a ticket, quite another to enquire as to the state of the contemporary art scene in Germany and its current position in a post-post-modern world…

I spent half my time at the gallery exploring the works, and the other half of the time with my mind occupied by the ‘click…click…click…click’ of the gallery attendant’s high-heels on the wooden floor behind me as she proceeded to follow me from one work to another. Eventually it became a sort of a game. I’d duck around a wall or down behind a sculpture and stifle giggles as her clicking footsteps became more and more frantic in her search for me, lest I start licking the paintings or straddling the sculptures. Theres nothing worse than the sound of high-heels when you are trying to consider the relevance of a resin leg protruding from a wall to the overall state of the modern world. It really should be mandatory for all gallery workers to wear slippers. Fluffy pink ones at that – then maybe theyd crack a smile once in a while (though I dont imagine a job that requires being in a constant state of painting -licker paranoia to be particularly ‘happy’ work).

I left Dusseldorf and its highheel weilding maniac behind the next day for the cathederal city of Koln, and the Station backpackers where all my lightswitch and pillow dimension suspicions were confirmed. Some may say I have a bad memory, but personally, I believe it more likely that over the last few years Germany has had a serious law reform regarding pillows, lightswitches and doors.

I set off shortly after arrival to view the world renowned cathederal, but what I was soon to find outside it was just as worthy of my attention. As I climbed the steps to the square surrounding the impressive Gothic building, a high pitched giggling arose from within a cluster of people across the way. I approached, intrigued, and caught a glimpse of something tan, something moving and wriggling and jiggling between the onlookers. I heard another explosion of giggles before I saw the source. A sack. No, a man in a giant sack. A giant laughing sack apparently. A button invited bemused passersby to stop and push, at which point the’sack’ would break into howls of laughter, which would quickly spread infectiously around the onlookers (as is the nature of laughter). Laughter in itself is an absurd thing when you stop and think about it. And here was a man dressed in a giant sack with holes cut out for his eyes laughing for his living.
As I dragged myself away, feeling I should at least give the cathederal a look rather than stand around all afternoon laughing with a man in a sack, I was left wondering how he came up with the idea and whether he ever laughs on his time off…

The interior of the cathedral was beautiful in the peaceful way cathederals are, the dim light filtering through multicoloured stained glass high above. To the right of the entrance I spotted an entry for the bell tower. Ah yes, the promise of spectacular views and the feeling of being ontop of the world. But how I would soon come to regret ever laying eyes on that sign of pure evil.
I began my ascent of the stone spiral staircase in high spirits and counting the stairs as I went to satisfy my obsessive compulsive ways. Somewhere after 100 I lost count as my brain responsibly began to rank certain things slightly more important that counting. Little things, like maintaining an upright position, and breathing. Another hour (or so it seemed) and I was praying for an end to the dizzying spiral imprisonment. At one point, I’ll admit, I considered turning around, but what if the end was just around the next bend? Or worse, what if everyone followed me and I deprived them of an experience that would be their best – or last? I couldnt have that on my conscience, so the only way was up. Finally, a light at the end of the tunnel and I emerged gasping into an open space, dragging my legs behind me and praying that my eyes did deceive me. I leaned against a wall and watched with a perverse sense of satisfaction as people behind me stumbled in, their expressions quickly changing from relief to undisguised horror as they too saw the staircase rising from the middle of the room. Here I was not alone in my suffering. I imagine perhaps this was used by the church as an ancient torture method for punishing the sinners. Send them up to ring the bells – if they made it back then God had forgiven them, if they perished then obviously their hearts were not pure.

Somehow by the will of God I made it up that final stairway to heaven to the bells and looking out over Koln I was rewarded with a glorious view of snow falling down on the city below. My first ever snowfall. It didnt seem to be settling, but not being experienced in the nature of such things, I did wonder if it might impede my exit from the tower, dooming me to a sinners death after all.

I made my way down with some difficulty, my jelly legs unwilling to offer me much support. I couldnt resist an inward smirk at the huffing puffing tourists on their way up, so innocent and unaware of the trials that lay ahead.
I later found out the staircase held 519 steps…I was one of the lucky ones.

That night I wandered the streets of Koln, which all oddly look the same. The same chain of clothing store, electrical appliances outlet, fast food restaurants on every street, their gaudy fluorescent signs serving to confuse me despite my ‘straight ahead, no turning alowwed’ street policy. A city full of German sausage lovers, Koln offered little of appeal to an anti-sausage campaigner such as myself. Determined not to help fund McDs quest for world domination, I instead settled for the equally u-German, and possibly equally-positioned-towards-world-domination Korean buffet.

Several greasy platefuls and one night later I caught a train to Manheim, from where I would be whisked away to Chateau Radetz, in the enigmatic town of Bohl-Iggelheim….

