Australia #9 On the way home - Hong Kong

I'm not sure about Hong Kong. It may be just that I'm not in the right mood for it. It may be that after the heat of Sydney it's just a bit cold. It may be that our hotel is a bit out of the way, so we're not really part of it. I don't know the reason, but somehow it's just not hitting the right spot for me.

It is different, I'll give it that. Surrounded by hills that look a bit murky in the haze; wide streets; clever planning that enables so many people to live and work in such a small space. And it has its idiosyncrasies: the ancient Star Ferry crosses from the main island to Kowloon for the princely sum of 2.5 dollars - about 20p, a price that hasn't changed for many, many years. It has shopping malls galore - there's even one on top of The Peak, the Island's highest point, reached either by a twisty-turny bus ride or by the old tram - a funicular railway that's been running for 150 years. And it has a passion for signs.  Signs telling you not to do things: no spitting; no cycling; no smoking; no climbing... In the town's charming Park I took photos of all the different signs I saw - there were 26 in all - and they were spaced every few yards!

It brings to mind a society that would run riot if not told not to. There'd be fish freed into lakes, people scrambling over rocks, eating wild mushrooms in the street, while flying kites and feeding the birds. Not to mention sneezing without using a hankie! Anarchy.

Actually, the park was lovely. It's quite unexpected. Having descended from The Peak in the tram we had a bit of time to kill, and there it was, just across the road. 

It has an aviary - a huge area, all enclosed, where if you stand still and quiet and wait you will see the most amazing birds, quite close to. 

In the background we could hear the traffic and the sound of building work, but enclosed in the aviary we were separate from it all.  A parakeet on the outside obviously felt the same - he perched himself on the supporting structure and called loudly to be let in. Given that we'd seen something far larger than buzzards enjoying the thermals below The Peak, I don't blame him.

Tomorrow, our last day before embarking on the thirteenish hour flight home, we are visiting Cheung Chau Island, which, according to the guidebook is a "tiny, charming island", which has a "sense of the older, traditional Hong Kong".  I hope I fall for it.

Australia #8 Blue Mountains

It's a two hour train trip from Central Station, Sydney, to Wentworth Falls in the Blue Mountains. At first sight the mountains look more like tree covered hills. Not mountainous at all. A bit like the Quantocks, perhaps. Lovely, but not unique. But get up into them and the scale hits you. These mountains go on for ever. A check on the map shows them covering an area that looks to be almost as big as Wales. Hill after hill after hill, all tree covered, all slightly blue in a haze.

The walk to the falls began through bush land - a single file path that crossed and recrossed a little stream. Finally we rounded a corner and came to the start of the falls. A Japanese couple, on looking at the ladder we had to descend, turned back and retraced their steps. What a shame, as round the next bend we came to Wentworth Falls themselves. Stepping stones take you across and the edge of the falls are always a way off - and there's a sturdy barrier to stop anyone getting too close to the edge. 

We crossed to the other side and walked around a bit. Now, as you know already I'm a wimp. Did I mention I am scared of heights? Just past a huge group of Americans, who filled the path, the view opened up below us, and I point blank refused to continue. In fact, I don't think I could have. My knees kept giving way!

I clung, rather desperately, to the rail while Andy and Cat continued down for a little way. Fortunately the trail we wanted to take was the other side of the falls, so, rather gingerly I let go and we continued. Would I have done so if I'd known what was in store? I'm not sure...

It was a long, again single track, walk, up and down hill, all along the edge of the hill, sometimes rather too close to the edge for me, but this time there was no going back. 

Where there were hand rails, I held them, when there weren't I studied the ground in front of me very, very hard.  It worked. We made it.

Tomorrow we leave Sydney, and Cat, and begin the journey home, via Hong Kong. I don't think I need to say how hard tomorrow will be, but Oz has been good to us. A wonderful place.

Australia #7 Observations and a Walk

Walking home from a largely inside day on Thursday - with the temperature soaring to 37 degrees it seemed expedient to try and stay as air conditioned as possible - we passed a house that we often pass. Its windows were open, as they usually are, and from them came the sound of music playing and adults and children laughing and talking together, and we realised, that this, too, was not unusual. And I was reminded of what Cat had told me, that here in Sydney she has never heard an adult raise their voice to a child.

It's not that children don't challenge - on the bus back from Bondi Beach on Monday, a hot and tired little boy, still in nappies, had a mini tantrum. And it was mini, because his mother calmly and dispassionately told him to use his words to say what he needed, then quietly turned her attention away until he did so. And it was resolved. Just like that. Amazing. 

