Day 23 - Packing up stuff

I wander about aimlessly on Day 23, but do achieve an important objective. I mail some of my stuff back home. You see, the Australian dollar is doing so mighty fine that I'm buying too much - especially clothes - and my suitcase is rapidly threatening to become a big bulging black bag about to burst. It's pretty heavy too.

So I grab meeself a cardboard box from Dublin's central post office on Connolly Street - a historic building in itself - and head back to my room to see how much I can fit inside it, or, I should say, cram inside it. 

To my surprise and great relief, I can fit about half my clothes, some of my shoes, and extra stuff I thought I'd need, such as a spare pair of gloves, a spare beanie, spare socks, extra jumpers etc. I get the feeling I'm going to miss some of this stuff when I go to Paris. But now I don't care, there's a lot I can buy with the good exchange rate.

I fold the box into a cube that any geometrician would be proud of, tape it with that ugly brown masking tape and, hi ho, walk down Upper Gardiner Street to the post office. It takes me a while to fill out the customs declaration form. Declaring a set of socks takes up so much space there's almost not enough room to mention  'half filled notebook', and I have to leave out 'pretty blue woollen scarf'. The form asks you to be precise with dimensions, so if I was packing underpants I'd probably lie.

I stroll back to the B&B, liberated as one who has divested themselves of life's sundries. I imagine my box on a journey of its own - by van, crane, ship ... I could write "A Blog of the Box" - but don't worry, I'll spare you.

Day 22 - The Gravity of drinking Guinness

Arguably the most famous tourist attraction in Dublin is the Guinness Storehouse. The approach to the storehouse conjures all sorts of steampunk fantasies.

A few friends who have been here pointed out that although it is a must see, it is also a glorified marketing exercise for Guinness. The first three floors talk you through the making of this great stout. I plead ignorance on the intricacies of brewing booze. The manufacture of whiskey and stout seem have a lot in common. I believe one of the prime differences is the roasting of barley that gives Guinness its distinctive black and creamy texture. Arthur Guinness certainly turned beer making into an science and art.

The elaborate exhibition contains a waterfall emphasising the importance of water and a trellis of climbing hops which have climbed at least five metres up the wall!  There is a bewildering array of pipes and valves, a veritable maze of tubing. I am reminded of the complex mechanisms of the Tower Bridge in London. The age of the technology looks similar here, and just as complicated - human ingenuity at its finest. Maybe some of the pipes are just air-conditioning vents or simple plumbing. Who knows? 

 Nineteenth and early twentieth century technology was as mind-blowing then as technology is now, and perhaps more aesthetically pleasing.

Further up is a whole exhibit devoted to the history of Guinness advertising. The retro posters give a sliver of insight into 20th century values. These posters are more artistic than ads today. They aim to get messages across simply and are from an age before theories of advertising (and persuasion) had matured. Many pubs display posters like these as collectors items. They may seem strange and dated to us, but that was popular culture back then.

At the very top of the Guinness Storehouse is the Gravity Bar which offers the best views of Dublin. Unfortunately, by the time I reach the top night has fallen. But when I get my complimentary Guinness the bartender advises me to keep my ticket and come back during the day, for this is a sight that is not to be missed.

I linger over my Guinness and chat to a couple of girls who plan on going clubbing tonight. Am I getting too old for that? The bartender informs them of some of Dublin's best nightclubs and I bid them farewell - they've got to go home first and spend two hours - yes two hours - getting ready.

Day 21 - Monks and Magic

My open-top bus tour ticket lasts three days, with free travel on Dublin buses. I better make use of it! I embark towards Trinity College, Dublin, home to the legendary Book of Kells - an 8th century illuminated manuscript of the gospels and a 'must see' according to a Sydney Morning Herald travel feature. Founded in 1592, Trinity College is Ireland's oldest university, and is certainly older (by several centuries) than any building in Australia. Needless to say, the university has a grand, schoolmaster British majesty about it, the like that my imagination conjures when reading Tobias Smollett or Samuel Butler.

Before viewing the actual Book of Kells you are treated to an exhibit which relates its twelve hundred year history and summarises calligraphy, ornamentation and illumination. Why do they call it illumination and not just illustration? The scribes let their imagination run riot. A simple "b" beginning a paragraph could become a twisted tree with a saint peering from its bows. Elaborate title pages are like medieval versions of Where's Wally or Animalia. The variety of pigments range from lustrous green, yellow and red to lapis lazuli.

After the comprehensive history of illumination, spanning more than six rooms, you finally reach the little chamber where the actual codex is on display, housed inside a glass covered table barely two metres square. After all the beat up this is a bit of a let down. Only two folios are on display at any one time - a full page illumination, and a page of latin calligraphy. Very pretty. 

The exhibit is still well worth going to. The Book of Kells is not the only medieval codex on display. Trinity College Library is in possession of several illuminated manuscripts, and although these might not have the same mystique and legendary tale of intrigue, theft and monkish heroism, they are yet impressive and important relics.

The exhibition entry also entitles you to have a squizz in The Long Room, repository of many rare books. Oh to be a librarian amongst these musty tomes, allowed to pass beyond the ropes where us lay tourists can only stare, letting our eyes wander up the ladders to shelf level Q where the pages of some three hundred year old alchemical treatise remain closed to mortal eyes, and have not tasted air since an itinerant scholar in black robes retrieved it from the shelf many centuries ago - only to realise it wasn't the 17th century gardening almanac he was seeking after all.

