Day 1 - EPIC, Jeannie Johnston, The Liffey and Vaults Live

Sunday, 15 September 2019
I've planned our walking route for today quite carefully. First up, we're off to see the statue of Molly Malone. Our walk takes us through some uninspiring backstreets but improves as we come around past the Bank of Ireland. We capture some statuary, but I am really drawn to these novel creatures that adorn the street furniture. What are they? And what is their significance? We've asked a cabby as we passed others that adorn one of the bridges but he didn't know.

It turns out that these creatures are called hippocampus.
They are from Greek Mythology and are said to have pulled the chariots of Poseidon and Neptune 

We join the throng of people clustered around Molly. The shiny polish on her breasts and the rim of her garment speak of the abuses a poor young woman must suffer, especially when made of bronze. A shocking sight in the post #metoo era. Having watched a middle aged woman pose cheerfully for a photo whilst she has a handful, I ask Hubby if we wants a non-consensual grope before we leave. Nope. :-) Yeah, it's pretty undignified.

We walk along some more fairly dingey backstreets to the Liffey. The waterside area is a mix of old and new. There are the elegant old statements of economic power such as the Custom House, which now houses the Department of Housing, Planning and Local Government, then there's new buildings that pay their context zero respect and other older neglected buildings for which it appears form was entirely dominated by function.

Custom House

Some sections show the beginnings of what could be a beautiful riverside precinct a la the Seine, but overall it feels like Dublin hasn't quite decided what it wants to be. There's no obvious coherent vision.

One of the nicer sections of the walk along the Liffey

The Linesman by Dony Mac Manus 

 Along the way we enjoy looking at the sculptures, both ornamental and practical. Some of the most artistic are the massive hooks which I gather are used for securing vessels moored along the quays. However my favourite of all is the magnificent sculpture of the Linesman which takes my minds eye to a flourishing and bustling port, the antithesis of the atmosphere today on a quiet Sunday morning.

Matt Talbot Memorial

One memorial that's style sits comfortably with the modern architecture across the river is a statue of Matthew Talbot. Talbot is revered by many Catholics for his "piety, charity and mortification of the flesh". He was made famous when he died suddenly on a Dublin Street and they found cords and chains on his body. He's regarded as a patron for alcoholics though not formally a saint. It seems appropriate that he also has a more useful and practical memorial in the Matthew Talbot Hostel in Sydney. At least I assume he was the inspiration behind the hostel's name.

Wildebeest with a mouthfull

 Having reached my objective on this side of the river at the National Seaman's Memorial, I pause for a brief moment's reflection on those lost at sea on merchant ships during World War 2, then we head over the Sean O'Casey Bridge which gives me a good view of the beautiful Samuel Beckett Bridge downstream. Said to resemble the Irish Harp I am sure I am not alone in thinking this is one of the World's most inspired bridge designs. I just LOVE it. It was designed by Santiago Calatrava, who is a Spanish architect and it's worth googling him to see more examples of his work - they are BEAUTIFUL. Sydney should commission something from him before it's too late. He's 68.  He also designed the James Joyce Bridge further upstream. It would be fascinating to see what he'd come up with for the Australian context.

Samuel Beckett Bridge. Architect Santiago Calatrava.

The Liffey is the first river I've seen that actually looks green and the algae / weed growing on the walls of the embankment make a pretty picture, picking up the green and gold of the avenue of trees above. 

Sean O'Casey was a socialist playwright and the first to write about the poor of Dublin.  He lived in this area across that famous period of republican rebellion from late 1890s to the 1920s. Dublin, as we know, was said to have one of the worst slums in Europe. This grinding poverty experienced by so many in Ireland certainly played it's part in the long struggle for freedom from British rule. The pedestrian bridge named for O'Casey, was built during the time of the Celtic Tiger, opened in 2005 as part of a docklands urban renewal program. It's clearly been very carefully positioned. Just look at the beautiful way it frames the approach to EPIC.

Sean O'Casey Bridge.. Architect Cyril O"Neill

Before I get too carried away on bridges and their architecture and inspiration, simply let me note that in researching those we visited I have come across a wonderful website dedicated to the Bridges of Dublin. I am sure Hubby will enjoy hearing about what it says regarding O'Connell bridge which reminds us so strongly of the bridges across the Seine.

Replica of the Jeannie Johnston

The bridge also gives us a perfect angle on the Jeannie Johnston before I am further diverted by the birds congregated a short way upstream when we step off the bridge. Again there's lots of young birds in the group and a lovely photo opportunity as a man approaches to feed them.

It's about 11 am or so and we're both feeling pretty hungry, so we head into the CHQ building and look for something to brunch on before getting into the museum. There's not much open so we settle for what's available and have a pretty ordinary Full Irish breakfast for Hubby and another pretty ordinary and unsatisfying sandwich for me. As we munch we admire the industrial structure of the building which was built in 1820 to house tobacco, tea and spirits. Well, at least we're not hungry anymore. 

