Return of the Native - Part 7

Karl Marx & Douglas Adams

Being, as I am, a free-market socialist along the lines of the Nordic Model, it was important to me to make a pilgrimage to the grave of Karl Marx at Highgate Hill Cemetery in London's North.  After all, pilgrimages are so very in these days and where better to be trendy than London?

Karl Marx's Grave

Seriously though, this man helped shape the Labour Movement across the world and for that I honour him.  He was worth a visit!  Damned shame I didn't take the right map when we set off!

I determined that Arch Tube Station was the nearest so off we went.  It was a late start and, immediately turning the wrong way out of the station, we discovered a rather nice Turkish restaurant.  There went an hour but we had a lovely lunch and I discovered that I understand Turkish people much better than I do a good many Northerners - but then we did live in the Municipality of Auburn for 15 years.

After another hour of blind wandering I finally hailed a cab and we were there in no time at all with two more things crossed off the list: Karl Marx's grave and a London cab ride.

Highgate Hill Cemetery is a dense urban forest punctuated by cheek and jowl memorials.  I have no idea how they actually manage to bury anyone there but suspect that most internments these days are actually ashes.  This must certainly be the case with Douglas Adams, the first notable internee of interest we came upon.  

If I were to be told I could only ever read one more book for the rest of my life it would be 'The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy' - all five of them, of course.  I love this man's mind, his utter absurdity yet illogical logic.  Clearly, many others do as well.  There is a collection of pens in front of his headstone, a collection we witnessed grow by four while we were there.  I had my photograph taken hitchhiking with him, as I hope he would have me do.

Hitchhiking with Douglas Adams

Karl Marx's grave is truly monumental in every sense.  He shares it with his wife and several other family members, all relocated from another part of the cemetery in 1954 - a very auspicious year.  I'm not sure I'm particularly fussed on graves, I feel no particular need to visit the place where my parents' ashes are interned, but I felt just a little driven to stand before that extraordinarily powerful bust of Karl Marx.

Rollin' on the River

We chose the most glorious day to ride up the river from Westminster to the Thames Barrier and back and what an amazing stricture the latter is.  It protects London against unusually high tides and and flood surges has done so over 50 times since it opened in 1982 with its massive walls rising from the riverbed is just a matter of minutes.  

The Thames Barrier

Once on the Thames you start to get an idea just how big London is, not so much in terms of sprawl but of density.  It doesn't have a central business district like Sydney, it has dozens of them scattered around a radius of about 10km out from the centre with more developing as I write.  The main area of growth is the Docklands where shipping has given way to business, commercial and residential developments and hundreds upon hundreds of cranes reaching skyward simply everywhere.  London already has a population density of 5,500 people per square kilometre compared to Sydney's 380 which gives me an insight into exactly why the Underground and many parts of the city are a glimpse into hell.  I felt a sense of much needed space out on the river.

The London Eye

The Business End of Town

We're Bound for Botany Bay

A very productive chat with the boat crew set us off in search of the site of our ancestral convict prison hulks when we returned to Westminster.  In fact they weren't far from Parliament itself, just a little upstream at Millbank.  They were moored outside Millbank Prison which once stood there, now the site of the Tate Gallery.

The site where Convicts were loaded for transportation

The rotten hulks were a five year solution to prison overcrowding, a solution which lasted a full eighty years until transportation finally ended.  A large stone bollard marks the spot where the convicts were loaded for their one-way journey to Australia.  My desire to find the actual site overshadowed any thoughts I had about it until I stood there, on the spot, thinking about how my ancestors must have felt as they left their homeland forever and not by choice.  This is an extremely powerful place.

We sang 'Bound for Botany Bay' then went across the road to a pub for a couple of beers, that seemed like the right thing to do!  

A sign in the pub opposite

Return of the Native - Part 6

Southbound on Virgin

It was rather sad saying goodbye to Lin at Durham Station as we climbed aboard our First Class carriage on Virgin East Coast but the food, drinks, excellent service, scenery and speed proved a worthy distraction.  Besides, we are coming back.  On our very first day in Durham, Peter and Lin decided that next time we're all going to Iceland and that seems like an excellent plan.  I would much sooner go and explore the Viking origins of our parliamentary democracy than have a Parisian fart in my general direction or perhaps attempt to wave his private parts at my aunty.

