Lapland New Forest

You have to feel for the average British family before Christmas. It's cold, Christmas is still a long and very expensive way away, and if you have kids, they're probably screaming in your ear that they want to see Santa. Santa, of course, lives in Lapland which, even with the advent of Ryanair, is an expensive place to visit.

A clever businessman came up with the perfect solution. Let's bring Santa to the south coast of England. Let's hire a snow machine, build a few log cabins in the forest, get some huskies, reindeer and a fat bloke in a Santa suit, hey presto. You've got yourself a Lapland within easy driving distance of just about anywhere in Southern England.

The website makes it look, well, awesome. Check it out:

http://www.laplandnewforest.co.uk/

Undoubtably, the first thing you would have noticed is the notice from the director of Lapland New Forest Limited to say that he has had to close the Childrens entertainment theme park down. How can this happen? This place has Hollywood Special FX's for goodness sakes! Scroll down a bit and have a look at the photos, Santa has never felt more at home.

Sadly however, the reality is never as wonderful as the marketing. Lapland New Forest didn't survive because it was rubbish. The photos on the website are lovely, but here is the reality:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/shared/spl/hi/pop_ups/08/uk_lapland_new_forest/html/1.stm

I really like 2 things about these photos. The first one, the nativity scene. Compare that with the photo on the official webpage. Perhaps it does look lovely at night, from a distance, if you've got a torch, when you're both drunk and stoned. And the seventh photo. Note the scarily realistic yet obviously plastic polar bear in the background. Is it just me, or does the bear itself look like it has just finished urinating?

Very sad to hear that the place had shut. I will never get the chance to take any wide eyed young children there to spoil their Christmas dreams forever. Oh well, at least there's still pissweak marine world.

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=ji_DQEmtAEc

Windsor for an afternoon

Due to the curious nature of the British holiday system, I found myself with an unusual dilemma a few weeks ago. I could either work until the end of the year and lose a week's holiday, or I could take a week's holiday in the knowledge that I couldn't really afford to go anywhere for the week.

The choice was obvious in the end. Hence I've been home this week doing not much at all. It's brilliant. Have read 3 books (well, 2 and a half at this stage) and have met lots of people for lunch etc.

Today's trip was to the lovely town of Windsor, home to Windsor castle, the official residence of the Queen of Australia. Thought it was only fair to go and pay the old girl a visit to thank her for all of her hard work on behalf of Australia over the years. Sadly, she wasn't in.

There is a chain of cheap pubs over here called Wetherspoons. Wetherspoons bars are great. Think of them as the Aldi of pubs. The beer is always very, very cheap. How do they do it you ask? By removing all semblence of atmosphere from them, that's how. There is never any music in a Wetherspoons, music means royalties. You won't be able to watch any live sport in a Wetherspoons, broadcast rights means licensing, which means money. Wetherspoons' wine is bought en masse, generally just before it all goes off, meaning they can sell it for next to nothing. And, Wetherspoons is the only place I've ever been to which sells wine on tap. Despite this, people (including myself most friday afternoons) flock to the places for cheap booze.

Wetherspoons pubs have their uses. One of their standard offers is a hamburger, chips and a pint for a set price, usually very cheap. The price does vary according to where you are in Britain. The friday afternoon pub charges £5.29. The pub in Penge where my uncle drinks charges about £4.39. In Windsor, the same thing will cost you £5.99. No need to draw your own conclusions, Windsor is a super posh town.

The castle itself is incredible. For a start, it's massive. You're only allowed access to a very small part of it, but it still takes you half a day to get through it, longer if you stop to listen to all of the stuff that the audiotour has to offer. There has never been a better example of the word decadent. So much gold, fancy furniture, paintings, all to support one family who, by accident of birth, found themselves in charge of a nation. What really amazed me was the fact that while this family was living in such absolute luxury, the people who paid for their excesses were ordinary taxpayers, ie peasants. So, while the average man struggled to feed their family, their kings, queens and cousins of the kings and queens lived in complete luxury. This isn't a criticism per se, every nation needs some sort of structure and order, that was simply what was used at the time. Looking back however, it does seem ridiculously unfair. It isn't hard to see why concepts such as Marxism were well received at the time they were introduced.