Venturing down this 200 metre long hall with its  dark vaulted ceiling makes you scratch your head in wonder, and its aisles and its old tomes has any book collector salivating, eagerly anticipating his next adventure into an antique shop in the hope he may acquire a book as old and rare as one of these ... you can easily see where writers like Terry Pratchett and JK Rowling find inspiration for their unseen universities and gothic magic schools.

I would provide you with a picture of the library ... but no photos are allowed, not even without flash ... of course this didn't stop some naughty German tourists turning and taking a few snaps as they walked down the exit stairs, much to the annoyance of a nearby guard.

Day 20 - Expert Whiskey Tester

A fellow traveller on the Scotland trip had remarked that at the beginning of the Jameson Distillery tour, wait for the guide to seek 10 or so volunteers for whiskey tasting. I keep my arm cocked, ready for the question, and when she asks, "I need 10 people for whiskey tasting at the end of ...," my hand shoots up before her sentence is complete.

Having already been to Bells Distillery I'm eager to reinforce the whiskey making process. An expert can tell a good batch of barley merely by looking or feeling a grain, although this takes ten years experience. Then there's the washing, the mashing, the roasting, distilling and maturation in casks.

Some of the casks have glass covers, allowing you to behold the liquid's rich copper colour. These casks were initially full. The longer a whiskey is left to mature, the greater the evaporation - hence you can see why mature whiskey is more expensive - it takes longer and there's less of it left!

  

* * *

The whiskey testers-elect take their places on the long bench, observed by the rest of the tour group (perhaps wishing they'd also had foreknowledge of the ultimate taste testing). Three shots are laid before us.

"There are no right or wrong answers," we're told. "I'm going to ask you questions about look, smell and taste. The three samples are Scottish, American and Irish."

Apparently the point of the exercise is to gather feedback for the distillery's benefit.

I adjudge the American whiskey (or bourbon to be more accurate) as having the best smell, but kindly judge the Irish as having the best taste. Perhaps I'm a bit harsh on the Scotch - the Irish like to say their whiskeys have none of the smokiness that marks Scotch, but this is one of the pleasures of Scotch - a full, peaty palate. 

Nonetheless, I am now an expert whiskey tester! 

(... and a little bit tipsy ...)

Day 20 - Writers Museum

I rise early enough to acquit myself of the free breakfast, although early risings are increasingly a struggle. The host of the B&B prepares a passable bacon, eggs and sausage, giving me enough carbs to support the long walks I invariably undertake as a traveller. When you're exploring a new city, an hour's walk is a stroll in the park. New streets and boutiques, different fashions, houses the like you've never seen with gaudy coloured doors flanked by classical pillars (my host has a poster of 'Dublin Doors' in the lobby). 

Nothing looks far apart on a tourist map.  Around the corner is the Writers Museum and this is where I immediately head. It's actually a half hour walk but this takes me through what I think is Chinatown in Dublin - at least there are lots of Asian eateries and mobile phone stores. At one of these stores I ask for an international sim card but the seller can't clearly explain the benefits of the card he offers me. I'm used to Lyca or Lebara which give you international calls from 1c a minute. As the shopkeeper really can't say anything more than that the card fits in your phone and works, I decline his offer.

The Writers Museum is in John Jameson's old house and this is good place to start my day as I'll go to his  distillery later. An audio tour is included in the admission price - I've tried to avoid these as they usually don't say anything more than what is written on the placards. And it's a bit antisocial walking through a museum holding a black box to your ear.

Just what should one find in a writers museum? Indeed is it worth having museums for writers at all? Behold tourists, come and read about writers, see their relics, typewriters, unpublished masterpieces scrawled on table cloths.

The Irish Writers Museum is quite handy for me because apart from patches of Joyce and Yeats what else have I read of Irish flavour? I know of Shaw, haven't read him. I've read a fair bit of Wilde but he's only Irish-born, spending his professional years in London before his exile to Paris. I learn that Joyce also took a similar path, believing a writer shouldn't confine himself to a particular culture - at the age of 22 Joyce left Ireland for the continent. Yeats was more parochial, searching out Irish identity, confounding Dublin's Abbey Theatre over a hundred years ago.

The musuem has Joyce's old piano in the centre of one of its rooms and although of course it's locked, I'm tempted to touch it, to feel the very wood of this inspired man where he passed his more leisurely hours. For some reason I refrain, though I'm the only soul in the room and the piano literally begs for an idolatrous caress. Perhaps I believe that if I ever make something of my writing it's not going to be because I touched Joyce's piano.  

Day 19 - The Incredible Zany Ineffable Opentop Bus Tour

Yes, I said in London "why do a tour?", especially one of those open top bus tours. I studied history at university and literature - a large part of this was of the English variety hence I was well equipped to explore London on my own initiative. Dublin is a different story. I know James Joyce hung out here for awhile before heading to the continent. Yeats is Dublin's darling poet. Guinness, Kilkenny. But what else do I know about Dublin, let alone Ireland? I therefore submit to an open top bus tour.