That day it wasn't only the little boy who was hot and tired. We had walked from Cat's favourite beach, Coogee - a beautiful sweep of sand, with big (to me, but not by Aussie standards) waves - eight kilometres along the coastal path to Bondi. We skirted round Gordon's Bay, loved by snorkelers and scuba divers, and stopped at Clovelly. Andy and Cat swam - there's a sort of pool there where the sides of the bay have been enclosed in walls - the sea still comes in, but it's contained and calm. Then we made our way inland slightly for a bucket of prawns for lunch. Lovely.

The walk continued along the edge of the sea, past the enormous Waverley Cemetery (based on Pere Lachaise in Paris) which reaches out towards the edge of the cliffs, past Bronte beach with its large pools, past Tamarama Beach and its surfers, along the sandstone cliffs sculpted by the sea, until around the corner is the famous Bondi Beach - full of people sunbathing and surfers catching waves. It's one heck of a walk in the heat, and quite grumpy making, but worth it.

Another day, I can't remember which, we were walking back home up the hill from Central Station. We'd probably been to Circular Quay for a beer or two. It's one of the best places in the world to drink beer on a hot afternoon. Sitting on the pavement, his hat upturned before him for loose change, was an elderly Aboriginal man. As we neared him a young girl, perhaps in her twenties, gracefully folded herself down onto the pavement facing him and began a conversation.

I like this country. I like its friendliness, its clarity, its openness. It seems to me to be a country full of hope.

Australia #6 You wouldn't believe...

Saturday, and Amy's time here is nearly at an end. One thing we all wanted to do while in Australia is see kangaroos.  I mean, they are everywhere, aren't they? Hopping gaily across motorways, eating crops, generally being - well, everywhere. We were somewhat surprised that in her five months here, Cat hasn't seen a single kangaroo. So, having researched the all-knowing Internet, and, with rain forecast for Sydney, we decided today was the day to hire a car and head over Sydney Harbour Bridge and north on the Pacific Motorway up to Morisset, where we were reliably informed, at its picnic area, we could get up close and personal with real live wild kangaroos.

Did I tell you that the roads in Sydney were quiet? I lied. On a Saturday the world and his family head out of Sydney towards the north.  And those from out of Sydney, to the north, head south into the city. We crawled along the main road, Andy driving, with Cat as navigator and Amy and me as back seat drivers. Literally. Well, until Amy fell asleep... after all, she and Cat had been out on the town til gone two the night before. Then it was left to me to make sure that the driver and navigator were fulfilling their roles adequately.

We finally made it to the motorway, and the traffic thinned.  Unsurprisingly motorways in Australia are much like those in the UK - three lanes, one of which is mostly unused - the slow one that is. What is different is the view - acres and acres of deeply wooded hills, an occasional cleared area with low buildings and fences, and once an enormous inlet sliding along beneath us. Beautiful.

We finally made it to the little town of Morisset, a fast growing place which began life as a sawmill town when the railway was built. In the 1908 a psychiatric hospital was built there - in the 1960's it housed a staggering 1,600 patients.

Now, the place we were making for was a bit tricky to find. Oh, ok, it was nigh on impossible. The website had no directions, save a street name. There were no tourist signs to guide us. Frustrated, hungry and lost we found ourselves suddenly at the edge of a housing estate by the shore of Lake Macquarie - an enormous salt water lake - twice the size of Sydney Harbour. Here we took stock, and then set off again. 

Another drive around and eventually we decided that to get to Morisset picnic area we would have to go through the hospital grounds. And go through them we did. Twice. No kangaroos. No picnic area. A cricket match, a bowling green, loads of low brick buildings, and two signs warning of kangaroos, but no sign telling us where. 

This was beginning to feel like a huge hoax.

But we're nothing if not stubborn. And hungry. So we tried a track we'd missed before and suddenly were back by the lake again, and the place was the picnic area from the website! Yes! But... no kangaroos. We were so hungry we almost didn't care. We unpacked our picnic and admired the view of the lake as we devoured it. 

Picnic over we decided to explore a bit - and two kangaroos bounded across our path. We followed through a gap in the trees and there they were! Sitting in family groups of seven to ten. One or two on lookout, others sleeping, others scratching, their spindly front legs with delicate almost human hands. Every step we took revealed more groups. They were completely unfazed by us, and they were utterly fabulous. 