We're well off track now, wasn't I talking about Windsor?

That's right. Oh well, it's lovely. Come over and I'll take you (yes you) there.

Incidentally, posted something last month about the crazy bike paths in Battersea. I was going to go out and take some photos, but someone has already done it for me.

http://www.bike99.com/47.html

Cycling

A new era has begun. Work offer a very generous 'ride to work' scheme. Basically, they pay for a bicycle and all the equipment you can possibly want, you pay them back. In the spirit of this magnificent scheme, I've purchased a rather lovely Pinnacle Stratos 2.0 and 3 days a week you can see me riding the 24 mile round trip to work. I'm sure you'll agree that these are exciting times. If nothing else however, cycling in this city has taught me a number of things, some of which I'd like to share with you.

1. Death
Transport for London operate a rather nifty website. Input a starting point and destination, and the TFL site will provide you with a detailed map as to the 'best' route to travel on if you're on bike. It seemed marvellous, however within a couple of weeks it was clear that there were a few problems with their suggested route.

The most obvious of these is one road, Battersea Park road. TFL recommend that cyclists take this road which runs from the bottom of Clapham Junction right the way into Vauxhall. This is about a 2-3 mile stretch, however the most obvious flaw with their otherwise sound plan is the fact that that particular stretch of road, which has shops on either side of it, is the road used by lorries. Hence the potholes. It became clear very early on that if I continued to use this road, I would die.

Mind you, this is the same website that recommends riding through the heart of Clapham Junction, a junction which is not cycle friendly at all. I took a friend of mine down the route, while we were sitting in a traffic jam he asked, quite legitimately, where all of the other cyclists were. It was a very good point. Other than those 2, TFL recommend cycling though vast expanses of council estates and, worse still, riding the wrong way up narrow one way streets.

Very kind of them really, although I should have known better. This, after all, is an organisation which deems it acceptable for leaves on train tracks to be a legitimate reason for trains to be late. There was a story last year where they blamed snow for delays in trains. When quizzed on this, the official response was that it was the wrong type of snow. Of course it was.

I'm now using a lovely route which passes through 2 large parks and runs along the river. Wearing a bright yellow jacket which hurts my eyes and a helmet which I'm sure would do absolutely nothing in any sort of proper accident.

2. Bike paths
Bike paths are to be avoided at all costs. You can see the logic and appreciate the good intentions of people who come up with these ideas. Let's keep cyclists off the road, give them a road of their own. Sadly however, the paths themselves are generally half a footpath, meaning that they're as flat as a pornstar. The other thing about footpaths is that they have things in the middle of them, such as trees and bus shelters. As a result, every cyclist in this city shares roads with the cars, while the cycle paths remain cycle free. And fair enough too, pedestrians will kill you before lorries will I reckon.

3. Weather
I don't want to go on about the weather here, mostly because I don't think it's as bad as people make it out to be. Yes, it is cold and dark for 4-5 months of the year, but it doesn't rain that much, and you just learn to deal with it. Ie, spend most of your time indoors, which is what people do in extreme heat.

Having said that, tonight I cycled home in persistent rain. Ordinarily this wouldn't be too bad, however halfway home is the worst time to find out that your waterproof trousers are not, in fact, waterproof.

4. Annoying
This is a bit misleading. I didn't know what to label it. There are two free newspapers available of an afternoon - the London Paper or the London Lite. (aka London Shite) Both are absolute rubbish. By way of example, the morning version featured, on page 3 mind you, a story about a bloke who was convinced that an iguana was stuck up his tree. He called the fire brigade, they came out and discovered that it was, in fact, an iguana shaped piece of wood. The headline? Wood you twig that this isn't an iguana. Quality journalism. Here is the link. Notice that it's not listed under the 'weird' tab, but that this story is important enough to be considered 'news'.

http://www.metro.co.uk/news/article.html?Wood_you_twig_that_this_isn%92t_an_iguana?&in_article_id=328615&in_page_id=34

Anyways, point being that being the competative bunch, vendors of both the Paper and the Shite love nothing more than to shove their paper in your face as you're walking innocently down the street. I was hoping that cycling would prevent this, it's rather annoying. No such luck. Stop at a traffic light near a tube station and they'll accost you with pages full of celebrity gossip. Like I'm going to read it whilst weaving through black cabs and double decker buses.