As opposed to most of these tours  I am given commentary by the actual driver, and not a cheap pair of plastic ear buds that keep falling out and a pre-recorded voice that is out of sync with where you are. The tour is acceptable. I must go to the Guiness Factory, Trinity College, the Jameson Distillery ... The Writer's Museum. For most of the circuit I'm the only one aboard. In Sydney you see a lot folks cruising through Pyrmont atop these red double deckers. This could be frustrating: I worked in Pyrmont and seeing these people cruise past as if there wasn't anything else to do in the world made me, well, want to hop on.

The driver points out a statue of Oscar Wilde, reclining in gaudy clothes and grinning at the house where he lived before he left Ireland to become part of the English establishment.

I hop off at O'Connell St, the main thoroughfare north of the Liffey and have a beer and meal at the pub chain Madigans. A typical Irishman of the last generation recounts tales of the town. I can't understand a word he says. Yes he's got a thick Irish accent, but he's drunk more than camel at a refuelling stop on route to Mecca through the Sahara carrying seven bags of trinkets while draped in five Persian carpets for sale at the bazaar. One thing I do understand. His round blue eyes sparkle when he says, "Better get a taxi if you're heading to Lower Gardiner - that place is a bit rough. Rather be safe." He sways. "Wouldn't want to see you" - he rocks back and forth - "knifed would I?" This statement is accompanied with an upward stabbing action. "This city has drug problem."

I take my leave during a pause in his ramblings and eat a hearty Irish stew. Later I forget his advice, luckily without consequence.

Day 19 - My abode for a week

Lower Gardiner St is my destination after hopping off the airport bus. Aren't these airport buses and trains convenient. London's is of course the best, costing less than three pounds. Sydney's? Daylight robbery at $15.

As I make my way to Lower Gardiner St the road side becomes increasingly strewn with rubbish, the pavements covered in fresh spittle; the gait of the pedestrians is tough. They're all walking with homey purpose, wearing trackies or hoodies like apprentice gangsters. This doesn't look promising. I can't find my guesthouse either. In fact, there is no sign of a guesthouse at the number I'm seeking. Next door there is. I try there and am greeted by a friendly middle aged man who proclaims he owns both guesthouses, the once nextdoor being without signage. However as there are problems with the shower in the room I was to originally stay, I am given a small upgrade.

South of the Liffy it's a bit cleaner

 I have a few difficulties piercing his Irish accent and at one point show him my hearing aids and ask him to speak up. He admits he's also got a hearing loss and needs aids - he says his loss is about 75% but he must be exaggerating a little. Either that or he's an expert lip reader.
"Are you lip reading?" I ask him.
He leans forward. "What?"

The furnishings inside are markedly different from the scrappy street below my window. Opposite is a church, classical style with five pillars, Mary atop the pediment. Every second person who passes the church crosses themselves.

Day 19 - Rub a dub Dublin

I get to Edingburgh airport without a hitch and am glad I upgraded my accomodation from dorm to single room. Yes, I'm getting old. Nothing worse than rising in the morning and having to pack your things in the dark so you don't wake any groggy Australian tourists.

But at the airport I'm unaware of EU regulations. I chuck out by Bic disposal razor when I don't need to. You see, these orange Bic disposable razors are the best you can get and beat any quintuple blade Gillete by a far shave. Those stupid multi-blade razors always get facial hair stuck in them and are designed to cut you after three shaves to make you replace the blade. But those cheap-as-chips Bics? Smooth and comfortable. But this is a travel blog not a men's grooming site. Suffice to say I lost my last precious Bic.

Little did I know that no liquids over 100ml are allowed on EU flights and any under this amount must be sealed in plastic sachets. Those fucking terrorists have made life so hard. I almost throw away the whiskey I've bought for a friend, but the security attendant informs me that I can check the whiskey in and expedite my way through security the second time.

I follow her directions and skip the security line-up. But I'm confronted with a burly shaven blonde boofhead standing after the scanning gates who gets his kicks feeling me up. I mean, a quick frisk is acceptable, but once he starts juggling my balls he's crossed the line. Yes, they are my gonads dickstrap, not sacks of cocaine.

The flight to Dublin is most pleasant. Seeing the Irish coastline edge its way into view is a treat. The disembarkation is smooth, and there is no one at customs asking me if I have anything to declare, to which I would have to reply, a-la Oscar Wilde, "only my genitals."

Day 18 - Come Aussies come Aussies come

Third day of the tour and we get up close and personal with Loch Ness, although no sign of the monster. Our guide is adamant there is something in the loch, and is equally adamant that it's not a monster.
"Aye, I'm sure there's something there, but it's not right to call it a monster. It's not a monster," he says with the Scottish downward inflection.
"Are you sure it's still there?" I query. "The legend of the Loch Ness Monster has been around for a while. The monster might have died of old age."
"It's not a monster."
"That may be the case," I think to myself, "but if it can't show its slimy neck to a bunch of hungover Aussie tourists then it's lost my sympathy." Then again, maybe it hasn't been paid by the warders of the loch, or quite reasonably it doesn't like Aussie tourists.

Our cries of "come Nessy come Nessy come," are not heeded. The chant our guide shows us has gestures that resemble a rugby haka - perhaps the Scottish rugby team could adopt it. I can see the Wallabies quivering in their boots as the Scotch cry, "Come Aussies come Aussies come!"