Large swathes of England are reasonably flat, particularly in the east, so the rail corridor is quite straight and the trains go like the clapper!  It was a disappointingly short trip to London at around just three hours.  Negotiating the tube from Kings Cross to Canada Water with a change at Green Park wasn't too difficult but 'up here for thinking, down there for dancing' - I'm so glad I planned our arrival and departure times outside the peak.

I booked an apartment through Airbnb and hit on a real winner.  We are just 100m from a station and supermarket in a corner unit of a new complex that is serviced by footpaths, not roads, so it's amazingly quiet.  It's not Soho but it only takes 15 minutes to get there although, after our overcrowded experience at around 6.00pm the other evening, I'm not sure I want to do that again!

Walk Left - Walk Right - Just Walk

Americans in America are generally quite good at keeping right when they walk; Australians have a moderate understanding about keeping left; but put 100 British people into any busy pedestrian precinct and what you have is something akin to 100 ping pong balls in a clothes drier!  There is no sense, no reason, particularly given that 90 of those ping pong balls will also be publicly pleasuring themselves with some kind of iDildo devise and possibly smoking at the same time.

You are asked to keep right on underground station escalators which is odd for a nation that drives left but then so is some of their food.  Underground passageways may request you keep left or right depending entirely upon the whim of the sign writer.  Others are completely free of instruction or suggestion as are the pavements.

I have been accused of being a tad anal about this matter but walk a few London blocks in my shoes as I try to navigate the streets with a man who suffers from both an acquired brain injury and a degree of visual impairment.  You'd think a nation that once controlled half the planet's land mass and even more of its trade, could organise a bloody pavement!

Greenwich Mean Time

One of our planned points of pilgrimage on this trip has long been the Royal Observatory at Greenwich, home to John Harrison's four amazing clocks which revolutionised modern navigation.  They are of infinitely greater importance to humanity than the Crown Jewels and you don't have to queue to see them!

When you stand before H-1 you gain a glimpse into the astonishing mind of John Harrison.  All four clocks are displayed out of their cases with the workings exposed.  I am in absolute awe of the man who not only conceived and designed these masterpieces but also spent his entire adult life building them.  The first is the size of a small fridge whilst the highly refined H-4 is the diameter of a saucer with a jewelled mechanism which allowed for parts to be miniaturised and rub against one another without wear.

Rebuilding London

Our Airbnb host, a charming Hong Kong Chinese man from Belfast (much as you would expect), dropped by to welcome us and recommended the Route 15 Heritage Bus as being and excellent way to see the city.  I'm not entirely sure that the post-war rebuilding program is yet complete because there are holes and torn up streets galore.  We kept seeing #15 buses but all of them going the other way - none came back yet magically they all just kept going!  Imagine, if you will, a row of ducks in a shooting gallery.  That is the London Heritage Bus Route.

The Mother of Parliaments

I am an unashamed fan of the Westminster System of government as anyone who understands the Congressional System should be.  It is arguably the best form of civic organisation we have come up with to date, evolving from the Icelandic Thingvellier first held in around 930.  It delights me that arrogant and destructive leaders can be forced from office mid-term without need to resort to assassination as with the American model.

Our guide was brilliant and she looked and sounded like Helen Mirren whilst carrying her handbag in the fusion style of Queen Elizabeth and Margaret Thatcher.  I was quite literally thrilled by all of what we saw and she illuminated the history of both the building and the institution whilst filling a few gaps in my knowledge.  

For years I have wondered why the colour of the House of Representatives, and the House of Commons before that, is green.  It seems that the first House of Commons had to get itself organised rather quickly and the most available and cheapest colour of the day was green.  That is delightfully practical and pragmatic, just as it should be!

Return of the Native - Part 5

The Leeds & Liverpool Canal

I've long imagined that cruising an English canal would be an idilic meander through farm and field but I have just taken my third Valium for the day.  Once you have almost mastered opening, navigating and closing all the swing bridges, you come to the locks, our first being the Bingley Five-Rise which made me pack some serious shit.  This is the steepest set of locks in the UK with a gradient of 1:5 and a 20m rise or fall, depending on which way you're going.  

