Tales of the Subaru - Northbound 2019 - Dead Trees & Dust

I normally feel immense joy when “I return again to New England’s hills” if I may borrow a line from my favourite Mike McClennan song of the day.  But not this time, I felt great sadness instead.

Driving from Walcha to Armidale was a taste of the apocalypse some twisted christo-fascists hope to hasten so that Jesus will return and sort out the environmental, geo-political and social chaos that's being created by their egocentric adherence to the Gospel of Wealth.

The land was parched, dead trees and dust galore, and willy-willies too.  Cattle were thin and sheep were strung out along lines of feed which had been laid out for them but there can't be much money left to buy more and the dams are dry or nearly dry anyway.

Thunderbolts Way - Walcha

But let's back up to Day 1 and Bucketts Way which I always thought was named for somebody called Buckett much like the revered but never actually seen Bucket from Sea Change.  Not so though.  The name is derived from buccan or something similar which is a word the traditional owners, the Biripai and Worimi people, used for big rocks and there are some absolute beauties along Bucketts Way.

We overnighted at the classic and highly recommended Bucketts Way Motel in Gloucester (be sure to ask for an upstairs ‘rock view’ room; we like 14) and just south of there is where the current flush of coastal green stops.  From Gloucester on up to Thunderbolts Way was a bit dry.  Once the road reached the top of the escarpment and the farm country on the tableland it’s dry as and back we go to the opening few paragraphs.

Armidale is something of a spiritual home for me.  It's where I spent four extremely happy undergraduate years living in college and it's also where I did my external postgrad work.  I looked forward to residential schools and still feel the need to go back regularly just to be there.

Lunch at the beautiful old country gentleman’s residence, Booloominbah kicked of my return.  ‘Bool’ was given to the University of Sydney in the 1930s by the White family so that a rural university college might be established, the first of its kind in Australia.  The New England University College grew into its own in 1954 which coincidentally enough was the year of my birth.  It became the independent University of New England and in more recent years expansion has meant that all university’s teaching and residential functions as well as all but the highest level of  administration have been removed from Booloominbah and it's been returned to its former glory.

Booloominbah - University of New England

I was absolutely delighted to find a large Booloominbah snow dome with autumn leaves in the campus store and was even more delighted when the woman on the checkout gave me a 20% student discount.  A stroll through the Faculty of Arts completed my pilgrimage and we were off back into town.

We had dinner with Shara and Tom that night, a must do each visit, and lunch with Sheree next day.  Sheree and I are old mates from Drummond College days and hadn't seen one another for 40 years until we reconnected last year and it felt like just a couple of months.

Shara

Sheree & Glenn

People aside, the highlight if the visit was a morning spent at the New England Regional Art Museum viewing their latest exhibition from the Howard Hinton Collection.  It was a generous display featuring some of the best works from a collection of a thousand pieces.

The Hinton Collection used to hang on the walls of the now defunct Armidale Teachers' College and when I did the methods part of my Dip Ed there in 1977 they were literally everywhere, some hung in the most inappropriate places right in full sun.  And there was absolutely no security.  You could have walked out with a Dobell or a Streeton up your jumper and I've no doubt that happened.

The college was eventually absorbed by the university and under the terms of Hinton's will should Armidale Teachers' College ever cease to be the Collection was to go to the City of Armidale which has also technically ceased to exist.  The compromise was to establish the New England Regional Art Museum.

Pieces of the collection on display at the moment include works by Tom Roberts, Arthur Streeton, William Dobell, Margaret Preston, Rupert Bunny, Hans Heysen, Elioth Gruner, Albert Namatjira, Norman Lindsay, Lloyd Rees and many other fine Australian artists.  It was a truly magic morning!

A small part of the Hinton Collection

Two nights is never long enough in Armidale but we had places to go so it was northward up the New England Highway with my traditional piddle stop at Glen Innes where we're spotted a bric-a-brac shop that might just have contained a worthy piece of green Depression Glass like in Walcha and again in Uralla.  And sure enough it did but the real find was a bit further along at Deepwater where I scored a one pound green butter box.  I started out collecting Depression Glass butter boxes 30+ years ago on a visit to New Zealand but the find in the Yorkshire village of Cawthorne distracted me into bowls.  