We stayed there for some time, wandering among them and watching them as they watched us. It was well worth the trek.

In the evening, while making supper, I opened a drawer to look for a colander. Seeing what was inside I squealed and rapidly closed it again. Both girls shrieked. I could only speak in monosyllables. "This big"  I said, showing the size with my hands. "Spider." "This big".  It was a huntsman - and not big for its type, apparently. It looked huge to me! 

Australia #4 And now for something completely different

You may not know this, but I'm a bit of a wimp. I'm scared of moths flapping around me. I won't eat crab because I once heard someone say they were allergic to it, and I didn't want to take the risk that I might be too. I'd never hang-glide, or do a parachute jump, even tandem, or anything like that. I'm scared of heights, crowds and, most important to this post - of being out of my depth, whether in a swimming pool, or the sea.

So you can imagine that a trip to the Great Barrier Reef, while it is something I really, really wanted to do, was not something I was feeling relaxed about.  The trip we went on promised a glass bottom boat  trip, as well as a guided snorkel around the inner reef, so I was somewhat more relaxed. I put on my stinger suit, just in case I fancied a paddle, tried on a mask and flippers (you have to show willing), and hopped on to the boat to transfer to the low isles.

The trip over the reef was fascinating - I saw turtles and giant clams and loads of fish. We came ashore with time to spare, so, with no pressure to keep up with the rest, or to go out of my comfort zone, I tried a bit of a snorkel, and, buoyed up by a bright yellow noodle, before I knew it I was over the reef, looking at schools of multicoloured fish, small clams and sea cucumbers galore. 

I'd like to say it was a fear overcome, but in normal circumstances I think I'll still keep in my depth.

One thing I'm not afraid of is bats, and just as well, given that Port Douglas is home to a huge colony of fruit bats. Every evening around sunset the lorikeets fly in to roost, and in so doing oust the bats from their perches in the trees. Initially the bats come in ones and twos, but before you know it they are filling the sky overhead, swooping and landing in the trees beside our little home. They are absolutely amazing creatures, so graceful and so huge!

And finally from Port Douglas, a few photos: a metre long crocodile seen from the paddle boat The Lady Douglas, and some views of the rainforest at Mossman Gorge.  Back to Sydney tomorrow...

Australia #5 A Snapshot

I'm sitting writing this at ten a.m. in the sitting room of our Airbnb house - a little Victorian terrace, in the once notorious (but now up and coming) Surry Hills.

The girls left early this morning to do the Sydney Harbour Bridge Climb. As I write I guess they are firmly attached to a rail and miles up in the air above the Parramatta River.  Outside the sun is shining, the washing is drying.  A bird is pecking up the crumbs I threw out from my breakfast toast - a moment ago he was squabbling with his friend on the flat roof of the kitchen extension, reminding me of the pigeons that scrabble around on the glass roof of my friend Doreen's conservatory in Halse.  In the park behind the yard, a mother is encouraging her small son as he learns to pedal his bicycle. Her shouts of praise end suddenly as there is is the inevitable bump of the bike hitting a bin, and the child's screams.  Like any mother anywhere she soothes him, and then tells him that the only thing to do is to get back on and keep trying.  That this is the only way to learn.

Sydney is, in so many ways, just like England.  Even the summer is like a lovely English summer, a cool breeze tempers the heat and it yesterday we woke to rain.

But it is also very, very different.  There is much more room here. In general the roads are wider, and the traffic less fast and furious. The trains are almost empty, as are the pavements. Here, if you go shopping, all the shop assistants want to talk to you, to know where you're from, how long you are staying - the purchase of clothing is secondary to getting to know you. There's no hustle and bustle. None of the desire to rush everywhere with your head down, tutting in annoyance when people cross your path. 

I find I am liking this place more and more. I like its 'can-do' attitude. I like the laid back style. I like the way families go to the beach after school. I like the way perfect strangers engage you in conversation and wish you a pleasant stay in their country. 

Last night we went to the opera - for only the second time in my life. The setting of Sydney Opera House is definitely posh, but the opera itself (The Barber of Seville) was hilarious, and brilliantly done. It was wonderful and we came out to the warmth of a Sydney summer evening feeling relaxed and happy - Australian even!

