boys, there's been a problem....

We're still in Ireland, but yesterday we took the train back to Dublin, which we'd only passed through going to Galway. It was by no means a short walk to the hostel, though we found it with none of the usual fuss. We arrived at the front door, and stood waiting for a few minutes while a couple of guys argued loudly in French... one inside the doorway, the other outside. It was clearly a heated exchange, and when we finally squeezed inside, the sound of it filled the foyer.

A familiar accent greeted us from behind the reception desk - Aussies, they're everywhere. Another Melbourne chap as well, and we're told there's a group from Tullamarine here too. With one eye on the computer and the other fixed on the doorway altercation, our countryman behind the desk looks up our booking, frowning as he does so. Is it just because of the ruckus happening in his foyer? Or is there a problem? He looks up at us and pulls out some papers, and in that wonderfully familiar accent he says "Boys, there's been a bit of a problem,your booking got stuffed up, we're overbooked..."

"So we're putting you in the private suite." Suite, indeed.

So instead of a 16 bed dorm, we have a room to ourselves, not that its overly large. But big enough for a set of bunks, a tv and cabinet, and our bags, so who's complaining? Apparently there's an Irishman here who knows we've stumbled on such fortune, and has designs on making a bargain with us for the room, though he will find that I, at least, will not be easily budged.

An argument of our own transpired later in the evening, grave in its subject matter. James made the statement that 'it rains all the time here'. I disagreed, and he supported his statement with "It's true, apparently it rains 20% of the time here." I was still not convinced that this came even close to warrant the lofty description of "All the time" when it would technically fall well short of even "Half the time". James' counterargument is that such gross exaggeration is widely accepted as reasonable, but I still felt that it didn't make it right. With neither side conceding anything, I fear that this difference of opinion could tear our fragile travelling union apart.

That said, it is raining outside. There may be a white flag waved yet.

once upon a midnight dreary

It is five to ten by the time we pull into Galway station. The night is damp and haunted by a chilling wind that only the Atlantic knows how to produce. The mercury can't be above six. Stepping off the train into the insipid light of the platform, we are greeted by a bleak and uninviting car park, crowded with taxis clamoring for our business. Trying to get our bearings we strike out into the night, moving between islands of light. At the first cross road we chance upon Eyre Square, the first recognisable point of reference and seek shelter while we orientate ourselves. After a false start (curse the lack of street signage) we spy a landmark name that jogs the memory. We drift toward it like moths to a lamp, only to be disheartened by the yet another featureless street. Spurred on by the rains steady but insistent tattoo we are pressed to continue. Through the haze we make out a word in Celtic script, and approach a battered orange door scarred by years of weary travelers pounding its boards seeking refuge. Finally we know relief. Claddagh. Home for now.

getting high in scotland

We have been lucky enough to take a trip through the highlands. We splashed out and booked ourselves into a tour that would take us all the way up to Loch Ness, that most famous body of water in Scotland's north. The morning of our departure was bitterly cold and windy, and the wait for the tour office staff to arrive and open the place for the day was just a bit uncomfortable. Once we were on the bus though, things got a little more pleasant. Our driver and tour guide, an enthusiastic Scotsman called Kenny, immediately launched into educating us on the history of Edinburgh, as we drove somewhat manically out of the city centre through 'the West End'. It was impossible not to be taken in by his high energy spiel, and let's face it, the Scottish accent is an absolute gift. People just want to listen to it. Throughout the course of the day, Kenny poured out fact after fact about history, geography, folk tales, and general advice on touring Scotland. He described the one day tour as a 'film trailer' of the country – we'd be getting just glimpses of the beautiful land. He genially instructed us to return, with our loved ones and lots of money to prop up the Scottish economy at some point in the future, and see all these things properly.

The scenery was mind blowing, and we were blessed with sunny weather for the trip. The mountain range that is home to the country's highest peak, Ben Nevis, ('The Venomous One', on account of its deadly nature) according to Kenny is only visible for a scant handful of days during the year, and is typically shrouded in clouds. We were out on one of 4 or 5 days of the year that you can stand and see the entire range against blue sky – which felt like quite a privilege. By the time we reached famous Loch Ness, it had greyed over, and the wind across the Loch made for quite a choppy boat ride across it (only I partook, James choosing instead to indulge in a fireside pint in town – I think we both enjoyed ourselves). I regret to announce that there were no monster sightings.