The chap in the Deepwater bric-a-brac shop was amazing.  The town is just a spot on the map and he looked like a very weathered version of Owen from Vicar of Dibley.  We were met by his old dog, clearly blind in one eye, who also greeted another bloke but he'd pulled up right out front so that done the dog walked over and peed on his back wheel then lay down again.

But back to Owen whose voice had the same resonance as his Dibley namesake...

He knew the history of green glass and what a joy it was to listen to the man.  It appears manganese oxide was used to give the glass clarity but this came from Germany back in the day and was difficult to obtain during the Depression so they added other oxides to create colour and thereby compensate for clarity.  Green glass has iron oxide in it or uranium oxide if it's the glow-in-the-dark kind.   Clear glass with manganese in it will eventually turn various shades of purple if left in the sun and that's exactly what's happened to a bowl a friend recently bought me from an op shop.  All fascinating stuff and a very interesting man.  And chatting with interesting people is what always makes a trip.  We have encountered quite a few along the way.  The old chap in the junk shop in Uralla being the stuff of dinner parties - so engaging and funny as well.

On we went to Tenterfield past smoldering trees on either side of the road that were well inside the town’s 50km/h zone.  They lost a number of houses and businesses and it put a dent in the Annual Peter Allen Festival but every good performer knows the show must go on so with water bombing helicopters buzzing overhead they were busy preparing the park in the centre of town for the Peter Allen luncheon dance as good countryfolk do.

Tenterfield, NSW

Things were a bit dire across the border near Stanhope and hour or so later when we spotted fire jumping the road about 400m ahead.  At that point there was no need to be told to turn back so I threw DeDe into a tight U-turn and we buggered off quick!  It seemed wise to follow a couple of cars with Queensland plates on the assumption that they knew where they were going and they did.  A bit of zigzagging and a short while later we emerged on the other side of the fire and were once again en route to Caloundra.

We checked into level 9 of the Gemini Resort, Golden Beach late that afternoon following a very long drive from Armidale and were instantly happy is pigs in shit.  Gemini is right on Pumicestone Passage and the north-east view from apartment 73 is absolutely flawless.  It looks straight over the channel and across the narrow northern tip of Bribie Island to the ocean beyond as well as up the channel to Caloundra, the passage out to sea and the ocean beaches.  And the view floods into both the living room and the bedroom.  It's an apartment I could grow old in, or at least older, and you won't often hear me say that!

Sunrise from Level 9 at the Gemini Resort

Kim, Annette and I first discovered the Gemini Resort when we “gunned the heap north” during the old spring school holidays in 1986 and fell in love with the place.  On our way up we assumed the names of characters from the ABC’s wonderful radio play ‘Brunswick Heads Revisited’ which was something Drooghead wasn't entirely happy about but when we overnighted with her parents Sir Reg and Lady Glenys at the Casa del Reg on the south side of Coffs Harbour everything fell perfectly into place and thus became set in stone.

And how we did love a “teensy weensy pineapple daiquiri” or just about anything alcoholic that year and the following year when we ventured north again.  When Peter and I decided to come up in 2018 to visit lovely Aunty Joan who had moved from her home on the Gold Coast to a facility on the southern end of Bribie Island I thought “Why not?” and we were delighted.  The place has been meticulously maintained and just as I suspected, the view is even better from the South Tower which I booked last year and this.  So the outlook is better but the alcohol consumption doesn't even rate a mention as, with any degree of luck and good management, is what happens as we age.

Golden Beach Tucker Tip #1

Next day was swims in the channel, the huge superbly landscaped pool and a couple of rounds in the spa pool.  I'm no fan of sitting around in hot water but the water jets did my sciatica a power of good after our long drive.  A much anticipated Vietnamee dinner at nearby Miss Hoian finished off a perfect day.  Their green papaya salad had been on my mind since our previous visit and didn't disappoint.

Fully refreshed we headed south next morning to visit Aunty Joan who was looking fabulous.  She is Peter’s father Keith’s sister, the youngest in the family.  They were very close and it's not difficult to see one in the other. 

Now I've been into an aged care facility of two and I have a very critical eye and nose but I couldn't find fault with Bribie Cove at Boongaree.  It’s spacious and spotless and the staff are extremely caring.  Aunty Joan is a huge hit with them and it's not difficult to see why.

We met son Peter and daughter-in-law Mandy for lunch at the same seafood cafe as last year then went back to their house to see Roxy the dog from whom all future dogs should be cloned, she's a treasure.  And Peter and Mandy can come and do home renovations for me any time they like.  They have a great sense of style which they execute with perfect finish.