Australia #3 Port Douglas - a history lesson

For over ten thousand years, before the first settlers arrived here in the mid 1800's, Port Douglas  was a place of supreme importance and reverence for the indigenous peoples of the area.  They called it Jabukanji. It was here they met for matters of law, diplomacy, religion and burial.  All the nations from the area would gather and camp while the business at hand was settled and then they would return to their own lands and continue their hunter-gatherer lifestyle, moving around from place to place as the changing seasons dictated.

All that came to an end when gold was discovered in the Hodgkinson River.  This discovery brought settlers, who then discovered minerals and tin in the area.   By the mid 1890's , a mere 20 odd years after the beginning of settlement, the original population of the area was decimated, and those who remained were rounded up, supposedly for their protection.

The European settlers built up a town which, at its peak, boasted 27 hotels, but increased communication meant that the population diminished, and a cyclone in 1911 pretty much destroyed the town. Tourism was the towns saviour, and resulted in its growth from a population of around 100 in 1960, to a place that now ranks high amongst the best towns in Austalia.

Mossman Gorge from an inlet at Port Douglas

Tomorrow we go to Mossman Gorge, where the indigenous peoples were settled in the 1930's. The website (www.yalanji.com.aus) says: "Bamanga Bubu Ngadimunku Inc. is the association that advocates and represents for the Mossman Gorge Community and seeks to gain a sustainable future for the community" 

There is no putting right the wrongs of the past. I hope that the future holds more understanding and tolerance. 

Australia #2 - Skipping on

I will write about Sydney, honestly, but I just have to skip a few days and tell you about this amazing place - with thanks to Sid for telling us about it.   Port Douglas is a little town of wide streets and friendly people.  It's on the edge of the rainforest, so it can be wet, but the forecast for our stay is a blissful 33 degrees and cloudless every day. The young waitress at our restaurant on Thursday said how wonderful it was that it had cooled down after a very muggy week or two - it was 30 degrees and gone 7pm!

There's a long sandy beach, with a netted area for swimming in.  The sea is so warm it's like stepping into a bath; the waves are gentle and it doesn't seem to get busy - no crowds hustling for space like there can be in Europe.  

And we are staying in a lovely little cottage - The Artist's Nook, which is crammed with art and artefacts.  There are books on every surface and the garden is a joy.  It's perfect.  

We have lazed around, eaten well, swum and meandered around this little piece of paradise and are so     happy to have been able to. Thanks again, Sid!

The Australian Adventure #1 To begin at the beginning...

About four days ago we woke to a wet February morning at the Premier Inn on Bath Road, near Heathrow's Terminal 2. Just a note here, in case you ever plan to visit - there are two Premier Inns on Bath Road near Heathrow Terminal 2.  It's as well to know which one you want to get to...

So, yes, wet, windy, chilly February. A check in, a bag drop, an Airbus 380, some bizarrely timed meals and 12 and a half sleepless hours later we arrived to - a wet, windy, stunningly hot February morning in Singapore.

How can I tell you about Singapore? There's just so much to say - and we were only there two days. Here are some of the things that spring to the top of my mind...

It's clean. Very clean. The public loos are pristine, the basins wiped after every use, the floor gleaming, the walls meticulously scrubbed.

There's no litter. Not one little piece.

There are some sort of mynah birds that scoot in to clear crumbs - like our pigeons,but so much more delicate and curious, that put their heads on one side to observe you, and primp up the feathers on their heads while making a strange sort of gurgling noise.

There is amazing food, in so many varieties you are so spoilt for choice you just get hungrier and hungrier while trying to decide where to eat.

There's Raffles, with the Singapore Sling, and the gift shop whose prices made my eyes pop from their sockets.  It's so crowded with tourists I can't imagine staying there is much fun, but peering in at the dining room with its polished silver and guests partaking of high tea (tiny cucumber sandwiches and delicate cakes on cake stands) was redolent of colonial times.

There are vast shopping centres where you could take a wrong turn and be lost for days.

There are friendly, helpful people, both in the service industry and on the street, who take what seems a genuine interest in visitors. 

There's a huge underpass under a road junction where young men practice their street dancing, ignored by groups of friends and families picnicking complete with picnic blankets, tupperwares full of sandwiches and thermos flasks on the gleaming marble-tiled floor.

There's the river, sadly now as pristine as the city, but beautiful nonetheless.

There's Little India, which took us straight back to Kolkata. Full of men standing around, shopping, gossiping...

There's an amazing skyline, with an hotel that is topped off with an ocean liner!

Look, I could go on and on.  One or two people said, no, don't stop off in Singapore, it's soul-less.  Others said it was one of their favourite places.  I know that I'd go there again in a heartbeat.