The trip back was no less scenic, the afternoon and evening proving sunny again, and we stopped off to have a look across a Loch towards the estate that 'Monarch of the Glen' viewers would know as “Glenbogle” Kenny's banter, as he had promised, tapered off towards the end of the day, giving some of us the chance to rest a bit. Despite the lack of physical activity, something about the fast pace of the tour and listening attentively did leave us quite exhausted. I could talk endlessly of how fantastic the day was, but words would fall short, and even photos couldn't really capture it. This was a day that affirms the notion that you really need to see some things with your own eyes to truly appreciate them.

a room with a view...

Salutations, from the fine city of Edinburgh. Just shy of two weeks abroad, and we have arrived in fair Scotland, and the city put on its best frock to greet us. We stepped out of the station into decidedly chilly atmosphere with a palpable dampness, and took in as much of the view as was possible before the scenery faded into the fog – which was all of 100m in any given direction. What we could see, we are not ashamed to admit, both awed and terrified us. It takes very little imagination to strip away the modern veneer of this city and see a medieval town underneath. Everything is imposing, and the effect is doubled when the top of every building fades out of view into the fog. The black stone streets hints at diabolical slipperiness, and you really know that a place sees a bit of moisture when the buildings are stained green. Our residence lay ahead of us up winding one-way street sloping up, away from the New town and into the Old.

Before I continue, I would like to admit that we HAD been warned. Our first stay in the Astor Hyde Park was fantastic. It was to our dismay that we were informed, by a reputable source, that we had chanced upon a gem of a place, and that we were unlikely to find such splendid accommodation elsewhere. It seemed that we had spoiled ourselves inadvertently. This was confirmed when we reached York, where the YHA (Youth Hostel Association, I presume) provided us with an experience that felt just a little more economical, stripped down, and simple. It had a feel to it that was just a little bit school-camp. At the Astor you did your dishes because it was the responsible thing, and made life for your fellow intrepid travelers easier. At YHA York, you did them because there was the inescapable feeling that if you didn't, just around a corner lurked an imposing matron, ready to deny you dessert and send you to bed early. Yet the place was clean, even the cupboard-esque windowless showers.

And so now we arrive at Edinburgh Backpackers. Not our first choice in accommodation. But we'd gotten a little behind and hadn't reserved early enough. After finding the place, we entered reception and our hopes rose a little, it looked just a little bit modern, a bit art-deco, and felt like a lively place. Let it be a warning to all ye: reception areas can be designed to lie. Money changed hands, and we waited to be shown to our room, presumably upstairs. We presumed wrong. The receptionist informed us that we'd be staying in their other building. (Small alarm bells start a-ringing.) We are escorted out the front door, and down an alleyway (or 'close' as they call them all here). Just down some stairs is a wooden door, which we are ushered through. Immediately inside this door are two more doors. The receptionist leaves us here with a key and a code, and returns to her post. We fumble around inside the ridiculously cramped entryway, the whole process complicated by another group of travelers trying to exit through the same space. After the confusion has died down, we proceed through another door (unlocked with the code) and travel up a hallway, which smells a bit like a damp bathroom. There are no windows. A few more stairs, and another door. Some stairs back down, and another door, with 'Dorm 9' emblazoned upon it. We have arrived. It isn't pretty.

It's hardly hell on earth. But it is just a bit like how I imagine youth detention would be. Blue, blue, blue and IKEA silver, all under fluorescent lighting, does not make for a welcoming décor. There is one window in this room, and it makes us laugh (on the outside, at least). Its purpose is questionable. Maybe once it opened, but no longer. Maybe once it looked out onto the glory of the outside world, but again, no longer. It now offers a scenic vista of concrete, brick a closed fire-exit. If you get right up the window you can look down a tunnel, and see daylight coming through a wire grate at the end. Beyond the great is the outside world...consisting mostly of trash. It is, without a doubt, the most depressing window ever.

Although we aren't yet so hardened to the rough backpacking life to just shrug and get on with things, we're also too fresh to the whole experience to be truly upset by this. More seasoned individuals than us will most certainly scoff at our 'hardship', but please, leave us to our fancies. We may yet see worse.

traveling strange

As I sit on a train headed Scotland way, we seem to be rolling on into a thick fog, which is ominous, if only slightly. The countryside out the window is picturesque, green fields with bare trees dotted throughout. The view is complete with black faced, white fleeced sheep. We leave behind us York, a town refreshingly different from the grand bustle of London. Busy without seeming crowded, the strange blend of medieval buildings and modern life in York was strangely comforting. It was a town that seemed to go to sleep in the eve, unlike the aforementioned capital. Apparently there are ghost tours after dark, but for us, when the sun set, it seemed perfectly natural to climb into our bunks and call it a night.

