Eurostar back to London is always exciting. Stephanie, whose working visa had expired, easily negotiated British immigration in Paris, the officers joking with her about her wish to stay on for an extra week to 'attend' the royal wedding.
Gammar back to Jummy and Sam's joint the three intrepids hopped up at the ungodly of 4:15am to snaggle off to Luton for an early flight to Turkey. This was a really weird trip as there was no traffic on roads that normally only allow snail's-pace progress. Zip bang whack and we were standing in the queue for check-in! This we did not need to do, however, since we only had carry-on baggage! This we discovered with only metres to go in the line! Never mind.
3-hour trip in the plane sees us landed in Istanbul, buts ails-pacing from Sabiha airport the 20-or-so kms to the city over a 2 1/2 hour period (the return trip a week later took one hour). Andy, Grazyna and their daughters landed later on the day and experienced the same grinding journey. They had had a few days in Capadocia (spelling?), which sounded like a neat (please pardon the archaic American slang here). Houses appazzas are formed by tunneling into the scoria and carving out rooms in which to dwell and carry out all other manner of activities associated with life in that part of the world.
Here are some of the places we visited in Istanbul: the Blue Mosque, the mosque across the road from it that is now a museum, the Grand Bazzar, the Spice Market, a gorgeous, ancient orthodox church, lots of cafes and restaurants and the Mighty Bosphorous (the waterway leading from Istanbul to the Black Sea. We also spent some time in the Museum of Modern (Turkish) Art which commanded wonderful views of the Asian and European sides of the aforementioned Bosphorous.
Here is an incident that took place on one idiot strolling days: Steph had had her shoes polished by a little boy whose cutely pleading eyes she could not ignore. 5 TL (Turkish Lire - $3) the cost, including tip. That gives you an idea of the going rate. Some time later, as we strolled along, a much older (20 years?) shoeshine chap walked in front of me and dropped his brush. I picked it up for him and handed it back. "Gentleman!", he shouted, "Gentleman!", and made to offer a free shoeshine in gratitude. Soon, however, it became apparent that this was not to be free at all, and that the price would be 18 TL. By this time Andy was having his shoes shone by the first chap's colleague. I do not know how I could be so stupid, but I handed over a 50 TL note an asked for change! What a dill! JUST THEN I CAME TO MY SENSES (with Andy's and Grazy's help) and demanded the 50 TL back. This they (surprisingly) did and they were left with only 5. Quite reasonable in the scheme of things. It was annoying, but quite a-typical of the attitude of all the Turks with whom we had dealings.
Dear Jude had not observed the above incident, and the next day the same thing happened to her. A MUCH older shoe-shine chap dropped his brush in front of her and she was about to pick it up when Graz all but pushed her over to prevent her act of kindness. As we walked on, the smiling shoe-shiner was seen to be laughing to himself and acknowledging that his little trick had not worked. All very good-natured.
Gotta go. More later.
Hoo Roo,
Groombles
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
France, not Paris II
The remaining two days in France were spent wandering the by-ways and backroads of Normandy. I don't know why, but I had imagined this nock of the woods as being dull and lacking in interest. How wrong was I? Car travel is not my favourite form of transport, but given the time constraints it suited the Ramblers Four very well, with lots of ideas for future (read 'real') rambling in the future ...
We visited four gardens over our two days at a cost of about 8 euros per head per garden. Each possessed its own particular charm: one open and rambling, one overgrown and clumpy, another open (again) but dotted with sculptures and lastly the garden designed and built by the Master: Monet, hisself. The visit to the sculpture garden was enlivened by the emergence of the youngish sculptor. He enthusiastically encouraged us to take our picnic in the grounds, scurrying off to fetch an additional chair from inside a 15th-or-so century chapel. He explained that the chateau in whose gardens we were picnicking had been owned by his aunt, but had been bought by the local council. He was working, along with an architect, on the artistic development of the site. He invited us to visit his studio when we had finished our repast, although when the time came he was not to be found and a couple of sullen chaps with no English gave us the cold shoulder when we approached the inner sanctum.
At the first three of these gardens we were pretty-well the only visitors. It is only very early spring and despite the abundance of flowers very few people were out and about. The weather was a bit on the cool side, but very pleasant nonetheless.
The highlight of course was 'Monet's Garden' in Giverny. Youse just HAVE to get there! It's not good enough to look at pictures, it has to be experienced at first hand. We stayed in a cute little farm-stay-like accommodation down by the little stream that runs through the town. It contains a little menagerie with a variety of animal life that includes a few wallabies. There are a number of not-so-good reviews of this little 'gite', but we found the place totally charming, friendly and welcoming. We ate a lovely dinner there that night and felt very much at home, as did the ferocial-looking bikies who took off with a roar the next day.
Dear Stephanie had a little adventure at our temporary place of residence that brought a tear or two of mirth from me, her father. It happened that she took an interest in a cute-looking chook (one of the type that has feathers right down to the ground, making it look as though it has no legs and merely wafts about the farm-yard). Anyhow, Steph approached this chook along one of the garden paths that surround the house, expecting said chook to run away from her. This it did not do! Rather, chooky-looky flew at her in a cute-chicken rage, sending Steph into a very hasty retreat towards her spluttering father who had witnessed the whole incident. A story to be admitted into the family story vault for the grand-kids (if grand kids there will ever be).
