Highlands Journey – Mull in the rain

The guide book recommends “before you leave your hotel be sure to pack your rain jacket, sunglasses, sunblock, thermals, gloves, snow shoes and may be an ice axe”… A good summary of what was to come on our 7 night campervan tour in the highlands of the Scotish west coast.

Picking up ‘Nessi’ our campervan for the week, we head off into a grey ominous mist which quickly turns into a solid rain. ‘Nessi’ turned out to be a comfortable little home with all the mod cons including TV, shower, toilet, kitchen, beds for 5 and a generator to run the 132 other appliances and lights onboard.

Our first destination was Oban on the west coast for a night before catching an early morning ferry to the Isle of Mull. With the rain turning into a torrential down-pour we slowly trundled along little lanes just wide enough for ‘Nessi’ to negotiate.

The advantage of driving something large enough to consume the road is that ‘size does matter’. Most times when we met oncoming cars it was a simple matter of them reversing the half mile for a spot for us to pass. ‘Nessi’ only lost one battle against the renowned ‘Butch the tractor’.

Despite the rain settling into a miserable drizzle, we donned raincoats and walked the mile to the Macquarie Mausoleum, the uninspiring resting place of the early Governor General of NSW. A site on very few tourist brochures, I can now see why, but we did our pilgrimage with honour.

From here we continued on to Tobormory. Not only is it a very pretty fishing village, it is also the film location to the children’s show ‘Balamory’, so the kids had fun looking at Miss Hoolies house and searching for PC Plum in the street.

With the rain now an annoying torrent it was no surprise that the guide book dedicated a whole page to “Things to do on Mull when it is wet”. And so we took their first option and went to the pub. With another early morning ferry, we set ‘Nessi’ up in the local school ground and just hoped that there was no early morning classes. As we drifted off to sleep the light patter of rain (or was that a policeman at the door) continued through the night.

I just remembered we forgot to pack the snow shovel!

40-1=39

But before I continue the tales of our journey a slight interlude to wish Kathy a happy Birthday. Thanks to those that rang or e-mailed to remind her (especially because I know she has been working hard to ignore this one). We had a lovely dinner at Gordon and Irene’s.

No botox or boob job on the Birthday list so we got her a good pair of walking boots for our highlands walking instead.

Speaking of Birthdays - happy birthday to Bro (I won't mention how old you are) and Drew. I will have a pint for you.

Eye Jimmy

Arriving in the ‘Newcastle’ of Scotland, we stayed with Elenor for a few days and experience the great hospitality of the Scots. While Dundee may not have the most beautiful architecture or dramatic landscape, it is the people that make this place memorable. Standing at the local pub an old man next to me started with:

“Ey Jimmy”.
Not sure how he knew my name but I said “G’Day”.
“Yahriyt, is fir yella like non-drinkin. Where ya frm?”.
Just understanding the last three words I replied “Sydney, Australia”.
“Fukin na fukin kdin, yir hayin iz on. Awa yi go fukin nah!!”
Based on the scattering of colourful language I guessed he was surprised. It turns out that he used to live in Bexley as a young boy. The rest of the conversation needed a translator but there was no escaping the warmth and humour of the locals.

We also made an escape to the golf mecca of the world St Andrews. Unfortunately Hux was not here for me to beat him in a round of 18 so the best I could do was face west and pray to the 18th hole. Thank goodness the Scots failed in their attempt in 1457 to ban the game. But it looks like some things never change since 1598 when 2 men were charged with “prophaning of the Sabbath day in playing at the golf efter nine”.

One last stop at Edinburgh to immerse ourselves in the history of the castle and the humour of the festival. The city was alive with street performers, jugglers, dancers, and comedians lining the ‘Royal Mile’.

A special thanks to Gordon, Irene and Elenor for showing us the true generosity and friendliness of the Scots. Time to explore the great highlands.

Yorkshire Pudding

As you may have noticed, the blog has been quiet for the last three weeks. No – we did not throw ourselves off the mountain as a result of three weeks in the car with the kids (although I did get worried at Kathy’s rally driving on the snaking mountain roads). Instead we just got back from a great time up ‘north’. I will split this into several blogs to spare you a long read.



Our journey started with three days in the Yorkshire Dales. We stayed in the most cutest village of West Burton in the heart of the Dales. With the ‘Fox and Hound’ over looking a large village green for the kids to play and lined by old stone cottages, you get a feel you have stepped back in time.

For the three days a light rain came and went, pierced by periods of lovely rays of sun, giving the dales a mystic charm. We spent the time visiting Aysgarth Falls and Malham Cove, an impressive 250ft limestone rockface forming a natural amphitheatre. We also went to Fountains Abbey, an immense labyrinth of rooms founded in 1132 but now a peaceful ruin.

But for me the magic of the dales was the high treeless mountain passes, rolling green hills crisscrossed by dry-stone walls and rambling stone barns. With the storm clouds rushing past in the distance it was time to leave this lovely landscape and head further north to Scotland.

Scotland the BRAVE

It is August so we are doing what 35,578 other Brits do and we are heading off on three weeks holiday. While many head for the 'beach (?)' we have decided to make our way to Scotland with a slight detour to the Yorkshire Dales on the way up and the Lakes District on the way back.

What is going to be a 2000 mile journey (OK, 3200km) I think the term 'Scotland the Brave' is going to have another meaning for us. If you dont get a blog for the next three weeks it is either because the kids have forced us to drive the campervan we are hiring of the craggy cliffs of the Isle of Skye or we have not found an internet cafe in the cow field on top of Ben Nevis.

Here is a rough map of our journey if we get lost to send the search party.


And where you may find the campervan at the bottom of one of the cliffs
Wish us luck!

The Big Homer

You have seen photos of the Giant Abas and read an earlier blog about the giant horse but you may not have known about the ancient hillside image of the unfamous Giant Homer near us.

People don’t know how old it is but some say it was done by aliens amazed at the beauty of the human body form. Others think that it dates to the 17 Century and is an image of a baker who was famous across the land for defeating the French in a fierce food fight. There is a tradition that if you have sex inside the doughnut then you will be able to consume large quantities of beer and not get a hangover.
I just had to add a little bit of home connection to the photo.

Something on my mind?

What freudian message do you think these photos I have taken is saying??

I still call Australia home

I am not sure if I am getting home sick of just seeing things but for some reason Brussels seemed to remind me of home???

What do you think these photos are telling me?

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.