#Extra! Guest Post by Andy Hill

Hamish - A Dog with a tale......

In Cambridge Mass. this year, whilst visiting our nephew Tim, his wife Allie, and children Binnie and Bronwyn, we met for the first time their (75%) Labrador, Hamish.  He is no longer in the first flush of youth, a little grey around the muzzle, but no one can tell us how old he is as he is a rescue dog.  Not so unusual (and of course most of our UK canine friends are rescues) but this is a little more unusual in Massachusetts.  First of all Massachusetts has quarantine regulations and out of State dogs are just not welcome.  Also most Massachusettians  are kind to their dogs and very few are offered for adoption.

On the other hand, down in Louisiana, if you move home (or just move on) some people just leave their canine friends behind with their old unwanted lives.  There is an efficient dog collection service which rounds them up and accommodates them in a sort of 'Dog Death Row' where they wait for up to fourteen days, their paws already shaved for where the electrodes are to be attached.

Now fortunately there is a dedicated dog friend down there who has set up a kind of dating service to contact the lonely humans in New England …..    'Brown eyes; early stage halitosis only; already castrated; GSOH; etc; etc.'   Once photos have been exchanged, up to twenty dogs are liberated and placed in a van to be taken north.  Stopping only for regular toilet breaks they drive on until rendezvous is eventually achieved at a secret location, probably in a Supermarket car park somewhere in New Hampshire. The dogs are introduced to their delighted new owners who take them home to somewhere near the cradle of American Independence.  Our friend makes the lonely journey back stopping only for his own toilet breaks until he arrives home to hose out the back of his van.  The whole process then begins again in preparation for the next trip.

So Hamish is a very fortunate dog indeed, even though he still suffers a crisis of confidence every time he sees someone packing a suitcase.  These days he realises this is just a short family vacation to which he is always invited.

Authors note:  I have been asked to point out that in the USA dogs and other pets are euthanased by lethal injection, just as they are in the UK.

Los Gatos

Arriving in Los Gatos is, in so many ways, like getting home: an English cup of tea; yoghurt and fruit for breakfast; a comfy sofa; plenty of rooms to spread out in; books to read and, of course, family.  But - here's the thing, it's also very, very different.  Every day starts and ends with brilliant blue skies and a startlingly hot sun.  The streets are empty of people - everyone takes their car wherever they go, no matter how short the journey.  Despite the wonderful weather, washing is almost always dried in the tumbler. Water is so short that while you can build a new swimming pool or install a new hot tub, you can't fill it.   And the birds that feed on the bird feeders are not your common or garden bluetits and sparrows - they are hummingbirds.

Los Gatos is a town of just over 30,000, founded in the mid 1800's and named for the mountain lions that used to come down from the nearby Santa Cruz mountains. Near to the famous Silicone Valley, one of its largest employers is Netflix, who are currently building even more offices to accommodate their expansion.  

Caro and Mike at the Winchester Mystery House

It's a good hub from which to explore the area around: there's the Winchester Mystery House, where the heiress to the Winchester rifles fortune had workmen build continuously in order to save herself from the ghosts she believed were haunting her; there is the glorious coastline of Santa Cruz, where surfers sit around on their boards, waiting for the next wave, while seals bask nearby and pelicans fly overhead; there are so many fabulous restaurants to eat out in; there are reservoirs to walk around (if you are prepared to dodge the cyclists and joggers); there are numerous wineries where you can taste the local wines; but best of all there are friends and family to catch up with over wine, wine and more wine...

After the wine tasting...

All in all, a great trip.  Here's to next time...

Fog City

For all that San Francisco is called Fog City, I've never yet seen it shrouded in fog.  I must just have been lucky...

The view from our hotel room

The weather is kind - the sun is shining and a chill wind is blowing along the pristine streets. Arriving off the Zephyr I find that I have lost my land legs; the ground beneath my feet tilting me off balance. It's a most peculiar sensation, which keeps catching me unawares.  By the morning of our second day it's just about gone, only causing me to pause for a moment when I stand up too fast.
We've been to San Francisco before, and have done most of the tourist things - the sea lions at Pier 39, the trip across the Bay to look around Alcatraz and under the famous Golden Gate Bridge.  So, there's not a lot left that we want to do.
The one thing I want to do, of course, is to ride the trams.  You could put me on  a tram at eight in the morning, with a day pass, and I'd happily ride them all day until midnight, there is something magical about them.