The next morning we were to head to Paris to rerun the hire car and to hop onto the Eurostar, but not before we looked at a fifth garden out the back of an inn in the Giverny village. It wasn't 'payant', but did possess its own particular charm. Another incident worthy of mention also involved Dear Stephanie. As the four of us wandered about the hillside on which the garden was set, a screech of delight issued from the lips of our first-born as she spied a snake! We all scurried over, but by that time said snake had found a hidey-hole, though not one that totally put it out of view. The bit of it I saw was beautiful, exhibiting a lovely diamond pattern. Dear Steph said that it was about a meter in length. One of the peeps in the pub said that these asps come out of the woods behind in search of water, of which there is a shortage around these parts at present.
On towards Paris after Giverny, along the Seine Valley, though the suburbs and industrial areas, finally snarling past La Defense, through the roundabout surrounding the Arc of Triumph and onwards in a Paris-traffic-grinding sort of way to the Gare Du Nord for the car drop-off, dreading all the while the impossibility of finding the Eurocar drop-off point. When suddenly there it is! A little hole in the city with Europecar drop-off point written in large friendly French right there in front of us. Down we hurtle, in we park, out we hop, up escalators we zip and not the Eurostar we hop! Soon we are zipping across the countryside in which we have been immersed UK-bound.
A great little Ramble!
Good-bye for now,
Groom-Choom!
We visited four gardens over our two days at a cost of about 8 euros per head per garden. Each possessed its own particular charm: one open and rambling, one overgrown and clumpy, another open (again) but dotted with sculptures and lastly the garden designed and built by the Master: Monet, hisself. The visit to the sculpture garden was enlivened by the emergence of the youngish sculptor. He enthusiastically encouraged us to take our picnic in the grounds, scurrying off to fetch an additional chair from inside a 15th-or-so century chapel. He explained that the chateau in whose gardens we were picnicking had been owned by his aunt, but had been bought by the local council. He was working, along with an architect, on the artistic development of the site. He invited us to visit his studio when we had finished our repast, although when the time came he was not to be found and a couple of sullen chaps with no English gave us the cold shoulder when we approached the inner sanctum.
At the first three of these gardens we were pretty-well the only visitors. It is only very early spring and despite the abundance of flowers very few people were out and about. The weather was a bit on the cool side, but very pleasant nonetheless.
The highlight of course was 'Monet's Garden' in Giverny. Youse just HAVE to get there! It's not good enough to look at pictures, it has to be experienced at first hand. We stayed in a cute little farm-stay-like accommodation down by the little stream that runs through the town. It contains a little menagerie with a variety of animal life that includes a few wallabies. There are a number of not-so-good reviews of this little 'gite', but we found the place totally charming, friendly and welcoming. We ate a lovely dinner there that night and felt very much at home, as did the ferocial-looking bikies who took off with a roar the next day.
Dear Stephanie had a little adventure at our temporary place of residence that brought a tear or two of mirth from me, her father. It happened that she took an interest in a cute-looking chook (one of the type that has feathers right down to the ground, making it look as though it has no legs and merely wafts about the farm-yard). Anyhow, Steph approached this chook along one of the garden paths that surround the house, expecting said chook to run away from her. This it did not do! Rather, chooky-looky flew at her in a cute-chicken rage, sending Steph into a very hasty retreat towards her spluttering father who had witnessed the whole incident. A story to be admitted into the family story vault for the grand-kids (if grand kids there will ever be).
The next morning we were to head to Paris to rerun the hire car and to hop onto the Eurostar, but not before we looked at a fifth garden out the back of an inn in the Giverny village. It wasn't 'payant', but did possess its own particular charm. Another incident worthy of mention also involved Dear Stephanie. As the four of us wandered about the hillside on which the garden was set, a screech of delight issued from the lips of our first-born as she spied a snake! We all scurried over, but by that time said snake had found a hidey-hole, though not one that totally put it out of view. The bit of it I saw was beautiful, exhibiting a lovely diamond pattern. Dear Steph said that it was about a meter in length. One of the peeps in the pub said that these asps come out of the woods behind in search of water, of which there is a shortage around these parts at present.
On towards Paris after Giverny, along the Seine Valley, though the suburbs and industrial areas, finally snarling past La Defense, through the roundabout surrounding the Arc of Triumph and onwards in a Paris-traffic-grinding sort of way to the Gare Du Nord for the car drop-off, dreading all the while the impossibility of finding the Eurocar drop-off point. When suddenly there it is! A little hole in the city with Europecar drop-off point written in large friendly French right there in front of us. Down we hurtle, in we park, out we hop, up escalators we zip and not the Eurostar we hop! Soon we are zipping across the countryside in which we have been immersed UK-bound.
A great little Ramble!
Good-bye for now,
Groom-Choom!
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
France, not Paris!
Imagine DJ planning to go to France without stopping off in Paris! Well it happened, and this is HOW it happened:
In the planning for this particliar trip, we were delighted that Gammar agreed to come with us and to look after us. Gammar had been to Paris and did not wish to repeat the dose. Fair call! Instead, she would very much like to visit Giverny, if that were at all possible. IT WAS, so off we went.
One of the true highlights was a ferry trip from Newhaven to Dieppe. This meant an early start from Hammersmith, but hell - small price for a smooth skitch (as it turned out) across the Ditch. I openly admit here to being a 'ferry freak'. Cars driving on (and off at the other end), huge clanking ferry doors shutting and opening at departure and arrival, taking turns about decks and watching receding Britain and approaching France are all part if the package. What a hoot! Steph was with us, so it was a real family affair (minus two).