EPIC is a one way route of galleries each gallery focused on a particular theme. They give you a passport and you can stamp them in each gallery as you go round. Kids would like that, and Hubby was diligent and filled his card but I got sick of it and stopped along the way, we don't need two of them. Having lost the photographs we took (a story for another day) I now need to just rack my brain about what was memorable to a sleep deprived visitor. Well, one thing stands way way out in front is an absolutely stunning sculpture that fills one of the rooms. It's formed of asymmetrical sprays of silver metal emerging from a central point along which are depicted various forms of transport used by emigrants to reach their new homes. It is really something to see. An interesting angle on the coverage of the museum is that it discusses the diaspora not just at peak times in history like the famine years but to the present day. Irish nationals continue to head abroad in significant numbers, the most recent peak having occurred at the time of the Global Financial Crisis (GFC) when tens of thousands left Ireland for opportunities abroad. They also cover the high levels of emigration of women due to oppressive and discriminatory laws against women that were introduced when the Catholic Church was tangled up with the Irish State.
In one of the early galleries they run through the stories of some real emigrants in different time periods. I'm pretty chuffed to sea that the Irish orphan girls who were taken to Australia under the Earl Grey scheme are featured. Better still, the example given is a woman who goes to Moreton Bay and marries an ex-convict, precisely as my own forebear Jane Kirkwood did, though Harry Skinner was not yet an ex convict because they initially refused his application for a ticket of leave.
Australian Prime Minister Paul Keating's famous Redfern Speech plays on a huge wall in the gallery discussing the political activism of the diaspora, leading to a little swell of pride within me. Perfectly chosen, that was a great moment of political leadership. Prime Ministers Chifley and Curtin also feature if memory serves. Ireland claims all with Irish descent, not just those born in Ireland. Some twenty something US Presidents were of Irish descent.
What I'm most keen to see here is how they have handled Ned Kelly's iconic status in Australia. He features most prominently in the gallery of Irish artists, being of course the subject of Sidney Nolan's most famous works, but Ned is also noted in the Rogues gallery. There he is roughly equated to Billy the Kid. I look carefully to see if there's any further discussion of him. I can't see anything. I warned the guy on the desk as he was chatting with us, encouraging us to give feedback on our experience, that I might have something to say if I wasn't happy with their presentation of Ned Kelly. I'm not. Of all the places in all the world where you would hope that the significance of Ned Kelly would be understood and fairly represented, I would have hoped it would be Ireland. It's rather ironic that Ireland of all places should simply swallow the establishment's take on Ned and the Gang and what they got up to. On the one hand I get how a superficial reading of the story could lead one to dismiss Ned as a criminal because he did commit criminal acts, even prior to being outlawed based solely on the verbal testimony of a  policeman who was accused of assaulting Ned's sister. Why lionise Ned when so many other Irish suffered similar disadvantage and persecution without resorting to lawlessness. But that really misses the point. Ned is iconic because of the relationship of social justice to criminality. It's also a story of endemic Police corruption. If Ned was just a criminal or a just a rogue why the petition of tens of thousands of names seeking his pardon. Why the Royal Commission of Inquiry into the police which followed his execution and the reforms to the Police Force that were implemented as a result. Ned is a foundation icon for the Australian principle of the "Fair Go". Ned, like Ben Hall before him, did not get a fair go, and a lot of that was due to their Irish ancestry. It's a shame that hasn't been grasped in EPIC, though I guess it's a really complex thing to get across and EPIC deals in broad brush strokes.
By the time we're about half way through we're starting to hit the wall, so we listen to the various videos but mainly make quick progress through the remainder of the galleries and out into the moist grey. 

I'm keen to have a look at the Jeannie Johnston, so we pay our money and stand outside in the drizzle for about 10 minutes until the next tour starts. Jeannie Johnston was famous in the era of the "coffin ships" for having never lost anyone at sea. It's a laudable record and the ship was owned by a principled man who sometimes simply gave destitute passengers their escape to the new world for free. The ship had a doctor and scrupulous hygiene rules. No-one was allowed to board with any sign of illness and they had a quarantine period requirement. It's an interesting tour and nicely concise while also being content rich. 

Our main sightseeing objectives for the day completed we head back for a rest, this time walking along the northern side of the Liffey because I'm keen to see the famine memorial. This is a group of rake thin figures, dressed in rags, one man carrying his weak child across his shoulders. The faces are are drawn in suffering and the finish of the metal is rough and torn. It's a stunning piece of art. Highly emotive.

We head back to the hotel, and I continue to admire the beautiful mooring hooks along the quay. Somehow a blue chip packed has been caught under one of the hooks and I go to remove it so I can photograph only to find someone has actually taken the trouble to lift a hook and put the packet underneath when there's a bin nearby. Bizarre. The hooks are REALLY heavy, so in some ways I'm glad to have had to remove the litter. I'd never have lifted a hook otherwise and they don't look nearly as heavy as they are. 

In places where the road doesn't leave too much of a footpath, they've built very pleasant pedestrian walkways out over the water.  

We rest in our room for a bit before heading back out into the drizzle to walk down Temple Bar to Vaults Live. We're booked on the last show of the day, ballsy when it's arrival day but it's not open tomorrow so I had no choice. Temple Bar is reasonably atmospheric, and there's some famous venues along it, but overall it's a bit of a tourist trap (as virtually every local we talk to warns us). I chose to stay close in here because of the things I was most keen to see of course. Anyway, 15 mins or so walk and we're passing the Dublin City Council building. This must be, entirely justifiably, the most hated building in Ireland. Dreadful history and tragic events eat your heart out. This grey monstrosity, occupying prime riverfront land blocking the view of the graceful cathedral from the water represents a wanton act of cultural and historical vandalism in the face of mass public protests. To build it, they destroyed the viking village they discovered beneath it when preparing for construction. If memory serves it was the largest viking village discovery in Europe. The people protested, the city government ignored them. The site must have had massive tourist potential. The building they've plonked over the site is not even architecturally impressive. It's boring and disrespectful to it's location and the nearby heritage sites. What bloody minded sacrilege.

Surely the most hated building in Dublin

We head in to Vaults Live and are directed to a waiting room upstairs, the first among a group of about a dozen people. The show consists of us moving from room to room, sometimes escorted by historical characters.  Along the way we meet other personalities from Irish History who engage with the audience for a bit of craic. They are each very good. We start with Brigid, a herbalist from around the time of St Patrick. She gives Hubby some herbs to combat the heartburn she has suggested that he suffers. Later she suggests he might share it with me as a sedative when I am startled by a shriek from an alleged banshee relevant to the story Brigid is telling. Other characters include Bram Stoker and Molly Malone, a judge, who calls one of our group to the dock and of course a Viking called Ikea (pronounced ickia"). Ikea makes lots of jokes about planks and flat packs and challenges someone to volunteer to fight him. The group sits quietly as though hoping Ikea won't notice they're there and pick on them. I mutter that if photographs were allowed I'd make Hubby volunteer, Ikea readily agrees and our camera is passed to a fellow guest for the purpose. It's all good fun. We exit through the little gift shop and tea room, browse and buy a few things and Hubby has a coffee, me a water as we chat to the friendly guy serving. Then we're off to find some dinner. 

Still raining we head down to the Brazen Head wander in but it's very busy and noisy and we're very tired so we end up just end up walking in the rain back along the Liffey, to a room service dinner from the food joint next to the hotel.  An early night is called for. The food delivered was pretty ordinary, other than the chowder Hubby got, which was lovely. We flake out and sleep. For a while at any rate. 

Day 0 - The Battle of the Packing and arrival in Dublin

Saturday 14 September 2019
Last minute wrinkles are ironed out. Last moment work tasks completed, out of office and voicemail messages recorded. We've checked in. Got our boarding passes sorted. Bad night's sleep so hoping to sleep on the plane.

The Battle of the Packing is joined. Hubby sets his suitcase and carry on case on his side of the bed. I have arrayed similar on mine. Slow and easily distracted I go over and over the essentials leaving showering and dressing to the last minute so we stay fresh as long as possible during the journey. Message friends. Laugh. Reminisce. 

