Once More Around the Sun

We did Led Zeppelin’s ‘Immigrant Song’ in reverse this year – we went to the land of the ice and snow to the midnight sun, where the hot springs flow and I have to tell you a little midnight sun goes a very long way!  We were delighted to watch the sunset in Singapore on our way home.

We kicked off with a mainly wet week on a sheep farm in the Cotswolds but our rather smart cottage was spacious and very comfortable and the occasional view through the mist quite extraordinary.  I damaged my already swollen feet and gammy hip running through Changi Airport to get from Gate 192 in one terminal to our connecting flight at an equally high numbered gate in a different terminal with little time to spare.  As a result I wore thongs for our first two weeks in the UK and chuckled to myself as people whispered “He must be from New Zealand.”

We drove to Bath and Stonehenge where we did the evening Inner Circle Tour but by that part of a very long day my feet said “NO!” so despite cool temps I removed my thongs and paddled about the stones barefoot in my shorts and Hawaiian shirt which perplexed the Americans in the group who seemed satisfied once I said it was a religious thing – Barefoot Antipodean Druids.

A week in London followed but it was hot and most of Britain has been constructed to exclude cooling breezes, not to take advantage of them, so a temperature that would be simply warm in Sydney was downright uncomfortable in London.  We cruised to the Thames Barrier last time and loved it so went up stream to Hampton Court this trip and I would have loved that as well had we not then gone into the palace.  I’ve come to detest everything to do with Henry VIII who should have been drowned at birth.

But back to loving things: we saw The Book of Mormon again and it was just as good as the first time; then followed that up with Miriam Margolyes in Madame Rubinstein at a small theatre in North London and had the best evening.  The play was excellent and we met a very interesting older couple over dinner – both actors.  We spent a most pleasant couple of hours with them.

The train up to Edinburgh was a treat which we wished took longer as the same distance in Australia would.  We were immediately struck by just how much you could make from starting up a stone and masonry cleaning business in the Scottish capital – or then again, perhaps they like everything filthy.  A couple of days were enough as the throng of the tourists and associated retail experiences combined with all the grime to become quite oppressive.  That and the constant tales of who was hung; drawn and quartered; or burnt at the stake on which corner.

We hopped a train to Glasgow and immediately loved it.  The pace was slower, the people more relaxed and there was no tourist crush.  We arrived with a passion for architect and designer Charles Rennie Mackintosh and his wife Margaret Macdonald so set off to see as much of their work as we possibly could and were not disappointed.  We also tried a deep-fried battered Mars Bar which contains all three basic food groups – salt, fat and sugar.  It was excellent!

Those of you who are JK Rowling fans will probably remember the Glenfinnan Viaduct from Harry Potter and the Temple of Doom or some such movie.  We went to see the viaduct and ride the Jacobite – not for any other reason – and what a great ride it was.  It’s a two hour run from Fort William to Mallaig on the coast across from the Isle of Syke with a two hour turn around so you become well acquainted with the old fishing port and buy expensive glass.

We were seated with Americans on both the outbound and return journeys, pleasant folk in each direction who immediately announced that they did not vote for Trump.  It was an interesting introduction but if I was an American tourist I’d have done the exact same thing.

Three days wasn't nearly long enough to do the Scottish Highlands justice in terms of its scenery but I've now tasted everything I want to eat in that part of the world. I went to great lengths to pre-order a meal not stuffed with black pudding on our dinner train excursion out of Aviemore but there it was, in front of me, well and truly stuffed!  The people were lovely though.

We had a long day’s drive down to Lin near Durham through some spectacular scenery which left us wanting more so here's hoping we have at least one more trip left in us.  And it was lovely being back with her and wee Westie, Piper, but we were only there two nights before the three of us drove down to Manchester to meet Lin’s cousin Margaret who took the train up from London to join us on our travels around Iceland.

As we approached Keflavik Airport next day, Iceland’s stark grey lava flows were a severe contrast to England’s green and pleasant fields but we spotted the odd non-monochromatic patch on the one hour bus ride from the international airport to the domestic airport in Reykjavik.  From there it was on to Egilsstaðir which is the main town in the Eastern Fjords where we collected our Kia Sorrento for the nine day drive back to where we began.

Parts of Iceland are a little like New Zealand while others are reminiscent of Canada but the whole place is uniquely Iceland. It's barren, it's green, it's icy, it's dry, it's mountainous and it’s flat but the one thing it’s not is crowded – except for Keflavik Airport which was chockers.

My Iceland highlight was standing before the Lögberg or Law Rock at Þingvellir (Thingvellir) which was the site of the world's first parliament in 930. Forget what you've been told about the Greeks, they just provided us with some of the vocabulary as well as tzatziki and souvlaki.

We had a few more nights back in Sunnybrow with Lin then two nights in the rather charming and very well-named village of Cawthorne in South Yorkshire. Then it was on to Lara, Nikos and Yiannis for a magnificent solstice dinner by the stream that runs by their backyard in Ely near Cambridge. Next morning left us time for just one more glorious English garden at Anglesea Abbey which was neither an Abby nor by the sea but did boast an impressive collection of nude male bronzes and etchings which came as no surprise once we learned that the late owner was a single chap and a good friend of the equally late Queen Mother who was his regular guest.

Jan and Tony are well and still our greatest support.  They had a wonderful time cruising around the UK and Ireland just after we returned.  They looked after our house and all therein while we were away and even stayed over to keep Kev company.  And speaking of His Grace, he’s looking great.  He turns 18 in February and is still sparking on most plugs most of the time.

Peter’s been fortunate enough to have speech therapy at St Joseph’s again this year and it makes such a difference.  They are amazing people.  He’s been well in himself but I’ve had ups and downs with MRIs and CTs and lots of doctors but we now seem to be on top of most things.  I’m in awe of healthcare in Australia where I’ve had world class treatment for little or no cost.

Peter and I weren’t in any awe about having our relationship subjected to a pop poll though.  It seems you can do all manner of things to LGBTIQ people that you can’t do to wealthy white conservative men who were the driving force behind the madness but love won the day.

We wish you all the best as the year draws to a close and hope 2018 brings you happiness and health.  Our challenge to each of you is to do something nice for somebody you don’t know.

Much love

Glenn, Peter (Lyle to some), Kevin, Fluffy, Uranus, Baby Blue, Sylvia, Margaret, Hazel, Truganini, Oodgeroo, Mr & Mrs White (Goo Goo & Barabajagal) and Peggy

Return of the Native 2 - Cawthorne in Cawthorne

Rental Car Tip #1

Consider the time factor before you indulge in a luxury car. I splashed out an extra £7 a day which would have been fine had I not spent an hour going in and out of the office to find out how things like the seat height and tilt, the transmission, the sat nav worked and even how to shut the open sunroof in an English heatwave we were having. Mercedes has reinvented the whole damned lot!