Mandy. Aunty Joan, Peter T, Peter B & Roxy

“Crickey!”  I must say I never was much of a Steve Irwin fan and entirely understood where that sting ray was coming from so have tended to avoid Australia Zoo on previous visits but urged on by the recommendation of Uncle Russell in faraway Melbourne we ventured forth next day and once therein we were mightily impressed.  It's well laid out and whilst their collection of animals is not extensive they are extremely well kept and clearly loved.

I've always been partial to lemurs, I don't like monkeys but our cousins the lemurs are much more benign creatures.  At Australia Zoo they free-range on an island and interact with visitors at will as do their wonderfully informative keepers who clearly love their charges as does Tiger Boy Terry who romps with his young charge for several hours each day much to everyone's delight, especially the tiger's.

Lemur Brothers

Golden Beach Tucker Tip #2

So it's a big thumbs up for Australia Zoo but a thumbs down for Dilon’s Kitchen Indian restaurant at Golden Beach.  We enjoyed our meal there last year and while this year's visit wasn't bad the 12 hours of squirts I suffered next day each smelt suspiciously of prawn moli.  My long ago ex’s mother used to make a lovely moli and I just had to have one, didn't I!  Stay with the Vietnamee!

It was with no small degree of regret that we packed up DeDe and set off south after our 5th night at the Gemini.  But never mind, we still had two days of holiday to go and that day was another chance to catch up with Aunty Joan on or way to Ballina but what is it with bloody Queensland and their motorways?  They're as slow at a wet week.  The one down from the Sunshine Coast was bad but from Brisbane to the NSW border was automotive purgatory!    When traffic wasn't crawling because of roadworks or some other merging road it was just crawling for the sake of crawling.  We were ever so glad to see the “Welcome to Queensland - Penalty for keeping rabbits exceeds $44,000” sign in the rear view mirror!

Glenn, Aunty Joan & Peter

I share my father's middle name.  Neville was born in Nimbin just shy of 50 years prior to the Aquarius Festival so my grandparents named him Richmond after the nearby river.  Some 50 years on weed smoking hippy parents probably would have gone with River instead.

On the way south we overnighted at Ballina near the mouth of the Richmond and it's the third time I've stayed in this town.  The first was in 1963 in a fairly ordinary riverside motel two blocks from where we stayed this time around.  I was 7 and I remember it had a large treacherous swimming enclosure that projected out into the river.  That was fine by me though but my mother stuck quite close which was reasonable because that's where we met Barry who was either a paedophile or was suffering post-traumatic stress disorder from WWII - possibly both.  Barry took an immediate shine to me and Mum didn't take her eyes off either of us.  It's interesting what sticks in your mind.

As chance would have it Peter and I stayed in that very same motel, and near enough the same room, 50 years later but only because every room on the North Coast was booked solid for Splendor in the Grass at nearby Byron Bay.  The swimming enclosure had been filled in (probably illegally) expanding the area of the motel by a good 25% and Barry was well gone but nothing else had changed.  The decor, the smell - all bad.  The only time we've ever left a hotel earlier was in Iceland where we had a 4.00am check-in at Keflavik Airport.

This time we stayed in a suite at the new Ramada Hotel with views over my namesake, perfectly pleasant furnishings, no smell and no Barry.

Our view of the Richmond River at Ballina

Ballina Tucker Tip #1

Sonnie’s Thai which is right on the main drag smack in the middle of town is friendly, unpretentious and good.  Since it was a Friday night and I'd had a long drive we ordered take away which we enjoyed on the balcony of our suite overlooking the river - perfect!

We were surprised by all the motorway construction south of Ballina.  Some serious money is going into the new road, much of which is elevated on land bridges where it traverses the Big River Country.  But for now the highway still passes through little riverside towns with sugar mills and bric-a-brac shops that have the odd bit of green glass although they now have less than before because we scored a few more worthy pieces and met some more interesting people.

I can't drive the Pacific Highway without a stop in Port Macquarie to visit my friend Noelene Bailey who was the mother of my late great mate Dave.  He left the building 30 years ago when he kissed a concrete mixer on his way to school early one morning to coach his netball team.  Dave was always a shit driver who very nearly killed us both north of Grafton in 1976.  Given that and other near misses, the news of Dave’s death came as a shock but no great surprise, to me at least; it was both to poor Noelene.