The good news is that I'm getting healthier. Most people who travel over here receive what's called the Heathrow injection, a curious condition that sees them leave much heavier than they arrived. I've actually lost rather a lot of weight now, and am enjoying the feeling of relative healthiness.

A day at the Bridge

It's been a very busy few weeks. First there was the camping trip for the last of the bank holiday weekends, then, just to prove that there is some culture and dignity, there were the two trips to the proms, one to go.

This post though is about a different type of culture. The trip on Sunday afternoon to watch Chelsea play Tottenham at Chelsea's home ground, Stamford Bridge.

Chris and I were lucky to score a couple of free tickets to this game in the heart of the Chelsea supporters. Many years ago this would have been akin to a death sentence, particularly for Chris who is a Tottenham supporter. Thankfully, he left his spurs shirt and home and stuck to wearing Tottenham underpants. The ground is a standard sized football pitch, however the stands are very close to the touchline, meaning that the 40,000 crowd sit virtually on top of the players. The atmosphere was incredible, both breathtaking and intimidating at the same time.

From the kick-off, Chelsea were in control. Realistically, either Chelsea or Manchester United will win the premier league this season, Chelsea's domination of the first 25 minutes or so confirmed that. After a series of close calls and closer oooooos from surrounding supporters, Chelsea did score. Cue wild celebrations and hugs, as well as the songs, which were amazing.

The one that really stuck out was sung to the tune of Rod Stewart's 'We are Sailing'. Referring to Chelsea's 6-1 win over Tottenham at Tottenham's home ground White Hart Lane last year, the song started with 'We beat you 6-1, we beat you 6-1, we beat you 6-1, at the lane'. Innocuous enough. 2nd verse. 'It was easy, it was easy, it was easy, at the lane'. Fair enough. Bit of a pause before the third verse though, and I wondered whether the supporters had simply run out of clever phrases to sing. The third and final verse? 'You're all wankers, you're all wankers, you're all wankers, at the lane'.

Things were happy enough until Tottenham equalised just before half time. Cue incredible silence from the chelsea fans who occupied 90% of the stands. For Tottenham, a 1-1 result would be as good as a victory. For Chelsea, it would be a disaster.

The second half was a completely different affair. Chelsea were not playing well and the crowd really got on their backs. Every missed pass was greeted with a groan and after a while, outright abuse from the once supportive crowd. The game finished 1-1, but by then a lot of the crowd had already left.

It is very difficult to describe what sort of an impact football has on this country. It is huge, bigger than any other sport. The first proper fan I met was Terry. Terry has supported Fulham for 40 years. In that time, he has missed 5 home games. Just 5. Wedding on match day? No problems for Terry, ceremony in the morning, off to the ground to watch Fulham in the afternoon. I thought for a long time that Terry was probably close to a one off, that Fulham probably had his name etched into his seat. I was wrong, Terry's story is not unusual. It's not the story of the everyday man, but I have met several Terry's in my time here.

Tickets for one game at Stamford Bridge will cost you £50 minimum, goodness only knows what a season ticket would cost you, but it's fair to say that for the average supporter it's a significant outlay. That's why they probably get so upset when their team doesn't play well. Terry definately did. Nevertheless, the game was an amazing experience, easily the most incredible sporting event I've seen live, due mainly to the raw emotion on display.

Postcard from Korea

There's nothing quite as wonderful as badly spoken English. A friend of mine sent me a postcard from Korea which contained a Folk tale on the back. It is reproduced below, I offer a prize to the person who can tell me what the hell it means:

"The folk tale is putting in the desire and a desire of the general people full. Well, the anger which is not the name which does not receive a picture study came to draw by the field. Consequently level high technique or refinement it pushes it lessens but the form and space composition of the thing which it expresses with line putting first are freer. It is fine and the free minute protection against the cold expression which is not bound in colouring and the frame which are gorgeous looks better, mes with the humor of our ancestors is displayed, sensibility without it is a picture which represnts a popular culture. Further sesthetic sense of our nation, it is honest and is reflecting even from point the questionable matter is big."