At the end of the tour we're invited to contribute to the visitor's book for the amusement of "the ladys in the office." I inscribed these lines of doggerel:

     In the Highlands wild and windy cold
     Goes Busabout with tourists bold
     Mostly Aussies, a Brit and a San Jose,
     In unison we all shout AYE!
     Yay Aye it is more whisky please
     In the Isle of Skye we did not freeze
     But kilted Joe did warm our hearts
     With lusty tales from these old parts.
     Aye aye we sang, "come Nessy come",
     And stood on the field of Culloden,
     We also saw the Wallace tower
     Cometh the man cometh the hour.
          Bye snowcap peaks
          Farewell ye lochs
          Adieu bog peats
          Hello warm socks.

Day 17 - Holy Coo

We get our first glimpse of Loch Ness, that 40km long tranquil loch with its gleaming waters. Nearby is a paddock with some Hairy Coos, shaggy things who are more than eager to have their photo taken by a bunch of equally dishevelled Aussie tourists.

But the highlight of the day (pun not intended) is sculling a few drams of whiskey near the cliffs of Skye. The fuzzy warm feeling in the chest dispels the wanton wind, and for those who do not want their dram, there's someone else to take it. We are now well prepared for a visit to Bell's distillery. All mobiles must be turned off, lest they interfere with the equipment that now produces this smokey Scottish liquor. I switch my mobile to "Distillery Mode."

One wee girl drank so much the night before she has spent the entire day in a stupor on the bus, and misses a chance to prolong her intoxication by inhaling the distillery fumes.

The evening is more sedate than the one that preceded it. A couple of pints of Tennent's Lager and a couple of flicks starring Jedi Master Ewan McGregor: Trainspotting, which also has a strong performance from Robert Carlyle; and the very watchable Shallow Grave.

Day 16 - Cosy trivia

We reach the cosy hostel in the dark of early evening - Morag's Lodge, Loch Ness. Dinner is a delicious chicken stuffed with haggis - if haggis wasn't so difficult to make this could be a surprising dinner party dish. Over a couple of pints I discover that some of my fellow Haggisers are not only Australian, but from Annandale, the suburb where I live. They're having a nice family trip - two sisters and the younger brother. I commend the brother for his courage in dressing up Scottish-style earlier that afternoon.
"I'm in my element," he states, "My sisters have been dressing me up since I could walk, even as a woman. I don't mind this,  I'm used to it. I don't care. Just before this tour I wore a sparkling dress and high heels and sung karaoke."
Not what you would expect from a six foot two lad wearing a Wallabies jersey.
"I don't care," he says again, seeking further vindication.

Trivia follows dinner, with historical questions testing our knowledge of the trip so far. A larger proportion points go, however, to the team who have the dancers most capable of standing on their chairs and shaking their booty as soon as a  TV theme song is played. Unfortunately I was picked as one of our team's chair dancers, and my first sortie in the limelight produces howls of "He's hopeless! That's dancing? Awful .." and the like. I redeem myself in a later set doing a twist, but only because I keep my eye on the judges and only start twisting when they're actually looking at me. I think they took pity on me after lashing out so strongly against my previous "dancing". I must admit, their reaction to my first effort was similar to the madness exhibted by the audience during the first performance of Stravinksy's The Rite of Spring.

Other games? Directing a blindfolded team mate to the bar to get the table drinks and then dancing with him/her whenever a Disney theme song is played. I can't tell the difference between Disney and television, and leap upon the chair during the Little Mermaid.

But the greatest number of points go to the team who can most ably dress a team mate in Scottish rags .. I mean highlander garb. We choose the younger brother as our model because he has a good kilt record. After 15 minutes the teams reconvene, disco lights flash and the schmodels schmooze down the catwalk. We win, perhaps unjustly, because our man is prepared to show the most flesh. He announces to the audience, flipping up his rags, "I have come au naturel". He just doesn't care.

Day 16 - Highlander

Our driver and guide arrives sharply at 8am to escort us into the Highlands, wearing jacket and kilt, his knees evidently immune to the cold. He has a thick Scottish accent that is perhaps more prevalent among regional areas, where every phrase ends with the downward inflection of resignation. The accents of a couple of younger blokes I talked to in a bar last night didn't have quite the same strength. Maybe you become more Scottish with age.

We're told to answer all of Joe's questions with an unequivocal "Aye".
"Everyone ready to go?"
"Aye!!"

As we depart Scotland's capital we're informed it possessed some of the world's first skyscrapers - the height of these buildings, some seven stories, is certainly impressive, although I wouldn't want to return to my dwelling, on the seventh floor, after 7 drams of whiskey before the age of elevators. Because of their age and structure, many yet can't accomodate elevators.

Not much time passes before we're into the burbs with their gingerbread houses and frosted footpaths - neighbourhoods frozen in time. We leave these too behind and are soon at the foot of the highlands for a stop at the William Wallace Monument, which has great views overlooking Stirling.

Higher we go. Snow regularly appears upon mountain peaks.  What better place to lunch than at a ski resort. We are given a lift pass (no skis unfortunately) and one hour to gorge on a lunch pack consisting of sandwiches and a can of the very Scottish drink, Dr Pepper.

The ski lift scoops us up as if we were debris for a tractor shovel. The journey to the top, about 200m further up the mountain, is a pleasant 15 minutes of swaying in the wind and adoring the Scottish alps, glimpsing mountain streams, getting cold noses.