The first tram we ride on, someone kindly offers me a seat... not what I'd wanted.  Thereafter I abandon all English politeness and inhibition and whiz my way round to board at the front, pole position - standing - and refuse all offers of a seat.  This is my place and I'm keeping it. Hanging on as we round corners, having a fabulous view of the famously hilly streets, hearing the banter of the driver with his passengers, all make me phenomenally happy.  Yes,  I could ride the trams all day.
Of course, we can't do that.  So, we head for the Wells Fargo Museum and spend some time there, tapping out messages in morse code, learning how to drive a team of horses, identifying bandits. Andrew is in his element with the banking ledgers and machinery.  It's a good museum.
When getting cash from the main Wells Fargo bank, the doorman tells us we can go up in the lift to the roof garden, take a seat, look at the views.  Well, who'd have thought it.

We leave Fog City on the Caltrain through the suburbs.  No city looks good from the train tracks, and this one is no different.  Litter, abandoned trucks, slum dwellings, hidden from the main part of the city, but still a part of it.  Somehow, it gives the place a bit more balance to know that it's not all bright roof gardens, slick businessmen and shiny buildings.

Train Travel

I have to tell you, for me, train travel is the way to go.  I'm not saying I'll never fly again, but if there is a train option, I will take it like a shot.

The California Zephyr goes on what is advertised as the most scenic route across America.   On its journey it goes from Denver across the Rocky Mountains, the high desert of Utah and then the Sierra Nevada, finishing at Oakland across the bay from San Francisco, and it is certainly beautiful.  The Colorado River runs alongside the track for a lot of the first day.  At first it's not much more than a small creek tumbling over stones, overhung by the high rocky mountains.

 Sometimes the terrain opens up to wide meadows, and here people have settled, building towns that survive on skiing in the winter and white water rafting and fishing in the summer.  We pass these white water rafters on our journey, bouncing along beside us or below us as the track wends its way up the side of the mountain. People bring little tents, and camp alongside the river, with just their boats to get them from place to place, when there are no roads. At one point we pass Moon Point, where anybody camping rolls down their shorts to moon their bare backsides at the passing train.  

The high desert of Utah is largely crossed during the night, but is still there in the morning, several hours later.  It amazes me just how huge this country really is.  Travelling by train highlights its enormous scale, and I keep thinking of the early pioneers and gold rush settlers who came so far with wagon trains, crossing the rivers, finding ways to get through the mountains and crossing these great dry plains.

Eventually the desert gives way to the beginnings of the Sierra Nevada.  Here we come to the Donner Pass, where a party of settlers were trapped at the beginning of the winter and cut off by the snow, eventually resorting to cannibalism to enable some to survive.

This is gold rush country, mountainous and deeply wooded. Here, even now, some communities still exist, and gold is still found.  I wouldn't live up here, so isolated, for any amount of gold.

But as well as the fantastic scenery, the train journey has something unique to offer the traveller. Every meal is taken in the dining car, and at every meal you are seated with people you have never met before.  We shared a meal with a couple of ladies, one of whom was the wife of a farmer from Nebraska and her friend, whose father had had to leave his farm because he couldn't make it pay. We learnt so much about the drought and the hardship endured by the farmers. These ladies were very much interested in Lady Di, and were quite surprised that we didn't share the interest to the same extent. We met an Australian Vietnam veteran, who still shakes because of his experiences so many years ago, and his friend, who had survived throat cancer, only to lose his wife a few years after his recovery.  With them, we talked rugby and cricket and some politics. 

We drew out a quiet couple by talking about their children, and enjoyed a lively debate with a hippy couple who had very different views from ours.  Everybody was interested in us, and everybody was interesting to us.   No conversation was small talk.  We got to know them.  Somehow, travelling by train made for a deeper connection, but no demands.  No addresses were exchanged, no facebook friendships made.  It was totally unique.

I may well not travel the same route again, and may never see such wonderful scenery again, but I would happily go by train again to experience the cameraderie we felt on this trip.

Moving On

I think its probably best if I gloss over the journey from Boston to Denver.   Suffice it to say, I am never ever catching a connecting flight again...

So, we arrived in Denver at 10.30 pm, two hours after our expected arrival time and too late to have dinner with our friends, Brenna and Carl.  We were tired, we were stressed, we were grumpy.  Thank heaven the hotel was absolutely gorgeous.  We woke next morning to a bright Denver morning and the world seemed a much better place than it had the night before. 