Hubby lists a few things and among them is his passport and where he's put it. Ah, yes, I was forgetting that. Bit of an oversight that. Hubby's on fire, he's got his almost done and wandered downstairs. I look over and see his bags overflowing. Hmmm. How are we going to fit souvenir blankets and bulky woollens in that, I think to myself. Hubby's not known for his packing mastery. I inspect. 3 pairs of really heavy shoes and his supportive house flip flops. Battle is joined.
"You don't need 3 pairs of shoes!" "Yes, I do!" he replies. "What if my shoes get dirty?" Of course he needs his current pair of every day shoes, his old pair of every day shoes a nice pair of shoes for going out.  Totally a no brainer. Note to self: I could use these shoes for my weight workout. I carefully repack to make them fit. 

"Why have you packed panty liners?" I yell down over the void. "They're for you." They weigh nearly nothing but they can go. That's thoughtful, but FFS when have I ever asked him if he's carrying some panty liners I can borrow.

I wonder what's in this little black zipper case. I unzip. WTF! It's the (very unwelcome) electric shaver I bought him as a joke in the mid 1990s. He thought he would surprise me. That birthday anecdote has been getting quite a bit of airing recently. Well, he still can. I WILL be surprised if he uses that bloody thing for more than a day or two in our four week trip. He wins again.

In the end I cull only the shorts, which I'm confident he won't need in Ireland and northern England in September and October, and one of the merinomink jumpers. Rearranged to remove the gaps between items there's room for at least a couple of woollen souvenirs. 

I blog. I check the time. Decide to shower. Maybe that will perk me up a bit. 

We've no snacks for the flight. It's a long long flight over 23 hours and then we have roughly another 4 hours to Dublin.
At the allotted time, Son-in-law 1 pops around and he and Grandson load our luggage in the back of the Prado. It's such a joy to see Gson modelling himself on his, most excellent, father. We pop around to say farewells to the girls. Hubby of course expresses his anxiety about not having snacks for the flight. Donations from the NevCot pantry are duly offered. Soon enough we're back in the car and I'm realising I've left without my laptop. Oops. As we drive back home, I check the train timetable again. Trackwork. WTF. But I checked not that long ago and there was nothing. Change of plans. SIL1 will take the kids to the school fair while D1 drives us to the airport. Deal. This turns out to be a good thing as we were wanting to talk about some important things that have been going on for her. Traffic was fine and we had a lovely chat to the friendly Qantas lady who was manning the BA bag drop desk. Fast Forward.....we're heading through one of the many face recognition stations involved in getting to our destination. I go first. No probs. Hubby steps up with some trepidation. These devices aren't that great at recognising him. He's done this before so he's less puzzled than on past occasions but he doesn't know where he's supposed to look. I wish I had a video camera trained on him because from where I'm standing his eyes are rolling around looking like some sort of horror movie predator.
As we move on through the security screening, I step up to take my turn, random belongings in carry on bag, laptop in its own tray. Neck pillow and raincoat in the next tray, carry on baggage on the rollers facing the right way...the Border Force operative whose turn it is to help people get their sorry selves organised compliments me on my efficiency. "You've travelled before haven't you. I can tell." For such a trivial achievement I must say felt rather chuffed at the compliment.
Fast forward....we're on the flight. I get stuck right in and watch British Made: All is True.  All is boring and pointless. Kenneth Branagh. Should have known. What is next?  Tolkien. We'd wanted to see that when it was showing at our favourite cinema but didn't get a chance. It takes me a while as I slept at intervals throughout, no fault of the movie itself, it was very interesting.  The in flight food wasn't as nice as we've had before on BA. I selected window seat and I'm glad of it and get a pretty decent amount of sleep all things considered. I can feel my knee getting the shits about the whacky angle my legs need to adopt to avoid the obstacles of the chair in front.
I'm in pretty good nick when we touch down for our refuelling stop in Singapore. Here we have a highlight of our journey so far. The toilets are GREAT! The seat senses when you stand up and flushes automatically. No germy buttons. Hubby tells me that you need to be careful not to lean back or the wash function gives you a bit of a surprise! The cleaner looked a bit astonished when I returned with my camera!

Back on board we have a spare seat next to Hubby due to a malfunctioning entertainment system. Yippee! Another 13 hours, it's dark now so my blind stays up. Clear skies enable me to periodically watch the web of lights below as we track across the middle east, Azerbaijan and Romania. The tracery of lights intensifies as we cross Europe nearing London, now labelled in the distance on our flight path. At one point I think of bombing raids over the continent. We've a full moon tonight and the light shines on the lakes below, beams forming a moving halo of brilliant silver that moves across and around the edges of the water. Wow!! Seriously.WOW!

With only a few hours remaining I resort to watching my downloaded Netflix - newly released as I was preparing for departure I downloaded Unbelievable in its entirety. It's a beauty.
It's more of the usual transiting through Heathrow. The only moment of puzzlement I feel is that I feel no puzzlement navigating to where we need to be. It is SO good to be walking around. We did our in flight exercises regularly but my knee seriously hates long haul so I'm less than comfy on the walking front. The layover timing is just about perfect.

It's grey and light drizzle in Dublin. It's down the stairs and across the tarmac to the terminal building. There's stairs but my knee demands I take the lift. Then it's the long airport walks. This time though, I notice two things: 1. why have the airports in hot destinations (eg Singapore and Darwin) carpeted their terminal buildings and walkways, where cooler climates have (sensibly) used a hard surface that's more luggage wheel friendly? 2. We walk along what would be a fairly industrial corridor but there's some photographs and the walls are coloured and there's patterns printed on the glass windows. There's a plane among it all that looks very familiar but I walk on among the crowd. Then a plaque. I see the words "Southern Cross" ... hang on... wait a minute. "Southern Cross" will always get an Aussie's attention. I stop to read. We set out from Kingsford Smith Airport and have arrived in Dublin to an art installation commemorating the famous flight of the Southern Cross by Charles Kingsford Smith which departed from Ireland.

We head for W H Smith to get a local SIM. This option turns out to be pretty shitty. A truly crap plan for a lot of money. I almost turn and leave in disgust. Then mulling it over I figure we'll buy one for me and get a better plan for Hubby later.  Trouble is, without connectivity we 1. Won't know where to go to get a better plan 2. Even if I'd done better research and had the information of where is best to go, we wouldn't find it. We've travelled to the northern hemisphere enough to know that we couldn't find our way to the exit without google maps keeping us on the right path. Hemisphere disorientation is extreme for us. Convenience is king.
We toy with just getting a cab, but in the end we end up on the airport express as I had planned, for which we just pay for a single journey at the little manned hut by the departure point. The young lady selling us the tickets marks our stop for us on the brochure and it's all simplicity from there. Easy to wheel our luggage over to the Temple Bar Hotel and the rain holds off. The check in staff are very helpful and we drop the bags and head out for a look about.