Thank Gough Almighty there was a lock keeper to quite literally step me through the procedure but I was otherwise on my own.  Peter was busy helping him with his core business of winding windlasses to release or contain water then pushing enormous paddles to open or close the locks.  Lin walked Piper the wee Westie down the side, which was a wise move.  As the 20m long boat and I sank down each lock in turn I experienced a glimpse of burial.  Oranges! I thought, There should be oranges!  Of course, coming back was Lazarus Rising, especially on a Sunday with nearby church bells peeling more joyously than I have ever before heard.

Having exited the last of the five locks there is less than a kilometre till you come upon three more.  These were manned by a lock keeper who's holy name we bless.  He told us about a mooring place a few km ahead, right beside a pub and just above an unmanned two-step lock and a single one beyond.  All up, this idilic parking place was just 30 minutes walk from our ultimate destination of Saltaire.  It also boasted a winding hole which is a place where you turn canal boats around, packing more shit as you go.

The problem with performing manoeuvres at the top of locks, in them or beside pubs, is that you draw a crowd, completely regardless of your desire to do so.  This tends to increase the degree of difficulty exponentially.  It was only on the way back up again, when I was juggling between forward and reverse to stop the  front of the boat being swamped by the cascade of lock water that it occurred to me I'd developed a whole new skill set which I am unlikely to ever use again. 

We had three night on the canal all up.  The first we were moored all by ourselves on an idilic stretch after running aground three or four times whilst looking for a spot.  I passed on the sauv blanc that night and went straight to the red followed by port.  

Our next night was by the pub but I was so buggered from the locks and then our canal side walk to and fro Saltaire that all I could do was down a small scampi and chips with a couple of beers and then hit the bunk.

The final night was in the village of Lower Bradley, within sprinting distance of our start and return point since we had to have the boat back by 9.00am.  We were end to end with a good many others who were there for the same reason  People who travel canals are a happy and supportive lot though, willing to share a mourning or help you with a bridge and nobody laughed at a lock or winding hole - at least not that I saw.  In fact a few said, "Not bad for an Australian."  If you've ever thought of giving it a go, do so.

Saltaire

Having started out at Skipton, our destination was Saltaire which is a Victorian model village established by Sir Titus Salt as something of a workers' utopian community.  He built a substantial estate of stone terrace houses for the workers employed at his five wool mills and provided them with a school, hospital, library and a multitude of luxuries unknown to the working class of the day including plumbing.  The price was abstinence from alcohol or at least moderation.  Of course things have changed and there is now a bar in the main street that's called Don't Tell Titus.

Unfortunately there was a festival on the day we went to Saltaire and you could hardly move for merry makers but we had a good look about nevertheless.  The stone workers' terraces are still there as is the church and Titus' other substantial structures, all faithfully preserved.  The mills have been converted to apartments but the essence of the town is still well intact.

The Yorkshire Dales

We travelled back to Durham through the Yorkshire Dales National Park which is a part of the world that's particularly pleasing to the eye, even amidst the rain and mist.  Unfortunately there was a little too much of the moist stuff to make it worthwhile to stop and ramble, especially given that I have brought back the cold that Peter took out on the canal.  The Dales are on the list for next time.

National Parks are a fairly recent innovation in the UK, unlike Australia and the US where they seem to have been around forever.  In fact, as much as America would like to claim Yellowstone as a first, it was actually Royal National Park just south of of Sydney by a full 12 months

British National Parks are not the wilderness areas we have in the New World.  They are working tracts of countryside that have been recognised for their particular significance so people continue to live, work and farm throughout the parks which are primarily private holdings.  Development is, however, closely monitored and kept within strict guidelines.

More from London...

Return of the Native - Part 4

North Yorkshire Moors Railway

Now here's a special treat for anyone who, like me, got a Hornby Dublo train set from Santa when they were seven.  The North Yorkshire Moors Railway is one great big train set and I had the time of my life riding on it while the older boys played trains - great big trains.  It runs on about 30km of track between Pickering and the coastal town of Whitby, the birthplace of Captain Cook. 