I knew nothing about Denver at all.  I'd looked it up on Google before we went, but there really wasn't a lot of information.  Let me tell you - I'd go back there like a shot.  It's one of the friendliest places we've ever been to.  Its a frontier town, with gold mining and farming history.  As well as being known as the Mile High City because, surprisingly, its a mile above sea level, it is also known as Cow Town, and you can see the farming history in the way the men walk, or rather strut around town. They look like they were born in the saddle. 

Having fixed to meet Brenna later in the day, we decided on a cultural morning and took ourselves off to the Colorado History Museum.  It's a well designed museum, with loads to look at and we spent a very educational few hours there.  If ever you should visit Denver (and I'd recommend you do), its a good place to learn about frontier towns and the difficulties of farming where there is little water.

Educated sufficiently we met up with Brenna in the bar at the Hotel.  The Crawford Hotel is situated sort of above and around Union Station - the main train station in Denver.  It used to be the hub of the city before plane travel took over.  Its been so well converted - there are food outlets and gift shops and an amazing bar that specialises in different beers and cocktails.  One thing Denverites are passionate about is beer - there's a Beer Triangle between Boulder, Fort Collins and Denver that includes more than 72 breweries.  Heaven!

The Terminal Bar at Union Station

Having consumed the obligatory cocktail at the Terminal Bar in Union Station with Brenna, we went to visit their home.  It's a lovely little brick built house, with a really homely feel.  Best of all was the very zen garden, criss-crossed with prayer flags.  A peaceful haven.  Carl was still working, so we had a whistle stop tour of the suburbs, finishing with a visit to a fascinating bar, with hanging fabric, and aspen trees holding up the ceiling, and where to wash your hands was an unusual exercise in intelligence, involving pulleys and chains...

We met Brenna and Carl when we were in India last year - they were on their honeymoon.  We got talking and said, as you do, that we'd look them up if we were ever in Denver.  I am so glad that we included their city in our trip and met up with them again.  Good friends.  Good times.

Boston, City of Champions

I love Boston.  I love the cleanliness, the bustle, the life of the place.  It just feels good.  If you wander around you find little side streets, with pavements out of shape because of the tree roots, and small cafes that sell the most amazing breakfasts and are so full of people you can't lift your elbows to eat.  If you've never eaten a fresh cooked English muffin with avocado and bacon from the cafe in Church Street, Boston, well - you haven't really lived.
Mind you, we had forgotten about the portion sizes in restaurants.  My first mistake on our first night (local time 8 ish, time at home 1 am ish), was to order a starter and a main.  The starter was gorgeous - deep fried courgette slices with a creamy dip.  I did think that two large courgettes cut into slices was a bit excessive, and left a fair amount.  Then the main appeared - aubergine in a tomato sauce with spaghetti.  Again gorgeous, again huge.  A family of six would have just about managed to eat it all.  I had no chance.  Ah well, lesson learnt.
The next morning was a chance to explore Boston a bit. After our wonderful breakfast we headed out to the harbour and watched the planes taking off and landing at Logan airport, and the boats pootling around.  Lovely.
  

 

Walking around a corner, we saw a whale watching boat, due to leave in ten minutes - serendipity.  I've always wanted to go whale watching, and never had the chance .  I have to tell you, it was just the best three and a half hours!  

Boston receding into the distance

 There weren't too many people on the boat, so no problem finding a place to watch from.  About an hour and a half out to sea, there was the first sighting - a young humpback whale.  It was a completely amazing experience to see him so close-to.  He hung around for about twenty minutes, rolling over and hitting his fin against the water.

Eventually he took a deeper dive and disappeared.  We hung around for a while and eventually were rewarded with a sighting of a group of three, who played around nearby for a while, before they, too, dived and left us.

Boston is known as the City of Champions.  To my mind, the true champions of Boston are the whales.