We're off to Ireland, Liverpool and the Lakes - soon anyway

Over the last little year I've been planning our next big trip. Since our trip to Scotland we've had a jaunt across to Western Australia and another to Far North Queensland, both unblogged.
As we just can't seem to slow the pace, we've restricted ourselves to 4 weeks this time. The down side is that I reckon 1 additional stay at each of our stops would be about perfect so time over I'd be tempted to add another week, but the money is not infinite and we are extravagant travellers so there's got to be some sort of restraint if we're to be able to fund future trips.
Our choices around which areas to focus on have been based on a general theme of family history and bucket list ticks. County Down and Belfast have links to two lines of my family as does Liverpool if only for a long period of residence before my Andersons/McCulloughs migrated to join family who had come directly to Australia twenty years before. We do miss so many other wonderful places in Ireland, but as always I hope one day to have an opportunity to return.
Our itinerary goes like this:

Dublin - 2 nights
Trim - 1 night
Airport hotel - 1 night
Castle Leslie - 2 nights
Newcastle - 2 nights
Strangford - 1 night
Helen's Tower - 2 nights
Ballintoy - 1 night
Derry - 2 nights
Ardara - 1 night
Donegal Town - 1 night
Belfast - 3 nights
Liverpool - 2 nights
Grasmere - 3 nights

So, that's a lot more 1 night stops than we usually aim for. It will be interesting to see how we cope with that!

Traditional Aussie BBQ

Day 38 - Newark Park, Bourton-on-the-Water and to Heathrow via Burford

Tetbury

Our last day. Let’s make it great. I had all sorts of intentions of getting away nice and early and going like the clappers. We don’t. We’re repacking. Hubby’s been banished from the process more or less. This takes packing skill. I’m not quite to the level of expert that my son-in-law is with trailers, boots and sheds, but I’m good. Everything out. Redistribute the weight. The carry-on bag that can be 23 kg is getting the heaviest books, lighter books and a few more books buffered by my souvenir Isle of Mull hoodie. We can only carry food and fragile on the plane this time along with the essentials like noise cancelling headphones, which although excellent are reasonably bulky. Done. But look at the time. We’ll be right up against the 11am check out limit.  Oh. Well that’s not all bad. We can go to have a quick look at Newark Park. It doesn’t open until 11.

It’s only 10 mins to Newark Park. Lovely scenic route but that goes without saying doesn’t it? We’re in the Cotswolds. Heck we’re in England, Britain, divvy it up however you like we haven’t come across an ugly backroads landscape on this island yet. A large paddock has been nominated as the parking area and a little temporary ticket hut and toilet block has been set up. We do the usual National Trust entry routine and head on. There’s a number of what look like lovely walks around the Estate. Obviously we’re not doing those but I’m sorely tempted. 

I go through the gate to the start of the shorter of the walks called into the dim shade by the siren calling of the local birds. I realise the peril and tear myself from the grasping, feathered claws and break through the gate back to safety. Let’s just go to the views and make this quick. An attractive stone walled ditch crusted with moss, small ferns and other greenery underlines the row of trees lining a boundary. 

A carpet of pink where tiny cyclamen are naturalised,it is highlighted where the mowers have stopped. Others bravely poke their flowers up daintily through the roughly clipped grass here and there. A café has been established at the edge of a large rough grass lawn. Tables are out in the open, chairs tilted to avoid sitting water.

I’m making straight around the house to find the view which drifts on forever as far as the Mendips. Or so the sign tells us. It’s not all that clear today but it doesn’t really matter, the view is lovely. A Buddleia nearby is flowering fitfully, its cultivation seemingly limited to an occasional clipping. It is none-the-less attracting the attention of the butterflies who sit uncurling their long tongues in the deep tubes then flutter and settle again and again. It feels like coming full circle and my mind is thrown back to the abundant and cossetted Buddleia at Dalqueich Farm early in our trip and the frenzy of butterflies there seeking a sugar rush to power their short lives. It takes almost no time to walk through. A small garden is walled in from the view, herbaceous border basking in the sun against the bricks. There’s a touch of whimsy from a sheep statue painted in convincing zebra stripes and a promise of autumn bounty from immature bunches of grapes on a vine over a small folly. The whole is presided over by a man sitting smoking on stone steps that run down from French doors out of the house. The flowers in the herbaceous border are mostly past their best display. We’re not the only ones in wind down mode today.

We backtrack around the house and notice a feature we’ve been told to look out for in our travels, the fake exterior windows. Many houses had windows bricked up when the window tax was implemented. They are not immediately obvious at a glance, but there’s plenty of black checked faux windows on Newark House.

On the steps into the house a coarse mat is provided for us to wipe our feet and step into the interior. There’s clearly a good training program for National Trust workers, we again go through the guest reception script, it is so consistent across the various properties. We’re welcome to get some refreshments from the café and sit in the interior of the house to consume them should we wish. Highlights of the house are explained. The whole was constructed over several key periods, starting with a Tudor hunting lodge that retains many original features, later extensions added to the house rather than overwriting it.

We spend a half hour or so quietly moving from room to room, reading the information boards about the families who lived here across the hundreds of years since the hunting lodge days. Most information is about the period from the 19^th century with a particular focus on the two world wars and the roles that the house played in these intense periods of national trauma and loss. There’s clearly not been much chance yet to progress any significant program of restoration work. We chat with a staff member in the master bedroom where redecoration and modification for a Laura Ashley photo shoot has left its imprint.  As much as I like schmick, it is interesting to see Newark Park in its state of faded glory.. which should not be interpreted as my thinking it should be left as it is...

A friendly man makes sure I go right into a little cubby hole and get the full appreciation of the medieval garderobe. …No you need to go right over and look right down… I go back in and do as he watches on in satisfaction. How extraordinary that was never filled in. The stink was thought to protect the clothes hanging in that space over the hole from moths. Gosh people must have reeked back then. Possibly my favourite feature is the water closet. I’d come to think of WC as a term for toilet, but this closet is located towards the top of the stairs and served as a water point for the filling of hip baths. I think of the tour we did of Como House in Melbourne years ago which in the mid 19^th century had showers installed. To have a shower the staff would have to carry many gallons of hot water up across the roof and into the ceiling and manually fill the water tank for each person. What a boon it would have been to have this water closet and a family still happy to have baths, and again, how extraordinary that it is still there in what looks like pretty much original condition. In all the many houses we’ve visited we’ve never seen a water closet before. On the final level there is an art exhibition. Just a low key affair of local amateurs by the look of it.

