An autumn drive through Wales and Scotland

Yet another half-term break (finally!) this October saw Gez and I off on a driving tour of Wales and Scotland. Our holiday started off by getting the train to Bristol to catch up with friends. Bristol was lovely- like a mini London, funky and in the countryside. Bonus! We then picked up our little car (a fiat- not very fast, but it was a nice blue colour, always important) and headed around the south-west coast of Wales.
We stopped over in Llanelli (pronounced 'Flafley' for some reason!) and continued on around the Pembrokeshire coastline- lovely little stone cotages, sandy beaches and strangely named Welsh villages. One sign we passed was all consonants- went something like 'Wynnthnnrmmn'. The Welsh were all very friendly however and the accent was so strange but nice, like a musical version of the North English accent. The only real difference between Wales and Scotland seemed to be the spelling- the Welsh were much more creative. We crossed the border-of sorts- at Shrewsbury, which was mini-Tudor town, full of those ye olde black and white striped buildings, and then onto York.
York was great- like an authentic 'Old Sydney Town' but about 400 years older! Old Norman ruins and castles were everywhere in the town, and a bloody huge old wall ran right through the centre of York. Apparently there is still a law in place in Westminster where it is legal to kill a Scotsman if he is carrying a bow and arrow within these walls of York. Can't think that is used so much nowadays- but York is just dripping with history- wars with the rogue scots, vikings, black death. All that history seems very real at York. Except of course, when you join a ghost tour (as we did- along with all the other 5 year olds) which was a bit of b-grade fun- people dressed up as Black death survivors, haunted pubs, torture chambers, etc..... York is big with primary school history excursions (like Canberra). York Minster was fascinating, even though our very old tour guide frequently forgot what he was talking about or what he was up to (lots of long pauses ensued) and the Shambles (more Tudor buildings) were very quaint as they literally leaned over the street.
After York we continued up through gorgeous Yorkshire and Cumbria (beautiful country- roads winding through tiny stone villages, rolling green hills, red, orange and brown trees), and stayed at a great pub in Cumbria. English people are certainly good at b&bs- lots of fluffy towels and hot full english breakfasts (the latter of which somebody took advantage of every morning- ie. Gez!).
We then finished off our marathon driving holiday by a quick tour of south Scotland- Edinburgh (did the castle), Stirling (didn't do the castle), Helensburgh (visited my old school) and up the highlands to Glencoe- gorgeous, misty and very, very cold! We got Richard Branson's train back to London and were back at school two days later- ahhhh!

Habla Ingles?

'Habla Ingles' (do you speak english) became our catchcry whilst in Spain. Luckily for us, the locals were fairly sympathetic towards tourists speaking bad spanish, so Gez and I fared pretty well. Spain was a delight- warm, relaxed, beautiful and cheap! Finally a place where it didn't cost thirty pounds ($85) to have dinner. We flew off to Madrid to start our trip, staying in a cheery, though loud, hostel in the heart of Madrid. We shared a room with two young Germans who had a habt of speaking quite loud german at 3am, and then getting up early and beating us to breakfast. This got better when they left and a lovely, quiet Danish couple took their place.
Madrid was surprisingly relaxed and quiet for a capital city (rather like Canberra- except better). The art galleries were outstanding- especially the Prado. We ate most of our meals in these great bar/restaurant places where you stood and ate at the bar, after being served by a very efficient, all male wait staff in funny red waistcoats. The ceiling was covered in hanging hams (hence its name 'musee de jamon'- house of ham!). The food was great and cheap, as long as you love meat (or ham).
Onto Seville next via a very fast train, where it was warmer and even more gorgeous. Seville is a very attractive place, even the locals seem better looking. The highlight was seeing a live flamenco performance by the attractive locals (although the bloke definitely looked like a bull) in a Moorish courtyard. We stayed in a lovely, cool pension, run by a father and his constantly cleaning daughter. It was very comfortable and quiet, so we were able to turn native and indulge in siestas- a fantastic spanish invention.
After a few days in Seville, we took the train to Barcelona via Madrid, (with a sense of deja vu) and arrived late at night on Saturday in the heart of Barcelona. Both being tired and cross after a whole day on the train, it was not the best welcome to this great city as we had to make our way to the hostel through crowds of pissed students on the main streets of Barcelona. It was definitely a party city. After Gez flew back the next morning, muttering something about lack of funds and Spain not living up to his expectations (!), I carried on the dream.
What a city! Lively, vibrant, great shops and lovely food- it had it all and more, (except for the pissed students). The Gaudi creations did get a bit much after a while, especially when I found myself taking photos of curved windows and mosaics that weren't actually Gaudi's. The Sagrada familia was truly amazing though- a 'once in a lifetime sight' as the guidebook promised. Stayed in another lovely, family-owned pension in Barcelona, run by a miniature Spanish mama and papa who were very helpful (though they kept speaking spanish to me despite my constant 'habla ingles?'). Got the train back to London (yes, it took all day) where it was cold, grey and wet and immediately wished I was back in Spain.

