To the parents

Parents. Love them or hate them, you are usually stuck with them. We don’t get much choice or say as to who our parents are, and given the overall influence they end up having on our lives, that’s a pretty big thing.

I’ve just returned from a stop over in the UK, a stop over which felt a bit like the filling in between two mighty loaves of trip, a year in Oz (just done) and a year in New Zealand (about to start). A week of this was spent staying with my parents, who I hadn’t seen for around about fourteen months, and who I am unlikely to see again for a potentially similar amount of time.

This, I would suggest, is the main problem with travelling. It is, by it’s nature, an almost entirely selfish activity. We set off on our trips, floating around the world like hot air balloons whisked into a giant jetstream, and end up leaving our friends and loved ones far behind. Certainly, we can keep in contact, via the myriad social tools available to us these days, and I did my best to keep my parents in particular involved with my trip around Oz, sending them updates via e-mail as to every aspect of my trip, which they then carefully plotted onto a giant wall map of Australia. In some way, it felt like they were partaking. But it’s obviously not the same as physically being there.

So, my parents. They are incredibly supportive, and in fact, have been throughout my life. My love of travelling is entirely their fault. When he was in his early twenties, for example, my Dad set off on a road trip around Australia, in a classic land rover. (Well, I had to get the idea from somewhere.) When I was growing up, I was carted off all over the world. Europe, Africa. Nowhere was entirely out of bounds. My safety, I’m sure, was always important, but new experiences were deemed a necessary part of growing up.

When I was about to turn eleven, having led a relatively normal life up to this point (other than the year or so living out of a VW camper van), they moved to the Seychelles, and took the rather brave decision to take my brother and I with them, where we ended up having to educate ourselves whilst living on a tiny desert island, a long long way from anywhere.

When I turned fifteen, and decided I wanted to leave this island paradise and go get educated more thoroughly in a boarding school in the UK, they were again tremendously supportive, and sent me off into the world. And so it goes. All through my life they have continuously let me go my own way, and make my own mark on the world, always willing to offer support and advice where I wanted it. More recently, I rang them up to inform them that the seven years of career I had had, built upon the private education and university studies that they had funded, were probably about enough, and I felt this urge to go and see a bit more of the world. Again, support and advice were offered. Criticism was not.

So. I’m not saying my parents are unique. Anyone willing to take up the mantle of responsibility and sleeplessness that producing offspring requires must be a pretty wonderful person. But i feel lucky to have them, and thought they deserved to know. Thanks for reading.

To Harlech!

One thing that I definitely missed whilst traipsing around Australia, if there was anything I could miss whilst my brain was being gently blown away by the staggering scenery, was old stuff. Ok, sure, Australia is host to one of the oldest peoples on the planet, and evidence of their existence certainly appears all over the place, but when it comes to newer, well, old stuff, it is missing out. By newer old stuff I mean things like seriously old buildings, and in particular, decent castles. Australian new old stuff usually is no more than 200 years old, and revolves around the fairly amazing expeditions that the early explorers set out on. I digress.

The UK, whilst perhaps not having thousands of kilometres of glorious blue skied outback to wander around in, does come up trumps with regard to old buildings, and in particular castles. And so it was yesterday, as the weather did that thing it does so well in Wales (i.e. unpredictably drizzle), a trip to Harlech castle was scheduled in.

Our route took us through Barmouth, a classic Victorian seaside town, which as far as I can tell hasn’t changed hugely from the eighteen hundreds. In the rain, people mill around in a confused manner, stumbling from rock shops to amusement arcades and back again, occasionally diverting via the fish and chip shop, or perhaps the pub. Barmouth took some time to pass through, tiny though it was, as tourists wandered zombie like into the roads on one of the routes from building to building. Generally, a seaside town in the rain is a terribly depressing place. Further digression appears to have occurred.

Harlech Castle, a few miles on from Barmouth, is a wonderful example of classic English castle building. I say English, because it was built in the 12th century by the English King to keep the rowdy Welsh, recently quelled in an uprising, from doing so again. And it was, admittedly, built by a chap from the continent. However, it looks pretty classically English, as castles go, all turrets and massively thick grey walls and arrow loops. There are a whole chain of these castles up the coast, Harlech just happened to be our closest.

It scores highly on my personal castle-o-meter, as you can access pretty much all of it. Too often these days we are tempted by the sight of intriguing looking spires and turrets, yet held back by formidable gates and warning signs. Harlech Castle eschews, for the large part, personal safety in the name of exploration, and I applaud them for it. So it was that we climbed the highest part of the Castle and wandered along the battlements. This also afforded us a tremendous view of the Welsh countryside out into the sweep of Cardigan Bay, and the grey, cloud covered and angry looking mountains of the Snowdon area. The highlight of the castle trip for my travelling companion did appear to be a large ginger cat who gave the impression of owning the place, but at least some culture was absorbed in the process.