My companion on the ski lift has reverted to being an ten year old. "This is awesome! The best thing to do on my birthday! Wow! Whoa."

As I'm undertakng a three day journey with Haggis Adventures I shall call my fellow participants Haggisers. After lunch some of us Haggisers explore beyond the ski hut, slipping on ice, breaking ice into shards, sliding down hills on phantom snowboards.

I take my descent alone to meditate upon the whiteness, letting my eyes freeze upon pine forests and listen to the murmurings of the mountain stream.

Although we did't stop at the first castle we drove past, which just happened to be the site where Monty Python and the Holy Grail was filmed, in the afternoon we spend half an hour stepping through crumbling Castle Inverlochy. Some Haggisers dare to climb atop the battlements where a slip on the loose stone would mean bakedbean soup. These medieval ruins would make a fine arena for paintball. 

Early evening we are treated to a reenactment of 12th century Scottish life. Cold wooden hut, thatched roof, 10 to a room, wash twice a year - standards have certainly changed. A couple of intrepid Haggisers volunteer as models for traditional highland attire. At first sight they look like they're being dressed in rugs or fancy flannel rags, but there is more to these garmets than meets the eye. They can be up to 10 metres in length and the varied methods of folding means they can be worn in winter or summer, with or without dagger, and, of course, au naturel, and still protect a highlander's most precious parts from unanticipated mountain zephyrs.

Day 15 - Haunting Edinburgh

The mercury - or rather my weather app - reads one degree celcius (34 fahrenheit). Eventually I find Edinburgh Central YHA on Leith St, made all the more difficult because Leith St is also known as Elms Row. The location of the hostel on Annandale St revives thoughts of home.

The Royal Mile awaits. Buildings along cobbled Royal Mile range from medieval to Victorian, as Edinburghians have done much to preserve their architectural heritage. It's too late enter Edinburgh Castle, but it looks a formidable edifice. 

Tourists and photographers still meander in front of the battlements. The are excellent views of the city from the precipice on which it stands, are enhanced by an introspective sunset.

Trekking back to the hostel, I pass a man standing on the lower rim of a statue. A few metres away are signs advertising Edinburgh Ghost Tours. As I'm not dead I don't think I'm eligible. But the guide assures me the living are allowed on these tours as well. In fact he points out I may well have misread his sign - the tours are not for ghosts, rather they are about ghosts. He looks at me quizzically, as if my misreading of the sign is evidence of a foggy insubstantiality.

Of course, Edinburgh is the most haunted city in the world. But this is no ordinary traipse about the city streets at night - this is a Paranormal Investigation! And we're to descend into the vaults of the city like worms into the bowels of a cadavre.

Chefs and cellarmen and washerwomen and vermin used to live and work here, yet an upperclass ghost is also said to haunt the chambers - the shade of a wee young lad who jumped down and couldn't climb out.

The select among us are handed ghost busterometers (scientifically known as EMFDs, or Electromagnetic Field Detectors). A series of coloured lights indicates the intensity of electromagnetic activity within a small radius. I hold it to my head - as no lights appear the device probably isn't functioning. But four lights illuminate when I hold it near a pile of stones in the corner. One more light and I could've been sure of an otherworldly presence - either that or I was underneath the power generator of the pub above.

I'm the last to leave the exhibition at the end of the tour and lucky not to get locked inside the vault for the night. It's one thing to be sceptical in the presence of a theatrical and knowledgeable tour guide; quite another to be alone beneath an ancient city in the darkness with cold stones and spirits long gone for company.

But I find company with two Swiss girls, a Welshman and a Scot from Glasgow. We decide to debrief at a warm tavern and spend a couple of merry hours discussing studies, travels, ghosts and the origins of the universe. A year from now, we even agree to hire a van and cruise through the States on Route 66. I'm sure an Arizona ghost tour will be on the cards.

Day 15 - To Edinburgh on the Eastern

I struggle out the door Monday morning, dropping my laptop for good luck, luckily it's encased in several layers. King's Cross Station is crowded - and rather for dirty for London, which is on the whole a very clean city without litter or graffiti, comparable to Singapore.

The Eastern train to Edinburgh departs promptly. Forty-five minutes later I casually look out the window and realise we're going rather fast - trains on the East Coast Main Line travel up to 200km an hour. Certainly there are some oppressive looking towns along the way, with row after row of dark red brick double story houses. They all look so similar that without numbers I don't know how you'd tell which is yours - perhaps the house with the home sweet home sign above the doorway.

I highly recommend this trip for the bridges, castles, countryside and hamlets. For some reason there's lobbying to install more highspeed trains in Great Britain, although the current system seems more than adequate. Imagine what high speed trains would do for the Australian economy and Australian lifestyles? Like those police officers working at St James, you could live regionally and work centrally. The faded man next to me disembarks at Newcastle, and from there I have a spectcular window view, especially after we reach the coastline.

Day 14 - Last day in London

I should've left the window open last night. Perhaps the heating was a little too cosy and my sleep a little too deep. The bags under my eyes are so pronounced I may as well have been Shannon Briggs after his slugging by Vitali Klitschko for the WBC.

I go to Lena's Cafe on Praed St and add another healthy looking photo to my collection of classy English breakfasts. Nothing beats a snag lying prostrate in baked beans, crispy bacon, egg yoke dripping into wholemeal toast, fried mushrooms and tomato ... and black pudding with its subtle bloody taste when you lick your lips.