So here I find myself temporarily residing for the last week or so in Haggistown, the capital of the lovely Land of Haggis. Edinburgh (as it is known to the less immature), I can only describe as being grungily beautiful. The city is divided into the New Town and the Old Town (the Old Town being ‘old’ and the New Town, oddly enough being ‘new’, built to accomodate a growing population) between which run the Prince Street Gardens – once a stinking loch of human waste Im told, now a lovely place for a brisk stroll (just maybe dont be eating the dirt round here).

A mismatch of architectural styles, including but not restricted to Gothic, Classical, Contemporary and which also include other styles that might be Baroque or Renaissance or other things similarly old-sounding that I probably couldnt actually define even if I was forced to stand around in the Scottish winter wearing naught but a kilt and eat haggis. But there’s a real sense of history here, and a beauty that is not quite pure with its steep stairways, age-stained stone and dark archways.

To which of these aspects (the grunge or the beauty) to place the phenomenon of a massive Australian invasion I can not say, but the first few days I was here, I didnt hear one Scottish accent….just that lovely twang of our dear cousins from the north.

I spent the first night in a hostel (or as some, namely me, might call it an Aussiehouse) on The Royal Mile – the road that rolls down the hill from where Edinburgh castle sits royally on a rocky throne of volcanic rock, overlooking the city. Then I moved to a place called Globetotters which is out of town near the bay and with its shop, kitchen, gym, movie room etc is really more like a hotel, or even a town that anything else. I must say Im getting just a little too comfortable here..

My second day I spent wandering with an artist’s content through the four main art galleries of Edinburgh which are all free and therefore meet my budget (the castle at £10 did not meet my budget). The Portrait awards were amazing, and there were some interesting works at the Dean Modern Gallery, the rest as usual kindof all blended into one giant subtle-toned frilly-collared work I imagine might be called Portrait of Someone Royal holding StillLife in Landscape Somewhere Important.

Then after another day or so doing not much except watching helplessly as Edinburgh sucked away my NZ dollars, for some strange reason I decided to do a tour. I was a little apprehensive at first, imagining the worst to be a whisky guzzling, haggis-smearing, booze fest, but I shopped around and found a tour a little off the main backpacker radar that would take me to all the right places for not too wrong a price.

I was not to be disappointed. The tour was a 3day trek through the Highlands and the Isle of Skye run by Wild-inScotland. We set off on Saturday morning, a cosy group of only eight (maximum being 16), and I was relieved to see no obvious haggis-smearers nor obvious whiskey-guzzlers in the lineup. There was a couple from Singapore, an Aussie, two Srilankans, a Glasgowian and another KiwiChristchurchian. All in all a lovely bunch.

Our friendly tour guide drove our un-marked minivan through to Stirling on the first day, where we began our history lesson with the life and times of William Wallace (or Mel Gibson as some of us know him). From Stirling we made our way up the country in the shadow of the mighty Ben Nevis (highest mountain in Britain) and his neighbouring mountains to Signal Rock at Glencoe, the site of the chilling 1692 Glencoe Massacre (Signal Rock being where the signal was given for the English to massacre the town with no mercy).

From here we made our way further North following the Great Glen, past numerous picturesque lochs, learning more about the country, before arriving at our home for the next two nights in Plonkton.

Day two was by far my favourite as we took the Skye Bridge over the the Isle of Skye. The weather was just perfect (still frickin freezing but perfect) with blue skies and fluffy widdle clouds. We visited the main town of Portree for lunch then proceeded to one of my favourite places in the world…the Fairy Glen. The fairy glen is a valley is in the middle of nowhere, a number of grassy mounds surrounding a rocky fairy castle. From the top of the castle theres a great view of the landscape around, nothing but bare rolling land in greens and browns and yellows.

Now to the good part: the Brroownies. The ‘Broownie’ (roll that ‘rrr’) is Scotlands answer to the Irish leprechaun. a mischeivous little person with red hair who likes to run around in a kilt and resides here in the Fairy Glen. Rules for entering the Fairy Glen are: No hands in pockets (or the ‘brroownies’ think youre up to something), No swearing and No taking stuff. As we all know Ive had my fair share of bad luck with a certain Irish leprechaun and I was therefore fairly keen to stay out of this variations badbooks. It was a struggle in the near freezing conditions but I managed to keep my hands out of my pockets and left my notorious potty mouth back in the van. The way the winter evening light fell across the ‘castle’ sitting in the middle of a seeminly untouched natural landscape made the Fairy Glen a truly magical place.

With less than an hour of daylight left we made one last stop to catch the end of the sunset overlooking an area known as the Quiraing. A perfect end to a perfect day. Ahh.