We managed a little shopping excursion and morning tea out last year but not so this time around.  She wasn't even up to a short shuffle to the retirement village cafe but we spent a few happy hours together all the same.  Then on we went, no more stops, no more green glass, nothing until we got home to the Heights-of-Hornsby and our Girls who were delighted to see us again and wanted to know what we'd brought them.  Thank goodness we saved the leftover coconut rice from the previous evening’s Thai or we'd never have heard the end of it.

Our view of the Hastings River at Port Macquarie

A Postcard from Dark Mofo - The Pacific Norovirus

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea

In a beautiful pea-green boat:

They took some honey,

and plenty of money

Wrapped up in a five-pound note.

The Owl and the Pussycat would indeed be well advised to take plenty of money if they were travelling on a pea-green P&O boat because the buggers sting you for whatever they can, things that are normally part of the deal on other cruise lines, things like drinking water!  Then there's a surcharge here and a surcharge there but never mind, let's just focus on the positives like seamless check in.  We were strolling the ship’s passageways in search of our room just an hour after boarding a city bound train at Hornsby Station.

I splashed out and booked a mini-suite with a balcony at the stern of the boat which really is the place to be when leaving Sydney Harbour.  It was also rather nice to lie in bed and watch the sun rise over the ocean before girding one’s loins to do battle for a breakfast table.  P&O attracts a certain bovine element which at times had me wondering if we weren't actually aboard one of those horrendous live cattle transport vessels.  I'm not just talking fat here, I'm talking leviathan! There were people who simply wouldn't fit through an aircraft door let alone in a seat on the same making an ocean voyage their only possible route to Tasmania.  I was left feeling slim and fit which has done wonders for my self-esteem!  

And dress codes, there were none!  Forget about packing jackets for dinner as we did and the only thing I saw that approached ladies’ evening wear for the first four nights was a bejewelled lanyard.  And speaking of the same, we were distinguished by our lack of lanyards, sparkly or otherwise.  Everybody else on the boat had their room keycard and general passport to P&O happiness strung around their necks like PE teachers’ whistles but we shunned the pressure to conform.

There was no Captains Dinner with a hundred metre long queue of tuxedos, Lurex, Glomesh, Botox and big hair waiting to pose for pictures with Captain Stubing; no Friday night services for the Jews onboard (although I truly doubt there were any); no Sunday morning mass for the Roman Catholics; in fact no Americans who might expect such things which would never had occurred to me had we not been on the Royal Caribbean Line’s Vision of the Sea out of Vancouver to Alaska in 2000.

I did, however, still find myself wandering the decks searching for a disco rabbi and wife like the pair on the Vision.  He looked like a younger but pudgier Billy Joel with rolled up suit coat sleeves and yarmulke while she, also pudgy, wore a wig and thick white stockings - hip young Hebs!  I'm certain there's a David Bowie song in that somewhere.

Cruising Tip #1 - Showering

The previous sum total of our cruising experience was the aforementioned Inside Passage to Alaska event, no open water as such and quite smooth sailing.  Not so the Tasman Sea approaching Bass Strait.  Our shower was above a spa bath in a faux Tiffany marble bathroom and let me just say that holding onto the safety rail whilst trying to wash one’s clacker is a skill set I'm still yet to master.  

All that pitching and heaving set the kitchen sink in our sitting room off on a spate of gurgling that made it sound like a very busy bucket bong.  And no, I've never used such a device but was once at a party which provided all I require in order to draw a well-qualified comparison.

All the rocking and rolling was the perfect accompaniment to Bohemian Rhapsody which we missed at the movies but caught in the theatre at the pointy end of the ship.  You all probably loved it but five minutes in I was thinking “We know how this ends, just get a wriggle on and die will you, Freddy?!”  Cruel I know but not entirely unfair.  Rocketman was a much better flick that also had plenty of sex, drugs and seriously bad diva behaviour.

After just 40 hours afloat it was back down the gangway in Hobart and walk, walk, WALK!!!  I haven't walked so far since a stroppy little guide with the flu and a short man's complex took us on an 11km forced march around the base of Uluru, the grumpy little sod!