One night in Dieppe was not enough. It is a lovely little seaside town. Lots of fishing smacks a-bobbing on the water and a lovely little harbour along which to stroll. We collected our hire car for our 3-day excursion on this Saturday because the shop would not be open on Sunday. [Good call or WHAT?]
Sunday was spent exploring the Dieppe surrounds. DJ had a book describing back roads in France and, together with Tina on the TomTom, we were all set. Along the coast we visited the disastrous landing points in 1942 (or 1943 - not too sure which) of the Canadians. This, apparently was the Gallipoli for Canadians. More than 20,000 killed! Words are not enough! Small compensation, but the learned lesson was the need for landing equipment for any future Allied invasion, when floating wharfs were used to great effect down the coast a few years later. How come we in Australia don't know about this (or am I the only prawn who doesn't?)
Anyhoo, gotta go now. Our flight back to London (from Istanbul) is boarding and I don't want to get left behind because it is pouring rain.
Hoo rooster!
Groombles
In the planning for this particliar trip, we were delighted that Gammar agreed to come with us and to look after us. Gammar had been to Paris and did not wish to repeat the dose. Fair call! Instead, she would very much like to visit Giverny, if that were at all possible. IT WAS, so off we went.
One of the true highlights was a ferry trip from Newhaven to Dieppe. This meant an early start from Hammersmith, but hell - small price for a smooth skitch (as it turned out) across the Ditch. I openly admit here to being a 'ferry freak'. Cars driving on (and off at the other end), huge clanking ferry doors shutting and opening at departure and arrival, taking turns about decks and watching receding Britain and approaching France are all part if the package. What a hoot! Steph was with us, so it was a real family affair (minus two).
One night in Dieppe was not enough. It is a lovely little seaside town. Lots of fishing smacks a-bobbing on the water and a lovely little harbour along which to stroll. We collected our hire car for our 3-day excursion on this Saturday because the shop would not be open on Sunday. [Good call or WHAT?]
Sunday was spent exploring the Dieppe surrounds. DJ had a book describing back roads in France and, together with Tina on the TomTom, we were all set. Along the coast we visited the disastrous landing points in 1942 (or 1943 - not too sure which) of the Canadians. This, apparently was the Gallipoli for Canadians. More than 20,000 killed! Words are not enough! Small compensation, but the learned lesson was the need for landing equipment for any future Allied invasion, when floating wharfs were used to great effect down the coast a few years later. How come we in Australia don't know about this (or am I the only prawn who doesn't?)
Anyhoo, gotta go now. Our flight back to London (from Istanbul) is boarding and I don't want to get left behind because it is pouring rain.
Hoo rooster!
Groombles
Monday, April 18, 2011
London
Aw gee, I just know I'm going to get int trouble here, but I am not such a great fan of London. There, I've said it. Get over it.
London is very busy. There's heaps of traffic and even more people (Steph and I call them 'peeps'. They are EVERYWHERE! It's scary.
Youse are probs wondering what is happening with The Ramblers. Why, for example, are they in Europe AGAIN??!! Well may youse arks!
We are here because Europe is here, that's why. See? Simple.
We brought Gammar this time. Dear Jude's (DJ's) mum, Margaret; known in this blog as Gammar, who has cousin, Judith (known as Jum) who lives in Kingston-Upon-Thames with her husband (known as Sam). There you have it. Gammar has spent most of the time at Jummy and Sam's, but came with us to France for a few days.
Dear Jude and Steph spent a day getting Steph's stuff ready for her English egress in a few weeks' time, while Gammar and I headed for The Tower of London. Here was an example of just how wring one can be about London if one leaps to uninformed assessments of London as a city of enjoyment. We, in fact, enjoyed quite a wonderful day.
We resolved early on to go by bus. The Number 9, in fact, from Hammersmith to Aldwich. What fun that was! Up on the top level of the bus, ready to pounce on the two front seats when they became vacant, we rolled on through the traffic, spotting all the crazy highlights that one hears about internationally: Picadilly Circus, St Paul's Cathedral, Latchford Barracks, Hyde Park Corner, where all the theaters are, the Albert Hall and some other really authentic London POI. Change on to the Number 15 and thence on to The Tower.
Not so many peeps today, as the weather was a bit on the cloudy/cold side and it was Thursday.
We took the tour with the Beefeater, whose speel WAS interesting, but was word-for-word identical with the other Beefeater guides we overheard later on. INTERESTING NONETHELESS! We saw ravens an jewells and the spot where Anne Boellyn had her head whisked off wth the French sword. Yikers! The experience was quite evocative, but it was a mite difficult to absorb oneself in the multitudinous epochs which Spanish the life of this grand old edifice. A few hours of gawping dies not do it any justice at all. The best perspective (and the most practicable) is to see ot in the light of 2011: Gammar, The Tower and me. The three of us in one place at one time. It will never happen again! It was great!
Having spent most our time on the bus getting there, it was now time to hurtle back to Steph's joint in Hammersmith to meet up with the sorters and packers and to have some dinns. We went on the Tube. We dined at one of Steph's locals over near the river (Thames) and right beneath the flightpath to/from Heathrow, Gammar having high-tailed it back to Kingston. We (Steph, DJ and Groombles were orf to Istanbul, Byzantium and Constantiople. But that, me coin bloggees, will be the subject of a later blog.
See youse!
Groombles
London is very busy. There's heaps of traffic and even more people (Steph and I call them 'peeps'. They are EVERYWHERE! It's scary.