Last day we headed back down the now icy country towards Edinburgh, past the totally scenic Eilean Donan Castle (complete with mirror reflection in the surrounding water) and on to the infamous LochNess. Where I unfortunately failed to see Nessie though I did take a few photos and Im pretty confident if I look closely enough he’ll be there in the background waving a flipper.

I returned to the hostel in Edinburgh feeling energised, having seen a part of this country that cannot be described as anything but awesome – in the true sense of the word. Tomorrow when I leave for Germany I’ll take with me a sense of Scotland’s spirit and history, and a clearer sense of another small part of my own ancestry.

Top 10 resolutions I swear I will keep:

1. Eat less chocolate

2. Dont kid self about eating less chocolate

3. Do something crazy: Get a tattoo? Pierce an eyelid? Grow a beard?

4. Say yes to anything that isnt agains my morals… (thanks to friend who forgets giving me this one, or making it herself)

5. Dont forget about Doolin

6. Buy a surfboard (ie. stop being a wuss and brave the ‘summer’ Atlantic)

7. Resist buying icecream when weather is cold enough to require the wearing of gloves…broke this one already this year…but…. starting now…no, I meant starting… now.

8. Give more – I have enough.

9. Think of one more to make ten.

10. Plan my 2006/7 campaign against the making of resolutions – no one ever keeps them, its just a world of broken promises….

What began as a peaceful 4 day Dublin shopping frenzy, ended in dreadlock massacre as, 10 days before my one year dreadlock anniversary, Antonia finally had enough of having a hippy for a sister and with a mad glint in her eye proceeded to chop the life essence from my head 1/84th at a time (Prize time: I’ll send one original dreadlock to anyone who can tell me what that is in percentage). I went from scraggly dread-locked hippy
, to 13 year old skater-boy , to homeless lady who chops her own hair with a plastic knife she found in the McD’s rubbish bin (No really Tonia, it wasnt that bad) in a matter of hours – six hours over two days.
And I was left with a mountain of hair. If one human loses on average approximately 100 hairs per day, and I had dreadlocks for 355 days, and all those lost hairs remained entangled on my head….well you do the math. Thats a lotta hair. I considered putting my dreads on ebay and making a fortune but decided in the end that Id rather just have fun with dreadlock dolly.

Luckily Dublin is hairdresser central and I got myself tidied up the next day. There seem to be two types of hairdressers in this world: those from the mega-poofball school of thought, and those from the body-is-evil school. This hairdresser was from the latter as most of the younger hairdressers seem to be. So I came out of there with hair as straight as a nail. As straight as a nail that hasnt been bent. Which was all well and good except that two days later when I had to wash my hair I ended up looking like a human cotton ball. A brunette cottonball – in other words, ‘poof’. I guess I should stick with the mega-poofball hairdressers in future – at least then Id end up with an attractive poofball cut. Im just destined to be a poofball.

Aside from losing my soul, I got around fifty solid shopping hours in with Antonia, and came back to the hostel with a bag full of…nothing, somehow. Liam meanwhile went to work and managed to get a piece of wall stuck in his eye and so, unfortunately was unable to join us – a likely story.

After a few days back at the hostel recovering from the shock of Dublin christmas overload, I came crawling back, repulsed yet strangely compelled by the bright shiny lights and decadent spending lifestyle of the city under its christmas spell. And so again, I have spent the last two days being carried along by the pulsing throngs of christmas mad shoppers.

Street vendors selling cheap imitations and ‘two packs of batteries for a fiver’ verbally advertise their products – what exactly those products are I would never know to hear them shout with my untrained ear – though I definitely know one guy is selling ‘two packs of batteries for a fiver’. It was recently suggested that Dublin streets need a slow lane for all the grannies so they dont hold up the rest of us. I couldnt agree more – for their own safety (though they seem able to fend for themselves as proven yesterday when I had a walking stick stuck out infront of me to block my path – that guy wasnt gonna stop for nobody).

Maybe Dublin city could also provide me with a plastic bubble so I dont have to deal with cigarette smoke being blown in my face everywhere I walk. And everyone should have a personal shopper so we dont actually have to deal with the madness, and the personal shoppers could have robots to do their shopping. Or maybe we should just forget Christmas altogether and ‘dont buy presents, how about giving your money to the homeless instead’ as one collector (for the homeless) was heard to say this morning. All very well but Christmas aint nothing without presents – oh and love and fellowship of man, and frankincense and myrrh too. Merry Christmas everyone, hope Santi (thats Irish Santa) brings you just what you want. (I asked for a cure for poofy hair).