The plan was to ride from Pickering to Grosmont then visit the iconic Sir Nigel Gresley in the engine sheds.  Our train was to be hauled by a diesel so I was delighted when steam issued back from an unseen engine.  When we arrived at Grosmont a stroll up the platform revealed that very same steam had come from the magnificent Sir Nigel himself who had actually hauled our train.  Oh bliss!  I was beside myself with joy, in fact I was so ecstatic that I somehow managed to invite myself into the cabin, the very heart of the locomotive who's replica was my first and most treasured OO gauge train which still sits proudly on the windowsill of our den. 

Next weekend is a big celebration of Sir Nigel Gresley who is being taken out of service for extensive maintenance.  He won't be back on the rails for quite some time so just how good was our timing!?

Raby Castle

I'm not sure how many castles so far, one loses count, but this one is near Darlington, not too far from Lin's house.  It is another grand estate and garden with a castle that once boasted high walls and a moat with a drawbridge.  It also has a number of towers, one of which was 'home' to the eight year-old daughter of a long ago lord who had her betrothed to another noble in order to forge and alliance of some sort.  The poor child was kept there, imprisoned until she reached a marriageable age of around 14.  It was child sexual assault and Rapunzel in one ugly package.

That aside, the history of the place is quite interesting, especially when told by our guide Robert who reminded my of Richard Briers from 'Monarch of the Glen'.  But the more I learn about castles and the titled individuals who owned and controlled them - and sometimes still do - the more my inner socialist rears his egalitarian head. 

As we toured the rooms and suites, Robert drew our attention to the different colours of the guest rooms, an apparent kindness to the staff who were illiterate but did know their colours and therefore knew where to go when summoned.  I'd have thought that teaching them to read would have been a far greater kindness but knowledge can lead to empowerment, and literacy is especially empowering.

Robert was a delightful chap but I was intrigued by his commitment to the status quo.

Things I've found particularly memorable or peculiar - in no particular order

The density yet, at the same time, space of the place.  We drive past small villages of terraced houses surrounded by fields then a couple of minutes later we pass another one.  Most were the homes of miners from another time when collieries peppered the hills.  All is now postcard green.

Once off the motorways the roads are narrow with little room to park so people park on the road itself which makes for interesting driving down the wrong side.  And speaking of the same, cars are parked every which way.  Parking in the direction of travel appears to be an odd antipodean notion.  For the first few days I kept thinking we were driving down one-way streets the wrong way.

There are excellent offerings in the supermarkets.  Most things are cheaper than in Australia, the exceptions being seafood, meat and wine although you can often pick up the latter up on special and I have done precisely that on numerous occasions.  It's Morrison's for most things; Tesco for good half case wine deals; and Marks & Spencer for smart packaged food and nibbly things.  Cashiers are seated which is extremely sensible.

Cafes and restaurants are a little more expensive than home but not nearly as outrageous as I had expected.  I'm sure that will change once we get to London.

The weather is exactly as I expected - it can turn on sixpence and frequently does.  We've had brilliant days; we've had wet days; we've had wild days; and we've had days that were in between and all of the above.  If we wanted sunny blue days we would have stayed at home.  It's all good.

The beaches in the North-East are sandy but you do get the occasional dead seal - much to the absolute delight of a certain wee white Westie named Piper.

Petrol is very expensive but most cars are quite economical and distances aren't great.

There are castles everywhere, particularly in the North where the Scots were frequently up for a bit of cross-border action and the Vikings got into it before them.

There are dogs everywhere.  Most are very well behaved as are their owners.

Every now and then you come upon collections of garden allotments like the one that Lin has a couple of km from home.  They are small plots of land where holders grow flowers, fruit and veg, raise chooks or generally pursue whatever agricultural activity takes their fancy.  There are about 40 allotment holders on Lin's setup which, like most, had its roots in the World Wars.  They are a wonderful idea in a place where yards are often small.  They also provide community focus.

More memorable or peculiar observations another time.