After the castle trip we had some rather tasty ice creams, and then headed back along the coast home, stopping on the way to see an ancient burial mound. This mostly consisted of some carefully balanced rocks, but as they had been carefully balanced over four thousand years ago, they were worth a bit of a look see. We looked and saw.

Finally we returned home, via an extended stop off in Barmouth where a thorough walking tour was given (including the highlight, the pub I worked in for three hours as a Chef before it was discovered I wasn’t, in fact, a chef, my shortest career ever), before we got back to the house and dinner was served, courtesy of my brothers girlfriend, Rosie. Normally I wouldn’t go into much detail on dinner, and I won’t now either, suffice to say, if you lovingly bake my initial into the pastry top of the meal I am about to eat, you will win my stomach forever.

Snowdonian explorations

I have started to notice a definite obsession in the general British media with regards to the war and Hitler. Normally I suspect this is something I would perhaps not notice, but due to my current status quo of visiting the UK with my significantly German other half, it is something that is definitely more noticeable. I’m not entirely clear why it is brought up quite so regularly, and Vera doesn’t actually mind of course, as this wasn’t really anything she had anything to do with, but it is, nonetheless, quite a strange phenomenon.

The war aside, we have spent a rather lovely couple of days in rural Wales. The setting of my parents house really is quite stunning, right on the bank of the Mawddach river estuary (Vera is having tremendous fun trying to pronounce Welsh place names), at a point where the tidal river estuary is nearly two miles wide. From the house we can see across the estuary and up into the might of Cader Idris, one of the highest mountains in the region, and a tremendously nice climb. We haven’t as yet climbed it admittedly, as currently my travelling companion and family are being gently eased into the walking lifestyle with a series of shorter, less strenuous walks, but it is on the list.

Our first trip out was up into the hills at the rear of the house, which take you up to an elevation of just around 1000ft, affording splendid views up the river estuary and of the whole Cardigan Bay area, starting with the sea side towns of Barmouth and Fairbourne. We even saw a steam train puffing across the bridge, further proof no doubt that the UK really is just a giant Harry Potter set. We bumped into a group of hikers, on the final day of a four day expedition, and gave them hope that they were nearly where they were going. Ice creams, i assured them, were just over the next hill.

We also wandered around the quaint village of Dolgellau, all grey stone houses with slate roofs, and chomped down on a honeycomb and clotted cream icecream, roundly concluded by all to be tip top. At any moment, I suspect, my life will turn into an Enid Blyton novel. Lashings of Ginger Beer will soon be consumed. Maybe even bread with honey.

The rest of the week has further walks planned. Today is a day of rest due to various blisters needing healing (well, a pub trip is planned in for lunch), but I have hopes that should the weather continue to not rain, then Cader will be conquered. Possibly even Snowdon, Wales’s highest mountain, and one that I have never actually got round to climbing. And, if all goes well, a final send off before I return to Germany will take place, in the form of a large bonfire in the garden. Pyromania all round.

Of treehouses

There is something quite fine about a well executed party. The ebb and flow of people. The sipping of beverages. The meeting of old friends, the acquainting of new. The pounding beats and the mellow vibes from a delicately contrived playlist (well ok, Marilyn Manson during the grandparents tea and cakes was mistimed). The lights playing gently in the trees as swathes of bubbles float gently past. The swaying in huge cargo nets, suspended as a spider would weave her gossamer nets in the sky.

Admittedly, not all of these experiences happen at every party, but then not every party is held at a treehouse. It’s hard to describe the venue particularly well… I guess I could sum it up as a wasted youth. When other kids were out playing on their BMX’s, or supping furtively on a bottle of cider in a bus shelter, for some reason friends of mine and I spent happy weekends building a behemoth construction at the bottom of their garden. Literally years in the making, the treehouse has grown beyond all our imaginings, to a venue that has catered to parties of over three hundred, accommodated in areas ranging from the aforementioned suspended cargo nets, to an underground tee-pee village. Quite a surreal place really.

Anyway, the party was most excellent. Catching up with folks I had not anticipated on seeing for at least another year. Congratulating people on recent engagements, missed birthdays, new babies. Thanking people for making the journey, some from as far away as Newcastle. Sitting around, swopping tales of the past year, the adventures of life that I had missed out on, as meat was grilled over the fire and quantities of beer were imbibed. After much jollity and fun, when the embers of the fire were burnt down and the beer supplies had been steadily worn away, the lights were turned out, the music ended, and beds were sought, as the birds were preparing for their dawn chorus.

Post party, the Sunday recovery effort largely featured a walk around the area. A pool was swum in, despite it feeling roughly as warm as the Tasman sea in winter. Our walk allowed us to spy the spires of Oxford from afar, a city which is as pretty to behold from a distance as it is to wander around up close.