Now, I will be the first to admit that by not seeing the pictures on the front, desciphering this may be a little difficult, so by way of assistance I can tell you that 1 of the pictured features a couple of black and white cats, one of whom seems to be chasing the other up a tree, and a fat bloke sitting on a black stone. That last picture is a little blurred, it may well be a pile of his own faeces.

Obviously, I don't want to offend the person who sent me this. Any ideas?

Yorkshire Dales - 3 peaks

It seemed like a really good idea at the time. Take a friday off work, get together with the squash boys, go to the Dales, stay in a lovely cottage and go for a gentle walk up three mountains on the Saturday. You have to admit, in theory, it sounds idillic. Provided you're a boy of course. And enjoy discussions about, um, boy stuff. And meat, you'd have to like meat too. Anyways.

Friday morning came. Armed with a carload of meat, Alex, Darren and I set off on the long trip north. 6 frustrating hours spent in queues and listening to driving South African rock later, we arrived at the small village of Dent, where we met up with Greg, Mike, Angus and Chris, who had come up on the train. They had used their time wisely. Ie, they were drunk. They brought 3 bottles of champagne, a 1 litre bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin and smoked salmon onto the train. Their fellow commuters probably couldn't believe their luck. (I freely admit that any cynicism detected is nothing but jealousy.)

Sometimes whilst living here, you receive subtle and not-so-subtle reminders of how small a world it really is. I remember arriving in Edinburgh for the first time a couple of years ago. It was delightful. I'd always wanted to go to Edinburgh, but really wasn't aware of just how beautiful it was. Anyways, arrived on the bus after a long day's travelling. I was really excited. Scottish flags were everywhere, whisky was dirt cheap, the buskers played bagpipes, it was marvellous. I felt wonderful and happy that I was so far away from home.

I walked aimlessly to the backpackers I'd booked into for 3 nights, strolled into the bar, and froze. Jimmy Barnes was playing. Something was terribly wrong. I went to the bar to lodge a complaint. A large gentleman who looked like he'd just walked off the set of Home and Away turned around and said "G'day mate, what'll it be?" All the romanticisim of travelling was dispelled immediately.

Dent presented something similar. Walked into the local bar expecting to see a range of warm, flat beers, hopefully brewed in the area. Nope. Smack bang on the centre of the bar was a tap for none other than XXXX. Sometimes I get the feeling that Brisbane follows me and just occasionally, when you least expect it, gives you a little tap on the shoulder.



Regardless, had a pint of XXXX (a pint mind, how novel) before heading to the cottage for a night of poker and meat. Alex, we discovered, had forgotten to bring his boots of all things. His choice was to either do the walk in flip-flops, or in a pair of my shoes. Alex decided on my shoes. Frankly, this was a hell of an undertaking, 20-odd miles in someone else's shoes which were seriously underequipped for the occasion.

First peak was Whernside. This was the tallest and was by far the easiest. A gentle walk up a long hill. This is Alex and Darren at the top of Whernside. As you can see, they're barely raising a sweat.



The other two mountains were a little more problematic. The distance between them was huge and after the second, Ingleborough, there was a long walk into the wonderfully named town of Horton-in-Ribblesdale. Horton itself had at least 3 pubs, with four miles and 1 mountain still to climb it was very tempting to simply stay there.

But we finished. It took 12 hours. It had been the hottest day in Britain that year. The humidity was high, even by Brisbane standards, and there wasn't a breeze to speak of. I ended up drinking about 7 litres of water. But the day itself was, in retrospect, very enjoyable. That was by far the most demanding physical activity I'd ever undertaken, it always feels good to have actually finished.



So naturally enough, after such a long day, we drank shots. We are boys after all.

France part 2 - Languedoc-Rousillon

Following the adventures in Paris, I went to join my parents who were visiting the South West of France. Caught the train from Paris to Perpignan very early. It has to be said that the French train system is the best I've ever come across. Clean, fast and comfortable. They should be very proud of themselves.