The last few days have been surprisingly devoid of drama. At the Astor Hyde Park, our brilliant hostel in London, a worrisome pair of encounters with what I shall term 'the traveling strange' seemed to foreshadow a trend of eccentric, bizarre and disturbing characters we would encounter for the entirety of our journey. First there was Mr Worsley (discussed in a previous post... you'd know him as Steven) and almost immediately after his departure, 'the man in the coat', who's name we never learned. The man in the coat was a whole different kind of strange, with none of the questionable charisma or storytelling drive of Steven. In fact, where you could hardly stop Steven talking, this strange fellow seemed to be generally at a loss for words, unless he was asking a set of seemingly imprinted questions, such as “You are here for what, study? Holiday? Work?” For the first moments of conversation, this young man's French accent and quick but fluent speech could almost convince you that you were dealing with a traveler, who despite the strange fashion of a white buttoned up shirt under a ratty businessman's black coat and a penchant for standing silently on the fringes of conversation, was otherwise generally normal. This illusion would be shattered however, when after a few brief exchanges (the usual sort of icebreakers and introductions) he would clam up abruptly, an embarrassed grin covering his face as he ceased to make eye contact. He would appear to be on the verge of speaking, but never managed more than 'Ok', or inaudible mumbles. If he did again speak, it would only be to utter one of the same questions he'd asked you not two minutes previous. The difficult thing was disengaging from this non-conversation without appearing completely callous. It was a relief for everyone when this fellow departed the hostel the next day, not the least of which the hostel staff, who'd had to move every other occupant of his dorm to alternative accommodation, upon their insistence that they didn't feel at all safe being alone in the room with him. Apparently here, he found words aplenty, but not for others, as he chattered away to himself. Circulating throughout the hostels were veiled rumors that his behavior within the dorm had been even more disgraceful and unsettling for other guests, though this cannot be confirmed.

In any case, although he seemed particularly interested in abortive conversation with yours truly, the blessing was that we were not among his roommates. I did, however, plead a pressing errand to avoid a second conversation with him (one had been more than enough) and promptly dashed out the hostel door. This was somewhat an awkward position to find myself in, as I'd intended not to be going out into the brisk London morning, but to while away the hours before lunch in the hostel kitchen, warm and comfortable. So without a jumper, in a short sleeved shirt, I wandered for some time through foggy streets. With church bells in the air, it was amazingly atmospheric, though the cold somewhat ruined any true appreciation of it. When shivering set in, I risked return to the hostel. Fortunately man-in-coat was nowhere to be found - not that I put any real effort into looking, outside of a cautious survey of each hallway before entering. The rest of the morning was spent safe in our own dorm room, doing a bit of a pre-pack of our bags. It might be relevant to note here that this was the day prior to our almost-disastrous train episode, which James has previously informed you of. One can only conclude that this pre-pack was a bit of a waste of time. Though perhaps without it we'd have lost precious seconds – as it was, it was only seconds of difference between making it to the train-bus, and missing it.

In conclusion, as we power onwards, through a foggy green we haven't seen in Australia for a more than a decade, I am filled with trepidation. Was it simply a feature of London, these odd vagabonds? Or was the quaint country-ness of York simply a reprieve, and shall Edinburgh yield even more of these traveling strange?

Only time shall tell.

"How are the buses upstairs?!"

Yesterday morning Dave and I needed to catch a bus from London to York. In our defence it should be mentioned that the night before was a big one for some and a long one for others. This is the tale of our misadventure.

The morning started at 6:55 with Dave slapping me awake after noting that my phone's alarm was rousing everyone in the room but me, as I curled protectively around it. After stumbling out of my bed and into some pants I start to pack, with Dave 5 steps ahead of me, knowing that time is of the essence. This is completed quickly enough and we head for the kitchen.

The night before when we got home around 1am, we had started a roast in preparation for this days lunch. Don't ask. It seemed like a fantastic idea at the time. We bundled our drumsticks, spuds and carrots into snap locks then stuffed them in our days packs. By now we are possibly just a touch behind schedule but not noticeably. As Dave finishes filling his water bottle and heads for the door he spies me, gleefully toasting en mass and buttering my booty. A look of confusion is chased from his face by chagrin.

We are now officially running late, not irreparably however.

We set off at a brisk walk to Gloucester Road station, about a 12 min journey. 3 bits of toast fall by the wayside but we make it without losing any more time. However, due to my travel card being short on funds I am forced to attempt to top it up. The two pound coin I produced however wasn't good enough for the machine it seemed and I was forced to surrender a fiver. This minor debacle in turn caused us to miss the immediate train, fear not however. This is London, we got one not 3 minutes later.