We are all done by 12:30 ish. We’ve browsed the room where a little gift shop is operating and carry a teeny little wooden jigsaw puzzle of the glass feature window in the house across to the young girl serving.  It’s not expensive and I have cash, reaching into my wallet for a £5 note I had across the pounds Stirling. That’s Scottish money, I can’t take that. She says. You’re not serious. I say. Nope, she’s never seen one of those before so she’s not accepting it. Don’t I have some English money? But this is a 5 pound Stirling note. Sir Walter Scott stares blankly out of the blue. I do have an English fiver and just shake my head and hand it over. What the? So now we’re wondering about this system were the notes are issued by the banks. Scottish by the Bank of Scotland and English by the Bank of England. Well, I say, perhaps Scotland needn’t have worried about losing the pound had they voted yes, if their money isn’t good enough in England anyway. I wonder how many everyday slights like this go on around the place. Time to go. We’ve spent more time here than we really intended but it’s of no real matter. Where next?

I check the manifesto. It’s now after 12.30. We’ve got all afternoon to kill but quite a long way to drive and I have no intention of taking the fastest route. We program Tommie to head for Burton on the Water. I’m thinking perhaps of seeing the penguins fed at the Bird Park. We mosey on over, no music this morning, we’re just enjoying the countryside and I’m vege-ing out. 

As we near I’m expecting some sort of park and ride but Tommie takes us to the council parking lot and we pay and display. More than we need to as it turns out. The entrance to the Bird Park is close by but first I want to take a wander down along the water and see the village. Hubby parks himself on a bench. The water is a wide, shallow, man-made affair. Obviously cleaned regularly. No slime or life in it as far as I can see. In fact I’m rather surprised people don’t throw money in it. Perhaps they do and the local council is proactively banking it. I walk up as far as the pedestrian bridge. Watch as a 4WD splashes through the water next to it. Up a little further so I can see what else is around other than the hordes of people. 

There’s some ducks paddling about looking hopeful. Nice homes with frontages to the footpath along the water. A few cafes. The ambience is somewhat lacking though it feels like a theme park. Quite sterile. Yeah, look, I hate to say it but I really don’t like this place. I head back to Hubby. He’s walking this way now.  We head back to the entrance of the Bird Park. I study the map. I just want to be somewhere else. Hubby’s decided he wants a look for himself up where I’ve been, feet or no feet. I go with him and we stroll along the water again. My antipathy is rising. We should get some lunch given it’s now after 2pm. I have a half-hearted look at the menus along the way. Meh. I am developing a strong urge to get out of this place. We opt for a pastie and a sausage roll from a place that has both small shop entrance and hole in the wall servery for ice cream. We’re eating our food as we walk. Yeah. Well, it wasn’t very nice food really. Back at the carpark Hubby want’s to take the opportunity for the facilities seeing as we’re here. Another place where you have to pay, this time it’s a turnstile sort of situation and you have to put in your money to get the turnstile to work.

OK. Get me out of here. 

Well, let’s drive to Heathrow via Stow on the Wold and Burford. I don’t know what Tommie means by Via. We didn’t see anything that looked like a Stow let alone one that’s located on a Wold or park and ride or anything that would tip us off as to where to go to visit the village. We drive on. I don’t care.

Heading to Burford is more interesting. We particularly enjoyed some of A361 and pull over to enjoy the expansive views. We pass carefully through nice little villages quietly keeping their light under a bushel. Good for them. A Porsche goes screaming past us, travelling like a bat out of hell. Moron. We hope the cops get him. By a quarter past three we are driving at traffic speed down the main street of Burford. Ooh, I like this place a lot. There’s lots of people but reason for them. The street is lined with interesting businesses and it just feels like a real, timeless place.  Lots of character with bustle. I guess we should stop for some afternoon tea, but we don’t. 

Given how much we’ve enjoyed the driving I think perhaps we should go see Banbury Cross. We tell Tommie about it. It’s all a bit ramshackle and incompetently conceived but in my defence I am sick. We get on and off and on the motorway and rapidly give up.

As drive we discuss the things we haven’t seen yet, which includes Oxford and Cambridge, they are things for the short list next time. In the end illness and apathy overwhelm the desire to eek every last moment from our time on the ground. We just let our robot master take us to Heathrow the final stages now somewhat familiar along 4 lane each way high speed motorway. We hit a very small period of congestion but we’re pulling up to the Enterprise depot to hand in our car half an hour early. 

I muck up the check in and Hubby mucks up security. We're a sorry old pair of travellers. Just as well we resolved not to leave our travel until we're retired. God knows what condition we'll be in by then. We're incompetent enough now. 

I'll spare you the blow by blow detail of our flights home. When we finally touch down in Sydney immigration and customs are a total shit fight. Conditions aren't suitable for flights such as ours to land during curfew as scheduled so we had an extra hour sitting on the tarmac at Singapore and now the processing arrangements are overwhelmed as the planes which have been backed up spew forth their passengers all at once.  The layout with the machines is confusing for people as well. What a debacle. 

Day 37 - Highgrove Garden and Chedworth Roman Villa

We’re supposed to be exploring Tetbury this morning. We’re in no hurry to get out again and are taking it slow. Anyone would think this was a holiday. Hubby checks the manifesto to make sure we’ve got it right about the time for our garden tour at Highgrove. Yep it’s not until 2 pm. We’re slowly getting ourselves psyched up to wander about in Tetbury. Better get the tickets out of the blue folder I suggest. We should have them ready so we don’t have to come back here. We don’t want anything to go wrong. Hubby can’t see where the folder is so I retrieve grab it and extract said tickets. A deep yawning pit opens up in my stomach and my heart falls through it to hell. Our garden tour is at 10 am. Please don’t arrive until 9.45. I already know we’ve missed it but what time is it now? 10.20. There aren’t words to encompass what this feels like. I am not sure I can feel anything at all. It’s one of those awful situations where emotion has to be suspended and you just cling on and get through. The whole time since London has been to put us in this place on this day to do this tour. To make sure that if I never manage to get back to the UK I have at least seen Highgrove even if it’s not at the best time of year.