Youse are probs wondering what is happening with The Ramblers. Why, for example, are they in Europe AGAIN??!! Well may youse arks!
We are here because Europe is here, that's why. See? Simple.
We brought Gammar this time. Dear Jude's (DJ's) mum, Margaret; known in this blog as Gammar, who has cousin, Judith (known as Jum) who lives in Kingston-Upon-Thames with her husband (known as Sam). There you have it. Gammar has spent most of the time at Jummy and Sam's, but came with us to France for a few days.
Dear Jude and Steph spent a day getting Steph's stuff ready for her English egress in a few weeks' time, while Gammar and I headed for The Tower of London. Here was an example of just how wring one can be about London if one leaps to uninformed assessments of London as a city of enjoyment. We, in fact, enjoyed quite a wonderful day.
We resolved early on to go by bus. The Number 9, in fact, from Hammersmith to Aldwich. What fun that was! Up on the top level of the bus, ready to pounce on the two front seats when they became vacant, we rolled on through the traffic, spotting all the crazy highlights that one hears about internationally: Picadilly Circus, St Paul's Cathedral, Latchford Barracks, Hyde Park Corner, where all the theaters are, the Albert Hall and some other really authentic London POI. Change on to the Number 15 and thence on to The Tower.
Not so many peeps today, as the weather was a bit on the cloudy/cold side and it was Thursday.
We took the tour with the Beefeater, whose speel WAS interesting, but was word-for-word identical with the other Beefeater guides we overheard later on. INTERESTING NONETHELESS! We saw ravens an jewells and the spot where Anne Boellyn had her head whisked off wth the French sword. Yikers! The experience was quite evocative, but it was a mite difficult to absorb oneself in the multitudinous epochs which Spanish the life of this grand old edifice. A few hours of gawping dies not do it any justice at all. The best perspective (and the most practicable) is to see ot in the light of 2011: Gammar, The Tower and me. The three of us in one place at one time. It will never happen again! It was great!
Having spent most our time on the bus getting there, it was now time to hurtle back to Steph's joint in Hammersmith to meet up with the sorters and packers and to have some dinns. We went on the Tube. We dined at one of Steph's locals over near the river (Thames) and right beneath the flightpath to/from Heathrow, Gammar having high-tailed it back to Kingston. We (Steph, DJ and Groombles were orf to Istanbul, Byzantium and Constantiople. But that, me coin bloggees, will be the subject of a later blog.
See youse!
Groombles
More rambling Rosing!
It's been yonks since I have posted, and that's cos I really cannot be trusted to keep youse all up to date. Not god enough, I know, but it is just going to have to do.
Anyhoo, here we are again in Europe and the UK, rambling our hearts out.
Day One of our foray saw us in a train, choosing off to Moreton-in-Marsh, a couple of stops on from Oxford. Our destination was Bourton-on-the-Water (Bourton), where we were to set off by foot for Winchcombe early the next day. We arrived at our B&B late in the afternoon and met by Alan and Carol at Rose Cottage and shown to our very comfy accommodation. The front room of Rose Cottage was designated as the Prayer Room, and it seems that Alan and Carol host bible study groups every so often much the same as Jude choice off to book group back home in Wang.
Next day saw us in walking boots, all kitted out for our ramble to Winchcombe, along the 'Warden's Way'. The forecast was bleak and the first drop of rain plopped onto the nose of Dear Jude (DJ) just outside the door of Rose Cottage. I am most pleased to report that the second drop never plopped! That's right, grey Day One with no rain out to Winchcombe, and sunny Day Two on the way back to Bourton next day on the Windrush Way. Wakko!
The Warden's Way (out) takes The Rambler through a number of cutesie Cotswold villages and over some rolling pastures and fields. It is much less remote than last year's Dales walk, as your Rambler is never very far from country lanes and habitation. Nonetheless, it is strikingly beautiful in a most Cotswoldy sort of fashion.
The first villages were the Slaughters, Upper and Lower. Carol told us that the inhabitants were a bit 'look-down-their-noses-ish', but we didn't really see any, so it didn't matter. On we rambled up the river, over the rolling hills ('wolds') and on to Winchcombe.
The White Hart Inn was our slumber-point, but not before we checked out the shops and a pub or two. The Warden's Way covered about 22 kms of rambling, so we arrived tired, but happy and keen to rip off our shoes and stockings and to flop down somewhere cozy for a pint or two. This we did at the White Hart.
Dinner was scrummy, and so was the wine. DJ headed off to bed, but Dear Graeme stayed on in the bar to savour just one more pint of cider. BIG MISTAKE! Big headache. Big trouble. NEVER AGAIN! [Till next time.]
At 9-ish the two Ramblers set sail along the Windrush Way, bound for Bourton. Just out of Winchcombe, the track is dominated by a castle (now mostly ruined) where Ann Parr spent most of her life, and where she will spend most of her death, because she is buried there. I can't tell you the name of the castle, because DJ has gone to the Spice Market in downtown Istanbul with Dear Gryjina. I'll tell you later.
The Windrush way steers the wayfarer away from villages, and is more remote than Warden's. We only got lost once. Lots of ancient, ruined, abandoned, mediaeval villages to pass by, however kept the intrigue-meter at a very high reading. Nothing to see, but they were marked on the map and probably COULD be discerned if there were enough time to poke around, bu there wasn't, so we mosied on.