Return of the Native - Part 3

North of Newcastle

We headed north from Lin's house at Sunnybrow near Durham, along a maze of country roads, past rows of terrace houses, all in small clusters surrounded by green meadows or fields of wheat just cut or ready for harvest.  Sting's 'Fields of Gold' has been playing on a loop in my mind ever since.  The North-East of England really is very pretty!

First stop was Wallington Hall, a National Trust property near Cambo.  We only glimpsed the inside of the house because the garden was so extensive and irresistible.  The property extends across a local road, through a wood, past several ponds and onto a walled garden which is simply stunning.  I had to be dragged away because the plan was to also visit Gragside House near Rothbury.

Gragside was the home of William Armstrong who was and engineer and inventor, something which is reflected in the house, particularly in its heating system and water supply.  He also appears to have been a benevolent employer, either that or his servants were shit-scared to leave because most remained in his employ their entire working lives.  The theory is his inventions made their lot much easier than that of an average servant of the time which is probably the case.

We have a list of things to see and do and just the other day Lin asked if there was anything we'd like to add.  I did think it would be rather nice to meet Joanna Lumley and Dawn French which, of course, still might happen but we did run into Martin Clunes, his wife and their two dogs at Gragside.

Holy Island

Yes, it's an amusing thought isn't it - me in a place called Holy Island?  I have an overwhelming urge to walk about chanting "My father plays dominoes better than your father" whilst whacking myself on the forehead with a chunk of wood.

This part of Britain has a long monastic history.  St Cuthbert is the local hero, a disciple of St Patrick via St Aidan.  Cuthbert died here on the island and was buried in the priory until the Vikings popped across for a bit of rape, pillage and monk slaughter so his homies dug him up and spent years carrying him around ancient Northumbria.  He is reputed to have remained fresh as a daisy the entire time which was fortunate for his mates who were doing the toting.  

He was eventually reinterred at Durham Cathedral which is precisely where we were the day they celebrate the 'translation of his relics'.  There was great excitement amongst the minor clergy because the dry cleaner had just dropped of their frocks for the evening ceremony.  I somehow doubt he meant it to be so but Cuthbert has become quite the local industry.

But to me, Cuthbert will forever be the ultra-friendly ginger cat who leapt into my arms amidst the ruins of the Lindisfarne Priory which St Cuthbert establish and was, for a time his resting place.  What a lovely boy he was and the perfect furry guide and companion.

The Almost People's Republic of Scotland

After visiting Alnwick Castle (the name of which is pronounced nothing like it spells) then Bamburgh Castle (which you'll get right provided you think 'Edinburgh'), we headed north to Berwick which is pronounced Berick, much as you would expect.

Alnwick - pronounced Anick - is an actual living castle, the home of the Duke of Northumberland.  He and his family move out each summer and allow tourists to roam their state rooms which are actually quite homely in a majestic kind of way.  The grounds are a Capability Brown design - a rolling Arcadian landscape, the kind he is so famous for.

Bamburgh was the home of the kings of ancient Northumbria and, more recently, the weekender of the aforementioned William Armstrong who becomes more and more interesting.

The much despised Henry VIII cannibalised Lindisfarne Priory to build the castle on Holy Island and beefed up numerous other defences along the northern coast to keep the nasty Scots at bay but it was the Elizabethans who built the walls and defensive structures around Berwick.  It is quite the experience to walk them and view the mouth of the other Tweed River. 

From there it is only a hop, step and jump to the Scottish border which is not surprising given that Berwick as changed 'countries' several times over the centuries.  I have been quite perplexed by Scotland's desire to ruin two economies in order to become the new cold-climate Portugal; and also their decision to give seven year-olds the vote so they can ensure their next attempt to succeed succeeds.  We simply had to go and see the roadside pie and chip vans which predictably enough grace both sides of the border but imagine my absolute delight when I found two empty Scotch bottles below the monumental stone which proudly announces 'Scotland'!

Return of the Native - Part 2

Durham

Durham Cathedral was our first World Heritage Site of the trip.  The current structure dates from 1093 and shares its UNESCO listing with the castle next door.  It's long been on my must-see list because its marble columns are reputed to be the inspiration for those in the Foyer of Parliament House in Canberra.  All I can say is too much Chardonnay over an architects' long lunch!  That's not to devalue either building - which are both marvellous - but the link is tenuous at best.