The American Adventure: To Travel Hopefully

I suppose I should have remembered that bad things, as well as good things, come in threes.  True enough, the first couple of bad things weren't really bad - a necessity to book before going to the airport lounge; a breakfast that went astray.  No big deal, really.  Not enough to ring warning bells for the flight.
Perhaps I should start at the beginning.
We decided to fly to Boston via Dublin so that we could take advantage of going through US immigration checks with lovely Irish people, rather than the US Department of Homeland Security people.  Lovely people in their own way, I'm sure, but with a reputation for being ... surly.
We had plenty of time in Dublin airport to get off the Gatwick flight, find our way to the US immigration area, do the checks and catch our onward flight.  Or, we did, until our hour long flight to Dublin was delayed by almost an hour because the baggage was stowed unevenly.  Or something. The cabin crew were reassuring.  We still had plenty of time.  It was a doddle.  Just follow the signs and we'd whizz through, no problem.
Hmmm... Call me naive, but I did believe them.  Almost.
The Department of Homeland Security was quite a long way away from our arrivals gate.  No problem.  Plenty of time.  Those lovely Irish people would check us through rapidly, knowing we had just 20 minutes before the Boston flight left.  Wouldn't they?
Well, I'm sure they would have.  But unfortunately the US immigration wasn't staffed by lovely, laid back, blue eyed, red haired Irish people.  The man who took our details was very definitely American.  He was thorough.  Pleasant enough, humourous even.  "Jennifer, what's your first name?" Um, "Jennifer?".  "There, it doesn't get harder than that".  Ho, ho, ho.
Trouble was, we'd whizzed through to him so quickly, the photographs of our baggage hadn't caught up with us.  So, in we went to a sort of holding area, with about 15 other people from our flight, all onward bound, all awaiting baggage identification, but no-one with as tight a time restraint as us.  Again, call me naive, but I'd have thought our humourist would have passed the urgency of our case on to the single person processing us all. Ho, ho, ho.
Five minutes passed.  Ten.  Other people were called up and released.  "Through the glass doors to your right and turn left".  Five minutes left till our flight was due to leave. Two more people appeared to deal with the now growing number of increasingly agitated passengers. Two minutes.  I saw a tough looking woman pick up our passports and stood up.  "Mr Hill?"  Yes!  "Is this your bag?" To be honest we'd have said yes to a battered rucksack at that point just to get out of the room and on the flight.
Fortunately, we were able to correctly identify both our bags.   "Our flight leaves in two minutes, will we make it?"  I  should have known better than to try to reason with the full force of US officialdom.  She shifted the gum to the other side of her mouth.  "Out of the glass doors to your right and turn left."
As we duly exited through the glass doors and turned left the tannoy announced our flight was closed.  I began to run towards the distant departure gate, waving hard at the tiny figure of the lovely Irish man who was taking our boarding passes.  
As I sat, out of breath, in my seat, I saw my bag being loaded into the plane.  Well, I thought, at least my bag, being last in, will be first out.  Will I never learn?  Guess who's bag was last onto the carousel at Logan airport...
You got it.  Mine.
Ho. Ho. Ho.

Last Day in France

So, our visit is almost over and we are going into Paris again, this time with Nicko.  Today I am again a sheep.  I need make no decisions, I can just follow along, drinking in the sights and letting Paris wash over me.  
We make our way through the most prestigious parts of the City, past the Elysee Palace, past Embassies and Police Academies, some so well guarded that there isn't even pedestrian access to them.  Everything is scrubbed clean, the stone is soft and warm coloured.  I find myself reminded what a lovely city this is.
We mingle with the great and good along the Rue St Honore, where the large fashion houses display impossible to wear and priceless items in their vast windows.  Wafts of perfume come from the shops and the passers-by.  A little girl of about four clad in a smart gold dress is grizzling as she is dragged along, poor mite.  It's too hot for me, and I like window shopping.
Unexpectedly, we come across a Church - the Eglise Notre Dame de l'Assomption.  All the information about it, and the notices outside, are in Polish, as is everything inside.  It's a little oasis of calm and cool - with a wonderful painted dome.  A real gem.

We make our way to the river, past the Bouquinistes, where Andy buys an elderly copy of La Maladie Imaginaire by Moliere - how strange to find it here, as we had just been talking about the play.
And so down to the Seine itself.  There's a wide pedestrian walkway alongside the river - I say pedestrianised, but actually pedestrians share the route with cyclists, roller-bladers and skateboarders, all whizzing along at breakneck speed.  It pays to keep your wits about you.  But its lovely - there are areas marked out for children to play, cafes with board games, floating restaurants - its full of life.  Here we are joined by Nini, and we stroll along together until its time for a beer and some food.
And so to the Tour Eiffel, which I've not been to for several years.  It looks cleaner than I remember it, but it is as popular as ever.  None of us having much of a head for heights, we wander under it, and eventually make our way back to the metro and home.

And that's it for now - but America beckons in late August - so watch this space...