Today, we have conquered the quirks of the Welsh railway network, on a journey which has taken us a little under six hours to travel something pitiful like 200 miles, to the rural and mountain filled landscape of the Snowdonia national park, where I am catching up with the majority of my family (having a compact family certainly has its benefits). My parents seemed genuinely delighted to see me, and having not seen them for fourteen months this is perhaps not unexpected. The weather is looking changeable, but I have high hopes of getting some walking done. I’d like to finish this post by thanking everyone who made the week thus far what it has been, for turning up, for being fun, and generally, just for being, well, you. And everyone else who is reading too: have a smile on me.

Oxford meanderings

First off, let me preface this post by letting my more regular readers know that I am going to attempt to merge two blog themes, the first being travel, the second being drinking, into one mashed up post. Less regular readers, welcome. Where have you been?

I will start with the travel related information. If you wish to skip this and just find the part where we did our best to wreck a hotel, do feel free. So. We wandered into Oxford yesterday afternoon, which is one of my favourite UK cities. It just about qualifies as a city due to the cunning reuse of one of the Oxford college churches as the cities cathedral, and its compact nature makes it perfect for an afternoons meandering.

The main draw of Oxford is of course it’s University, which is one of the oldest Universities in the world. It is made up of thirty eight colleges, each one a separate architectural delight. Gargoyles peer down from cornices. Twirly decorative spires dreamily reach towards the sky. Cobbled roads lead down ancient passageways with tremendously exciting sounding names. And the whole place is liberally sprinkled with tourists, on this day, largely of an American and Japanese origin.

We were especially lucky to have our own personal guide, our host for our stay in Oxford, who attended one of the colleges, and was thus able to give us an excellent walking tour taking in the major sights, including the Bodleian Library, whose collection of books is so vast that a number of its tomes are stored in a nearby disused salt mine.

Next to the actual Bodleian library main building we also peered at the wonderfully titled Radcliffe Camera, a magnificent circular three story construction from the 17th century. This used to home the science books, but presumably space was at a bit of a premium, so now it is used, rather grandly, as a reading room. I have a theory that had I attended University at Oxford, knowledge would somehow have forced it’s way into my brain, such is the way it seems to gently ooze out of the pores of the buildings here.

So we walked. As I said, Oxford is a wonderfully compact city to meander, or indeed, cycle around. Crossing the river you can see the folks punting on the river (for some reason the Thames is renamed to the Isis for its time in Oxford). We wandered around  the outside areas of a number of colleges, peered at the markings in the road where some martyrs had been burnt, presumably for believing in an unfashionable God, and then took a stroll up to the Pitt Rivers Musuem, which houses a wonderful display of all sorts of oddities.

We were particularly taken by the shrunken heads and Samurai swords. I learnt that a decent example of such a sword should be able to cut through four men with a single stroke. Ouch.

Finally, after the most wonderful cookies in the Covered Market, we retired to The Turf tavern for a refreshing and reviving ale, before returning to our home for dinner.

Naturally, the evening does not end there. The local hotel has recently changed hands, out of the hands of a close friend, and into the hands of an unknown couple. It seemed, therefore, only right that we go and ensure that the high standards of the bar were still being maintained. It was open mic night, so there was a lively crowd. We didn’t start off by making a great impression I should say, a brand new and free pool table occupied one room, unfortunately one member of our party decided it would be best to make it look a little bit more pub worn, via the means of a spilled drink. This did not go down awfully well. We abandoned attempts at pool, leaving JD scented green baize in our wake.

For some reason however, the new owners decided to adopt us, and as the night wore on the and bar emptied out it was decided that some of the bottles of spirits behind the bar needed to be disposed of. First up was a bottle of Grappa, which  appeared to have a dissolving wooden statue of a man inside, as seen in the accompanying photo.

This was a fairly awful drink, with a distinct woody flavour, largely I expect, due to the many thousands of suspended particles of tree held within. After this, it all gets somewhat hazy, with a variety of fairly vile concoctions laid upon us, presumably in an attempt to kill us off after our desecration of the pool table.

Somehow we survived the experience, which was handily free, and staggered home, to collapse as inert heaps in bed. Today has largely been spent in recovery, in anticipation of the big party tomorrow. I can hardly wait.

Leaf blowing

I spent a veritable chunk of yesterday handling a leaf blower, a tremendously fun device that turns the chore of raking leaves into a whirlwind of excitement. It is perhaps not the most effective way to tidy an area, but I am happy to sacrifice effectiveness for fun when I can.

The reason for this gardening related activity (and it has been a while since a gardening related topic has featured) is that a large party is planned for Saturday, at an outdoor location, and as the venue has not really been tidied in around a year, a large amount of forest has landed on it. So some sweeping and blowing has been required. I also spent some time wiring up some speakers and resurrecting an ancient amplifier, as well as testing various lights, none of which actually worked. A trip to a lighting store is now planned to ensure the party has all the requisite ingredients. In good news at least, the three bubble machines are working.