We did see a horse-drawn caravan parked out the back of a farm-house, but it was WAY too big for Ratty and Moley and Toad to manage on their own. Its tyres were flat and it was set up on bricks, so no-one used it. Pity ...
A few kms before Bourton we passed through a little settlement of houses huddled around a mill-house. This was gorgeous, surrounded in and about by lovely little gardens and such. A disused rail line ran along the path at this point, only adding to the intrigue of the area (don't get me started on disused railway lines, I warn youse!)
The track through Bourton took us back along the bank of the river that we had followed at various times out from Bourton, and back in. Here, for the first time, we could see trout in the stream. Appazzas, PC (Prince Charles) could only get on the waiting list for a fishing membership in the area! What chance does a simple Wayfarer or indeed Rambler have against such odds? I arks youse!
So back to Rose Cottage and Alan and Carol's hospitality it was for the Ramblers. What an adventure it all was! We just CANNOT get enough of this rambling caper, sore feet and all!
Cheerio for now!
The Rsmblers!
Anyhoo, here we are again in Europe and the UK, rambling our hearts out.
Day One of our foray saw us in a train, choosing off to Moreton-in-Marsh, a couple of stops on from Oxford. Our destination was Bourton-on-the-Water (Bourton), where we were to set off by foot for Winchcombe early the next day. We arrived at our B&B late in the afternoon and met by Alan and Carol at Rose Cottage and shown to our very comfy accommodation. The front room of Rose Cottage was designated as the Prayer Room, and it seems that Alan and Carol host bible study groups every so often much the same as Jude choice off to book group back home in Wang.
Next day saw us in walking boots, all kitted out for our ramble to Winchcombe, along the 'Warden's Way'. The forecast was bleak and the first drop of rain plopped onto the nose of Dear Jude (DJ) just outside the door of Rose Cottage. I am most pleased to report that the second drop never plopped! That's right, grey Day One with no rain out to Winchcombe, and sunny Day Two on the way back to Bourton next day on the Windrush Way. Wakko!
The Warden's Way (out) takes The Rambler through a number of cutesie Cotswold villages and over some rolling pastures and fields. It is much less remote than last year's Dales walk, as your Rambler is never very far from country lanes and habitation. Nonetheless, it is strikingly beautiful in a most Cotswoldy sort of fashion.
The first villages were the Slaughters, Upper and Lower. Carol told us that the inhabitants were a bit 'look-down-their-noses-ish', but we didn't really see any, so it didn't matter. On we rambled up the river, over the rolling hills ('wolds') and on to Winchcombe.
The White Hart Inn was our slumber-point, but not before we checked out the shops and a pub or two. The Warden's Way covered about 22 kms of rambling, so we arrived tired, but happy and keen to rip off our shoes and stockings and to flop down somewhere cozy for a pint or two. This we did at the White Hart.
Dinner was scrummy, and so was the wine. DJ headed off to bed, but Dear Graeme stayed on in the bar to savour just one more pint of cider. BIG MISTAKE! Big headache. Big trouble. NEVER AGAIN! [Till next time.]
At 9-ish the two Ramblers set sail along the Windrush Way, bound for Bourton. Just out of Winchcombe, the track is dominated by a castle (now mostly ruined) where Ann Parr spent most of her life, and where she will spend most of her death, because she is buried there. I can't tell you the name of the castle, because DJ has gone to the Spice Market in downtown Istanbul with Dear Gryjina. I'll tell you later.
The Windrush way steers the wayfarer away from villages, and is more remote than Warden's. We only got lost once. Lots of ancient, ruined, abandoned, mediaeval villages to pass by, however kept the intrigue-meter at a very high reading. Nothing to see, but they were marked on the map and probably COULD be discerned if there were enough time to poke around, bu there wasn't, so we mosied on.
We did see a horse-drawn caravan parked out the back of a farm-house, but it was WAY too big for Ratty and Moley and Toad to manage on their own. Its tyres were flat and it was set up on bricks, so no-one used it. Pity ...
A few kms before Bourton we passed through a little settlement of houses huddled around a mill-house. This was gorgeous, surrounded in and about by lovely little gardens and such. A disused rail line ran along the path at this point, only adding to the intrigue of the area (don't get me started on disused railway lines, I warn youse!)
The track through Bourton took us back along the bank of the river that we had followed at various times out from Bourton, and back in. Here, for the first time, we could see trout in the stream. Appazzas, PC (Prince Charles) could only get on the waiting list for a fishing membership in the area! What chance does a simple Wayfarer or indeed Rambler have against such odds? I arks youse!
So back to Rose Cottage and Alan and Carol's hospitality it was for the Ramblers. What an adventure it all was! We just CANNOT get enough of this rambling caper, sore feet and all!
Cheerio for now!
The Rsmblers!
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Final Ramble
I COULD have taken the "Chrystal Cabin". This was promoted as the best option, because there were no queues and you could have 'soared above the forest' and enjoyed other such mind-boggling experiences. I chose to pay HKD50 less and queued for a standard 'cabin' on the chairlift to see the Big Buddah in the forest. It became apparent that the "Chrystal Cabin" was a glass-bottomed, air-conditioned car on the chairlift. While there was no queue for this experience, the wait was just as long, as there was only one "CC" for every standard car and I stood in line for as long as the "CC"ers did. I am not sure the extra cost provided any 'marginal utility' as an economist might refer to it.