If we had been aware of what was to transpire we may have been much more concerned about the time at this point. (Dave would like it to be noted that he was, in fact, rather worried at this time, watching the stations roll by all too slowly.)

We arrive at 'Kings Cross/Saint Pancras' station in short order and head for clear skies above and to where we suspect the buses are. How wrong we were. No buses in site but within the terminal complex we see what appears to be an information kiosk. After an impatient wait behind a woman hell-bent on plumbing the depths of the assistant's knowledge on local eateries, we are told that we are at 'Kings Cross' when we need to be at 'Saint Pancras' to get MegaBus (who knew that they are in fact different stations? All the literature talks of them as one.) We break into a shuffling run and head off down the directed passage, and I nearly clean up a chap in a suit in the process. Still not really clear on where we are or where we are going, I accost a passing member of the station staff and he informs me in a thick French accent “MegaBoos. All the whay to ze end and left” all the while making air hostess-esq hand gestures.

Now running in earnest (packs and all) we hit the end of the terminal and break left, into the frigid London morning. What greeted us here was devastating. A large bus-bay, totally devoid of buses. Not one.
The emotions playing across Dave's face tell the story best. The concerned excitement of not knowing if we would get there on time (but having our destination in our reach), melted away leaving nothing but confusion, frustration and utter dismay in its wake.

By now we were further behind schedule than Eric Moussanbani (http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/olympics2000/swimming/931508.stm) was behind the world record in his 2000 Olympics heat.

But wait! Another information kiosk, the little beacons of hope in our morning of despair. We are informed that MegaBus is leaving from just up the nearby escalator.

We bolt. Dave asks with wonder (and perhaps some disbelief), “How are the buses upstairs?!”

Greeting us at the top is a train platform, 4 ticket inspectors, and a MegaBus booth...and once again, not a single bus. Dave presents the fellow in the booth with a scrap of paper with out booking details hastily scrawled on it and we are given in return two orange tickets with a barely legible 'M/B' scribbled on the back, then pointed to the inspectors not 6 steps away. Upon presenting the tickets to one woman, she looks at us as if we are a little mad, and states: “These are not tickets.” We look back to the MegaBus booth, expecting to see the man scampering off, wheeling his scam-booth with him. At our protests that these are indeed tickets, given to us not a moment ago, a senior ticket inspector (oh what a title to posses) steps in and takes over the investigation. He is not interested in our handwritten tickets, but on seeing the afformentioned scrawled booking number, he directs us to the train on the right. I'm pretty sure as he ushered us on board, he could read our faces crying “But this is not a bus!?” We deposited our bags and find a seat still confused. Only then did realisation dawn on us (Dave more so than myself) that it was a train to the Midlands, THEN a bus from there. Someone had forgot to tell us this however. Not one of the four people we asked thought to mention that our MegaBus was a train.

Retrospectively, I quite enjoyed the whole debacle. Though if you were to question Dave, you'd probably get a less enthusiastic response. As I type, we are packing our bags, at Dave's direction. Our train to Edinburgh leaves in just 28 hours. I fear that he'll have us camping on the platform.

J. out

"...and then I smashed it on the floor!"

For the last two nights, we have been visited by the Spirit of Travel, personified. His name was Steven, his accent was Californian, and he was full of stories and wine. He wore a train driver's hat, and a large brown jacket over a blue fleece. He wore pants also, but those I did not observe, for I was distracted by his feet, socks inside surf-sandals. He also sported a bright orange silk scarf around his neck, and a moustache. He was an older gentleman, and was in contravention of the hostel's age limit, yet nonetheless was being allowed to stay. Thankfully, not in our rooms.

In any case, he ambushed us in the lounge and regaled us with stories of his life of travel, and quizzed us philosophically about what we wanted to get out of our trip. He told fantastic stories of people, places, arrests and deportations. He gave us extensive advice on where to travel, and what we were to do. I was to sketch, and James was to write. The conversation spanned hours before we could escape. All the while he continued to drink his bottle of Jacob's Creek, and take periodic smoking breaks. If I were to recite the detail you would be amazed, but much of it flees my mind. Here is a small sample into our experience: “You gotta know what you want from it all. Do you want to find the truth? Inspiration? Or fantastic blondes?” *pauses to nod and stare meaningfully at his audience* “For me it's all about primary colors, you know?”

We didn't know. But we nodded nonetheless.

It was after midnight when we finally made our escape, as he descended into further incoherence, with the odd bout of Bollywood dancing. To be fair, the Pussycat Dolls on the large flatscreen were encouraging him.