Buon giorno! Yes here I am in Venice – I wish I could say that in Italian too but Im still working on “Give me five scoops of gelato right now”. Actually I did manage to ask to use the internet in Italian: Vorrei usare l’internet?” but then the receptionist replied with “buonosidoveoraquantoraviolimamamiaquello?” and we were back to englese but Im trying. Not that it makes a huge difference here. It seems to me a lot of the shop keepers are treating me like I shouldnt be here wether I try or not. Either that or theyre super nice while theyre showing you all their wares. And in a way I dont blame them. Imagine January and February downtown in the Mount and times that by six more months and you see what they have to deal with. And its embarrassing the way some people treat Venice, storming into a shop and demanding something without even trying an Italian greeting and with out using manners in any language – Ive seen it many many times.
Anyway Im here and having a good time – and a bit of a laugh. Sitting in SanMarco’s square provides hours of entertainment, from the parents who pay to have their children swarmed by filthy Venetian flying rats, to the women with the golden getups purchasing imitation godola man getups for their unfortunate husbands or grandchildren. Or maybe they like that sort of thing, who knows.
Back to the flying rats, these arent your Auckland variety of dirty, these are 800 year old SanMarco Piazza variety of dirty. And every day approximately 4000 people walk through the square, people who could have stepped in anything on the way there, even poo, and who leave 700 000 00000 invisible poo footprints contaminated with 10 00000 000 0000 00000 000000000 000 0000000 germs. And Mum and Dad think it’ll be fun to let little Johnny play with the pigeons. So fun that they pay EU1 for birdseed to attract pigeons with 800years worth of poo on their feet to climb all over their children. And then they take a photograph so as to look back with fond memories on the time they contaminated their child with 800 year old poo germs in San Marco Square.
It is indeed the place for taking photos. Not only of the palace which really is impressive, but of other people taking photos of the palace. I’d really like to be able to take a huge panoramic photograph and be able to literally count how many people are taking a photo in the square. I’d also like to know how many of other peoples snapshots I am in – I try to get in as many as possible.

So a quick synopsis of what Ive been up to.

Day One: Caught the bus from the airport and stepped into the madness and the wonder of Venezia. Checked in at Santa Foasca hostel which is a part of the University dorms. Was basic but clean enough.

Day Two: Walked around absorbing the sights and sounds. Checked out the bridges. Visited the Peggy Guiggenheim museum of modern art. I was lucky enough to catch a few talks on her life – she sounds like this eccentric crazy lady who actually knew nothing about art when she started collecting – Im keen to read her biography “Out of this Century” if I can find it cheaper than they were selling it. Saw some Kandinskys, Pollocks, Calders, Picassos, Ersnts and more – just like 6th Form art history but in real life. Had dinner in a small Italian cafe. Had pasta for dinner, of all things.

Day Three: The first visit to the Biennale. It was great but exhausting. I should have gone through the whole thing first then gone back to the best things, because all the good stuff was at the end, and I was tired and hungry and had to go to the toilet by then. Also I missed out on going inside Moriko Mori’s huge beautiful UFO because the queue was closed. But it was great anyway, with lots of crazy stuff – lucky I decided to be a tourist and opted for the audio guide. Contemporary art is so hard to understand sometimes. Its like the artists are just trying to confuse you on purpose.

Day Four. Today I went to Murano by waterbus to see some Glass Crap. Geez there was alot of it. There was some beautiful stuff too, but a lot more crap than not. So I bought some presents there. Then I came back and looked around down by the square and there was alot of glass crap there too but it was cheaper. Luckily I only bought the non-crap in Murano. Last night and tonight I stayed at Foresteria Valdese. It was my first choice but they told me it was full when I rang. I checked it out on my second day here and they did infact have some places. Its an old building being restored and apparently has frescoes on some of the ceilings. Not my room though. Im sharing a room and a bathroom with four other girls and get free breakfast. Im really glad I decided to come by because its a great place to stay and excellent location – close to SanMarco and the Biennale but also outside the tourist area. And internet is only 5EU per hour not EU9 like most of the other places in the city.

Tommorrow is more biennale, Monday is the big tourist extravaganza – SanMarco etc (I have to look for pigeons impaled on the spikes) and Tuesday is check I have enough glass crap day, then home to Dublin.

And now my internet time is almost up and as Ive spent all my money on glass crap and gelato I cant afford to pay for more.

Ciao (that means seeya later alligator).

And so it came that on the 15th day of the 9th month of the one thousand, one hundred and senventy nineth year I was given unto the world that I may show you the truth and the way of all things chocolate and thus that you might have eternal sugary goodness through me.
Yesterday morning, I awoke to the sound of the rains falling on our humble hostel, and the delightful if persistent trumpeting of angels – which I soon realized was actually some person blowing their nose in the bathroom next door. I peeled the dreadlocks from my face, peered out the window and saw that it was indeed pouring from the heavens on this most glorious of days. The Gods must be crying with joy. And with good reason, for on this day I was to open many presents. I scrambled to the end of my bed, dug out my hoard and with a victorious shout that stopped the noseblower mid-trumpet, I began to rip and tear, pull and push at my packages until they spilled forth their treasures. And oh the treasures! Sugary delights of every variety, with such brilliant colours that did nearly blind my eyes and that did make my body tremble with anticipation of a sugar-induced, foodcolouring and additive enhanced coma. Oh and there were some clothes and some shoes and books and jewellery and things in there that were good too.