We were on our own this time though.  The supposed 10 minute walk from the ship to Salamanca Place took 20 but never mind, we needed the exercise and so did the megafauna that we'd observed roaming the feedlot at the front of the boat but we didn't spot too many of them out and about.  We had a lovely morning at Salamanca Place ten years earlier and we're determined to repeat the experience, which we did.  There are some very smart glass shops along the strip, Gallery Salamanca being notable amongst them, so our return journey to the ship was a little slower weighed down by several nice pieces that somehow threw themselves onto my credit card.

With goods and chattels safely deposited back on board we hopped a cab to the Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens which is a favourite place of ours.  We spent a few magic hours there in 2010 but that was during summer so it was interesting to view the gardens at the other extreme of its annual cycle but being Australia something is always in bloom.  In this case it was two absolutely stunning luculias that have grown into small trees.  They are a favourite of mine and I've never seen them so big.  My grandmother planted one in the front yard of my family home 80 years ago and, native to the Himalayas though luculias are, it survived until the new owners bulldozed the entire garden last year which was just heartbreaking.  The clusters of pink flowers are glorious and their perfume has defined my winters since childhood.  I am currently attempting to grow an emotional replacement so green thumbs crossed.

Cruising Attire Tip #1

I rarely see a reason to wear anything other than shorts, sandals and Hawaiian shirts; all clean, fresh and terribly tasteful of course.  I can't begin to tell you how much time this saves in both mornings and evenings, but I do digress.

I did, of course, take several pairs of long trousers, a pair of shoes and plain long sleeved shirts for evenings stupidly thinking this would be appropriate but I wore them anyway.  My point here is the reaction one gets from fat bogan women both onboard and ashore when they spot you dressed in aloha attire in Tasmania in winter.  It screws with their heads and it was always megafauna rugged up like Scott of the Antarctic, women over 60, never men.

“Aren't you cold?” it always went with face contorted.

“No, not at all.” I would reply with a friendly smile.  “Aren't you hot?  You've got an awful lot of padding there!”

I'd look back occasionally and sometimes the penny actually dropped but they were all too morbidly obese to catch up even though I was on a stick.

We hiked from the gardens back to Salamanca Place for the somewhat wet but cheerful and very fiery Winter Feast and got a good view of the Pacific Norovirus on the way.  Our cabin was at the stern of the ship, far corner on the flat bit.  The view from within was a stunner, all of the Tasman Bridge and there about just as it had been with the Harbour Bridge in Sydney.

Next morning we fronted up at the Tasmanian Parliament on the dot of 9.30am.  I know it's considered boring in these increasingly neo-fascist times but I'm passionate about democracy and especially our Westminster system so was able to organise a private tour of Parliament where we had a wonderful and highly informative time.

I also got to sit in the Speaker's and President's chairs in their respective Houses. The latter has been used by the Queen so I feel it significant that the most recent bum to be parked upon it was that of a Australian republican.

Some 90 minutes later we bad a reluctant farewell to our guide and host, Charles, and headed across to road to the MONA ferry terminal.  Charles looked like a younger version of Frank from the Vicar of Dibley and shared a similar degree of passion for the task at hand.  Now 62, Charles has worked at Parliament since he was a uni student so what he didn't know simply wasn't worth knowing.

And speaking of knowing, I know some of you love the place but I thought the Museum of Old and New Art was a giant fist-full of cock, which is to say a bloody great wank in a way which might actually be worthy of curation.  God knows there were far less interesting things there!

MONA is an amazing fortress-like, largely subterranean structure which contains masses of wasted space.  There is minimal text so you are expected to wander the darkened caverns with a device pressed up against your face like all the smart young things who go there to drink espresso martinis and whinge about how they can't afford to buy a house because evil Baby Boomers have tied up the entire economy.

Of course you have to be a smart young thing to have the stamina to stand in one of the numerous restaurant or bar queues to purchase said martini in the first place.  On reflection I think the bars, restaurants, function facilities and accommodation options associated with MONA are its actual raison d'être, the art is quite incidental and sometimes rather inconsequential.

Anyway, I thought the most engaging thing in the whole place was Cloaca Professional, a giant artificial digestive tract that is 'fed' daily at 11.00am and 4.00pm so that it poos on the dot of 2.00pm.  Some art really is shit!  I proudly identify as plebeian when I say that to me the best thing about MONA was the ferry ride there and back, especially back!  