The plan was to tootle through the Yorkshire Dales and end up in the South Yorkshire village of Cawthorne which we eventually did after an ongoing battle with the car’s electronic devices. Our first stop was Richmond which is my middle name and one smart looking market town that is now on the list for further investigation next visit. I'm hoping we still have one more in us.

From there it was on to Hawes which comes highly recommended by Bill Bryson. It's quaint, it's cobbled and it's highly wanderable. Green rolling hills gave way to moors not far out of Hawes as we headed south-west to the Ribbenhead Viaduct which is a glorious example 19th century railway engineering. Hiking trails are frequently dressed with crushed granite or basalt which explains the British obsession with hiking boots and poles even for short walks. I reflected upon this at length during our 3km rock-hoping ramble to the viaduct and back but it was well worth the effort. Stone and brick arches aside, the sheep were rather fetching.

Next stop was Halifax for three very good reasons:

1. We really enjoyed ‘Last Tango in Halifax’
2. We've been to Halifax, Nova Scotia and enjoyed that too
3. Nanna would say “Go to Halifax!” when she really meant “Go to hell!” so we have - twice.

Now this is where the sat nav had her way and took us on a merry old ride north-east on the A64 then due south on the M1 before she finally allowed us onto a local road for the last few km but happily enough that road was Cawthorne Road. I had imagined travelling a more scenic local route all the way but what can I say? Sometimes technology really, really shits me!

Cawthorne Accommodation Tip #1

But Sarah and Andy’s backyard studio flat smack in the middle of Cawthorne didn't impact unfavorably on my bowels in anyway, it fact it's to be highly recommended. We thoroughly enjoyed the light modern space with its rustic Yorkshire exterior, the lovely garden and the pair of very vocal rooting hedgehogs - sweet little copulatory creatures.

I first heard about Cawthorne from a woman I once taught who'd worked in the pub there while backpacking in the 70s. It was full of hard working, hard drinking, heavy smoking Yorkshiremen in those days and few of them spoke standard English but it's now a gastro pub with boutique brewed largers and ales and no less than 17 kinds of gin. That aside, they still put way too much salt in the light curry sauce that spoiled my monkfish and seared scallops. Some things never change.

Cawthorne is an extremely liveable Midsomer style of village but I've only been there in summer and autumn, it could be completely foul in winter but we had a marvellous time pottering about and I am now the proud owner of a pair of mugs that are emblazoned with:

London

New York

Paris

Cawthorne

After two very comfortable and happy nights we headed south-east to visit Lara, Nikos and Yiannis at Fordham near Cambridge. Lara is one of my Claytons nieces - the nieces you have when you don't have nieces - and the oldest daughter of my New Zealand bridesmaid, Philip. But that didn't happen without a significant amount of swearing on my part en route to the Nene Valley Railway which runs between Wansford and Peterborough. The problem was the station isn't actually in Wansford and even the locals didn't know its location.

I finally flung the Merc into the station car park just as a rather splendid green engine steamed out towards either Pixley or Hooterville, which ever is the short run to the terminal end of the track. But all was not lost - apart from my camera which I left on a table at the ticket office but it came back again and so did the train which we boarded for the longer return trip to Peterborough. It was the most ordinary of the four steam train journeys we did this time but a mid-week Heritage rail excursion is guaranteed to make anyone under the age of 70 feel like a teenager compared to the other passengers and for that it was well worth all the swearing.

We had a brilliant outdoor Northern Summer Solstice celebration with the Jamieson-Nikiforakis family by the Snail which is a shallow but reasonably wide stream at the foot of their garden. The wine was rather special and Nikos’ saganaki prawns were a real treat.

Cambridge Accommodation Tip #1

The best £96 you could possibly spend on accommodation in the entire UK is at Trinity Hall, Fordham near Cambridge. We had the superior room in a glorious Victorian home where even our en suite is the size of a bedroom and in fact used to be one. Trinity Hall is the home of Sue and John Taylor and is John’s family home.  It is also a working farm on the village edge. Sue absolutely spoilt us with breakfast which was by far the very best of our whole six weeks of travel. The huge vase of sweet peas on the perfectly set dinning table pushed Trinity Hall from 2 to 3 Cawthorne Stars which is a rating scale similar that which the French tyre company plagiarised.

http://www.trinfast.co.uk/

We concluded our travels in the gardens of Anglesea Abbey which is neither an Abbey nor by the sea but a rather large and house that was formerly owned but a couple of brothers with an English mother and an American father who bought a peerage. It was originally a priory but Henry VIII took care of that and then gave the estate to one of his mates - as he did.

The brothers agreed that the first to marry would surrender the house to the other. Given that the brother who remained had an extensive collection of nude male sculptures and portraits it think it was a done deal, on his part at least. Add to that the fact that the Queen Mother was a regular house guest during the racing season and there is little doubt that we’re talking queer peer here. And yes, I have touched the toilet the Queen Mum used - my third verified flush with royalty having already used two that were sat upon by HM the Queen herself.

Return of the Native 2 - Iceland 3

We realised the Sorento had a sat nav right about the time we left Þingvellir for Reykjavik which was handy but we still had trouble finding the hotel because the travel agent anglicised the spelling of the street name and it could have been and one of three or none at all. Björk (as we called her) did her very best though and took us to each in turn until we finally located the Centerhotel Klopp.

Downtown Reykjavik isn't busy, which is rather fortunate. We scored a park right near the hotel and fed the meter for a day and a bit since there are no restriction on how long you can stay just as long as you pay.

Reykjavik Tucker Tip #1

Go to Gló. There are four of them to choose from in Reykjavik and they specialise in vegan, vegetarian and raw food with one token meat dish for carnivores. It was so good we went to the one on Laugavegur not once but two nights in a row. It's in the heart of the tourist area, just one short block from our hotel and the food is wonderful. It's also very reasonably priced and the atmosphere is relaxed and friendly.

You can get around the tourist and cultural heart of Reykjavik on foot without any trouble and unlike London, people tend to keep to one side of the footpaths rather than bouncing back and forth all over the place. Do, however, be wary of daredevil young men on bicycles and terribly drunk youths who take a shine to you because you're wearing shorts or you remind them of their grandfather. I attracted one such inebriated young chap whilst we were minding our own business on the tourist strip one evening. He was a big hulking Viking type but otherwise seemingly harmless and I did wonder how anyone in Iceland could afford to get as staggeringly drunk as he was.

Iceland Alcohol Tip #1

Use your time in Iceland to detox because grog is ridiculously expensive. It is only available in bars and restaurants at exorbitant prices, especially the wine, or at state owned liquor stores of which there are only 12 in the entire capital. It can be an extremely long drive to get a takeaway once you’re outside Reykjavik and I didn't see a single one during our travels.

If detoxing is not on your agenda then take in some duty free, they have a quite generous allowance but don't buy it inbound at Keflavik International Airport. The duty free there is literally double the outbound price in Manchester.