An English Garden

Though it has been grey, cold and very wet for most of summer, the flowers have still come out in force in London, which got me thinking about starting my own garden. I got up too early on Sunday morning a few weeks ago and went down to Shoreditch to the flower markets. It was a tiny street packed with flower sellers yelling out their prices ('5 for a pound', 'two bunches for a pound darlin'), stacks of colour, every kind of plant you could want- and all very cheap. The first weekend I went there I bought four herbs and six flowers for 8 quid. The second time I went later in the day and got flowers even cheaper- about 15 plants for 3 quid. It was quite ludicrous really, people were leaving the markets with arms and bags stuffed full of flowers, car boots were piled high with trays of plants. The best stall holders were the first two stalls on the right as you entered the markets. They sold their flowers like an auction, holding up trays and starting the bidding for each tray of flowers at about a pound. If you were quick enough to put up your hand or yell out (as I did too often just from the excitement), you got the tray thrown to you. The crowds around these two stalls were always the biggest in the markets and you had to be quite ruthless to keep your position during the bidding. Alls fair in love and flowers......!

I dream of cream teas

Going to Cornwall was a bit like going to Middle Earth and visiting the hobbits- very pretty, green countryside and lots of small, slightly inbred, sunburnt locals with strange sounding accents (but alas, no hairy feet). It didn't feel like we were still in England as everything was 'Cornish', not English; Cornish clotted cream (devine, as thick as cheese and almost all fat), Cornish pasties (ditto fat content but very nice), Cornish cream teas (scones with more fantastic cream and Cornish jam- sublime), Cornish ales, Cornish fish, Cornish bus service (cheap and eficient).....you get the idea. The local accent was very country-sounding, like the cast from the 'Vicar of Dibley' crossed with a bit of Welsh. Sidekick and I tried imitating it on the bus which drew some odd looks.
We spent three nights in Penzance (with the pirates) in a nice pub right on the harbour, which was apparently owned by an L. Rowe (a long distant relative?). A full english breakfast was served in our room every morning which we began by eating enthusiastically, until the sight of eggs, beans and bacon became too much, even for sidekick.
We did the usual touristy stuff- Land's End, St Ives and found that nearly every other family of four with screaming kids was also doing the same. Both places were packed with tourists, a strangely comforting sight that even at the end of the world (or Britain), there is an icecream and souvenir shop.
The highlight of the trip was taking a sightseeing bus around the coastline between Land's End and St Ives. We were atop an open double-decker bus as it was a sunny day, but as the bus picked up speed, it joined forces with the wind and we were soon buffeted around the top of the bus. Sidekick took drastic measures and drew his jacket hood over his cap and then tightened the drawstring around his face, ending up with a type of face-as-squashed-bum look (photo to come). Instead of going downstairs, sidekick and I, as well as a few other diehard tourists, stayed on top in the gale-force winds, and were eventually rewarded with some lovely sights of west Cornwall; sandy beaches, sheer rock clifffaces, green fields dotted with black and white cows (the ones that produce all that milk for the Cornish clotted cream). We just couldn't move our fingers and other limbs afterwards.
We packed so much into our four days away that we only made the train back to London with 30 seconds to spare (courtesy of a last-minute dash to a pirate shop to buy important pirate souvenirs). Travelling by train for five hours was not nearly as arduous as it sounds, mainly due to the invention of the buffet car. We also happened to be sitting in the designated 'quiet carriage', a fantastic English invention where no mobile phones are allowed in the said 'quiet carriages'. It didn't however, extend to loud toddlers or slightly barmy/chatty older ladies, two of which sat behind us the whole way and kept up a steady stream of conversation about money, men, retiring, money, men- until they got off at Reading. Now if we could only get the train people to make separate carriages for 'loud, annoying people'.......

