Brussels: Biĕre and Balls

With a light drizzle bringing a shine to the grey cobble stones and just enough to make the streets move at a slightly quicker pace, we went for a quick look at the new part of town dominated by the EU Parliament. On a weekday the area would be overflowing with politicians and eurocrats consuming vast quantities of the worlds rainforest but on the weekend it was earily quiet.

Brussels is also two cities in one with everything from street signs to shop names being written in both Flemish and French. I was amazed to read about the historical divide that continues today between the Flanders people of the North and the Wallonia of the South. Somehow the country is held together with the help of the Royal Family. We stopped in at their Brussels home, the 'Palais Royal'. The doors are thrown open for 1 month a year to let the poor locals and the inquisitive tourists stare in envy at the luxurious furniture and extravagant gilded ceilings.

Another stop on the tourist circuit was the ‘du Cinquantenaire Arcade’. Really a poor attempt wannabe Arc de Triomphe without the awe-inspiring bit. Our guide book noted that it was dreamed up by Leopold II while he was suffering from Paris-envy. Continuing with the uninspiring theme, next door was an AutoMuseum. Not something normally on my list of must do’s, the kids needed a break so we went and explored everything from the first Ford to the classical Ferrari.

They had slightly better luck in creating awe with our visit to the biggest balls I have seen since my last game of nude petaunque. The Atomium is an iron molecule on steroids, magnified 165 billion times to become a unique place to climb and get a view over the City below.

Brussels has lots of other claims to fame. Now when it comes to food, the staple food item for Belgium is - as Homer would say…..”mmmmm Beeeerrrr”. I had no chance of tasting all the types of Biĕre produced in Belgium with there being more breweries than the total population of Brussels - well almost. Brussels is also famous for its bars and clubs. There was even one that I walked past with lots of friendly men who wanted to by me a drink. I am not sure why it was called ‘L’homo Erectus’.

And how could we forget one extra stop to look at a statue of a little boy peeing. Surrounded by a hoard of tourists taking photos of the Mannekin Pis, you wonder how he still doesn’t manage to get stage fright.

With the weekend coming to a close and a long 6 hour train trip ahead of us it was time to say goodbye to Brussels. I wonder if we can squeeze in one more weekend to go to Bruges…. Or what about Ghent…. Or may be we could go to……

Brussels: Moules and Music

Hurtling along at 200km/h in the Eurostar, the Belgium countryside passed by with a blur. What I could see was similar to England with a flat checker-boarded landscape of fields disappearing into the horizon.

Arriving in Brussels it was obvious that it was really two cities in one. The Old Town is all about Art Nouveau facades, narrow lanes, pedestrian squares and throngs of tourists. The new part of the town is more like drab non-descript government buildings, wide boulevards, traffic and Eurocrats.

We spent much of the first day in the old town wandering in and out of cobble lines ‘rues’ (streets). As you would expect, there were shops full of chocolate in all shapes and sizes. Adelaide had great fun going into each shop asking for a free taste. The streets were full of buskers playing everything from the violin to 2 tin cans and crowds of people watching people sitting at tables watching people watch them. The music echoed across the square and mingled with the noise of guests dining and the clink of glasses of ‘Chimay’. It gave the place an exciting buzz that somehow managed to remain relaxed at the same time.

The centre of it all is the ‘Grand Place’. Like the major centrepiece of a table, the Grand Place is a bold statement of 15th and 17th Century baroque and gothic buildings surrounding an open square. The intricate stone calving adorning the buildings giving the place an almost surreal quality.

After an exhausting day we made a beeline for one of the many restaurants, each with tables spilling over into the narrow alleys, advertising ‘moules (mussels) in wine’, ‘moules in cream’ or ‘moules in something that I really didn’t want to know’, for exorbitant prices. And to finish it all of, waffles smothered in a thick layer of chocolate drowning a lone banana.

A wonder back to the hotel through the ‘Royales Galeries Sint-Hubert’, Europe's oldest glass arcade opened in 1847. This iron and glass arcade reminded us of the Strand with expensive boutiques selling fabulous jewellery, lace, hats and bags as well as trendy cafes.