Hubby groans when prompted but phones the number on the tickets. They can’t do anything as they are just a ticket office. They give him another number to ring and he speaks to a lady at Highgrove. Where are we? Tetbury. Oh good. They can put us on the next tour. It’s a shame because they just had a group go out with only 11 people on it. We hightail it out of Tetbury, making sure we’re armed with the instructions for how to find the entrance. It’s only a 5 minute drive but we don’t have long until the tour starts. We miss the turn at first, reread the instructions turn around back along the road and turn in. I’m living on the edge of panic now and it’s threatening my ability to think and interpret the instructions clearly.

Our names are with the policeman on the gate and he tells us everyone’s waiting for us. We park. We hurry over. The rest of the group is watching a video welcome by Prince Charles. I’m sorry to have missed any of that but we get the end and better to miss a little than the whole tour. I’m so grateful and relieved they were able to accommodate us. It’s not the best of weather today. Perhaps that’s helped.

Video over, we file out and meet our guide whose name if I recall correctly is Lisa Nicole. She’s got an upper crust accent and a rather sarcastic sense of humour. We are not allowed to use either our phones or cameras anywhere during our tour. With all the rain recently she hopes that we’re prepared for some wet ground. If your shoes are immaculate now, they won’t be when we’re finished. She is herself wearing a style of Wellington boot that has fasteners on the side of the calf to bring the boot in snug and not leave that gaping cavern that so craves things dropping into it. They look pretty stylish really.

It’s just as well I plan to return to Highgrove some time because I was fairly slack on the note taking. No doubt I’ll have forgotten a lot. On the day I thought perhaps you should just relax and enjoy the tour. Stupid. Lazy. Imbecilic. Sigh. Well, I suppose I was a bit less than 100%. I don’t remember the order that we saw the various garden sections in, so I’ll have to resort to a grab bag of memories. There’s a few things I did note down... Ah yes, the yew hedges are being clipped today so sorry about the noise but the work must go on. The hedges are clipped once a year and there’s a lot involved in it logistically because the clippings are used for the production of the cancer drug Tamoxifen. Obviously the makers of the drug don’t want small quantities and they need it fresh so the whole activity needs to be coordinated and you need a fair bit of room to be able to do it.

There’s a team of 14 gardeners. 14! Oh wouldn’t it be fun to be a royal gardener! There’s plenty of topiary. Of course. Prince Charles makes no secret of his love of topiary and there’s new works in the making. Some, we are told, are Archimedean shapes representing the elements. The topiary seems to principally be done with yew, as are the hedges. Yew does seem like a very useful plant. Some of the hedging was designed by Roy Strong and I can see the similarity to elements of The Laskett (his famous garden).

The wildflower meadow is a cropped green pasture at the moment. Sheep graze contentedly under the trees. At this time of year the sheep grazing helps to impress the fallen seeds of the wildflowers into the ground for germination. At first they had a sort of wild unimproved sheep breed. But they were, well, too wild. They tended to eat the bark on the trees and be a bit destructive so they had to go. Then they tried Welsh sheep but they were wanderers and would bolt for the exit the minute an opportunity arose. Accomplished escapologists, they too had to go and make way for these cut little dumpling Shropshire sheep who are very well behaved.

The sheep aren’t the only inhabitants of the home farm. Another paddock is home to rare breed cattle. We look over the gate in an opening in a pointy topped hedge. Lisa drily observes “…they’re very rare today.” There’s not a single beast in sight. There’s a point to the hedges in more ways than one. They’ve found that clipping to a point helps keep moisture out of the centre of the hedge and thereby helps to prevent disease, which is obviously very important in any context but especially so in an organic garden. We’re standing near a large urn that grows flowers in season the centre piece of which is always a beautiful rich magenta Dahlia. In the colder months the whole enormous thing is moved out of the elements. We also hear about the sewage garden. Unfortunately it’s not part of the tour. I’m disappointed not to see that. I’ve always wanted a sewage garden. They’re useful here but just imagine how precious the water re-use is in a dry Australian garden. Our guide tells us that it is very attractive and it handles all the waste from the visitor facilities as well as the house.

Here and there access is barred by arches of bent willow coppiced in the sewage garden. This is to protect the grass which under the wet conditions and high visitor numbers would turn to a muddy track. Our route takes us past good viewing spots for the Thyme Walk and through what was originally a “mushroom” themed garden. There’s a seat that reflects the theme but lately it’s been decided to change the shape of the topiary so the Prince has invited some student artists to come in and come up with ideas.

Across in what was the Southern Hemisphere garden a heavy winter has cut through the collection of NZ tree ferns that were a gift to the Prince for his birthday. 60 tree ferns for 60 years. Those that remain look far from happy. The climate is simply too harsh and they have had to supplement plantings with hardier items.  One of the group comments. “There’s not many hydrangeas in the garden is there.” Lisa, quite understandably confused says “You’re being sarcastic aren’t you?” or words to that effect. With a straight face he says he’s not. I can understand her bemused reaction. The garden has so many hydrangeas of different varieties, it is hard to fathom how he’s missed them. More are to come, our guide assures the unobservant fellow. You’ll be eating your words very soon!

In the walled garden apple trees are trained over a framework that is arched across the path. A couple of the gardeners are picking the ripe apples. Someone asks what they do with the apples, then follows with a question about the crab apples. The crab apples are Golden Hornet and they are purely ornamental. We have some free time to wander about in the confined area within the walls. It’s a productive vegetable garden mainly but in a creative way mixed with some lovely flowers. The tour group takes off in opposite directions craving some private time to enjoy their visit. We regroup and head on and the little terrier takes his chance to get out and about with us, despite the care that our tail end takes to close the gate behind us. There’s numerous gates along our route as we move from area to area.

The final garden is another where we can wander about briefly. It’s another walled garden that was done for the Chelsea Flower Show. It was inspired by a Persian carpet in the house and the prince thought that it would be good to design a Persian garden with features based on the pattern of the carpet. There’s an olive tree and a lovely fountain which is based around a huge polished marble bowl, scalloped like a flower. It must have cost a bleeping fortune to make the various elements of this space, let alone put it at Chelsea and then dismantle it all and ship it home. I wonder if the mosaic tiles are made especially for it. We wander to the far end and look back toward the gate. This is where a seat is positioned and it is indeed the best aspect.