We commenced our Reykjavik experience with a visit to church. No, I haven’t recovered from being recovered, it's a church with a view. The Hallgrímskirkja is one of the tallest structures in Iceland with an elevator to the top of its spire which functions as a viewing platform. The cathedral sized church was designed in the 1930s and construction went on in stages until the 1960s with restorations being undertaken as I write. It's a fine building both inside and out with a facade that is evocative of the basalt columns you see in many places around Iceland.

Interestingly enough, the architect responsible for Hallgrímskirkja, Guðjón Samúelsson, also designed the Roman Catholic Cathedral a decade earlier and the similarities are striking, particularly the particular style of vaulted ceiling and the faux granite columns. The cathedral is smaller and being Roman Catholic it’s more elaborate than the Lutheran church but they are undeniably two peas from the same pod.

Our final destination in Iceland was the Blue Lagoon which is a flash thermal spa. We began with lunch in their smart restaurant where you can dine in your Premium Package terry towelling dressing gown and thongs but we remained clothed. Then it was off to the “You must shower naked before you enter the Blue Lagoon” highly complicated and convoluted change rooms. Some 20 minutes later we finally made it into the warm, mineral-rich water that I can still feel on my thick grey chest hair which even I must admit is past its best-by date and due for a serious clip.

We thoroughly enjoyed our final night in Iceland staying at the Northern Light Inn near the Blue Lagoon. It was spacious and friendly and it has the best beds in all of Iceland which was a crying shame because we had to get out of them at 4.00am to catch our flight back to Manchester.

We had a wonderful time but I wasn't sad to leave Iceland’s 24 hour summer light behind. It is extremely disorienting if you come from a place like Sydney where there is distinct day and night. Lin lives in the north-east of England where the summer sun finally sets at around 11.00pm so was good with Iceland but I'm ready for a 15 minute Australian twilight then darkness - with stars!

Return of the Native 2 - Iceland 2

Iceland Must-Do Tip #1

A Zodiac ride around Jökulsárlón Glacial Lagoon at the head of Breiðamerkurjökull Glacier which comes from a massive but shrinking Vatnajökull ice field in south-eastern Iceland is worth whatever it costs and they have lots of extra zeros on the krona to stop you from working that out easily. The glacier is retreating at an alarming rate but of course there is no climate change or at least none that humans are responsible for and the likes of Tony Abbott and the Bum Trumpet will tell you that for nothing and do so quite LOUDLY!

The lagoon came into existence during the 1930s when the glacier retreated from the sea.  It's rather large today and growing rapidly as the glacier continues to shrink. But I'll be dead before climate change gets too much worse and since I have no children or grandchildren I’ve decided to adopt the prevailing laissez faire attitude and just not give an airborne act of copulation.

The scenery began to change at the glaciers as we continued on in our clockwise semi-circular trek around the island. The western end of Vatnajökull marks the transition from steep coastal mountains and deep fjords to broad, flat and fairly arid coastal plains that are dissected by gushing streams of snow melt. The aridity gradually gives way to fields of silage that is harvested to feed the sheep, cows and horses which are all stabled in barns over winter - or at least the ones that aren't sent to the knackery in autumn. You can buy pony meat in the supermarkets - equine lamb.

Peter and I ventured out on our own for dinner in the black sand coastal town of Vik. Flash hotel tucker is quite nice and extremely well presented but it's also extremely pricey - Rockpool pricey! A local restaurant was half the cost, albeit with half the space, but it had everything that was on the hotel menu and then 20 or so other things.

Puffin Tip #1

A good puffin-spotting location is around the south-eastern town of Vik but don't set your heart on it. If you seek out their flight paths you can watch them buzz overhead like hell-for-leather flying penguins but if you want is a close up and personal then best hook up with a tour operator.

The coastal plain widened and became greener after Vik and I started to wonder if there may be an Icelandic word for verdant after all but I suspect that green is about as far as it goes.

Waterfalls, or foss, tumble from the sharp uplift above the coastal plain every few kilometres, some of them quite spectacular, none of them unremarkable. There is even one you can walk behind provided you don't mind getting terribly wet. The roads improve at this point since it is within day-tripper distance from Reykjavik. Farms present as more affluent and often have clusters of smart little tourist cabins which would provide a considerable boost to income through summer.

Geyser Tip #1

If you're after proper sulphur-belching, mud-bubbling, truly spurty geysers best visit New Zealand.

There are a lot more tourists closer to Reykjavik, and I mean tourists, not travellers although you do happily encounter the latter from time to time. Between this point of the journey and the Blue Lagoon spa on our final day I had a shocking urge to slap anyone with a shrill American accent. It used to be old codgers in caps emblazoned with the names of US Navy ships but these days the young ones are far worse, much more penetrating and numbingly dumb!

I have a passion for democracy, genuine democracy not the Trumped up redneck xenophobic populism that is currently sweeping the world, so I've long been intrigued by a place known as Þingvellir (Thingvellir).

In fact, it has fascinated me ever since I first learned about it in Jimmy Dolan's amazing Viking Era course at UNE in 1977. Þingvellir - literally "Parliament Plains" - was the site of the first Alþing (Althing) or Parliament in 930. Chieftain and farmers from all over Iceland gathered at Lögberg (the Law Rock) each year to make and recite the law, pass judgements, make common decisions and settle disputes.

Through the Vikings, Cnut in particular, this very first parliament became the origin of the Westminster System of government which operates in Australia today. The Congressional System and most other forms of Western government also owe their origins to the Alþing at Þingvellir. I was overawed to stand before the Law Rock and look out across the plain, the birthplace of actual democracy - forget about the Greeks, they just gave us the vocabulary and souvlaki.

Return of the Native 2 - Iceland 1

Lin, Peter and I had a wet drive from County Durham to the Manchester Airport Inn but sang 'We're All Going On a Summer Holiday' nevertheless. When we arrived in the early afternoon the temperature was 16', exactly the same as it was in wintery Sydney, except it was nighttime there. Lin's cousin Margaret took the train up from London to meet us and next morning we all hopped into a cab and headed to the airport for our flight to Iceland.

We left England's green and pleasant fields well behind because looking down from the air on Iceland it's barren, Sharon. It was better once on the ground but I doubt there is a word for verdant in the Icelandic language. There are lupins galore, this being the season, and lots of lava flows in the east. The one hour bus ride between the international and domestic airports took me back to Savai'i in Samoa without the coconut palms, heat or humidity.

That bus ride with a change en route had us on the edges of our seats because the plane in was late and we had a tight onward connection but we made it onto the 40 seater for the 50 minute flight to Egilsstaðir in the easternmost part of Iceland where we began our Iceland adventure.

Egilsstaðir is the main service centre for the east which doesn't mean it's big, there are only a couple of thousand residents. The airport stayed open late to set us up with our very comfortable and rather roomy Kia Sorento. In fact the Europcar chap was the one who locked the building as we left for the 2km drive to the flashest the hotel I've ever stayed in. I tend to judge holiday accommodation by its potential for conversation into aged care facilities and I would happily spend my terminal years at the Gistihúsið Lake Hotel, although probably not in Iceland.