Met the folks at Perpignan. Thankfully, mother didn't embarass anyone by bursting into tears or song at the sight of me. Quick stroll through Perpignan to look for some food. By that stage it had been at least 3 hours since the last meal (a hurried croissant on the train) and my stomach was beginning to digest itself. The food in France was so good, so very good, it was impossible to stop eating.

The stroll through Perpignan gave me a good impression of the place. In particular, I was struck by the number of very good looking women on the streets. So much so that the question 'which city has the best looking women in the world' has been answered by Perpignan. Perpignan, like Barcelona, is essentially a city full of Catalans, and I wondered whether or not this amazingly good looking women thing was going to be typical of Catalonians. Sadly, was brought back to earth with a shock a few days later. Read on, after you've admired these bells from a castle at the edge of Perpignan.



The folks had, once again, chosen very wisely. We ended up in a wonderful house in the middle of an old town named Prades. Same sort of thing as last year really, old stone house with character to burn. Tuesday was market day. It was very difficult not to walk up to each stall and say "I'll have one of everything please". Mum went out during the day and purchased Languedoc casserole, a dish which essentially consists of beans, duck, bacon and onions. It was delicious. I don't eat beans very often. Baked beans are served with just about every meal here, I don't really get the attraction. It strikes me as more student food than anything else. These beans were different to baked beans, but the effect was very similar. I'm pretty sure that the old stone foundations were shaken to their core that evening.

(Thankfully, there's no photos of that. This is one of the church in the centre of town)



The ruins which existed around that area were amazing. Special mention goes to the small 9th century abbey close to where we were. The monks who lived there made wine which they sold for 3 euro a pop. Nothing will really beat the value of the 1 euro wine from Hungary which was drank in Rome, but for sheer effort, this was admirable. This picture is for them.



Carcassone was very impressive, a large medieval city with a well maintained castle in the centre. It was huge, and almost impossible to take a photo of. So I didn't. But I nicked this one off someone else.



Bizzarely enough, a short drive away from Carcassone was the wonderfully named Le Parc Australien. Yes, that's right, an Australian theme park. Sadly, as mum and dad had only recently left Australia, they wouldn't be coaxed into being reminded about it. No matter, despite the fact that it is in French, I think the website probably speaks for itself.

http://leparcaustralien.free.fr/index2.htm

For the purposes of this blog however, the highlight of the trip was definately the day we went to one of the smallest countries in the world, Andorra. It wasn't the fact that mountains of beans had been consumed the night before, although that didn't help my poor mother and father who had to share a small Peugot with me. It wasn't the fact that the drive there was along tiny roads through the Pyrenees, although that being said, the drive itself featured some amazing scenery.



I am a bit of a facts and figures geek. In all seriousness, I used to spend quite a lot of time with an atlas looking up stats for things like smallest and largest countries. The existance of places like Andorra, Liechtenstein and San Marino were intreguing, and I had always wanted to visit them. Andorra has it's own flag, is the only country in the world where Catalan is spoken as a first language and is a burgeoning place for cheap ski resorts. In fact, the entire country appeared to be under construction. This was a bit of a shock to the system. After spending a few wonderful days being surrounded by beautiful, ancient buildings, it was a bit unnerving to see rampant commercialism all around.

Andorra does have one thing going for it, namely that it is a tax-free zone. As a result, the thing that strikes you upon entering the Capital city of Andorra la Vella, is that the city is stuffed full of duty free shops. It is quite a spectacular setting for a city, surrounded by mountains all around, however there was little to recommend. Andorra has a football team which plays in European and World Cup qualifiers, however our quest to find a replica shirt of the national team came to nothing. Much shrugging of shoulders and shaking of heads.

After lunch, the three of us split up for an hour to do our own things. This was not a good idea in retrospect, because Andorrans take siesta between 1:30 and 4. Quite a sensible idea for the average worker, but disasterous for the tourist. Further, and without wanting to sound too cruel, the ladies of Andorra were nothing to write about. We headed home, a little underwhelmed.