I threw on all my new clothes, rushed down stairs and ran through the hostel shouting hysterically, ‘Its my birthday! Its my birthday!’. Actually I didnt but the temptation was strong…. No, deciding to leave my fellow hostel-stayers in peace, I instead grabbed the phone in the laundry, rang home and shouted hysterically down the receiver ‘Its my birthday! Its my birthday!’ After and hour or so juggling the regular phone, my cellphone and other general hostel distractions as calls flooded in from all around the world, and the washing machine beside me jumped for joy out-of-control around the floor, I retired to my cave for a good old fashioned breakfast of sugar. So began my celebratory day.

The rest of the day was actually fairly uneventful as I slipped back and forth between coherent thought and the magical world of candy. Though I did receive best wishes from the members of my surrogate family here in Dools, and was at one point during the day subjected to the strangest of rituals from one of our older Scottish guests. Upon hearing that it was my birthday, she rushes up to me and says ‘How old are you? Quick tell me so I can give you your bolms’ Or ‘poms’ or ‘barms’ or something equally unintelligible. She had hold of my arm as I bewilderedly told her that I was 26, so that I expected a hug or some similar expression. But what does she do? Still gripping my arm so I can’t escape, she starts pounding me on the back with brute Scottish strength, the way your mother might do if that piece of lego got stuck in your windpipe. ‘One, two, three, four, five…’ she counts up to ten. Then she goes for my left ear and proceeds to tug on my earlobe the way… well the way nobody in their right mind would ever do and nobody has ever done before. ‘One, two, three, four, five, six….’again up to ten. After that, thankfully, she goes back to pounding my back ‘one, two, three, four, five,six’ And then the madness just stops, she lets me go, and Im standing there like a stunned mullet staring at this strange grinning woman, wondering why, why shes been touching my earlobes. That apparently is how the Scottish say Happy Birthday. I can only thank God that Im still in my twenties and that I didnt have to find out what kind of tugging or pinching proceeds the back slapping…

That afternoon I was given strict instructions to have a shower, have a shave, put on my prettiest dress and be ready at 9 o’clock. And so abandoning my much anticipated dinner of pancakes I instead spent the afternoon wondering what the evening held in store for me. At about 8.30, K tells me to follow him and we head up to C’s house, where I walk in to the sound of Happy Birthday and find C and R there with a delicious looking sponge cake complete with candles for me, for me! Ten candles in all of course because I was turning 26. Well that was a lovely suprise and I would not have expected anything more but wait, there was more. At 9 oclock, washed, shaved and in my prettiest pretty party dress, I am driven into Ballyvaughan and treated to a great meal and the equally great company of C, R and K, at a great vegetarian Italian cafe called ‘The Holywell’. How spoilt am I? After stuffing ourselves silly we headed back to Doolin where I retired to my sugarcave full of good Italian food, too full to make a dent in my mountain of sugar even (NB. We are talking real sugar here, not ‘sugar’ as in a Neil Young’s Sugar Mountain kinda way – just so we dont get our wires crossed).

So ended my first birthday in the Green Isle – my first birthday away from home. In the days leading up to it I did expect that it might turn out to be a bit of an emotionally charged day, with me missing home more than ever. But while I would of course have liked to have spent the day at home with the whanau, opening and not sharing my presents with them, my birthday here in Doolin was a good substitute, and I suspect that when I leave here I will feel a homesickness for Doolin aswell.

And the date of departure may not be too far off – possibly the end of October but we’ll see what happens. On the art front, Ive got two blank cavases staring at me in my room, taunting me to paint them. Down at the gallery the two sculptures (here and here) in my permanent collection are holding up fairly well though I have had to spend a bit of time on restoration and maintainence of the works. I do have two more planned and Im just waiting to get them out of my head and into reality but everytime this week Ive set off for the beach with the the sun on my back, upon entry to the gallery, the weather betrays me. The wind itself is cold enough – must be straight from the antartic and it numbs my fingers til I can no longer hold my hobo stick lady stick. Then when Im on my knees the fascist anti-art clouds roll in and pummel me with their icy drops. Of course just after I make the mad dash back up the side of the cliff and bike like a maniac back to the hostel, the weather clears, the sun’s rays stabbing me in the back as I stumble soggy and exhausted upstairs, dragging my blankie of un-realized sculpture dreams behind me. Such is the suffering of the artist.