Don't get me wrong here, Iceland is amazing but it's currently summer and if I had just one word to describe the place that word would be 'bleak'. It's a fantastic to visit but I certainly wouldn't want to live here. Much of the landscape is alpine without the altitude and trees are very scarce although an arboretum has been established on the shores of the loch-like Lagarfljót which we looked out on from our first hotel. It's so loch-like it has its very own Loch Ness Monster, a kind of gigantic worm, or so legend has it.

After circumambulating Lagarfljót, and attempting to climb up to one of Iceland's many waterfalls, we headed over the snow covered tabletop mountains to the coastal town of Seyðisfjörður where Peter found himself locked inside the toilet at the visitors' centre when the lights were suddenly turned off and the whole place shut down for the day. Lin had to chase after the proprietor who was by then headed off across the car park towards home, wherever that was.

Unless you travel by boat there is only one way in and out of so back we went to Egilsstaðir then onto our next overnight stay in Fáskrúðsfjörður. The drive was was a taste of the Canadian Rockies, not quite as grand but it certainly brought back memories. And the Fosshotel which is right on the fjord is truly the stuff of memories. The the Gistihúsið Lake Hotel rapidly faded to second position as the Fosshotel became my newest and flashest ever overnight stay. Our beautifully finished rooms opened out onto decks over the water where eider ducks splashed about and preened themselves for hours on end. The restaurant wasn't cheap but it was outstanding with the best langoustines yet.

Breakfast was superb and checkout at noon. I didn't want to leave either the table or the room but we had places to go and things to see.

We headed back through the 6km long Fáskrúðsfjarðargöng Tunnel to the town of Reyðarfjörðurt that we'd passed by the previous day. This is where Lin's father was stationed in WWII during Britain's friendly invasion of Iceland which staved off a far less friendly one by Germany and kept the shipping lanes to North America open right throughout the war. Lin was keen to visit and the small military museum there is a storehouse of history. We also had a bit of fun communicating with the three elderly women running the place, none of whom spoke English but we liked them because they let us all in as 67+ seniors.

Now how many of you have driven through the Fáskrúðsfjarðargöng Tunnel even once? Well I'm very happy to boast that I've now done it not once, not twice, but three times and I'm mightily impressed with Icelandic engineering ability.

On we went through another tunnel then in and out of fjords and past stratified, uplifted and tilted mountainsides that truly had me wishing I'd studied geology. The scree at the foot of them was sometimes hundreds of metres in height, enough basalt to reballast every railway line on Earth.

Night 3 was at another Flosshotel near Höfn which was fine but we were spoiled absolutely rotten on our previous two nights. We did have distant views of the gigantic Vatnajökull Icecap though, or at least we did once the rain and mist had cleared, but half the disjointed bathroom was in the main part of the room which was a bit odd, especially given that it looked like a kitchen. An architect and an interior designer clearly cooked that idea up over a long and very boozy lunch.

I managed to put aside my fascination with 24 hour sunshine and close the block out curtains that night. So much light does not bode at all well for sleep.

Return of the Native 2 - The Highlands

Accommodation Disappointment #1

The Inn on Loch Lomond just north of Luss looks OK online but the Trip Advisor comments made me wary. Had there been more options in the area at this time of year I would have heeded the warnings but there was very little choice so I booked their best room with a dinner and breakfast package for a great deal of money. The room with its glorious view over Loch Lomond was fine, until you looked at the wear and tear and the pretentious freestanding plastic bathtub without a shower which presented a real challenge for a couple of fat old farts come morning.

The food was average, morning service and selection rough, and the table sticky at both dinner and breakfast. Spend your money elsewhere.

Crossing the glacial terrain between Loch Lomond and Fort William took me back to 5th Form geography - that's Year 11 for all you young things - and it just made me want to slap a flat earther! We were looking at aeons of geological and climatic activity, not something that was pulled out of a cosmic magician's hat, along with the rest of the universe, in 3500 BC. The God I learned about in Sunday School was far smarter than that.

The Jacobite steam train trip out of Fort William to Malliag on the coast by the Isle of Skye was all we hoped it would be. It's a two hour ride each way through a taste of every kind of Scottish landscape from farmland to lochs, across more glacial terrain and then the seashore. Best of all was the magnificent sweeping curve of the Glenfinnan Viaduct of Harry Potter fame.

We sat with an American couple and their adult children on the way out and another American couple on the way out. All were very quick to apologise for Trump and assure us they hadn't voted for him which I'd taken as a given anyway. They were charming and interesting folk who were absolutely brimming with common sense which made me feel a little better about what America has allowed itself to become over the last six months.

Loch Lochy Accommodation Tip #1

Even at two and a half months out when I tried to book, accommodation was tight in the Highlands so we ended up in the last room at Corriegour Lodge on Loch Lochy between Fort William and a Loch Ness and it was wonderful. Design wise, Fawlty Towers immediately sprung to mind but the similarity ended there. Unlike the Inn on Loch Lomond, it was extremely well maintained and the staff showed a genuine interest in their guests. Breakfast was almost silver service and the whole experience was a glaring contrast to our precious night but enough of that.

I must say I wondered about the name of Loch Lochy. There are many lochs so had they simply run out of ideas and begun to double up or were we in Scotland's very own version of Wagga Wagga? The rather fortunate absence of teenage mothers smoking Winnie Blues completely scotched the latter idea.

The morning started off sunny but in rolled the cloud and then the rain. If there is a monster in Loch Ness it had plenty of cover. Never mind, we got the idea - it's very long, quite wide in parts, and holds a shitload of water. But don't go to the information Centre at Port Augustus hoping to learn anything about the geology and geography of the area. If it's not a postcard or souvenir you're after they can't assist.

We enjoyed the day nevertheless and the sky cleared whilst we were in Inverness so we did Scotland's most awarded garden centre which is mostly under cover anyway and I can see why. We did take a wee turn past Culloden but I'm not sure battles are things best remembered.

So off we went to Aviemore in Scotland's main ski area. We stayed at the Macdonald Resort which is like a university campus of hotels in a park-like setting with shops, restaurants, entertainment and Gough knows what else in the middle. For those of you who know, if this was the University of New England I'd say we were staying in Austin College. The rooms here are bigger but the rest is remarkably similar.

The dinner train on the Strathspey Railway was great fun but sadly not at all well patronised. Perhaps too many others had been faithfully promised an offal-free meal only to find their chicken breast oozing with oats and minced innards. Never mind, they rustled me up some pasta and a free bottle of wine by way of an apology and a good evening was had.

Next morning we set off on a six hour drive south to Durham and our good friend Lin and her very special wee Westie, Piper. There was plenty to see en route but we were pressed for time so may need to return to Scotland some other time - in fact, we will most certainly be back. Lin and I first met backpacking in America 39 years ago. She is an extremely important part of my life and a good many of you reading this are doing so because of the fortuitous bus-board meeting that ultimately brought so many of us into one another's lives.  And isn't that exactly what it's all about?