Thankfully, that didn't spoil the trip, which was wonderful. I really, really like France. Special thanks must go to the olds who chose to come out and hire such a wonderful house, making it much easier for me to see them. You guys rock.

France part 1 - Paris

Once upon a time many years ago, I visited Paris for the weekend. I had no money at all and survived the weekend on a diet of baguettes. The treat that weekend was a dinner at McDonalds on the Champs Elyeses.

This time, the trip was with money, and it made all the difference.

The weekend held the promise of something special and delivered from the first minute. Stepped off the Eurostar and into the main station. Spotted a rather large French man struggling with his luggage, namely a large bag on wheels, two shopping bags he was carrying and an ice-cream, which was precariously placed on one hand. You know what happened next. He missed a step, the ice-cream fell off the cone and landed on the ground with a plop. He uttered a rather loud merde, everyone else got on with their lives with a little smile on their face.

Friday was the day to do all of the things I wanted to do last time, but couldn't afford to, namely Notre Dame and The Louvre. Both were fantastic. Got completely lost in the Louvre, which suited me just fine.

Saturday was a different day. I was staying with my twin cousin Nell, who had promised me the 'non-tourist' version of Paris. She was as good as her word, I was dragged around every homewares shop in Paris in search of a new sofa for her flat.

Sunday was back to normal. Big breakfast, big building with a panoramic view of paris, trip to Napolean's tomb (big coffin for a little man), snooze under the tower and a big dinner to finish. A lovely city.

One of the things I really enjoy doing on trips is to visit supermarkets or local stores and seeing what they have for sale. It was absolutely impossible not to be impressed by the wall of cheese and yogurt that hits you as you walk through even the smallest of local shop doors. The yogurt, I assume, is to assist with the digestion of the mainstay of French food, the baguette, which is taken very seriously. There must be a bakery or boulangerie within x distance of any point in Paris. There must be a pharmacy as well, which goes a long way to explaining why there is a pharmacy on every street corner. Not your average chemist with shampoo and shower gel, but a pharmacy which only sells drugs.

As for the boulangeries, if you order a baguette, by law, you must receive a baguette containing 3 ingredients only, flour, yeast and salt. That's it. None of your fancy, remaining fresh for longer than 3 hours bread, but the most simple of breads designed to always be fresh. What's more, the price is regulated, won't cost you more than a euro. And for those of you who are concerned about the rise of mass production, fear not. The ingredients in your baguette are not allowed to be mixed by machine, by law. All of this has been designed for your average corner baker to compete with the supermarket chains who commit the unspeakable sins of adding preservatives or mixing ingredients by hand. Still, a French baguette is a work of art and probably should be preserved.

To sign off, I'll leave you with a french lesson. Baguette in French means wand or stick. If you're in a Chinese restaurant and want some chopsticks, you would ask for les baguettes. Them Chinese must have some really big gaps in their teeth...

New digs

The Clapham adventures are over, and I for one am very pleased. 9 months spent living in a cupboard above a high street was more than enough. The place was certainly very convenient but the lack of space, constant noise of vehicle and pedestrian traffic and the regular piles of fresh vomit outside the front door really took it out of this old man.

So I gave notice there and moved to Wimbledon. Address provided upon request.

The place is wonderful and my new flatmates are very pretty. (One of them is reading over my shoulder) Actually, the place is a bit of a score. There was a few things that sold me, namely a big room, king sized bed, ceiling fan (that'll come in handy), watercooler by the bed, big garden and gas barbeque out the back. Gas barbeques have been missed. The usual option here is for charcoal, which I just can't figure out at all. They take hours to start and end up smoking rather than actually cooking your meat.

The new job is fine. Nothing to get overly wonderfully magnificently excited about, but absolutely incredibly superbly better than the last job, which was slowly driving me insane. This job may well do as well, however there are advantages for the bigger picture.

Have been enjoying some culture in recent times, the highlight of which was undoubtably a trip to Shakespeare's Globe to watch a version of King Lear. The Globe is a recreation of the original theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon, tudor decorations included. (And not the dodgy Stratford in east London) The stage is fronted by a large standing area. At certain parts of the play, the cast left the stage throught the crowd. Twas an excellent night, with a hey nonny nonny. Nonny nonny ho.