The next day we laughed and reminisced about such a bizarre encounter, and with relief relegated him to an amusing travel memory. Alas, we were beset the next eve, when he tracked us down in a different location. It seemed he had not yet departed for Paris. This night, he was less wobbly to begin with, but whilst rolling a suspicious looking cigarette and sipping on a Stella, over the night he did descend to an almost incoherent state. He had met a friend of his, a fashion photographer, whom he had told us of the night prior. He had (apparently) visited this friend and his friend's father, and cooked them both dinner. After an incredibly detailed recounting of the dinner – which sounded both complex and delicious – he told us of the dessert.

I quote: “So for dessert, I took this very, very expensive block of pure, organic chocolate out of the freezer, and I threw it down and SMASHED it on the floor, unwrapped it and served the pieces with (insert fancy liquor here, for I cannot remember the specifics).” The 'smashing' was accompanied with enthusiastic mime, and shall no doubt be parodied at length throughout this trip. During the course of conversation, we discovered our globetrotting friend had worked for Boy George, and had met George Michael (whom he informed us was, in fact, gay) as well as Prince, entourage and all. He lamented that although he had tried to take a gift to Boy George in prison, the new management had not recognised his name, and thus he was not allowed to deliver the gift.

The evening pretty much concluded with an invitation being issued to us, to his birthday celebrations. It was to be held as an e-birthday this year, given his travelling. We were to get on facebook, and post a picture of each of us dressed in yellow, which was the theme color for the year. Apparently he had, for 30 years, been celebrating his birthday by dancing around a Maypole, at a color themed party. There was some discomfort when eccentricity crossed into creepiness, as he suggested that perhaps the female members of the party could, if they liked, wear a yellow bikini, and that would be fine as a yellow costume. After this, we took our leave, one by one, and we can confirm that Steven has indeed departed for Paris.

So thankyou Steven, for your advice, your Philosophy, and the abundant mirth that recounting our time with you will bring us as we journey.

Motherland

As random as it sounds, England does feel like a homeland of sorts. I'm not sure why but i can identify with London as a city as well as the people. one thing that i have noticed is that London seems slightly slower paced than Melbourne. I'm not entirely sure that is accurate, but in my limited time here I'm certainly getting that feeling.

There is some very serious and fundamental differences however between Melbourne and London. For me the major differences stem from the history of the cities. Melbourne is only about 200 years old thus its history is fairly contemporary. London however has been an established settlement for nigh on 2 millenia and that just imparts something into the fabric of the city as well as a mentality on the population i think. i love the fact the there are Classical buildings build in the 17th century not 60m from Ultra-Modern city information kiosks. Small winding cobblestone lanes with an Aston Martin DBS parked to the side. Then there are the dozens of museums and galleries containing works and treasures spanning tens of thousands of years and from every culture and civilisation on earth. it really is a city that has everything. except good coffee...

In about 5 days or so we are leaving for the midlands then on up to Scotland. also, I'm miffed because i tried to post form my mobile while we were at the Bangkok airport, but i was foiled by... im not sure what exactly. but the email post didn't go through. woe is me.

London-town

It's been a few days since last posting, there's been an establishment period and a bit of jetlag to overcome. But here we are, for the time being a trio, James, Alison and myself. We touched down on the morning of the 5th, London time. The flight was not the most pleasant experience on my life, I think my legs are just a little too long for their seating space. And movies are only so entertaining when one isn't allowed to move. Though I shall not dwell on discomfort, for as of now, we've had 3 days of exploring London. I shan't run through everything we've done, suffice to say we've seen some pretty fine museums, a variety of streetscapes, parks and buildings, and today a fairly fantastic market. London is refeshingly brisk, even chilly some mornings, but the weather couldn't have been better. The sun doesnt pack as much punch as back home, but so far we haven't seen much of the famous English overcast sky.

We're based in a hostel just off Hyde Park, which is situated in QUITE a posh area. The streets are lined with tall white terrace houses, and our own building is quite ornate from the street. James and myself are unlucky enough to be on the 4th floor, which entails a suprising number of steps. This means we have to be very economical about trips to the room. It's simply not worth forgetting your camera or wallet. Once you're down, you're down for the day.

I could speak at length of all the intricacies of the last 3 days, but really all I should be saying is that it's a very promising start to the trip. Hopefully before long I can put up a link to some photos, should you be interested!

For now, Dave out.

and we're off...

Good friends, the morning has arrive, the bags are packed. We are taking off in just a few hours. Wish us luck, stay safe yourselves, and I look forward to seeing you all again in 6 months time.