With the thought of looking at more chocolate overpowering, even for me, it was time to call it a night.

To the End of England

Last weekend the kids had decided they had had enough of the travel and it was time to stay at home. So with the permission from the boss, I packed my bag with the bare essentials (toothbrush and 6-pack of beer) and headed off to the rugged coast of Cornwell with no plans, no accommodation and no children. So with music blaring in the car (no – not bananas in pyjamas), I drove into a slight drizzle with a hope that the torrential rain north didn’t decide to come on the trip with me.

Driving along the M5 I experience my first real taste of what it is like going on holidays in the UK. A parking lot spread over three lanes. In front there was the usual parade of cars on their pilgrimage to some unknown place in the futile search for sun and sand. Surrounding me, cars with caravans in tow were filled to the brim with bikes, bags and the face of small children squashed against the glass.

Luckily, the rains up north have kept many holiday makers away so we collectively, like one big joined up snake, made our way west to the end of England. With the bladder deciding it was time to stop I followed a sign to Lanhydrock, a grand Victorian home with an amazing 49 rooms. For those that like cooking the house had a huge kitchen for cooking, a room for vegetable preparation and washing up, a room where bread, scones, cake and biscuits were baked daily, a Dry room for kitchen storage, a separate room for preparing and storing fish. There was another room for specialist meat preparation, and ANOTHER room where butter and clotted cream were made, and milk stored. I wont even mention the other 42 rooms!

Back in the car it was time to make my way to the coast, my target St Ives. A small fishing village enclosed by a maze of narrow cobble streets and alleyways with white terraces hugging the steep foreshore. For years, artists have been attracted to the town because of its unique 'light' and magnificent coastline. The village now has a myriad of small galleries and artists with paintings of torques water and blue sky. While today the sky was grey and the water a deep green it did not detract from this lovely spot.

After the essential Cornish pasty, it was time to explore the coast more. From here the coast road snaked its way west, giving magnificent vistas and tantalising glimpses but never quiet connecting to the sea. So it was time to park the car and put on the walking boots. The craggy coast was dramatic with steep cliffs, delicate wildflowers, the smell of salt spray in the air and the sound of pounding waves below.

Next stop, dinner in a small local pub consisting of steak and mushroom home made pie washed down with a pint. Despite it being 8pm, the clouds began to break and the sun started to shine, so I made my way further along the coast to the most glorious bay and watched the sun go down.

Now, sitting in the dark contemplating how wonderful it was and the freedom without kids, another thought entered my mind. It was 10.30pm and I don’t have anywhere to stay! After prodding the back seat and lying with feet protruding out of the window, I decided that there had to be a better option. After several failed attempts I eventually found a grand Victorian hotel on the sea front at Penzance and clambered into bed.

The next morning, waking up early (even without the kids jumping on me), and a scrumptious breakfast of smoked haddock and poached eggs, I headed to St Michael’s Mount. After a small boat ride across the inlet you arrive at a rocky islet crowned dramatically with a medieval castle.
The end of the weekend was fast approaching but I had a couple more stops to go. Fist was another walk along the coast at Lizard Point. More dramatic cliffs where the green rolling pastures abruptly end as the sea slowly consumes the coast. Last stop - Eden Domes - a strange place in the centre of an old quarry. Now it contains a kaleidoscope of plants from all over the world, all housed in immense domes.

As the clock ticked by I knew it was getting close to home time. The freedom was drawing to an end and it was time to return home.

Summer?

Summer in Australia is all about the smell of smoke in the air, a hot westerly sucking the life out of you, scalding your feet on the blistering road, the sound of crashing surf, getting sand between your toes, the deafening roar of cicadas, a 38 deg Christmas day and the big southerly buster bringing welcoming rain.

The only common thing to an English summer is the word itself. As some of you may have heard we are suffering from one of the wettest summers on record. There has been severe flooding in the midlands (about an hours drive north of us) with some houses submerged under 2m of water. Luckily for us we have missed the worse part of the rain and even have a little bit of sunshine this morning.

So what is summer really like here.