Return of the Native 2 - Glasgow

Glasgow Accommodation Tip #1

We stayed at the Grand Central Hotel in Glasgow.  It has indeed been grand in its day and a fairly recent refurbishment has restored much of that.  It is quite literally at Glasgow's Central Station and even has a dedicated entrance directly from the concourse but we missed that and we went out into the street to battle the cigarette and vape smokers then came back in the main entrance.

I know it's an addiction, and both of my parents were well in its terminal grip, but I've never understood smoking so this new vape business is completely perplexing.  They puff about the streets like an unholy fusion of a steam train and a bushfire with complete and utter disregard for all others which is what most smokers do anyway.

But Glasgow streets aren't the same battle as London and Edinburgh.  There are less people and just a fraction of the tourists so people tend to be less self-obsessed and even appear somewhat more cognisant of what's around them.

First stop was the Willow Tea Rooms which are a faithful reconstruction of the original by John Rennie Mackintosh.  I must admit I knew nothing of him before Lin opened my eyes to his wonderful legacy last visit and now he is part of my Holy Architectural Trinity Plus One.  If John Rennie Mackintosh, Walter Burley Griffin and Frank Lloyd Wright were sat at a table (as they say here) they would have far more in common than just their triple-barrel names.

Griffin and his wife Marion Mahoney were students of FLW and part of the Taliesin School so the connection between their styles and that of Wright is both obvious and unavoidable.  I need to investigate further to see what, if any, connection existed between Mackintosh and Wright.

Both Mackintosh and Griffin had wives who deserve much greater recognition for their role as architects, draftsmen and designers which is exactly what Marion Mahoney was in her own right, hence my Holy Architectural Trinity Plus One.  Margaret Macdonald was also an accomplished artist and designer who, like Marion, worked hand in hand with her husband to document, furnish and decorate their extraordinary creations.  Frank Lloyd Wright, on the other hand, was a womanising bastard.

Glasgow Tucker Tip #1

By the time we'd walked across the Clyde and back then around the downtown we were too tired to think about going out to dinner so decided to settle on some F&Cs and a deep-fried battered Mars Bar from the Blue Lagoon chippy since the Justin Bieber Deep-Fried Battered Haggis Supper was never gonna happen.  Now I know exactly what you're thinking - deep-fried battered Mars Bar, gross!  But it's not, in fact it's damned good and contains all three basic food - sugar, fat and salt!

Next day saw us at the also recreated Mackintosh House at the University if Glasgow.  It was recreated because the original, about 100 metres away was slowly sinking due to mine subsidence.  A way of remediating the same problem was found for an entire neighbourhood in Bath but Glasgow decided upon what I like to call the Masterton Homes Solution instead - the Knock Down Rebuild Package.

Leaving town on Day 3 we headed to Hill House in Helensburgh just west of Glasgow which is both Charles and Margaret, inside and out and contains some of their finest work.  That was a treat and then some, especially the shower in the main bathroom which has ring upon ring of semi-circular jets that make it look like a cross between a decontamination unit and something terribly nasty from Metropolis.

Glasgow left us both wanting more which is a lovely way to leave a place.

Return of the Native 2 - Edinburgh

What I really hate about long distance rail travel in the UK is that it's too damned quick. You've no sooner settled back to enjoy the ride and you're at your bloody destination! That was certainly the case with our trip from London to Edinburgh. We left the unwashed masses to their own devices in the departure hall, all staring up at the illuminated commandments awaiting a platform direction from the Fat Controller. We had First Class tickets so headed straight for the lounge. Unfortunately it bears no resemblance to an airport lounge but you can spend a penny without it costing you 40p. They also have the Fat Controller's ear so can direct you straight to the appropriate platform via the special overhead walkway and lifts - no cattle stampedes!

Virgin East Coast Travel Tip #1

Book seats on the right side of the carriage to get the seaside view north of Newcastle. There seem to be more cathedrals on that side of the train as well.

Virgin East Coast Travel Tip #2

If you're travelling First Class try to do it on a weekday because hot food and an open bar are part of the deal. For reasons I cannot fathom it's just sangas and soft drink on a weekend.

Edinburgh was immediately appealing but its buildings are rather filthy. With a couple of beers tucked safely under my belt, I once fronted a drag queen in Adelaide and told her that wigs can be brushed. Well here's completely sober telling Edinburgh that stone and brick can be cleaned. Why not try on the absolutely blackened Scott's Monument, it may catch on? That aside, it's a very pleasant city if you can ignore the fact that they used to hang people on every other bloody street corner - but not the witches, they were strangles and then burned.

Edinburgh Hotel Tip #1

The Premier Inn City Centre Royal Mile is modern and very comfortable with good sized rooms that have a view if you're lucky. We looked at Carlton Hill with all its various monuments and structures. It's brilliantly located just a 5 minute walk from Edinburgh's Waverley Station and near all kinds of restaurants as well as a stop for all the hop-on-hop-off city tour buses routes which I also recommend. Splash out the extra couple of quid and take the Majestic Tour, it covers all of the routes and even takes you to the Firth of Forth which is worth going to just so you can say "I've been to the Firth of Forth" and it would be even better if you could go there on the forth of the fifth!

I think I've lost a little weight. We had to remove everything from our pockets and take our belts off when we went through security at the Parliament of Scotland today. Then there was a pat down which turned out to be a bit of a shorts down in my case. They slid half way to my knees! I was absolutely delighted but the security chap and the others about were a little surprised.

I'm not prepared to pass judgement on the new buildings of a' Pàrlamaid na h-Albabut but my first thought was they're a bit shit - or should I say 'shite'? They were designed by a Catalan architect who probably shared a grudge about being from an absorbed client state but then he died before the place was finished or even properly explained. It's absolutely rotten with all manner of both abstract and construct symbolism that requires a very long lunch and a great deal of Chardonnay to appreciate although Prosecco seems to be all the go here. Now that's taken me right back to Asti Riccadonna and Al Grassby at the Griffith RSL Club in 1972!

Anyway, with my belt done up an extra notch we hiked the Royal Mile to Edinburgh Castle - us and thousands of others. I'd hate to be here in the height of the season! I was intrigued to see that the area in front of the castle where the Edinburgh Tattoo is held isn't flat, in fact it's quite the slope. I shall be watching with informed eyes next time it's on.

And it was cheap! The website mentions free entry for carers so we flashed Peter's Companion Card and I was in for free, Peter as a senior. Hey, if you don't ask and you don't get! We were queued to see the Royal Jewels, which are really just the crown and associated things, but I could see a very narrow, very crowded curved staircase up ahead so asked the guide what it was like. She was a lovely lass from Melbourne and once I uttered the magic word 'claustrophobia' she took us to an elevator then provided a full explanation of the history of what we were about to see.