It all began with The Curious Incident of the Fork in the Toaster. Now you and I and most everybody know that you should never stick a knife in a toaster and most would presume that this warning holds true for forks and spoons as well. Apparently this did not occur so to one guest at the hostel on a fateful Monday morning. The culprit: Rogue escapist piece of toast. The accessory to the crime: Man with fork. The chronological events leading up to inevitable disaster: Toast escapes reaches of toasting-eating man, Man lunges at disrespectful toast in toaster with fork, Toaster reacts violently to the assault sending forth barrage of sparks before dying a pointless death, Fuse objects to death of companion and commits electrical suicide taking down computer, phone and washing machine in its last violent throws. Just what I need the day before I set off to England. So I figure out with my limited electrical knowlege how to reset the fuse and hoorah, the washing machine is revived. We need not wallow in our filth any longer. Alas the internet and phone were no better off after my attempts of rescuscitation, and the remainder of the day was spent on cellphone to one and all trying to find a qualified phone doctor while fending off angry internet-deprived patrons. Turns out somewhere along the way someone had pulled a plug loose out of the portable phone base and the internet was just being stubborn but that was no help to me four hours later.

ANYway, that night I packed up my pack and made ready to set off to the Land of Tea and Scones – thats England. Early next morning I boarded a bus, then another, then somehow found myself at the airport cafe eating a cardboard muffin, sipping coffee coloured water. Mmmm. Such is the airport way and who am I to fight it. I boarded my RyanAir plane surrounded by the very natives I would soon be sharing a country with – I felt like I was trapped in an Eastenders nightmare – and airborne with nowhere to run to. Thankfully this version of hell lasted only one hour before I was safely on the ground where I could run, run free like the wind. And straight into the arms of Kiwi saviour Winston waiting to whisk me away straight into the ultimate danger zone. I knew it as soon as we drove up to Gary’s house. Not that I could tell which was Gary’s. Now I was in England. Where houses arent really houses, theyre just joined narrow cloned boxes for putting all your stuff in. At least they have numbers or imagine the chaos, people wandering aimlessly, searching door to door for their homes. Inside I was pleasantly suprised to find colour – and an especially cool orange bathroom. Also inside was Patrice – no suprise really but still pleasant. Out the back there was grass, albeit a small patch but a welcome glimpse of nature. That night we dined in vegetarian/vegan bliss at a small cafe in Nottingham called Squeak. One of those places where the food looks too good – Id rather lacquer it and hang it on my wall than eat it. But it tasted great nonetheless.

Next morning we set off for London….But not without a stop in Birmingham to visit Cadbury World! Oh how I have waited for this moment all my life. The chocolate lovers dream realized in all its chocolate coated glory. Well thats what I hoped for anyway. Em, Trice, Winnie and the Chocolate Factory it technically was, though much lamer and with no-one getting sucked down the chocolate river – though if the opportunity had arisen I dare say Winston may well have dived right in… What it did have that Wonkas factory didnt was a cart ride through cocoa bean town – look at how the cocoabeans sing and dance in the snow, in the sun, on a bus. And it has the most boring ever 3D movie about the machinery in the factory. Where are the dinosaurs? or even the dancing cocoa beans in 3D would have been more exciting. It wasnt all bad though. I learnt a few things about chocolate – mostly about the white man plundering and stealing all that is good and chocolatey. There was free chocolate at the beginning and the end, and thus 100 screaming sugarhyped kids to accompany us on our journey through the wonderful world of chocolate – some of them I noticed in costume as Mike TV from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, you know with the little cowboy hat and scarf? So cute. I wish Id thought of doing that. At least I think they were in costume, maybe its just the trend with the young folk these days – Im so out of touch. To be honest – and I wouldnt admit this to just anyone because quite frankly Im rather ashamed, but by the end of it all, after 2 hours wandering through the place and getting high on the smell of rotten chocolate coming from the factory I felt rather ill. And though I bought up large in the Cadbury World chocolate shop I would not eat another piece of chocolate the whole day. Spooky.

Next stop was Stratford-Upon-Avon to take a photo outside of Shakespeare’s house. Why? Because I could and because everyone else was doing it. I didnt want to look like a geek.

Final stop on the tour to London was the illustrious motorway petrol and food stop as the car slowly gave up on life and spluttered its objection with a noise incongruent to that of a happy healthy car. We enjoyed the place so much we stayed for two hours before having the bastard car towed to Kaynes place in Barnett London – arriving at the timely hour of 12.30 AM. Poor Lex opened the door to us in a sleepy daze, I think Nardia grunted once or twice, and we settled in to sleep spread across the floor of Kayne and Jasons small living room. It crossed my mind to start a pillow fight on Nadias bed but I imagine she would not have found that terribly amusing.