Being Taurean I like to plan, I like things going according to plan. As I leave London tomorrow I want to know just how long it takes to walk from the hotel to the line that takes me to King's Cross Station. It's a good thing I do this, because the fastest line to King's Cross National Rail Terminal is a much further walk than the other Paddington lines.

After collecting tomorrow's train ticket I walk down to Piccadilly Circus for an Oxford St bus. I can't resist popping into an electronics store to suss out the latest gadgets. While clothes and beer are cheap in London, electronics cost about the same as in Australia.

From my vantage point atop the bus I watch the hustle and bustle on the street below. After pleasantly crawling the bus comes to a complete standstill at Marble Arch. For half an hour we are blocked by people protesting for Palestine, I think. But I'm not sure - all their placards are in Arabic.

 I have Indian for dinner at a restaurant close to the hotel. As there are not many patrons, the two waiters practically stand in front of my table and watch me eat every mouthful! Luckily my biography of Percy Bysshe Shelley is absorbing, allowing me to forget the scrutiny of these two waiters, eager to report to the chef that of all things, my reaction to the papadums and chutneys was most favourable.

Day 13 - The Iron Lady

A trip to the cinema is not quite as good as the theatre. But it makes for an easy outing, and having seen advertisements for The Iron Lady on buses I decide to give her a go. The Odeon on Edgeware Rd is the closest, and I arrive at 7:30 for the 8pm session. Unlike Australia, you can choose between regular tickets, or if you pay an extra 2 pounds, upgrade to premium and get better seats. The cinema is expensive anyway, so what's an extra couple of quid for a better view?

Of course I take my seat at the allotted time, before anyone arrives, and suffer half an hour of ads. Worse, I appear to be the only one to have picked "Premium". All the seats in the middle of the cinema are marked in bold white letters, "Premium", clearly differentiating the upper classes from the tight arses. For awhile I think I'm the only one who's paid for a full frontal view of The Iron Lady. Thankfully a few late-middle aged to elderly couples soon join me in the patrician stalls.

The Iron Lady is well worth a look for anyone interested in politics behind the scenes, although director Phyllida Lloyd tends to eulogise - Thatcher is praised for her will and determination, succeeding in a male dominated arena and brushing aside, without feeling, any critique of her social policies.

Her increasing authoritarianism is questioned, as is the sinking of the Argentinian naval vessel Belgrano that put an end to negotiations and sparked all out conflict in the Falklands. 323 sailors drowned, and whether or not the torpedoing was a legitimate act of war because the ship was heading into the British exclusion zone, it was the first shot fired, signaling an end to the round of brinkmanship. I later asked an Englishman whether there was a word for this of action, suggesting "atrocity"; he suggested "murder". Nevertheless, victory in the Falklands turned around her electoral fortunes, playing no small part in helping her win another term.

Meryl Streep bears a striking resemblance to the real woman and all actors give strong performances, with some memorable scenes in the House of Commons. The film has been rightly criticised as overplaying her supposed latter day senility and romanticising her early years. Yes, Thatcher was the first female leader of a western democracy and we know she changed Great Britain, but a bit more on the how and the why would have elevated the movie from watchable to must-see.

Day 13 - A drink

Near St James Park Station is what appears to be a quiet pub, quiet because it's not yet 4 o'clock. I think of ordering something moderately heathly but am won over by a greasy platter featuring homemade fishfingers in homemade batter, homemade onion rings in homemade batter, tortillas with mozarella, duck spring rolls and garlic bread with homemade butter. A meal made in heaven that'll send you to purgatory.

After an hour the place starts to fill with workers from public service officers nearby. A woman in a group of four casts glances towards my table - there's four of them and one of me, and I'm at a table that could fit four.

I make eye contact then say, "I can see you want this table."
She replies in the negative.
"Please take it, you're four and I'm one."
"Are you sure? Please join us."

And so I get talking to a group of police officers, or should I say, office policers, because they have desk jobs and wear suits. Maybe they're the type you find in British crime drama. We don't talk much about their work - the men live together although they appear to be married .. and not to each other. I think they live out of town and share a place during the week. They like the stability of a nine to five public service job, although like a lot of public service jobs it can get hectic from time to time, contrary to popular belief. They believe I'll like London if I move here, and they seem to lead happy, steady, quiet lives (but who knows what the facade veils).

I accept some of the wasabi peanuts offered me by the woman, and take my leave to let the civil police enjoy their afterwork drink, an almost daily occurrence I am lead to believe, although usually for only one or two, and maybe three, beers.

Day 13 - Random strolling

My peregrinations take me to St James and I walk by the chuch where William Blake was baptised. A few minutes later I stop in my tracks, staring at the formidable memorial to the Duke of York. He doesn't look the least bit lonely, despite being on a 40 metre high pedestal where it must be a darn sight colder. The Duke of York was also known as the Duke of Debt for owing more than 2 million pounds on his death.

Crossing a wide and long boulevard known as The Mall, I reach St James Park. 

 
 



A mulled wine provides the perfect accompaniment for making further inroads into the language of ducks. These, like all other ducks I've met, are more than pleased to have their photo taken for posterity.