The Ramblers separated again for the last full day - I to the Buddah and Jude and Ally to the Disney park. You will need to talk to A or J about their adventures, but I had a 'pearler' of a day. The chairlift ride was sensational, rising up and away from the outlet-shopping town of Tung Chung (last stop before the airport on the MTR train) and up into the clouds. Well normally there would be clouds, but not today (a Buddhist miracle, perhaps?).
The Po Lin monastery at the top is rooly rooly 'touristy', but there was a religious aspect to the goings-on that I was sure that not one of the experiences of the other two Ramblers. Hopping off the chairlift, the Rambler passes through a street lined with shops to provide the Rambler with any number of opportunities to acquire memorabilia of his or her trip. Razzle dazzle, razzle dazzle! Onwards and ever onwards the Rambler presses. Eventually he (or she) is rewarded with an opportunity to view the Buddah up close, a prospect that has been 'on promise' since its first sighting an hour previous from the comfort of the non-chrystal cabin of the chairlift.
At the foot of the stairs up to the Buddah is a ticket box. The lady inside persuaded me to buy a ticket that entitled Ramblers and other similar journey-makers to three things as follows:
1. Entry to the musuem
2. A bottle of water and
3. [Wait for it] am icecream!
Amazingly, one could not collect the last two items until one had passed through the museum! Of these three items, most valued was the bottle of water; then the icecream; then the museum entry. This despite the fact that the museum housed an actual relic of the Buddah presented by some keen followers in Sri Lanka. It was 'tres difficile' to identify exactly what the 'relic' was, as it was encased in 21st Century technology, viz. glass/perspex-looking encasement behind a protected-to-the-max clear barrier. Let me say that a good deal of trust was required in order to understand the true significance of what it was that one (ie me) was beholding.
Having 'done my time' in the museum, I dutifully exited and collected my bottle of water and ice cream. The bottle contained water in two forms: liquid and solid. Yes, a solid core of ice ensured that the remainder of the contents remained cold for as long as the water lasted. In the humid heat it was 'heaven on a stick'.
Further on from the enormous Buddha was a signpost to a monastery separate from the nearby one. Intrigued, I set out on foot to find it. No tourists here. No one really. The path that led into the forest was of substantial construction, but really only a walking path. It led on to a 'Youth Hostel' up off to the left of the path. This captured my interest and up I went. Surely enough, there was the youth hostel. Behind a huge wire fence. There was no sign of life and it was unclear whether it was in use. A decrepit sign outlined the opening times which were typical of YHA rules as I remembered them and it could well still be in use. Difficult to tell, however, and intriguing nonetheless.
Back to the track in search of the monastery, another blip on the path was a sign pointing to a camping area off to the right. Up I went to explore, finding a number of camping areas in terrace formation complete with camp-fire facilities and picnic tables made of concrete. Again, not a soul to be seen. Looked pretty good. A nearby sign contained a plea for all who used the site to look after it and to put rubbish into the nearby bin. Another sign warned of the danger of contracting dengue fever, advising of the need to keep away from shaded areas and to apply plenty of anti-mosquito gunk. I made myself a little promise never to camp here.
Again on the track I came across a huge Chinese-style gate that arched itself across the pathway. A youth of Eastern-European appearance came up the hill towards me. I asked about the monastery and he indicated that it was well worth a visit and much less commercial than the one back at the Huge Buddha. It was about 20 minutes away, down the hill. Off I went.
The monastery was truly amazing. It was a community that appeared to be self-sufficient, with a series of vegetable gardens. On a concrete terrace a whole lot of different spices and other such vegetable matter were drying in the sun. There were a couple of streets with dwellings and various prayer rooms. No sign of life until I happened upon a temple. Here a number of monks/nuns were engaged in a ritual that involved a lot of bowing, gong-striking, chanting and bell tinkling. They didn't appear to mind my stopping and looking. The monks/nuns were dressed in brown cloaks and all had shaved heads. They appeared to be of a different ethnic origin to Chinese in other parts of Hong Kong. A sign asked that no photo be taken.
On down the path to find the other side of the village I came across another temple. Here were two monks engaged in a ceremony different to that of the upper temple. Similar drum-hitting, tinkling and chanting, but quite a different routine. No sound other than those associated with the ritual. No other visitors that I could see and it appeared that my presence was not a problem for anyone.
On my way back up the hill to the chairlift I passed two monks walking separately down to the village, each pulling a shopping trolley (of the type my Grandma, Ethel, used in Preston all those years ago) and carrying an umbrella to protect themselves from the sun. No response to my greeting, they seemed intent on getting back to the village and resuming their amazing (to me) life.
The highly commercial monastery at the top of the hill seemed all the more rapacious after the tranquility of the one I had visited. The ride on the chairlift was just as enjoyable and I then hurtled in to the city on the MTR (train).
One final treat I had planned for myself was to take a ferry out to Lamma Island. It does not appear as though there are any cars on this island, but there is a pedestrian-only street that contains a number of seafood restaurants. I had been out there twice before - once with a crew from CSU, and once with Dear Jude. It really is a must-visit place, as the food is delicious and the ferry-ride is quite 'singular'. The fish dishes are as fresh as ever they could be, and this is evidenced by the actual fish swimming around in their glass tanks. The customer 'literally' (sorry Andy) points to the fish that he/she fancies for dinner and leaves it to the restaurateur to deal with it. Just HOW fresh do you want your fish?
Back on the second-last ferry at 9:05 pm and out to the Gold Coast to check on the adventures of the Disneylanders. You are just going to have to ask them about their day, because I am yet to hear from them directly. I had a pretty wonderful day.