Dawn raid

Our neighbour got arrested yesterday morning. They had been having another argument, the highs, lows and general gist of which was filtered down through the paper-thin ex-council flat walls into our bedroom. He was yelling again and she was angry, resigned. Neither seemed particularly concerned at the noise or intensity generated by their argument.
*Must insert a brief backstory here to give this argument some context- the neighbours' fights are almost a weekly or twice weekly occurrence. He is always very loud and she slams doors, treads in high heels, yells back. Once early on we thought it sounded violent and so, doing the neighbourly thing, we approached their door with concern on our faces, only to be meet with smiles and jokes by both. She looked dazed ('drugs' sidekick assumed confidently), whilst he seemed pleased with the attention they were getting from their neighbours). End of backstory.
Except this time , their raised voices were followed by the thuds of two pairs of feet treading the stairs upwards. Next we heard the neighbours' voices raising another octave at the sight of the police, the high pleading of the woman with the police, the crackle of the police radios as they contacted 'sierra bravo octopus' or something similar, after which there was a pause. Sidekick and I were really both fully conscious by this stage, though refusing to believe it and trying vainly to fall back into heavy early morning sleep.
The loud upstairs charade progressed as more pairs of feet went upstairs, a shuffle, quiet, then voices and stomping as many more feet came down. Sidekick rushed to the window in pyjamas and noted the old bill had come to 'cart her off'.
"What only her?" was my sleepy reply. 'What about him?"
That afternoon on re-entering our flat the same noises radiated from upstairs- his loud voice, her pleadings, whinings. She had already been released. All in a day's work really. London moves on.

The Three Sikhs

Everyday I catch a tube and bus with the same three Sikhs in their differently coloured turbans. Usually they wear varieties of pink and red, sometimes black and very occasionally, one will sport a bright orange one. We are a sort of team; they get off the tube carriage before me and we start a sort of race/run to the escalators (I like to think I win more than they do), go through the ticket barriers and then I lose them. They take a different exit at the tube stop to get to the bus stop. At first it took me a while to work this out, as I would feel them behind me as i raced through the ticket barriers (winning my imaginary race) and then they would disappear, our journey over.
Once at the bus stop, we wait quietly for the bus, which usually arrived at 7.30am. They even get off at the same stop as me. Initially I thought this was because they were stalking me (although their brightly coloured headwear made them just a little conspicuous). But when I saw them walk into the front yard of a partly demolished house near my school, I realised, of course, that they catch my tube and my bus, and get off at my stop, as they work as labourers.
We have never spoken, just the odd occasional stare (them) or averted glance (me). They are always very quiet and hardly talk to each other at the bus stop.They wear neutral clothes, offsetting their colourfully wrapped heads. They have laughed softly occasionally together. I often wonder how they ended up on a bus to Ilford in North East London, working on another person's house.
However, it always makes me feel better about getting up too early to catch a sequence of buses and trains to work when I know I have the three Sikhs following me. We are in it together, battling the surburban wilderness of North East London as a multi-coloured motley crew.

Bloody hell this is picturesque!

In a fantastic reversal of fortune since our fated trip to Paris (where we missed our flight and waited all day at the airport with pissed bucks night hooligans), we caught our flight on time to Dublin. No running wildly through the airport to catch a flight that had already left, we simply boarded our flight at the allocated time on el cheapo air (ryanair- horrible uniforms, but a good efficient service). We touched down in Dublin on Good Friday to find all the pubs shut and garda (irish cops) patrolling the streets to arrest anyone trying to sell booze- a very un-Irish wecome- there was no booze to be had anywhere. But as we were staying in the pub area- Temple Bar, the no booze mood did make our first night blissfully quiet, the next night we could hear drunken revellers until morning.
Dublin nice, not as big as had rembered it, did touristy things (sidekick loved guinness brewery), book of kells fascinating. Sampled many fine Irish beers, they do do a very good stout (thick black stuff) there.
Picked up our car on Easter Sunday to begin our car journey of Ireland- Cork, West coast, Galway, Belfast then back to Dublin- all in 6 days. Zippy little Toyota yaris fab to drive, everything powered and motorised so car almost seemed to drive itself. 3point turns were no longer the cardio-workout due to the magic that is power-steering. There were a few minor incidences involving sheep on the road (see below) but here power-steering came to the rescue as we managed to curve around the staring sheep.
The west coast was the highlight of our trip. One magic night in the little seaside town of Dingle involved cheap, cosy B+B accom (with slightly eccentric irish host 'Veronica'), fantastic "bloody hell this is picturesque" scenery of sheer cliffs and green fields dotted with sheep (which we almost ran over), sublime mussels from tiny pub (some effort involved in trying to not lick each shell individually and the bowl at meal's end, sidekick needed to be restrained), finished off with irish music at said pub........ And no sheep were harmed in the process.
Belfast another highlight- palpable sense of history as we drove around the peace wall (covered in graffitti) protestant and catholic areas (covered in religious martyrs on murals) courtesy of our taxi drver/tour guide fred (perhaps not his real name).
Back to Dublin where we found the airport, returned our little car and got on to our flight with plenty of time to spare, quite an achievement.
We are now efficient global travellers- Paris debacle was merely a glitch (perhaps as there weren't any fast-closing doors on trains involved in Ireland).
Onwards to our next holiday!