Our tour concludes and we adjourn to the Orangery restaurant where an area has been set aside for our group. It’s quite a slick affair.  A young girl comes and takes our order.  Oh lord, now what did we eat? There’s a range of things offered, some more substantial and costly than others. In the end I went with a cheese scone. I seem to recall it came with other things: salad, and butter …and that I took great care to eat the salad first and leave myself some scone to finish and savour. Gosh it was a good scone. Lighter than we’ve found typical and the most delicious cheesiness. I’d be a happy woman if I could make a cheese scone as good as that one.  There’s no cameras or mobiles allowed anywhere and we discover this applies to absolutely everywhere on the property when we go to check our messages and are politely reminded. Well, it wasn’t actually clear that it was everywhere and not just on the actual tour. Never mind. Hubby has chosen some breaded chicken croquettes which are also of a particularly superior quality. You wouldn’t want to visit Highgrove and skip the Orangery.

The cheese scone was so good we decide to spend a bit more time admiring the portraits of the royal family that are hung around the room and sample the cream tea. The artwork is quite impressionistic and pretty good. I wonder if they are also by the Prince.  Our cream tea arrives and it is good but not such a stand out as its cheesy relative. I think I prefer whipped cream with scones rather than the clotted cream.

Now all there is left to do is check out the gift shop. They have so many lovely things. I throw caution to the winds and buy a glass bowl by a local artist who has designed a lovely pattern of wildflowers that she has cut into the interior of the bowl. It’s similar to the glass vases I have a little collection of, decorated with Australian plants and flowers and I presume is made the same way with two layers and glass, a stencil and sandblasting. I take a leap of faith as to my packing abilities and it’s coming home with us. The expense of the bowl means that I pull my head in on the dreaming of other items from the Highgrove range. So many beautiful things.

It’s after 2.30 by the time we’re back in the real world and deciding how to spend the rest of the day. Thinking of browsing the antique stores in Tetbury makes my wallet flinch. What if we find something irresistible? Better stay away!  Let’s go take a bit of a reccie at the Westonbirt Arboretum. This isn’t difficult or far, we’ve passed it on the way to Highgrove. We go in briefly but figure it’s a place that requires you to be on your feet, talking a walk among the trees. I want keep us off our feet if I can. 

Let’s just go wandering about in the Cotswolds. Hubby’s generally just happy to do what I suggest. We head for Cirencester, favour bestowed by the appearance of a rainbow resplendent over the road, then I think, why don’t we check out Stow on the Wold or Bourton on the water. Tommie is instructed accordingly. However we get waylaid by brown tourist signs suggesting that we turn ahead if we’d like to see Chedworth Roman Villa. Turn!  …and he does! 

We’re doing the motoring version of ambling along delightful quiet and narrow roads alongside pastures and cropping land, a burst of autumn woodsmoke in the air . There are some fairly decent slopes along the road and views out across the beautiful patchwork landscape. A field of stubble is absolutely crawling with pheasants. There must be hundreds of them. They congregate at the edge of the field and wander across the road at their leisure. We slow, no-one behind us and stop to watch and photograph for a minute or two, Hubby keeping his eyes on the road ahead and behind us. Chedworth Roman Villa is at the head of a beautiful small valley, nestled among a stand of woodland. We park at the first obvious spot and I start walking in getting a bit ahead of Hubby. There’s heaps of parking spaces much closer to the visitor centre so I let Hubby know before he gets too far and he brings the car up.

We arrive just before 4pm which is just enough time to follow the trail using the audio guide. We’re too late for the guided tours. My long standing antipathy to ancient cultures, well, let’s be more accurate, any culture that smacks of association with a biblical period, is well known but I’m determined to conquer it. This site is small. Distracted by the Tits feeding on the seed heads growing among the stone ruins I eventually snap out of it and press the next audio guide number.  

There’s different options you can choose. A narrative by a character from the Roman period who would have visited this site or a more factual curator lead exploration, or indeed if you’ve got kids along, there’s an option specifically designed for families. I sample the first two options and settle on the curator led trail. The mosaics are beautiful and make me think that it might be rather fun to do something similar at home some time. We’ve learned about the underfloor heating technology at Bath but a refresher doesn’t hurt and they have examples of a number of different luxury levels for room heating. The ruins are complemented by an exhibition of art works and of course, there’s the birds. And picnic tables, and views down the valley. This would be a completely brilliant spot for a picnic. Wealthy Romans weren’t stupid, they chose a lovely situation for the villa and a convenient one. Apparently this is more or less on an important hub for routes between important places back in the day.

Well there’s no surprises is there. There’s a bird feeder hanging from a tree over on the lawn and a bench seat close by. Maybe too close by. I take a seat and withstand some light rain. Pulling my hood up on my rain jacket. There’s a Nuthatch hanging about and at least one Great Tit alongside the Blue Tits. I’m armed with a camera. I’m sure when I’m dead and the children are going through the photos they will laugh. Oh God no, not more terrible photos of British bird feeders!

Hubby’s prowling around the outside of the Victorian era museum. It’s not long to closing time. I give up my pointless bird feeder obsession and head over to talk to Hubby. He fills me in on what he saw inside the museum. I can live without it. There’s signs around talking about the local wildlife. They have a good variety of bats that come out in the evening and activities aimed at enjoying them… or was that studying them. No substantial difference in my book!

We hang back to the last minute and then head back through the doors, not the last of the visitors to come out. We were the only ones here when we arrived some people came in a little while after us and they’re hanging on to the end and are still exploring.

I browse the gift shop and chat to the friendly lady on the desk while Hubby ducks off to use the facilities. It’s the usual sort of conversation. Are we visiting the area? Where are we staying? Have you been here long? That sort of thing. We fly out tomorrow I say. Have you visited Newark Park? She asks when I say we’re staying in Tetbury. It’s only recently opened after having been leased to caretakers for a long while. It’s a delightful spot with beautiful views and there’s a café there. You can sit in the house. She hands me a leaflet as Hubby walks over and we say goodbye.

We walk back to the car chatting. I ease his curiosity about what we talked about, then we get on our way home. It’s been a lovely drive and I’m not quite ready to end it yet. As we’re passing the pheasant field a little flock wanders across the road. Hubby comments on their behaviour noting that they couldn’t be bothered flying out of the way. I glance at what he’s talking about. They don’t fly because they are not pheasants. They’re quail I venture. Then a better look. No. They’re not quail. What are they? I think they might be Partridges! The birds reach the other side of the road and most of them hop over into the stubble field. One bird sits on the stone wall staring us down.  I exclaim as I desperately snap away. Yes, I think they are Partridges. A flock of Partridges! Fantastic! We move along when a car starts approaching on the road behind us.

Ha! Hide your legs! You can't fool me Red-legged Partridge!