We had Indian tapas for dinner at the only BYO restaurant I've spotted so far. We really enjoyed the chicken egg foo young the previous night at the Chinese/Japanese/Malay fusion that was run by Italians but 'Mother and Child Reunion' by Simon and Garfunkel kept playing in my head since that's apparently what the song was about.

We're sitting on Waverley Station awaiting the train to Glasgow as I write.  It's the second largest railway station in Britain and looks to have been designed by a number of different committees over several generations.  People may one day say the same about the Parliament buildings. The station is interesting though and takes me back to my childhood when Grandma and Pop would take me to Central Station in Sydney for whatever reason. I was absolutely fascinated by the little tractor things that hauled long 'trains' of baggage carts too and fro the actual trains of the day. Happy memories.

Return of the Native 2 - London

I've said it before and I'll say it again; I am completely perplexed by the fact that a nation that once controlled a third of the planet cannot organise itself on a pavement. Americans are damned good at keeping right; Australians have a reasonable handle on keeping left; but the British, with narrower pavements than either, are like ping pong balls in a bloody clothes dryer - especially when they have an iDildo stuck up against their ear and a cigarette, electronic or otherwise, shoved in their mouth. But it doesn't stop on the pavement. We were very nearly run down by a motor scooter with a pillion passenger just metres from our flat the other day. He cut to the wrong side of the road at a corner we were crossing then tried to go between me and the curb, a space of less than a metre, and did so as speed. The air in Bloomsbury turned quite blue for a short while when I let fly with some very loud F&Cs and I wasn't talking about fish and chips!

We saw The Book of Mormon when we're here last time and couldn't help but go again. It was just as good with a few fun little change thanks to the new slightly cheekier Elder Cunningham. Apart from being a superb and extremely witty parody of Mormonism it simply makes you feel happy. The problem is that just like last time I am walking around singing tunes from the show or sometimes lines pop out of my mouth for no reason as if I have acquired Tourette's Syndrome. People looked at me quite oddly in the Prepared Meals aisle at Waitrose yesterday when I announced that "A clitoris is holy amongst all things!"

When we visited the London Transport Museum at Covent Garden I was expecting a little more for £15 entry but we can go back as many time as we want for the next year. Even if that was practical it would be unlikely given the number of school groups in there, all of them K-2. It was a largely inappropriate venue for kids of that age who were more interested in the play room where they could throw bus-shaped cushions at one another and scream a lot. The Year 1 kiddies from St Lucifer's Church of England School at Sodding Cocksnot were by far the worst.

Lunch with buskers performing Pachelbel Canon and a little shopping attended to I decided we should take the Tube and Docklands Light Rail to Poplar just because we are Call the Midwife tragics but that Poplar isn't there any more. We did a bit of a shuffle through Canary Wharf and Canada Water, where we stayed last time, to get to Wapping because the name makes me laugh.

An English-born high school friend invited me to dinner at his house one night - steak and kidney pie (much to my horror). After dinner we watched Till Death Do Us Part. Alf and Else were had gone to the seaside and were plodging (paddling), Alf with a hanky tied at the corners in knots on his head. Else turned to him and asked "Is this the same water we have in Wapping?" and Alf, exasperated as ever, barked back "Of course it is you silly old moo!" - as he always did.

Both of Robert's parents fell about laughing but eventually recovered sufficiently to tell me that was exactly what it was like. I've wanted to go to Wapping ever since. We had a beer in a pub by the Thames then made out way back with me determined to avoid the crush of our outbound journey. We are mid-way between Russell Square and King's Cross (spelt with an apostrophe here) so I thought I'd be smart and took us on a different line due east of where I imagined our flat to be then we started hiking.

Well, my feet, back and right hip were fully buggered and English food has firmed my bowels magnificently so I also needed a poo. My west-bound trajectory was also about 500m too far south but we finally got back, although not before very nearly getting run down by the aforementioned dicks on the motor scooter!

Three hours up the Thames by boat was all good but perhaps hats would have been space far better taken up in our bags than the sports jackets and nice trousers I packed for evenings out. The Thames is a fascinating slice of history. We went the other way to the absolutely wondrous Thames Barrier last time so this time chose the leafier route up river to Hampton Court where we spent the best part of three more hours. Henry VIII was a complete and utter self-obsessed, church-starting and destroying, murdering bastard - pretty much the Donald Trump of his day! How much more clearly can a fully-recovered low-church Anglican put this? The Church of England should still be apologising!

Visiting the Chelsea Flower Show has been a dream of mine for decades but the reality was more of a nightmare. It was oversold to buggery - half the crowd would have still been too many people. There's more room aboard a live cattle transport ship than there is at the Chelsea Flower Show and more space to sit down as well. Some of the displays in the main pavilion were lovely but I wasn't in the mood to go into battle to view the garden designs. The rest was just shops, shops and more bloody shops! All up it was the Sydney Royal Easter Show on Pims but the chooks had been turned into hats and the cows were wearing frocks.

Now why not go to London to catch up with an old friend who lives in Sydney?  Will and partner Wayne were visiting at the same time as us so we caught up with Will for a light lunch one afternoon and both Will and Wayne for a wander around a Saturday market and a poke about an antique centre  another day.  Will, Peter and I then went on to explore Little Venice which is a very interesting part of town that's built around the apparent confluence of a billabong, a stream and a canal.  Peter and I were also able to acquire a few photographs of us together which is a rarity for lone couples traveling.

Another night at the theatre made up for the farce that is the Chelsea Flower Show. We saw Miriam Margolyes in Madame Rubinstein at the Park Theatre in Finesbury Park, North London which is a great venue - once you find it. The upshot was less than 20 minutes to clear the rather excellent mezzo plate I'd preordered an throw down the accompanying bottle of merlot but we did it!

We saw The Importance of Being Miriam in Sydney two years ago and I was overawed by Miriam's presence and engaging personality. I'd never before hung on every single word of a performance but Miriam Margolyes is a master wordsmith so to miss any of what she has to say would be like wasting fine wine, which the merlot wasn't. The Importance of Being Miriam was a monologue whereas Madam Rubinstein is a play so the two performances don't easily compare beyond the fact that they are both magnificently written texts, superbly delivered.

Return of the Native 2 - Rocks & Flowers

A visit to Great Witcombe and Little Witcombe was a must since Witcombe has been my sister's surname for the last 53 years and my brother-in-law's for all his life.

Now here's what sets the English apart from Americans, it's irony and there is no better example of that than Great and Little Witcombe. Great Witcombe with just a church and a post box is anything but great whereas Little Witcombe, though in no way great in the classical sense, boasts about 70 houses, a local hall which it shares with nearby Bentham, a pub, a defunct shop and a post box - but no church.

Bath, yes there is one right in the middle of town and it's the one place we didn't visit because we left our run a little late but never mind, we've all seen the pictures. We wandered by one of Britain's near dozen Avon rivers and when we took both bus tours we discovered why there are so many of them. The Celtic word for river is something approximating avon so when the Romans politely asked the name of the river they were about to chart the locals responded accordingly. Aborigines throughout much of Eastern Australia did something similar but different when asked the names of places. Prefixes like gunda, goono, goonda and so on all refer to places where you go to shit so think about that next time you're in Gunnedah, Goondiwindi or Goonellabah.