 

Delighted to have returned to town we shuffled off to the Salamanca Place shops to pick up a couple of postcards only to discover the Wild Island shop we’d searched for the previous day.  We had a wonderful time there in 2010 buying enough cards to last till just last month so in we went to restock and what a fortuitous visit it was!  Travel writer, artist and all ‘round interesting person Rebecca Robinson was working there that afternoon and had, in fact,  painted the images on several of the cards we’d been drawn to.  Rebecca donates a percentage of the her sales to environmental causes and is now on my fantasy Tasmanian dinner party guest list along with former Senator and environmental warrior Bob Brown who we met last visit, legendary gay rights activist Rodney Croome, Ana from the Gallery Salamanca and Charles from Parliament House.  A short bracket of entertainment will be provided the madman we observed in the newsagent next door.  His passionate rant about God being an alien was as plausible an idea as any I've heard.  He’s a colourfully bedraggled local character who was extremely amusing but I think the key to that amusement would probably be brevity, perhaps a five minute set, no longer.  His act certainly wouldn't extend to three courses, port, a cheese platter and coffee.

Next morning it was anchors away at 8.00am and we were off back to Sydney.  We left the wharf at about the same time the annual Nude Winter Solstice Swim got underway a little up river so damn, I missed it; perhaps next time!  We also missed the Saturday Salamanca Market which is a brilliant arts, crafts and food event that's a weekly tradition in Hobart and an extremely good reason to return.

People finally turned out in some decent clothes that evening, well some people.  Others had decent clothes which were several sizes too small.  We had large mirrors in our cabin but that mustn't have been the case in all of them.  There were young women who looked and dressed like a fusion of Magda Szubanski's Pixie Anne Wheatley character and Miss Piggy.  Then there was the 60-something we hope was trying to be funny by channeling Mae West in a full length red velvet vintage evening gown that looked like it might have been made from a 1940s theatre curtain, you know the kind.  Either that or she was the recently retired head of English from an Anglican girls’ school, it really could have gone either way.  But the best of the lot was the chap who seemed to confuse Masquerade Ball with Fancy Dress Party and turned up looking just like Wal from the Footrot Flats cartoons although there's a fair chance that the Swanndri, footy shorts, thongs and can of VB that was perpetually clenched in his fist was just his particular signature look much like tropical attire is mine.  We decided to go with the latter because the mullet pretty much sealed it.

It was an amusing evening although the margaritas were far too sweet and a bit shy on actual alcohol, being as we were cruising with P&O.

The next day, our last at sea, had me gazing out on the wake of the ship reciting lines from Robert Lowell’s Sailing Home from Rapallo which is one of his darker poems and that in itself will appear quite tautological if you've read Lowell.  The final line is the most poignant and made me wonder just how many fat bogans had in fact eaten themselves to death during the cruise.  There was a growing unpleasantness the smelt somewhere between shit and morbidity around the forward elevators and stair well that connected the feedlot on Level 14 with the medical centre on Level 4.  That’s where they store those who pop off during the cruise.

The corpse was wrapped like panettone in Italian tinfoil.

Now everybody sit up and take note!

I solemnly affirm that I will never again make commentary on fat Americans.  A P&O cruise is like Jenny Craig Day at Disneyland; it's packed to the gunwales with the fattest people on Earth, all of them Australians and all of them in a constant state of expansion!

I am deadly serious when I say I have no idea how some of them got through cabin doorways or into bathrooms.  They must have slept in the cargo hold and been evacuated with bilge pumps because there's no way that around 10% of the passengers on that boat would possibly have fit through a standard ship's bathroom door.  It would have even been a squeeze for the next 20% and I truly wish I was exaggerating but I'm not!

I know I'm overweight in the real world but I had a brief six-day existence in an alternate universe where I could get into a George Clooney's pants, and I do mean George Clooney’s actual pants although I'm also up for the metaphorical kind!

P&O Dining Tip #1

Settle for nothing less than Royal Caribbean.  The food on P&O is absolute crap!  There is total disconnect between the text on the menus and the reality on the plate yet still they feed!

Fatnote: (sic)

We had just sat down to our final breakfast of fruit and muesli prior to disembarking when there was a great flurry of activity at the next table.  An entire cadre of waiters approached two young girls who were seated with their parents.  They came bearing chocolate milkshakes in Mason jars with a chocolate donut perched on top and a stripy pink straw through the middle of each deadly concoction.

Back in the day the Christian Brothers were known for employing far more subtle grooming techniques than that!