Debt repaid

For the story behind this post, please visit the site of my formerly favorite Swiss friends:

http://aichenier.blogspot.com/

Bonjour mon ami! Comment ca va? Ca va tres bien merci beaucoup. Un deux trois
quatre. Le tour d'eiffel, c'est magnifique! Provence est bon. Paris est bon. Provence et Paris est tres bon! J'aime la croissant et fromage, mais je n'aime pas la croissant avec fromage. J'habite en Londres. Quelle heure est til? Essai! Sebastien Chabal est le homme des cavernes. Iain et Alessandra, ma ami, comci comca!

Right, that's one language butchered, moving on.

Ich bin nicht fraulein Meyer.

Cornwall

Apologies in advance to those I sent postcards too. The jokes in this post may look remarkably similar.

Cornwall is the southwestern most county of England. Its Celtic name is Kernow and along with Ireland, Wales, Scotland, the Isle of Man and Brittany, is regarded as one of the 6 Celtic nations. It has a long and rich history and like most of the other Celtic nations harbours some thoughts of independence.

In short, it seemed like a nice place and far enough away from London to spend the Easter weekend. Fresh air and all that. And there was plenty of fresh air, most of it blowing strong and wet into my exposed face. I've never been as cold before in my life. So, plan A, which was to go walking through the countryside seeing the dolmens was out the door. I tried, dammit I tried, but it was pointless. The locals must be rather used to this though. The beaches (which were really rather nice) had the red and yellow flags up and lifeguards at the ready which, given the conditions, was quite a surreal sight.

So, plan A out the door, what to do next? Well, why not try the local pubs?

I was staying in Penzance, a town made famous by the musical. Much of Cornwall's history is that of pirates. If you didn't know this before you got there, every second shop reminds you. From the timber yard named 'Shiver me Timbers', to the Pirate internet cafe, the Pirate fish and chip shop ("cod and chips for pieces of eight!") and most bizarrly a Pirate charity shop.

So, the pub it was. Amazingly, the locals have what can only be described as a pirate accent. Initially, I wasn't sure if this was part of the show they do for tourists, but if it was then they all do it very well, and it sounded pretty genuine to me. If you think I'm kidding, imagine the bar tender exclaiming 'arrr, what'll it be then', or 'arrr, it be cold today arrrr'. It was very amusing.

I won't have fond memories of the Long Boat pub though. A fat 50 year old bloke with breath that smelt like car tyres tried to pick me up. I was at the bar innocently trying to watch the football when he came over and started talking to me. It started off innocently enough, but then the touching and the odd 'good looking young fella like you' dropped into bizarre moments of the conversation. I had to make some excuses before full time. Tightassed bastard didn't even buy me a drink!

So plan C was brought into force. 5 days reading books and watching movies. Came back very relaxed and happy.

You know, I wrote the last entry in a bit of a hurry and forgot to mention the most exciting thing I found out about Barcelona. If you get a moment, make sure you do a wikipedia search for Caganer. Christmas time is a time for little nativity scenes everywhere, but in Barcelona (and Catalunia generally) they add the Caganer, which is a little gnome, much like you'd see in your standard garden. Except that this one is not holding a fishing rod, this one has dropped his pants and is in the process of defecating. You might immediately think that this blog has moved beyond the bounds of bad taste, but I swear to you that this is true. Do the search.

I asked a friend of mine from Barcelona about this. He told me that the Caganer was supposed to represent the resoiling of the earth or something like that. He told me though that Catalans are generally quite open about their bodily functions, that people would excuse themselves from the dinner table with a loud "I must go and have a shit". (In Spanish of course, which adds a bit of a romantic twist to this story) Upon returning to the table, the rest of the family/group of friends would ask with genuine interest how the shit was. I didn't want to ask too much more, like how much detail your average family member really wanted to know about their mother's movement, but it paints a pretty funny picture of your average Catalan family.

So, to all my readers, may your next movement be a good one. Til next time.