Our host, a great friend of mine from the early mists of time, was tremendously impressed by our work ethic. Well, I say our. For some reason playing with a leaf blower and messing around with speaker wires didn’t totally qualify as work. He was more impressed I believe by the Amazonian qualities of Vera, who spent a very long time sweeping various tree suspended platforms with a broom. So long in fact, that she managed to break the broom. I live in fear of a woman who can snap a broom handle in two as if it were kindling. Slight fear of one’s other half is, no doubt, a healthy quality for a sustainable relationship.

This is all taking place in the wonderful back drop of the English country side, just outside the city of Oxford, a town which we will be visiting later on today, to ogle at the marvels of the colleges, to wander around the intelligent feeling Bodleian library, and even perhaps to delve into some of the many rather fine pubs. A more full update on that will follow, perhaps even with pictures and possible travel related information. Even though I have received feedback recently that I have been focusing too much on the travel tales and too little on the tales of drinking. You can be a tough audience sometimes folks. I will try to please you all. More to follow on our adventures in Oxford, the tree based party and life, as it flows on by.

Ah, English summer

After a fairly protracted trip from Germany to England, involving a tram, four trains, a tube and a Toyota Prius (the last five miles of the trip were therefore fairly environmentally friendly), we have now arrived into a glorious English summer, where I am delighted to report a steady and persistent drizzle is upon us.

The transport for most of the way was fairly smooth. The German side of the equation was, as one would expect, efficient and on time. Travelling from the village of Walberberg to the airport of Cologne/Bonn was a relaxed and easy affair. Of course, as soon as we entered the side of the transport system which involved English transportation mechanics, it went a tiny bit off the rails. The flight was delayed slightly, but not too much. The train that then whisked us into central London was, at least, rather timely. And then I decided that a patented guided walk along the Thames from our arrival point at London Bridge, to our meeting point for lunch with some friends just near Westminster, was in order.

If you don’t have much time in London, and are just passing through, a walk from London Bridge to the Houses of Parliament is one of the easiest ways to get as many sights in as possible. Just take the Thames Path along the south side of the river and you will see a whole manner of sights, starting with Tower Bridge, passing the beautifully recognisable St. Paul’s Cathedral, past the replica of the Golden Hinde, along the front of the rather imposing former power station that is the Tate Modern (and accompanying odd looking Millenium Bridge over the river), past the quaint Gabriel’s Wharf and then onto the South Bank arts area proper, where you can take in the hilariously angular South bank arts centre area, including the Royal Festival Hall and the Hayward Gallery. If you happen to be in slightly less of an Easyjet inspired rush, you could even stop at some of these destinations for a peruse. In our case, however, we rushed on, past the skating park under the South Bank and to the Jubilee Bridge, from where you can see the massive ferris wheel that is the London Eye, and right down the sweep of the Thames to the Houses of Parliament and the Ministry of Defence buildings. If I had had even the tiniest amount of time to spare, a visit to Gordons wine bar, just next to Charing Cross and set in an underground cave, would have been entirely in order. Sadly this was not to be.

Obviously, when doing a rapid fire walking tour, it is important to know your audience. Rambling on at length about the brilliance of Sir Wren’s architectural triumphs is likely to fall on deaf ears if your charge happens to be more interested in which parts of the Thames featured in the most recent Harry Potter movie. I predict I will be strung up when my other half reads this.

Finally, after swinging through Trafalgar Square, and peering down the length of the Mall to the dot that was Buckingham Palace, we arrived at our lunchtime destination, a friendly pub on Whitehall, just across the road from the Horseguards and number ten downing street, possibly setting a world record for number of sights seen in a forty minute walking tour.

Lunch was a passable affair, despite the efforts of the barstaff to keep us sat at our table, and not destroying the system by ordering actual drinks from the actual bar. They exacted their revenge upon us by delivering Vera’s salmon well after the rest of us had finished. The food was excellent nevertheless, one of the finest pub burgers I have had in a long time. Some people measure restaurants by their eggs, personally I prefer a less complex and more meat filled burger ranking system. This one did well.

After lunch it was another quick dash across London, this time by tube (although if we hadn’t been lugging heavy backpacks, the new cycle hire scheme would have been put to good use, there are stands literally everywhere) to Paddington, where our train to Oxford had happily been cancelled. It’s always a pleasure to introduce someone new to the vagaries of the English transportation system, and the railways in particular. Still, with some helpful advice from a nearby staff member, we navigated our way to Oxford via an alternative route, and managed to arrive only two minutes later than we had planned. Where our lift was awaiting, to carry us in fine style to our lodgings for the next few days. More on these to follow in another post.