WARNING!

There is a poem on this blog!
You have been warned.

Ode to the Hoodie

Grey or black you cover the face
downcast, pimpled, angry...
Crying what are you looking at?

I guess you might have had a cornered life
trapped in the council estate with your
13 year old mum
Or maybe its drugs, gangs, violence
A modern teenage affliction

But when you fight and swear,
and fight and swear,
mimic my accent,
throw paper at my head,
give me a false name,
and run out of the classroom
I don't really care about the
estate or the pimples

I just see the hoodie
angry, angry, angry.

'Are you from Orstraya?': the whinings of another bloody Australian supply teacher in London

The interest I had thought that would be stirred by London students on having a teacher (albeit supply teacher) from Australia is really only ever a nuisance as for 1;(yes there is a list) everyone in London is from somewhere else (including 50 million other Aussie supply teachers) and 2: the constant questions about Orstraya and the mocking of my accent take up alot of valuable lesson time (end list). It is not what I had envisioned would happen when I engaged the students in a variety of fantastic learning strategies and experiences.

But then again, either is the paper-throwing, the fake names, the worksheet/paper-aeroplanes, the fighting in class, fighting outside of class, fighting in corridors, fighting at break, fighting in the dining hall...... And this was just Year 4...
(no really, these little Year 4 boys I had were tearing each other to bits in the classroom while their teacher watched and suggested 'please stop darlings...?').

And yes, the barely disguised sarcasm/aggression here is my form of therapy/catharsis/psychological treatment needed for my working week. It is either that or build voodoo dolls of year 11 boys in hooded tops who call me 'man'...
For the third time, I am not a 'man' and we speak English in Orstraya!

We'll always have Paris- Feb 2007

Yes, two posts in as many minutes, but when its only 50p for an hour on the Net in slightly dubious London net cafe, there is always more stuff to put up for complete strangers in cyber world to gawk at....
So- gay Paris was v.nice, sidekick and I had lots of lovely food at slightly-pricey Parisian cafes served by slightly cranky (or is that sophisticated?) young female waitressers. Wine was very drinkable and ended up being able to finish quite a few bottles of lovely red french plonk without too much trouble at all. Almost put paid to sidekick's repeated comments of myself being a total lightweight in alcohol stakes.. Thankyou Paris!
We completely knackered ourselves doing-all-the-must-see-touristy things in too few days- Louvre tops, Eiffel Tower pretty tops but the top of Notre Dame was most toppest (?). Only problem was the continual queues for each said attraction. Got to the point where sidekick and I joined any queue we could see- most were for touristy things, some just for the toilet...
After Paris, had few days in seaside town of St Malo in Brittany- v. quaint and nautical. Stayed at lovely b and b where our complete lack of French become a farce. Lots of hand signals and occasional short mimes ensued between us and B'B host (the lovely Sandrie, who drove us everywhere when she didn't know enough English to tell us how to get somewhere on the bus.....).
Only incident to mar our French experience was getting severely lost on the Paris Metro on return from St Malo. Another farcial incident involving sidekick, myself and fast-closing train doors which left both of us on different sides. Both of us were left to wander tube stations for next two hours as we continually missed each other. Finally, distraught and with visions of having to tell sidekick's mother that I lost her son in Paris, we both found each other at the airport- sidekick nonplussed and myself, massive hysterical mass of tears.
Alls well that ends well....

Liz and John's wedding Canberra-style

Flew- or 'jetsetted' (!) into Sydney last week for Liz and John's wedding. It was a lovely, sophisticated affair in the Botanic Gardens in Canberra on a nice, balmy,warm night. Bride looked tops, brisdemaids weren't too bad either (!) and groom looked chuffed. Slight mishap on the aisle as bridesmaid 2 (me) got very high heels stuck in soft grass of said Botanic Gardens, but apparently no one saw it -or that is what they said anyway- could all be a massive cover-up. No footage exists of moment, as cameras were distracted by the bride...(thanks lizzie..).