I suspect that I saw as much of Bath as I needed to. Too much more would not have left me wanting more. It's a town that does its best to function whilst being swamped by tourism but then that's how it's always been. People have come to Bath for thousands of years for one reason or another.  And when they have done so they've invariably exploited others. Beautiful though much of Southern England is, my inner socialist can't help but see both the historic and current social divides of the place.

So let's back things up 5000 years to when life was immeasurably shittier for everyone, even essentially Anglo-Celtic types like myself - yes, I know I look Greek or Italian, perhaps Spanish on a good day but I'm not!

We visited Stonehenge which pre-dates both Celts and Angles but what-the-hell, I'm sure I had people here long before I turned Mediterranean. But back to Stonehenge; this wasn't just any iPhone-bloody-clicking, stay behind the blue nylon rope experience; we went for the complete nude, Mother Earth worshiping, all drumming all chanting, up close and personal sunset tour package and it was fabulous! We were able to romp unimpeded, amongst the stones for a full hour and my chakra is now aligned beyond belief. OK, I'm bullshitting you about the naked romp but I did feel moved to remove my thongs before we entered the Inner Circle which completely perplexed the Americans in our group who were already perplexed by my thongs and shorts, given the temperature.

The place has a certain power which my rationalist self says we give it but my tortured feet felt so much better for the experience. Having said that, I am no believer in miracle cures; an hour of trotting about any damp paddock would have probably achieved the exact same result but I thoroughly enjoyed being there. Stonehenge is an iconic part of my heritage be that Pagan, Minoan or whatever. It was nice just to be there.

Now at this point I must tell you that the Google Earth app on my new iPhone is a troublemaking bitch! Louise (as we have named her because DeDe's sat nav's name is Thelma) has a penchant for complication. She is extremely keen on back roads, goat tracks in fact! Our return journey to Snowshill should have taken less that two hours but took three along some shocking fucking roads. Every time we are about to hit an 'A' road bloody Louise pointed us back towards yet another single-lane track. We finally got back at around midnight and passed out cold till after 10.00am next day.

Hitcote Manor, oh glorious Hidcote Manor!  It's now my second favorite English National Trust property after Wallington in Northumberland which is unsurpassable. I don't care about the houses but their gardens are quite special. I was blessed to have had a grandmother who taught me how to see, and not just look, so Hidcote was an extraordinary treat. I now need to grow alliums, tree peonies and Gallery Red lupins which will probably fail me in exactly the same way as fuchsias did when I returned home obsessed with them from Wallington last time.

Today's drive back to London was all good until we stopped for fuel about 20km out from the car rental at Heathrow and had a major Chevy Chase, European Vacation round-about experience trying to get back onto the M40. Well there went an hour - Louise, you sodding bitch!

We are now happily settled in our Airbnb in Bloomsbury which is on the Piccadilly Line close to just about everything we want - and for the money it cost it would bloody-well want to be!

Return of the Native 2 - Sydney to Snowshill

When I went through my family history phase I discovered my earliest known British ancestor was a resilient young woman named Mary Martin. She was the founder of my father's line in Australia. Convicted for theft and sentenced to transportation at the age of 16, she was packed aboard the former slave ship Neptune with 500 other sorry souls for the long voyage to New South Wales.

The year was 1790 and the Second Fleet was the Admiralty's first shockingly misguided venture into privatisation. Contractors were paid for each convict that boarded their overcrowded vessels, not for each who disembarked as was the practice with slaves. Unrestrained capitalism is never a good thing and nearly a full third of the convicts died en route with 124 more joining that number shortly after landing in Sydney. Mary, as you will have guessed, was not one of them.

Our return to the Old Country on a Singapore Airlines A380 in Premium Economy could not have been more different to Mary's experience in leaving it. Well, I suppose it could have - those First Class Suites in the next cabin looked extremely tempting but for a couple of big blokes used to travelling Cattle Class I have to tell you that Premium Economy was luxury! There's no going back!

I highly recommend arriving into Heathrow at 5.50am on a Sunday morning as a way to minimise the stress of transferring from plane to rental car and then clearing the airport. Once I got my new iPhone to talk to Google Maps, and we undertook a few Chevy Chase style circuits of several airport roundabouts, we were on our way to the M40 and the glorious Cotswolds beyond.

When we were planning this trip Cotswolds was just a name to me, a pretty green entity with cottage gardens and thatched roofs. I had no idea where to book but made an uncharacteristically perfect choice. We are in a truly lovely spacious cottage on a farm called Sheepscombe Brye just 500m from the village of Snowshill which could easily be the location from the Vicar of Dibley. The church, which is also named for St Barnabas, is identical and there is a row of stone terraces just like the one where Letitia Cropley lived. I fully expect her pop here head out as we pass by and invite us in for a slice of Marmite cake or some lard and fish paste pancakes.

We are about ten minutes from the town of Broadway which we can see down the leafy green valley from our deck where we sit with wine in hand and a ploughman's platter before us, says he who is now fully addicted to Branston Pickle. We overdose on quaint each time we go to Broadway and I don't mean any kind of quaint, I mean QUAINT! The place is absolutely rotten with stone buildings, thatched roofs, lilacs, wisteria and the whole range of southern English folk from tweed-clad rude and dismissive to eccentric then onwards and upwards to absolutely delightful. Their dogs are far more homogeneous though, there's not an unpleasant one amongst them.

The Gloucestershire Warwickshire Railway was a bit of fun and the drive across rather lovely as we descended a small escarpment through what looked like a rainforest of deciduous trees with fresh new spring leaves. We took the 10.00am steam train out of Toddington and beat the crowds then did it all again after lunch on a railcar set. By the time we returned for the second time it was 3.00pm and we were well and truly done!

I didn't spot a single Asperger's amongst the volunteer staff which is unusual and completely rules them out as actual card-carrying gunzels but a number of the other passengers were high on the scale and truly classic examples. The hats, badges and telephoto lenses give them away every time as does the unkempt look and just occasionally the smell.

And speaking of people with obsessive interests, if rain prevents you from driving from one scenic Cotswolds village to another then Snowshill Manor, former home to a somewhat odd chap by the name of Charles Wade, is a slightly disturbing place to spend some time. Wade collected scads and scads of shit from everywhere but mainly Asia and also liked to play dress-ups. I'm sure he's been the subject of many a psychological dissertation. There is so much crap in his dingy, rambling old house that Wade took to living in a nearby shed and I would have as well.

Five minutes in that nightmare of clutter was enough. I fled to the garden where I wandered wet but happy and chatted with dozens of white pigeons who, unlike me, were all intent on staying dry. I played quite happily in some puddles which seemed perfectly reasonable given that I was wearing shorts and thongs. There is little doubt that there have been far madder people in that house than me.