Next morning we head to London via train and tube. London is BIG. Thats about all I can say. Its BIG. So we meet Lex there and go to get lunch, noticing the subways seem to be closed and surrounded by official looking people, and cellphones are not working as they should…..
After lunch the transport situation is looking no better and no explanation is given. Its about 2pm when we start heading back to Kaynes via bus. Nardia needs to be at the airport at 5.45 for her flight home to NZ. Bus after bus, inching slowly through horrendous traffic we get to Kaynes work 3HOURS later (a trip I gather would normally take less than an hour by tube??) and Nardia is whisked off to the airport in the nick of time. I hope so anyway – Nardia are you there? I do hope you made it home and have not become a member of the Heathrow Airport homeless family. We had gathered from Kayne via phone that the underground had been closed because of another four bombs that had not exploded. I got the impression then that it was someone playing some sick prank but after seeing the news when we got back it seemed rather more serious. No-one seriously injured but apparently terrorist-based and intended to harm.

Thursday night we had a lovely Indian meal the six of us – Kayne, Jason, Patrice, Winston, Lex and myself. A nice end to a hectic day. And how easy it is to forget and enjoy oneself while evil is afoot. Suprisingly I didnt really feel affected by the incidents of the day at all though I felt like I should have been.
I had considered going back into London the next day to see the Tate Gallery – the only thing on my list but decided against it and thankfully so, as we heard the news of the subway police shooting of a man on the underground and transport was suspended all over as the police searched the city. Patrice, Winston and I dropped Lex off at the airport via hired car to set off on his way to Mongolia/China before setting off on our own way back to Nottingham towing formentioned suicidal car. I had the exciting job of steering the towed car. Of all my experience steering towed cars, this one would have to be the best. Five hours later, five? Maybe six, but alot of hours later we arrived back at Gary’s – I knew it was his house because of the number (actually Patrice had to tell me). Great lasagne for dinner thanks Winston. Then time well spent gorging myself with much missed television. Mostly auction shows on – actually oddly enough I didnt see any Coro or Eastenders while I was there. And to finish the night off a great video (depsite the cover – never judge a video by its cover now) called Harold and Maude (despite the name even) – highly reccommended especially if you’re into the whole 18yr old male – 80year old female relationship deal (and I dont mean grandmother- grandson) and the art of faking ones own suicide. What more could anyone ask for in a movie.

My final day Winston and Patrice accompanied me into town and saw me off on the bus to the airport where I would catch my flight back to the Emerald Isle. And so ended my transport nightmare. Well, not quite. My plane was over half an hour late so I missed my first option bus. Of course my second and last option bus broke down and was another half hour late leaving me stranded in Ennis for three hours until Karl could ever so graciously come and pick me up after work. And there, finally, at 10pm back at the hostel in my cosy cupboard room, ended my transport nightmare. I’ll stick to my bike thankyou very much.
So London was not what I expected. Except that it was BIG. I didnt see the Tate, I didnt see the Queen or any Coronation Street actors which would have been the next best thing, I didnt even have Tea – though it was offered thanks Winston. I DID at times feel like I was stuck on the set of any one of the English soaps Ive seen. TV is real-life see?
But I did get to see some friends of mine which is why I went in the first place. Really it was just a taste of London and while I may go back during my travels it will not likely be anytime soon.

So life goes on til my next exciting adventure: Galway in a week to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. So Ive got one week to get my costume ready.

Last week I bought a fiddle….yes, a fiddle.

This week Im thinking I’d like to purchase a recipe for black pudding and a big blood filled cow, or pig, or whatever the recipe calls for.

There is something nice about walking from place to place, relying on nothing but step after step to get you where you want to go. I dont mean from the kitchen to the bathroom, but from town to town, or inland to coast. And there’s a pleasant sense of acheivement on finally arriving at your destination knowing you did it all by yourself with your own two feet (not that I have much choice), unlike these lazy arses in their fancy cars. Those are the things I think about when I set off walking and when Im almost there. It’s somewhere in between that lies the torment and suffering. But I forget that and hence find myself again and again setting off on these at first and last refreshingly novel yet ultimately arduous stumbles through Ireland.

A few weeks ago I set off on one such delusional walk to climb around the coast and up to the cliffs
. I did visit the cliffs when I was in Doolin last and you may remember my telling of the bikeride from hell wrought with suicidal ratdogs and fifty minutes of agony. The memory of this did not deter me as I would take the track alongside the cliffs, steering well clear of the ratdogs of the road and ambling happily across gentle swaying fields and crossing babbling creeks – how quaint. Of course because it had been raining for two days straight the gentle fields of my mind had in reality taken on a more swamp-like appearance, the innocent creeks shouting and swearing rather than babbling. And so it was an interesting if somewhat challenging and muddy two hour stumble. Specific challenges including one gate (easy stuff), several electric fences (scary), more than one unsteady fording of aforementioned rude creeks and in the animal department – because there are always crazy animals – a herd of obstinate cows right in the middle of the track, watching my every move, waiting for me to take just one step closer before they’d pounce and devour me limb from limb. I walked around them – very far around them. And then there was the demon horse..it had no eye, just a red hole and yet it kept looking at me….