Off home tomorrow.
No more Rambling for some time.
Stay tuned, there will be some overview blogs over the next little while ...
See youse soon!
Ramblers
The Ramblers separated again for the last full day - I to the Buddah and Jude and Ally to the Disney park. You will need to talk to A or J about their adventures, but I had a 'pearler' of a day. The chairlift ride was sensational, rising up and away from the outlet-shopping town of Tung Chung (last stop before the airport on the MTR train) and up into the clouds. Well normally there would be clouds, but not today (a Buddhist miracle, perhaps?).
The Po Lin monastery at the top is rooly rooly 'touristy', but there was a religious aspect to the goings-on that I was sure that not one of the experiences of the other two Ramblers. Hopping off the chairlift, the Rambler passes through a street lined with shops to provide the Rambler with any number of opportunities to acquire memorabilia of his or her trip. Razzle dazzle, razzle dazzle! Onwards and ever onwards the Rambler presses. Eventually he (or she) is rewarded with an opportunity to view the Buddah up close, a prospect that has been 'on promise' since its first sighting an hour previous from the comfort of the non-chrystal cabin of the chairlift.
At the foot of the stairs up to the Buddah is a ticket box. The lady inside persuaded me to buy a ticket that entitled Ramblers and other similar journey-makers to three things as follows:
1. Entry to the musuem
2. A bottle of water and
3. [Wait for it] am icecream!
Amazingly, one could not collect the last two items until one had passed through the museum! Of these three items, most valued was the bottle of water; then the icecream; then the museum entry. This despite the fact that the museum housed an actual relic of the Buddah presented by some keen followers in Sri Lanka. It was 'tres difficile' to identify exactly what the 'relic' was, as it was encased in 21st Century technology, viz. glass/perspex-looking encasement behind a protected-to-the-max clear barrier. Let me say that a good deal of trust was required in order to understand the true significance of what it was that one (ie me) was beholding.
Having 'done my time' in the museum, I dutifully exited and collected my bottle of water and ice cream. The bottle contained water in two forms: liquid and solid. Yes, a solid core of ice ensured that the remainder of the contents remained cold for as long as the water lasted. In the humid heat it was 'heaven on a stick'.
Further on from the enormous Buddha was a signpost to a monastery separate from the nearby one. Intrigued, I set out on foot to find it. No tourists here. No one really. The path that led into the forest was of substantial construction, but really only a walking path. It led on to a 'Youth Hostel' up off to the left of the path. This captured my interest and up I went. Surely enough, there was the youth hostel. Behind a huge wire fence. There was no sign of life and it was unclear whether it was in use. A decrepit sign outlined the opening times which were typical of YHA rules as I remembered them and it could well still be in use. Difficult to tell, however, and intriguing nonetheless.
Back to the track in search of the monastery, another blip on the path was a sign pointing to a camping area off to the right. Up I went to explore, finding a number of camping areas in terrace formation complete with camp-fire facilities and picnic tables made of concrete. Again, not a soul to be seen. Looked pretty good. A nearby sign contained a plea for all who used the site to look after it and to put rubbish into the nearby bin. Another sign warned of the danger of contracting dengue fever, advising of the need to keep away from shaded areas and to apply plenty of anti-mosquito gunk. I made myself a little promise never to camp here.
Again on the track I came across a huge Chinese-style gate that arched itself across the pathway. A youth of Eastern-European appearance came up the hill towards me. I asked about the monastery and he indicated that it was well worth a visit and much less commercial than the one back at the Huge Buddha. It was about 20 minutes away, down the hill. Off I went.
The monastery was truly amazing. It was a community that appeared to be self-sufficient, with a series of vegetable gardens. On a concrete terrace a whole lot of different spices and other such vegetable matter were drying in the sun. There were a couple of streets with dwellings and various prayer rooms. No sign of life until I happened upon a temple. Here a number of monks/nuns were engaged in a ritual that involved a lot of bowing, gong-striking, chanting and bell tinkling. They didn't appear to mind my stopping and looking. The monks/nuns were dressed in brown cloaks and all had shaved heads. They appeared to be of a different ethnic origin to Chinese in other parts of Hong Kong. A sign asked that no photo be taken.
On down the path to find the other side of the village I came across another temple. Here were two monks engaged in a ceremony different to that of the upper temple. Similar drum-hitting, tinkling and chanting, but quite a different routine. No sound other than those associated with the ritual. No other visitors that I could see and it appeared that my presence was not a problem for anyone.
On my way back up the hill to the chairlift I passed two monks walking separately down to the village, each pulling a shopping trolley (of the type my Grandma, Ethel, used in Preston all those years ago) and carrying an umbrella to protect themselves from the sun. No response to my greeting, they seemed intent on getting back to the village and resuming their amazing (to me) life.
The highly commercial monastery at the top of the hill seemed all the more rapacious after the tranquility of the one I had visited. The ride on the chairlift was just as enjoyable and I then hurtled in to the city on the MTR (train).
One final treat I had planned for myself was to take a ferry out to Lamma Island. It does not appear as though there are any cars on this island, but there is a pedestrian-only street that contains a number of seafood restaurants. I had been out there twice before - once with a crew from CSU, and once with Dear Jude. It really is a must-visit place, as the food is delicious and the ferry-ride is quite 'singular'. The fish dishes are as fresh as ever they could be, and this is evidenced by the actual fish swimming around in their glass tanks. The customer 'literally' (sorry Andy) points to the fish that he/she fancies for dinner and leaves it to the restaurateur to deal with it. Just HOW fresh do you want your fish?