We saved the castle for another day but the town, which Lin keeps reminding me is a city, is quite marvellous and terribly quaint which is a word I am doing my very best not to use more than three times a day because this whole place absolutely stinks of quaint - quaint, quaint, quaint!

Durham is a university town, the third one after Oxford and Cambridge, and it certainly has that feel about it.  The cobbled streets are (dare I say) quaint and the River Wear (pronounced 'weir') flows though in the shape of a hairpin so, for a first time visitor, it can be a little tricky to work out which of its numerous and quite lovely old stone bridges you are actually on.  There is also a weir of the Wear which rather amuses me.

Beamish - The Living Museum of the North

On our way up to Beamish we stopped at Chester-le-Street on the River Wear and ticked another thing off the list - white swans.  A couple would have done but Peter and I sat gobsmacked on the edge of an extremely unperturbed flock of around a hundred birds.  We felt terribly special and just a little bit blessed.

Beamish is fully functioning open air museum showcasing multiple aspects of life in the North of England from the 1820s to the 1940s.  There is an impressive tramway circuit complete with a collection of impeccably restored vehicles from across Northern England; steam tractors and trucks; steam trains dating back almost to Stephenson's Rocket; a coal mine with all its workings; a town; farms; a fairground; and on it goes.  A day just wasn't enough but we did our very best.

We rode on trams and trains but I was too big for the shuggy boats in the fairground which was a shame.  I shunned the coal mine but did rather enjoy the gardens and farmlands, especially the chooks.  But we all agreed that Molly the pig was the highlight of the day.

Fountains Abbey

World Heritage site #2 was Fountains Abbey near Ripon in North Yorkshire.  The place provides quite the insight into monastic life in the Middle Ages and exactly why Henry VIII was so driven to crush it.  The power and wealth the monasteries wielded was simply enormous - they had to go!

When Henry disbanded them and sacked the abbeys he ordered the roofs removed to hasten their decay which gives Fountains Abbey a Port Arthur feel for entirely different reasons.

We met Lin's oldest friend Lynne and her daughter, Jane, there for a ramble and picnic lunch and a lovely time was had by all in stunning weather which Peter described as being just like a winters day in Sydney - sunny, blue and still with temps of around 18'.

A bonus was an extremely impressive Studley Royal Water Garden a little further down the valley.  This magnificent landscape of park and pond evolved throughout the 1700 and 1800s to become the expansive indulgence of the Aislabie family and their fortunate cohort.  I can't help thinking of just how different their lives were to that of those who served them but I suppose the building and maintenance if all the ponds, follies, bridges, weirs and water courses provided employment for the locals and kept the wolf from many a door over the years.

Newcastle

I will remember Newcastle for bridges - it seems that just about everyone had a go at building one and they're all still there.  But what's also there is an enduring memory from my childhood - a slightly scary picture from a cherished book about British railways.

I was just 100m away from it, posing appropriately on Amen Corner behind St Nicholas Cathedral, when I realised exactly where I was.  The Castle Keep was just ahead, trapped between two railway viaducts that merge from the north into Newcastle Station.

The Victorians we happy to demolish just about anything in the name of progress, a fairly familiar notion, so all but the Black Gate and Castle Keep was raised to the ground with the latter being isolated by the new viaducts and a mass of crisscrossing track.  They even demolished the section of Hadrian's was that ran through the Newcastle to the coast.

I fought back my claustrophobia to climb an extraordinary number of steps to the top of the Keep and there it lay all around me, that very image I had pondered so many times so long ago.  I was absolutely delighted and lingered up there for quite some time just to take it all in and also compose myself for the inevitable decent.

The plan is to approach Newcastle again by rail another day so more then but I would be remiss not to mention the Shittingest Dog in all of Durham which we spotted by the coast road south of Sunderland.  He was a lovely springer spaniel who had doubtlessly been inside all day while his mam was at work and was now busy constructing his very own scale seaside replica of Stonehenge.  We were transfixed - amazed by the creature's astounding colonic capacity.