Barcelona

Travelling is wonderful. On so many occasions you are thrown in with people whom you would never meet in a million years in an ordinary day. And if you did, there's a good chance you probably wouldn't like them anyway.

18 months ago, when staying in a small hostel in Connemara, I met Sebastien and Christy. Seb is from Paris, and had decided to take a long weekend in Ireland. Christy is from Washington DC, had a week off, and thought Ireland, why not. Seb and I were friends for 2 days, the 3 of us went for a long walk on the second day. That's been about it really, I haven't exactly kept in contact with either of them. So, when Christy emailed us both to tell us that she was coming to Spain for a week, the only reasonable decision open was to fly down for a weekend and join her. And so we did. And it was great.

One man's influence has shaped Barcelona more than anyones. Anthony Gaudi, visionary architect and committed catholic who designed some of the most amazing buildings and structures you're ever likely to see. I couldn't take a decent photo of his most famous work, La Sagrada Familia, it was simply too big and incredible to fit into one shot, so I borrowed this photo from the internet.



Amazingly, they have been building this cathedral for 100 years. They plan on having it finished by 2026, exactly 100 years after Gaudi was hit by a tram. By then there will be many more melting candle style towers. This was, without a doubt, the most visually stunning building I have ever seen. When Gaudi wasn't making plans for this one, he was building apartment blocks like this one.



I was half tempted to ring the bell and ask if Darth Vader was home.

And so ended a weekend that went rather too quickly for my likings. Great city, great food, great sangria, what more could one ask for really?

Scotland for the last time

Well, the title is a little dramatic. But the reality is that work was to take away my Edinburgh privilages away in March, so I went and got a new job. Seemed like the right thing to do really. Working at a boring job was so much easier when your manager was in another country and you got the privilage of visiting said country and stay at 4 star hotels, all invoiced to the British taxpayer. The thought of being London bound again was too much to bear.

And so, armed with my constant trusted companion Gerald, we visited Edinburgh for one last work trip for 'work', part of which was to visit Murrayfield to watch the Scottish play the French.

I have written about Edinburgh a number of times on this blog, perhaps without giving an accurate impression of the place. It is a small city built entirely of sandstone and slate, which are the nearest raw materials. Much of the old city remains, Edinburgh having been spared the bombs that fell on most of England's cities during World War 2. Pollution from coal fires and car exhaust over the years have combined to blacken the sandstone in particular, leaving some of the most recognisable of Edinburgh's monuments looking dark. Contrary to the picture this might paint, the effect is a spooky, gothic city, which is cold and usually overcast. It's a different world.

On sunday morning we wandered into an old graveyard which didn't look as though it had changed for about 100 years. The scenic background was the imposing Edinburgh castle, which rises high above the city. I don't think I've spoken too harshly about anything on this blog, but my regular trips to Edinburgh will be missed.

So. After treating ourselves to a long walk on Sunday morning, we trooped over to Murrayfield to watch the rugby. We had, all day, seen thousands of French fans walking through the city dressed to party, hopes were high for the atmosphere inside the ground itself. And indeed, the Flower of Scotland was sung loud and proud by just about everyone inside. But to be honest, the crowd was very, very subdued for the entire match. Except for the French parts, who were singing and playing trumpets. I wished we were sitting with them, the Scots around us didn't make a noise for the entire match. I cheered more for Scotland than they did.

The most entertaining part of the match though was midway through the second half. I had purchased a little radio which had direct feed from the referee's microphone. He spoke fluent French, meaning that many of his explanations for this or that penalty were lost. But one very amusing thing happened. Ref found himself caught next to a ruck, which suddenly moved sideways, knocking him violently to the ground. After a quick commando roll and one of the biggest cheers of the day from the crowd, ref was back up and ready for action. Next break in play he went to the touchline for a chat with the linesman. Transcript:

Fuck me mate, there's some big bastards there, couldn't get out of the fucking way...so fuck yeah

Those lucky enough to have spent £5 for the radio were then treated to the sound of the referee blowing his nose which, I and anyone else lucky enough to be listening at the time, could tell, he had wanted to do for a little while... All in all a brilliant weekend.