As the last of the spring bulb disappear, the garden becomes less colourful but with more shades of green. Green dominates the landscape from the lush pastures to the dark green trees that still remain interspersed between the urban footprint. One thing that has managed to win the battle is the overgrown hedges that expand out across the narrow lanes in a desperate attempt to consume any passing vehicle.

But where the more flamboyant daffodils and tulips have settled in to their hibernation, the wildflowers make a subtle but still spectacular entrance. With shades of purple, pink and white pastel, their delicate flowers dot the landscape like an artist would paint a watercolour. There may not be the noise of cicadas but an abundance of insect life emerges - butterflies, damselflies, dragonflies – and most noticeable the large bumble bees.

Despite the rain and clouds, many still brave the beach, all wrapped up in jackets and wind breaks. The ocean is empty apart from the lone dog braving the cold water. The other telling point that you know summer is here is the long days with the sun only deciding to call it a night after 10.00pm and the children still bouncing off the ceiling not wanting to go to bed.

I must admit I am missing the warmth but it is early days yet. You never know – Summer may still occur on at least one day in August.

London with Kids Tour

This weekend we were lucky enough to venture back to London. Dave Grey, from my work at Parramatta is over here and has a unit not far out of the centre of London. They were away for the weekend so kindly let us stay. So packing the bag AGAIN, we headed to the big smoke this time deciding to do the ‘London with Kids Tour’ that reads something like this:

“DAY 1: You will first be whisked away on a monotonous 3 hour train ride through the rainy countryside on your way to London. We have made special provision for your children to be allowed to climb all over the seats and annoy your fellow travelling companions. On arrival at Heathrow you will be joined by our friendly staff who will guide you on to your next train to your accommodation for the weekend. Unfortunately you will need to carry all your luggage for the 10 minute walk from the station but at least you will be able to fall into bed.

DAY 2: You will be woken early by your personalised wake up call involving the twins jumping on your bed at 5am. You will then be joining your train for the days sightseeing. First stop is the ‘Natural History Museum’ where there will be plenty of stuffed animals, bones and rocks. We will attempt to frighten the kids by showing them the dinosaurs and make them look inside the mouth of a big whale.

The tour then moves on to the Science Museum after a small stop for lunch. This is a suitable time for any kids tantrums over food and other trivial matters. You will not see much of the Science Museum as the children will be consumed in the ‘Activity Room’ where you will no doubt loose them several times. You will then have a great opportunity to scare the shit out of them as we give a great live demonstration on ‘How Rockets Work’.

After dragging the children kicking and screaming from the Science Museum you will have the opportunity to deny any ownership or existence of them at a playground in Regents Park. The tour will then depart in the afternoon for a trip to Madame Tussaudes where we will conveniently arrive just in time for it to close. Several trains later you will return for a specially prepared dinner by the head chef ASDA.

DAY 3: Another early morning, as you join the tour again, heading back to Madame Tussaudes where you will join the other 3,456,678 tourists looking at lots of shop-front dummies. The children will have a great time looking up dresses while the husband will be able to grope Kylie and several famous models. You will also have the unique opportunity to pick the nose of the Australian Prime Minister John Howard. If the dinosaurs or the rockets did not manage to mentally scar your children for life, there will be a great opportunity to take them through the house of horrors to see decapitated heads.

The tube will leave just before lunch (please mind the step) and take you to the Millennium Dome. Now called the O2 in the hope the British forget how many millions of pounds were wasted on this tent, you children will spend time playing on the artificial beach created indoors (unfortunately the only remaining sand beach in the UK had to be destroyed to allow this unique experience).

To complete the evening your private tube driver will pick you up and take you to Harrods where you will be able to look at obscenely expensive things you could never afford and allow the children to run riot in the toy section.

Unfortunately your tour will be close to the end. The only thing remaining is the long and tortuous train trip home, guaranteed to arrive near midnight. We hope you will enjoy this unique tour and we welcome you to join us”

YEP - we had a great time

nudité

There is no doubt that the French have an obsession for nudity. From early times French artists have had obsession for painting, drawing or calving the human body ‘nude’. It seems mastery of the nude was essential for the aspiring artist - or the aspiring perv.