As I neared the summit, the demon horse’s eyeless stare on my back, I found myself on the wrong end of a fence and ended up back on the road. Determined to walk the full track and the most exciting part around the top on the cliffs, I sploshed back across field and over electric fence (somehow without electricuting myself) to find the small path trodden into the grass a few metres from the cliff edge. As I walked along the narrowing path, the cliffedge becoming ever closer I am reminded of the Council sign way down at the beginning of the track: CAUTION VERY DANGEROUS CLIFFS AHEAD The sign I had casually ignored, scoffed at even. I mean what are ‘very dangerous’ cliffs? How can something be more dangerous than ‘dangerous’? I was beginning to see that yes, these were indeed VERY DANGEROUS cliffs. Nearing the tourist area I could see O’Briens castle (and the tourists) and I urged myself onwards. Problem was this part of the track was barely narrow enough for one of my feet let alone two together, as well as being at an apex with the ‘very dangerous’ cliff edge about a meter away down and to my right, and a barbedwire fence down and out of reach to my left. Add to this the extreme gusts of wind blowing unpredictably one way and then another and you can see I was not in a prime position for the balancing required when skirting ‘very dangerous’ cliff edges. Fatal fall to the right, potential maiming fall to the left, I had no lifepreserving choice except to move cautiously forward. And so everytime I felt a gust of wind coming I’d crouch down and hang onto the long grasses either side of the path. I must have provided an entertaining sight to the tourists milling around at the end of the path – so near and yet so far.
But I did make it, climbing the final fence and wading through the crowds to find myself a quiet spot to sit for a while, after which I took the road home…

Incidentally, the cliffs were just as impressive the second time, maybe more so after it had be revealed to me that these cliffs were the very Cliffs of Despair in The Princess Bride movie – movie choice of many an adolescent slumberparty and every girls favourite. Right? That big rat thing was scary man.

Anyway back to my walking. The next expedition I took up was a walk from Doolin to Lisdoonvarna – home of the infamous September match-making festival – but thats not why I was going there…well kindof but just to see what kind of town holds a matchmaking festival, definitely not with the intention of finding myself a match. And also because it sounded like an interesting place to walk to when one has nothing to do and fancies a walk. Remind me to stop fancying walking. Actually the walk there was rather nice. The day was overcast so it wasnt too hot. I spent the first half an hour or so admiring the countryside and the view over into Doolin with the ocean behind. Other delights included a tractor making haybales (do we have haybales in NZ? the big round ones?) which for some reason I do find delightful, a gray pony with a pink nose and a man smoking a pipe while atop a stepladder painting the side of his house. Yes, this is the world Im living in, where ponies have pink noses and farmers can smoke a pipe while simultaneously holding onto a ladder and a paintbrush. In my mind he even has a plaid shirt and braces, but I may be letting my imagination get away with me. After the excitment of the pipe sighting, things got a little mundane. Same old honey coloured fields and stupid cows eyeing up my limbs. The torment was setting in and I began cursing my Godgiven feet – why cant you go any faster? Why god, why did you make feet so slow? Why didnt you make a rocket booster where my arse is?
Just as I begin contemplating hijacking some other form of transport (tractor? cow?) I see the highway sign announcing I am 1 km from Lisdoonvarna town centre. Lucky for me- and the cow for that matter.

The town of Lisdoonvarna is not as intriguing as its name makes it sound. It has a chinese takeaway, a chemist, a couple of dairys, a few pubs – one being The Matchmaker Bar ‘come on in and meet your match’ – um steering clear of that one. So I milled around trying to find the exciting underground of Lisdoonvarna with no sucess. I did see some young girls in a car with the stereo going in view of a group of schoolboys across the road. Right before my very eyes, an authentic example of Lisdoonvarna matchmaking in its initial stages. So I can say that even out of festival season the matchmaking scene in Lisdoonvarna is alive and well if anyone is looking…..
I bought some decent food at a shop at least twice the size of the Doolin Deli and caught the bus home, sparing EU1.35 to spare myself the not yet forgotten agony of walking.

All in all it was a sucessful morning expedition. I found some vegetables and learnt several new things: 1. Together, Lisdoonvarna and Doolin are the host town to Ukraine – who would have guessed? 2. If I need a match The Matchmaker Bar in Lisdoonvarna is the place to find one – or not – depending on whether I have need of a farmer who can paint a house and smoke a pipe at the same time. 3. Yes these feet WERE made for walking but Id much rather have a rocket booster arse.