Even more eager to be snapped (and to receive bread crumbs from the woman trailing me) are the Greylag Geese of St James. The Gulls and the Moorhens and the Great Tits and the Coots all join the feeding frenzy, and I narrowly miss getting sconed on the noggin by a desperate pigeon coming in to land.

A squirrel emerges to forage for some nuts. He takes them in his little hands and nibbles like a child. Adorable pest! For that's what they are, I'm told.
     
And what is that building ahead when I exit St James Park?

Day 12 - A Quiet Evening

In the evening I'm lucky to have arranged dinner with a former colleague from my days at a legal publisher in Sydney. Lianne emigrated to London five years ago, and her Australian accent has completely disappeared!

We meet at Fulham Broadway and go for Indian - Masala Zone the place is called and it's one of a chain. Apparently the curries are best in the East End (and specifically in Brick Lane) but I'm not disappointed by the Grand Thalis we order. Neither of us can finish our meals, but our taste buds get a good work out - four curries, chutney, bhajis, raita and naan. Mmmmm!

Now Lianne warns me that living in London is not the same as being a tourist in London. But she's happy here. She likes being able to see a play whenever she wants, just as I'd like to hang out at The British Museum whenever I want, walk along the Thames whenever I want, go to The British Library whenever I want ... or see a play whenever I want.

London is not cheap. Australian media likes to claim Sydney has the second highest rents (behind Hong Kong) in the world. Nonsense. Sydney is well behind London, New York, Paris and Rome. In Sydney "rent stress" is when at least a third of your income goes to rent. In London, half your income going to rent is normal. But it's London. A vibrant, bustling, historic city. I love Sydney for the weather, the sport, the beaches, the bush, the people. I love London for the culture, the pubs, the architecture, the surrounding villages, the people. Sure, when I lived in Canberra getting out of bed for work at minus two degrees was difficult. Sometimes I didn't get out of bed. But that's Canberra.

After dinner Lianne shows me Stamford Bridge stadium. Should I go for Chelsea?

We grab a couple of pints of cider at a nearby bar. She let's me know that it's unacceptable to drink "halves". I wouldn't do this if I'm "having a drink" but sometimes, especially during the day, I like to duck in and have a quickie. I'll think twice before doing this. Note the British Government recently amended its drinking advice, clarifying what one standard drink is, and recommending drinkers have two non-alcoholic days a year .. I mean a week.

Day 12 - A Quiet Day

My idea of a quiet day is to set out with no intentions, and preferably not visit any museums. After getting a random bus I find myself in the vicinity of The British Library. A little peek would do no harm, wouldn't it? 

The keeper at Highgate had expressed his distaste for the architecture of The British Library, calling it a let down compared to Britain's other great architectural triumphs. However, I beg to differ - the geometric brick conundrum that is The British Library is as it should be .. you are drawn into its vaults and modern spaces as might an ant seeking the sugary archives in a well tendered ant farm.

The first thing that draws me is a ghost story exhibition, prominently featuring Dickens. Charles Dickens drew upon the supernatural in many of his stories (A Christmas Carol being the most famous example), but forever remained a sceptic, going so far as to enter into debates with ghost societies of the day. There are some hilarious posters in the exhibition advertising shows exploiting the ghost mania that gripped Victorian England. The Victorians were very fond of ouija boards, seances and contacting the after life through mediums. Dickens was fascinated by the supernatural but remained ambivalent to its existence. However, this didn't stop him writing many an eerie tale.

What was to be a quiet day rapidly intensifies when I enter the Sir John Ritblat Gallery - rooms that house one of Leonardo da Vinci's notebooks, a first folio of Shakespeare, manuscripts of Beethoven, Schubert, Mendelssohn and Mozart, a Gutenberg Bible and, of course, the Magna Carta. Beatles fans will swoon over original handwritten lyrics by the Fab Four. A couple of hours is spent feeding my mind in the Ritblat rooms before it can take no more - I grab some tea in the library cafe.

Day 11 - Mousetrap

While scribbling away  in a Ruislip bar at the end of town I receive a call from Odile, the daughter of the ex-wife of one of dad's friends. She's keen to meet up, and although her husband can't make it she promises to bring along one her crazy friends from the East End as a substitute.

We're to meet at Leicester Square. When we get there it's absolutely packed! Admittedly, it is a Friday night, but I can't think of any place in Sydney where this many people cram together just to meet someone. People who don't know each other find each other these days with the trusty mobile phone, waving wildly until you spot another person on a phone waving wildly back - this worked for us.

Odile teaches English as a second language. She was told I'm a knowledgeable man of letters and also an effeminate pianist, both which I quickly debunk. She admits that because I play piano she imagined me as effeminate, but I don't come across this way in person. This is great news!

Having earlier booked a ticket, I duck off to see a play, promising to meet Odile for another drink after. The Mousetrap, by Agatha Christie, is England's (and possibly the world's) longest running play and is still showing at St Martins Theatre. The playhouse is Edwardian in layout, with gallery, stalls and orchestra pit to sit the 'lower classes'. I chose a middle class ticket and get my money's worth! - good elevated seating in the centre, although I almost nod off to sleep in the first Act.

An espresso brings clarity of attention after the interval. Despite being distracted by the sleazy manoeuvers of a stocky man in front trying to pick up a blonde with her mother .. I enjoy the performance. The only weak point was one actor overplayed his part and gave the game away. We're told after the performance to hold the secret of the murders close to our heart, and this I'll do, although I'll say one thing .. look out for an overacting prime suspect.