A little known fact(?) is that the French were the inventors of nudist camps. They now have nude nightclubs where more than your arms flap around while you dance. There are numerous nude beaches but don’t describe them as “au naturel” as this is used only for food cooked without preparation. In French, nude beaches are called “plages nudists”. I am guessing that means 'beware plague of nudists ahead'. They even love their nude pétanque (Yes Hux – I did try to find out where I could play but no luck). As most know, every French movie must have a nude scene (although I am not sure how they work that into a children’s cartoon) but it is the only place I know where they show x-rated movies on free-to-air TV after midnight (for some strange reason I couldnt get to sleep at night).

To just show how liberal the French are compared to us is when it comes to sex shops. For us they are something to be hidden down small alleys (not that I know about this of course), frowned on by the community and just tolerated by Councils as long as the buildings are not advertising or even making any real statement about what is inside. In France – not only is the shop located in the main street next to the patisserie shop, there are well displayed windows and large A-frames in the street advertising ‘vente gadgets’. And just in case the neon signs were not enough do you think our Council would approve the following street sign?

Not that there is anything wrong with that!

Birds - no the feathered kind

Another weekend but this time it was a chance to stay at home. Greta, Phil and the boys came to see us. Fantastic to catch up and hear all about what is happening back at home. We heard that the dams are back to 55% full, you have had so much rain it is like England, the Swans are not in the top 8, but Manly are coming SECOND (I had to check they didn’t say second last), and unfortunately Howard is still the Prime Minister.

Sunday we did manage to get out for a few hours – We went to the Hawk Conservancy at Hampshire (after a recommendation from Phil). A park dedicated to birds of prey. There were all kinds of eagles, owls, vultures, hawks and kites. It was great to watch them majestically float through the air and dive at break-neck speed, some coming within a millimetre of our heads. The kids had a good time and so did mum and dad.

Cote d'Azur: Aller à la maison - home time

France is such a lovely place and Kathy and I only wish we had more time to explore the different things it has to offer. May be some time in the future with the children staying at Grandmas and Grandpas (thanks Mom) we may get back here again. But for now it was time to fill it up with petrol for the last time before returning the car. I finally feel as though I have got a handle of driving in this country!

I filled up with ‘gasoline’, paid my euros and confidently strolled back to the car and hopped inside. To my horror someone had stolen the steering wheel! With an impatient person behind me staring strangely wondering where the driver was I calmly got back out, walked around and sheepishly got in and drove away. May be I am not quite ready for this driving in France.
The next morning, with all the family packed for the early morning flight, we left France on another brilliant blue sun filled day. As we flew back the clouds gathered and a rain swept England sat below us. Driving home through a grey soup with rain teaming down and a chill in the air, France seemed so far away. The only thing now is to get used to the gear stick on the left, rear vision mirror on the left, driving on the left and …… the rain.

Cote d'Azur: village perchė

While it is the allure of wealth that attracts many to this part of the coast now, it is the smaller villages that I think give it its real charm. During the week we visited several village perchė or hill top towns and when I say hill top I mean villages that cling to the cliff edge by their fingernails.

St-Paul-de-Vence is a village perched on a hill which made it an ideal ville fortifiėe dating from the twelth century. While it has pretty cobble lined streets, being so close to Nice means that all the shops have been taken over with art shops and clogged with the same American bus-load of tourists that have just been to Monaco. Outside the village it was nice to see life go on for the locals with a game of pétanque in the village square.

La Cleee-sur-Loup is another village founded in 1540 and somehow remains a quiet sleepy village. There was the familiar art shops found in many of these villages (the Cote d’Azure was famous for artists from Picasso to Matisse drawn to the areas natural beauty, Mediterranean light and vibrant colours), but it still retained its remote feel (I expect it has more to do with the windy steep roads restricting the big coach load of American tourists getting this far up the mountain). The maze of little lanes, pretty shuttered windows painted vibrant blue, the red okra walls, the natural spring water bubbling in a stone drinking fountain, much as it probably has for a hundred years. A picture-postcard place.