Yes thongs. After 22 airborne hours my feet have to puffed up to the point where I resemble a very tall hobbit. Some people stare, a few are brave enough to pass comment and I've even heard several whisper "He must be from New Zealand!"

Tales of the Subaru - Leura After Dark

Peter and I share a well-established tradition of ignoring 26 January which we do not consider worthy of the name Australia Day.  It celebrates invasion and dispossession and, despite both being globally vogue at the moment, they aren't very nice activities.  If you want to celebrate the birth of our nation then do it on Federation Day - 1 January.  That's the day the six colonies joined together to become Australia, the first nation in the history of nations to be voted directly into existence by its own citizens.  Now that's something truly worth celebrating!

Former MP of the conservative persuasion, Ian Macfarlane, has suggested 1 May as a more inclusive date for Australia Day because much of the nation tends to be a tad tired, if not hungover on 1 January.  It was on 1 May 1901 that the new Commonwealth of Australia began to exercise the powers assigned to it by the former colonies but that's really just a bit half-arsed.  Perhaps 9 May might be a more appropriate date - the day the first Parliament sat in a ceremonial opening session at the Exhibition Building in a Melbourne as recorded here by Tom Roberts.

But I, myself, personally prefer May 8 as recently suggested by Jordan Raskopolous.  Do watch the attached video right through to the end, the final line is the killer - quite literally!

May 8 - "Maaaaaaaaaate!"

But enough of the politics of Invasion Day, Australia Day or just plain 26 January.  What did we do?

Well, first up I responded to Barnaby Joyce's pronouncement that people who want to change the date of Australia Day should "crawl under a rock" with a brief Facebook post which read "Fuck you, Barnaby!"  Nothing political about that.

Then it was a leisurely morning of cleaning up cat vomit and other outer suburban domestic pursuits in the Heights-of-Hornsby before we set off to the residence of the Emeritus Principal Foy at Leura.  He is currently doing a reverse Joanna Lumley across Siberia (as one does during the northern winter) so we went up to water his plants before they died (as they do in the southern summer).

Our journey took me on a trip down memory lane, along Annangrove Road in fact and past Annangrove Public School where I spent my first three deliriously happy three years of teaching.  It was a wonderful school with just one class of each grade.  I began with a Year 1 then another of the same the following year which I took on to Year 2 in my final year.

The kids were a delight, even the odd crazy one, and this was the late 1970s before we joined forces with parents to sap them of every last drop of their resilience.  And speaking of parents, they were lovely too.  If they weren't there to support you they just kept out of the way.  And the teachers - what a happy collegiate bunch we were!  I didn't experience that again until I worked at Dee Why District Office nearly 20 years later.

So on we drove with me thinking I could go back and do that all over again until I slapped myself around a little.  Stupid, stupid man!  By the time we hit the glorious crepe myrtles of Windsor and Richmond I had recovered my bitterness and moved on.

And as is the Upper Blue Mountains way, the mist rolled in right on cue at the nursery just east of Wentworth Falls.  DeDe instinctively turned on both her headlights and wipers as she does and on we went just a little more slowly, unlike some who believe that fog or rain necessitates driving 10 km/h faster.

Now what could be a better way to round off any kind of 26 January than a meal at the local Chinee restaurant and you will have noticed that I've chosen to adopt the Kath Day-Knight culinary term for that particular style of cuisine.  The Emeritus Principal did leave the take away menu in his "Welcome to Leura" folder but had ominously marked it "Not that good!"

Well I think you know I'm up for a challenge, especially since the nearby, and formally not-too-bad, Tamarin Indian Restaurant turned out to be a bit shit last visit so we set off for the Leura Chinee with a South Australian Riesling and a Marlborough Sav Blanc in tow since it was also our 20th anniversary.

We were welcomed most warmly but also politely cautioned that there was a $2.50 corkage charge for BYO, something which I dismissed as easily as Donald Trump dismisses demands to release his tax returns - the significant difference being I happily paid it.

What comes next is our part in an amazing tableau of 21st Century Australiana.  Directly opposite was an Anglo-Polynesian same-sex couple, both working men in fluoro safety gear but clearly much more than just colleagues.  A single chap of middle age sat in the corner having date night with his iPad and a combination chow mien while three generations of a Chinese family whirled busily away at a lazy Susan just behind me.  But the best of it was directly behind Peter - a table of fully mixed bogans!

As we sat down a rather large woman was hurling forth about childbirth with a poor little strangled thing abseiling off a flank or three on her right side as if in evidence. 

"Well me water broke and next fing I know little Cheryldene’s 'ed were out and she were lookin' right up at me wiv 'er mowf wide open!"  Of course the poor love was just trying to get a breath of fresh air but let's not go there.

After 30 minutes of birthing recounts from the Gina Reinhardt look-alike another woman joined in with first day of school stories about her daughter who wasn't present because the court had awarded equal custody to her ex.  That's when the nicotine addiction of the thinner, bedraggly bearded of the two men kicked in and he went outside for a smoke.  When he returned it was all on about "Fucken Warren" from work who appeared to have overstepped the mark rather severely.

Let me assure you right here, right now, that everyone at the table had an opinion about "Fucken Warren" and none of it was good!  Another round of VB was ordered and they all got stuck into it - the beer and Warren!

By the time the banana fritters arrived they'd done poor old Wazza to within an inch of his life, and his de facto Cheryl as well, so Gina steered the conversation back to her recent and amazing childbirth.  It appears she didn't even know she was pregnant until three weeks before Cheryldene miraculously appeared so the whole experience was clearly still in a quite novel stage.

Leura Tucker Tip #1

The Leura Chinee Restaurant up the high end of the Mall on the right-hand side going down the hill is beaut - not gourmet, just beaut.  The meal was surprisingly good and the people charming.  I asked if they could make pork-free Singapore noodles and "Not a problem, luv!" was the unmistakably Australian nasal response from our server who might otherwise have been straight out of Shanghai.

Inspired by the banana fritters that Boganville had sucked down we went for broke and ordered the Australian Chinee restaurant classic - deep fried ice cream.  What are a few extra units of insulin - this was a celebration!

Well, it did not disappoint and when I complimented our older server on the hint of lemon in the caramel sauce she said "There no remon in sauce" but then I could see her mind ticking over - "Oh bugg-arrr, broody Choi mix up remon chicken sauce an' caramel sauce again!"  But hey, it worked!

And Leura weather did not disappoint us in the least.  As we left the restaurant we were engulfed by a Brigadoon-like mist.  Undaunted, we shuffled off happily but cautiously along the pavement and into the darkness - but in the wrong direction as it happened.  You'd have thought the hill would have given it away but on the plus side we found ourselves gazing at the most magnificent koala-shaped teapot in the window of the Leura Health Food shop and that, my friends, became Item #1 on next morning's agenda. 

All up, it was a truly beaut Invasion Day and nobody can ask for more than that!