Back on the second-last ferry at 9:05 pm and out to the Gold Coast to check on the adventures of the Disneylanders. You are just going to have to ask them about their day, because I am yet to hear from them directly. I had a pretty wonderful day.
Off home tomorrow.
No more Rambling for some time.
Stay tuned, there will be some overview blogs over the next little while ...
See youse soon!
Ramblers
Sunday, July 04, 2010
Language II & HK Rambling
It has so TOTALLY happened again! Little kids speaking the the language that I would KILL to speak fluently: Choyknees (Cantonese AND Mandarin)! These kids (like their French counterparts) look up to their caring adult and respond fluently in the language that eludes me. They are SO CUTE! They are SO ANNOYING!
Mind you, I do have total command of a few phrases. Here are at least 50% of them:
"Good morning"
"Thank you"
"How are you(se)?"
"My very good friends"
"Goodbye"
See how I'm really getting on top of the language? No wonder I am continually thought of as a 'real McCoy' around here (I hear shop assistants remarking to each other as I leave a shop: "But surely he is a native-born Chinese!" "No, I heard him say he was an Australian ..."). But I have to acknowledge that these little kids - some as little as 4-y-o - have perfect command. It's a worry.
There is a policy on this blog that 'everyone's a winner'. And I intend to keep it that way. No slagging off at individuals, or making fun of cultural practices. There are only two groups of people I cannot abide, and one of them is those who are intolerant of other people's cultures.
However, here are a few observations that I need to make about sightings in and around Hong Kong. The first is that last night we had dinner at an establishment called "Cooking Restaurant"(!) Another was called "Giant Foot Restaurant" and, though taste-tempting in its nomenclature, we sadly resisted. One other small observation is the number of people on hand in shops to serve you. I bought a pair of sandles the other day and no fewer than four persons waited on me, offering suggestions as to style, colour and price. FOUR! Ally bought a handbag at a shop out at Shen Zhen and again another FOUR peeps to cater to her every whim (and she had a few, let me tell you).
The change in time-zone has been a trouble. At some time between 1:00 am and 3:00 am one wakes. Totally. Absolute consciousness! All around is dark, and it is not clear whether the other two personages who share the room are sharing a similar state. Yet there you are. Awake. Nothing to do but stare at the ceiling. Read your iPhone. Wait in vain for UNconsciousness. For hours. Then it comes. Right on 8:00 am, when one should be hopping up, one nods off to sleep and DOESN'T WAKE TILL 11:30 am! ... By which time the included (ie 'free') breakfast time is finished! THIS HAPPENED YESTERDAY MORNING! Imagine how we felt! It's just as well we are getting this awkwardness over before we get back home. Imagine if that happens on Dear Jude's first day back at work (next Wednesday). We'd better be back on our best routines by then! Fingers crossed ...
One more HUGE ramble tomorrow: Dears Jude and Ally are off to Hong Kong Disneyland. I'm off to the other side of Hong Kong Island for some 'nature' rambling. Should be a hoot!
Get those hugging arms ready, We're a-coming!
YFBs
Mind you, I do have total command of a few phrases. Here are at least 50% of them:
"Good morning"
"Thank you"
"How are you(se)?"
"My very good friends"
"Goodbye"
See how I'm really getting on top of the language? No wonder I am continually thought of as a 'real McCoy' around here (I hear shop assistants remarking to each other as I leave a shop: "But surely he is a native-born Chinese!" "No, I heard him say he was an Australian ..."). But I have to acknowledge that these little kids - some as little as 4-y-o - have perfect command. It's a worry.
There is a policy on this blog that 'everyone's a winner'. And I intend to keep it that way. No slagging off at individuals, or making fun of cultural practices. There are only two groups of people I cannot abide, and one of them is those who are intolerant of other people's cultures.
However, here are a few observations that I need to make about sightings in and around Hong Kong. The first is that last night we had dinner at an establishment called "Cooking Restaurant"(!) Another was called "Giant Foot Restaurant" and, though taste-tempting in its nomenclature, we sadly resisted. One other small observation is the number of people on hand in shops to serve you. I bought a pair of sandles the other day and no fewer than four persons waited on me, offering suggestions as to style, colour and price. FOUR! Ally bought a handbag at a shop out at Shen Zhen and again another FOUR peeps to cater to her every whim (and she had a few, let me tell you).
The change in time-zone has been a trouble. At some time between 1:00 am and 3:00 am one wakes. Totally. Absolute consciousness! All around is dark, and it is not clear whether the other two personages who share the room are sharing a similar state. Yet there you are. Awake. Nothing to do but stare at the ceiling. Read your iPhone. Wait in vain for UNconsciousness. For hours. Then it comes. Right on 8:00 am, when one should be hopping up, one nods off to sleep and DOESN'T WAKE TILL 11:30 am! ... By which time the included (ie 'free') breakfast time is finished! THIS HAPPENED YESTERDAY MORNING! Imagine how we felt! It's just as well we are getting this awkwardness over before we get back home. Imagine if that happens on Dear Jude's first day back at work (next Wednesday). We'd better be back on our best routines by then! Fingers crossed ...
One more HUGE ramble tomorrow: Dears Jude and Ally are off to Hong Kong Disneyland. I'm off to the other side of Hong Kong Island for some 'nature' rambling. Should be a hoot!
Get those hugging arms ready, We're a-coming!
YFBs
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