Another village I liked was Frėjus. A larger town with Roman origins founded in 49BC. I ventured up there early in the morning just as the sun was rising and the birds, cats and people were beginning to go about their morning rituals. With the smell of fresh coffee filling the small cobble streets, the old ladies bringing in their washing that is hung from their windows 2 stories high, cafės un-stacking their chairs in preparation for their morning customers and ladies carrying their freshly baked baguettes home for breakfast, it was a lovely place to spend the morning and contemplate how we were not missing the rain back in England.

But unfortunately all good things must come to an end.

Cote d'Azur: Glitz and Glamour

During the week we visited both Cannes and Monaco, both unique in their own bizarre kind of way.

Cannes is a cosmopolitan City on the coast most famous for the film festival, but for the rest of the year a place for the wealthy to strut their stuff. It is interesting that 150 years ago it was a sleepy fishing village until a group of Englishman decided to build Italianate villas on the hill just outside the town as a winter holiday escape. Unfortunately as their numbers grew, so the local builders and entrepreneurs saw their opportunity and built everything from gaudy hotels to appalling apartments. Many of the buildings are rather soulless as many were obviously holidays homes for the rich and famous. The coast is hugely over-developed, with apartments burying or destroying any of the original charm that would have made Cannes famous to begin with. Now, with cars choking every corridor, the best we could do was drive through the town and look at the famous Carlton Hotel where the Film Festival is held each year.

On another day we headed of to the legoland town of Monaco which is the world's most densely populated country and only covers an area of 1.96 square kilometres. Monaco is a constitutional monarchy and second-smallest independent nation in the world. It is astonishing that with the French’s historical desire to take over the world such a small place has managed to remain independent (although there was a brief stint from 1793 to 1814, where Monaco was under French control).

However it is not the size or history that Monaco is most famous for – it is one of the most expensive places on Earth and judging by the price Kathy paid for a beer (AU$16) I am not surprised. The principality is a tax haven, and most of its inhabitants are millionaires from other countries. The glamour and prestige associated with Monaco and its style-conscious people can be seen in the number of Ferraris, Rolls and Bentleys crawling along the narrow roads, the designer fashion boutiques that line the street and the mini ocean liners that prance along the coast. It seems to be all about the money and how to flaunt it. We walked around the Casino de Monte-Carlo but decided it was not worth paying 10 euro just to see one-arm-bandits taking peoples money.

One thing that struck me was how the buildings and roads hang to the mountain edge, layered like pancakes over each other in order to maximise every last inch of the 2 km of land available. As a result, the roads are winding and narrow and I have no idea how the Monaco Grand Prix is raced on these tight turns.

Something disapointing about the place was the number of tourists groups (mostly American)congregating on every street corner. Yes - I know we are also tourists but I find it a strange experience being in another country where there is a sense that all the origional inhabitants and life have been removed and replaced with imported goods, people, buildings, food - way of life.

While the glitz and glamour was worth seeing I think this is not what France is all about. Another of our journeys gave a better picture of the south coast.

Cote d'Azur: Home for the week

Our home for the rest of the week was a lovely Resort with enough activities to keep the children entertained for a year. With multiple swimming pools (one even with a wave machine), slides, playgrounds, mini-put-put, games rooms and even a golf course for Dad, all overlooking sandy beaches and turquoise blue bays, it is no wonder the French coast is so popular as a holiday destination. The resort was so large that it even had its own mock French village with small shops surrounding the tree lined piazza. It soon became obvious that this was where the French come to stay. In the 7 days I came across only 2 families who spoke English, which was quiet nice.

Our room was small but functional, but it was made up by the spectacular views over the bay. Watching the morning sun rise over the bay from our balcony was stunning as the light slowly changed from an orange, red and yellow kaleidoscope to a deep blue green. The small boats sat motionless on their moorings like small sleeping dogs on their chain and the small beach slowly filled up with families making the most of the early morning.

The kids had a great time between the pool, playground and kids club (which mum and dad enjoyed even more!). We were so lucky that for the 7 days away, every one was blue clear skies in the high 20’s. Watching the news, England was receiving its wettest June since 1915 with severe floods and three people dead - a world far away from here.

But we did not come to the Cote d’Azure to spend our entire 6 days by the pool (although I am sure that is what the kids wanted to do) so we headed out to explore the glitz and glamour of the French Rivera.