Cheers

Glenn

Return of the Native - Part 1

Cawthorne at Cawthorne

Sydney to Dubai

I really need to take a class in Remedial 24 Hour Clocks and Ticket Reading.  I very nearly had us at the airport by 3.00pm for a flight that left at 9.00pm.  I suppose I was a little anxious, travel is more complex for us these days.

In fact, it's more complex for everyone now that Tony Abbott's newly formed Federal Fascist Force has brand spanking new powers, "Don't screw with me!" style paramilitary uniforms and attitude to match.  This was certainly the case with the hulking moron who kept insisting Peter stand on the appointed spot to have his eyes scanned.  Of course the machine is designed to search for two eyes, not one eye and a patch, but the Hulk simply wasn't getting it and had no intention of listening to me or the three FFF people behind the control desk who kept telling him to move Peter on.  A similarly uniformed woman finally got up and threw him a chunk of raw steak which provided sufficient enough a distraction for us to pass through.

But I did feel genuine sympathy for the FFF folk who work in the place where you can reclaim the GST on recently purchased items over $300 that you're taking out of the country.  I was armed with my new iPad and camera, their respective receipts and all the appropriate paperwork which I had completed online, dutifully printing one of those magic icon thingies that would hopefully identify me and, in fact, did.  Of course nobody from China had thought to do the same.  The place was a chaotic insight into a primitive provincial marketplace with people jostling, pushing and yelling at the top of their lungs - a distressing taste of Oriental hell.

My heart went out to the poor souls who are expected to function in this bear pit.  The banshee bitch who pushed her way to the counter next to me was quite literally screaming at them and everyone else so there was no small look of delight on the face of the chap attending to me when I eventually snapped, turned to her and yelled equally loudly, "Shut up woman!  There are other people on this planet and I'm one of them!"  That my inner school teacher of mine is escaping more and more with age and I'm good with that.

The flight to Dubai was as comfortable as a flight in cattle class can be apart from the French 20-something beside me who had been raised by failed Gallic post-baby boomers to believe that his existence was paramount above that of all others.  Some parents just need jailing!

Dubai to Manchester

We had just enough time to queue for a tiny toilet then queue again at immigration before hitting the duty free for gin and boarding another Emirates A380 but I'm here to tell you friends, all Emirates A380s are not the same.  This one was an anti-Tardis - bigger on the outside than in.  Thank Gough they saved the disturbingly cosy version for the shorter leg of the trip or Vincent C'est Moi may not have survived.

Six and a half hours into a very long seven and a half hour flight the excitement of it all finally hit me.  We were about to see Lin for the second time in 12 months after not even being in the same hemisphere for the previous 36 years.  I was also 'coming home to a place I'd never been before' to borrow a line from John Denver.  Both sides of my father's family were from the Midlands and the North of England, many from the same places as Lin's family and many of them from the coal mines just like her family.

It is quite amazing what can happen when two maps come out of a vending machine in a place like the Los Angeles Greyhound Terminal and you chase after a couple of people you met briefly on the airport bus to give them one.

Cawthorne

It was wonderful reconnecting with Lin who whisked us straight off to the village of Cawthorne in South Yorkshire which turned out to be a lot posher than we could ever have expected.  

Our very own parish - who'd have thought it!?

I first became aware of Cawthorne through a woman I taught who had once worked in the pub there during a backpacking tour of the UK many years earlier.  That was when the Spencer Arms was a real pub full of real Yorkshiremen who only wanted beer which was a good thing because their accents were so thick she could understand little else.  These days it's a gastro pub with smart food and smart beer, both of which we enjoyed immensely.

The Spencer Arms

In fact the whole village has scrubbed up beautifully - a northern version of Midsomer without the murders - or so I assume.  The people we met were all charming and spoke perfectly intelligible English.  A small part of me was disappointed about the latter.

Trash & Treasure

Closed as most things at on Wednesday afternoon.

We will be spending the next three weeks with Lin at home just out of Durham, traveling around the North with a three nights on Holy Isle then a three more on a longboat on the Leeds to Liverpool Canal.  After that we're off to London for ten days so look back from time to time and see what we're up to.  There will be a new blog each week.