Day 11 - Origins

As another London friend later told me, I put my Oyster card to good use in going to Ruislip, moderately distant from London at 15km north west. Although still part of 'The Underground' system, the journey is above ground and the train has a higher ceiling, more space and forward and backward facing seats. It's good to get out of London into the burbs. By staying in a city a week or two you give yourself time to explore, experience what it might be like to be local, and sense the subtle shifts in attitude between place.

My dad was born in Ruislip and he has given me the very address of the house where he first saw daylight. He grew up in Cornwall Rd in a house of moderate size - today you would be entrenched middle class to own this property. Dad's family were decidedly working class. If I move to London I'd be very happy to live in Ruislip's surrounds.

How does one describe the feeling of tracing one's roots? The passing of time weighs heavily and you get an idea that the dimensions of time and space are very different, contrary to what modern laws of physics proclaim. For here in this very house did my dad live, these were the paths he trod, perhaps gruffly with a bag full of homework, maybe flush with radiance after captaining his school rugby team to a hard fought win. 
The place is the same. The time - now - is very different.

The economy has hit London, and Ruislip, hard. In a clothing shop they're practically throwing stuff at me. I purchase a very spiff jacket that'll be good for Paris and some hipster green trousers. I'd pay at least double for these in Australia. It dawns on me that I'll have to mail stuff home to take advantage of the bargains on offer.

The owner, from Cyprus, has been here for 30 years, although I'm not sure if he's been managing the store that long. "Australia's the place to be," he says. "My son just headed over and he's loving it. Think twice about moving here. Times are hard."
"I will," I say without conviction. "And thanks for finding the green trousers. I can almost see myself as a hipster in these. Have you heard that term?"
"We did that in the 70s."

Day 10 - Back to Highgate

I'm glad to meet Don again. Over a couple of pre-dinner drinks he relates the entire history of London. Beginning from Roman times, through Saxon conquests and the Great Fire, London's rich tapestry is spread before me in digestible bites. I'm also intriguied to learn the Gatehouse Pub sits exactly the same height above sea level as does the top of St Paul's Cathedral. The pub, which supposedly has a seven hundred year history, has been used as a courtroom, tollhouse and theatre among other things.

Don and I retire to the bistro and the food is delicious. I order haddock fishcakes - the best fishcakes I've ever and probably ever will taste.

Conversation ranges from history, sport (what Australia's good at) and of course literature (what England's good at), although we only get to the end of the 19th century before it's almost past Don's bedtime - he has a longer trip home than me. Being mildly claustrophobic he prefers to take the bus (which takes a good deal longer than the Underground), so we flag a double decker that is disembarking just as we arrive at the stop. Don promises to get in touch when he visits Melbourne later this year.

Day 10 - Tate Modern

Off to the Tate Modern. I catch the "159 to Streatham". I'm not going to Streatham - according to a friend there's nothing there. I get a lot of good snaps from the top of the bus, including one of a busy bureaucrat near Big Ben who could be ducking out for lunch - and riding so fast that I only just snap him. Where do you think he's going?

My walk to the Tate Modern takes longer than anticipated - after strolling along the Thames for 15 minutes I discover I've been walking in the wrong direction. However I'm afforded magnificent views of Westminster Palace (Parliament has met here since the 13th century, although most of the original complex was destroyed by various fires). Is this one of architectural wonders of the world?

Forty minutes later the brick prism of my destination looms. With all the effort it takes me to reach it, and knowing it is regarded as one of the world's preeminent galleries, will it live up to its reputation?

I'm not disappointed. This is no mere tick off box for tourists. After entering the massive vaulted "lobby" I am confronted with a giant screen at its extremity. Various images from nature are displayed with several orbs superimposed. Do these orbs represent souls? Are they will-o'-the-wisps? Below me, (only about 25 metres below!) patrons sit and watch the changing images. The rest of the cavern is shrouded in darkness. The projection of images in confined - or in this case supermassive - spaces, is a preoccupation of postmodern installation art. The gallery is housed in a former power station, making the choice of place an artistic decision in itself.

But don't think grandiose imaginings set in a tranquil void where the self is locked in a paradox of peristasis is all you'll find here. Let your mind roam, ascend a few levels to dreamland. The works in this gallery base themselves on Freud's discoveries of the unconscious. Let your mind discourse with Dali's broken phone, see a late artistic tantrum by the once potent Picasso, explore the subtleties Joan Miro.

Budding artists will be inspired, especially if you're interested in spontaneous creation, automatic writing/drawing, dream symbolism, cubism, dada and dark desire.

For a more contemporary fix ascend the stairs further where the current exhibition takes energy as its theme. An American artist is filmed on a dodgy phone camera kicking a bucket around the streets at night - can your eyes handle it? An artist of Lebanese origin has collected objects dear to survivors of the Lebanese Civil War, and interviewed these survivors to establish just why these objects - a radio, a photo, for example - are so precious. I particularly liked the polyester staircase reminiscent of Schroder's effect by a Chinese artist - the installion delicately hanging from the ceiling.

I wanted to linger longer although the intensity is fatiguing even with the espresso I downed half an hour earlier. Besides, I have an appointment with one of Highgate Cemetery's Gatekeepers!