It’s another lovely drive through quiet roads most of the way back. I sit revelling in the beautiful scenery. A wide gate hangs open against a fallow field. The brown earth laid bare in welcome to teasing clouds overhead, awaiting the life giving kiss of rain.
I am generally not a huge fan of covering the same road twice so I direct Hubby to take the turn to Chedworth. Let’s have a look and go back a different way. We travel slowly down a steep and narrow hill and where Chedworth (I assume this is Chedworth) is nestled in the crook of a valley. Utterly charming. I’ll be looking up B&Bs here… just interested to know what’s around.

I’m tempted to keep wandering but Hubby is tired and the sensible part of me asserts itself and we just program Tommie for home, arriving at pretty much bang on 6pm. Hubby’s keen to eat. I’m keen to just chill out for a bit before going downstairs. We’re not being adventurous tonight, just heading back to eat in-house.

We creak open the door to the pub and wander in. Well, the door doesn’t actually creak, that’s just its emotional repertoire. It’s an old fashioned thumb operated latch on the door into the bar from the airlock after you come in through the front door proper. There’s no obvious places available to sit. Hubby enquires of the staff. All full, sorry there’s no tables available. We’ve been reading the compendium in our room. 1. No reservations are allowed for tables in the bar. Really? Looking around numerous tables are empty with reserved signs on them. 2. Reservations can only be made for the dining room upstairs. Really? What dining room upstairs would that be? 3. The start for breakfast time is also different. Someone needs to update that compendium methinks.  Our expression probably says it all for us. An executive decision is taken and instructions are given to open the dining room upstairs. Could we just hang on a tick while they get it ready for us. This seems to take a surprisingly long time and I’m feeling pretty p’d off and probably look it. I’m getting to a point where I’m tempted to just go eat somewhere else. There’s other options. We’d rather not though really. In any case, as I’ve mentioned before Hubby is nicer than me, he’s prepared to be more patient and in reality it probably wasn’t long at all. I’m in danger of reaching fully fledged grumpy old womanhood. We are directed upstairs all apologies for the wait. Naturally we have our pick of tables which is nice. It’s a beautiful space. This is without question a lovely property and let’s face it, after a long trip of endless self-indulgence the poor old Royal Oak is competing against a pretty high bench mark. 

We’re talking among ourselves for a while, drinks on the way. Hubby’s going for that Camden Stout again. He really enjoyed that last night. I don’t remember the last time he was so effusive in describing his beer. That is clearly a memorable drop.  In a short time, when I’ve had time to settle down, the owner of the establishment comes up and introduces herself.  Sorry about my dog last night. I recognise her. She’s the owner of the big mostly well behaved dog. Oh, yours was OK. The others were a bit of a pain though. She’s done the right thing. She’s engaging with us and showing us some excellent hospitality. We chat about how they came to buy the property and do it up as a pub. They’ve done a brilliant job of it. I’ve seen A frame oak roofs like this on grand designs with Kevin McCleod gushing about their rarity and beauty. They are beautiful. It’s been a steep learning curve running the pub. My mood is lifting. Their heart’s in the right place. I let her know about the compendiums in the rooms.  The communication is so important and the non-conformance to what it told us is well, it is just not good is it. Apparently this southern end of the Cotswolds is a bit more industrial than the tourist magnet northern Cotswolds. Really? Industrial? Nothing whatever lacking in charm in Tetbury. Nothing at all.

Tonight I decide I’m trying that burger but not after I confirm that there’s more on it than is described on the menu.  Hubby goes for steak and chips. We’re too full for dessert again. We’ve had a nice meal. This is a nice place to stay run by nice people in a lovely Cotswolds town. I’m prepared to cut them some slack. A few minor wrinkles that’s all and our room is very comfortable. The ratings are high online and I won’t challenge them. I’m pleased we chose to stay at the Royal Oak and I would do so again. Good on them for having a go and having the decency to come talk to us when we were clearly unhappy. Ah, isn’t the interpersonal connection just so important.

Day 36 - The Hawk Conservancy, a drive and arrival in Tetbury

It’s a rainy day today. We have a decision to make. We could hang about in Portsmouth until we need to drive up to Tetbury or we could just head off and make a day of the drive. I’ve got my eye on a couple of potential stops and scenic routes. There’s still plenty we think would be interesting to see at the Portsmouth Historic Dockyard. Hubby’s leaving it to me but I’m tired of being on my feet and I’m worried about his after weeks of flogging shanks pony. We decide to head off and make a day of the drive.

After a lovely breakfast and a nice farewell chat with our hostess we tell the TomTom to take us to Petersfield. It’s the scenic route and I have an agenda. I need to find some Bassett’s Sherbet Lemons to take home to my mum. Last time I was here I found them at the servo up near Petersfield heading in the same general direction.  When we come to a service station Hubby pulls in to fill up and I go into the store. Sure enough, a rack of my target prey. There you are my little beauties, you’re mine. Excellent. A couple more of the Fry’s Turkish Delight to take back for Mum as well and we’re away again.

Gees, what is it with this thing. The phone keeps insisting on randomly selecting Australian tracks. Gurumul, John Williamson, I draw the line at Down Under, skip that today. Is the music reflecting or creating my melancholic mood? The rain feels like the tears that brim and betray my private thoughts. Galleries of pink galahs, crystal nights with diamond stars, apricots preserved in jars, that’s my home. Land of oceans in the sun, purple hazes, river gum, breaks your heart when rain won’t come, it breaks your heart…”. When Aussies get mournful we sing of drought. I’m half home-sick half just sad to have to leave the UK very soon now.

We’re heading for Andover and the Hawk Conservancy.  Aiming to arrive in time for the first flight show of the day but I’m half inclined to just keep driving. It’s the mood.  We’ve arrive in plenty of time. I give myself a mental slap. Snap out of it woman. We make our way in but not until I've stopped to appreciate the song of a robin in a nearby shrub. 

We check out the gift shop briefly and then slowly make our way in the general direction of the Savannah flight arena via a look at the aviaries in that general direction. Along the way we pass a ferret enclosure with little wire tunnels for the animals to run through and a sign advertising regular ferret races. That looks like fun!

They’re very keen on vultures at the Hawk Conservancy and they have a number of species. The King Vulture is pretty spectacular, they are all impressively large. Eagle Owls are not something we get at home whether captive or free so that is interesting. It seems like no time at all before Hubby is hurrying me a long with an alarm about the time. We need to get into position at the savannah flight arena. There’s not a huge number of people here today, it’s school term and not the most inviting weather. The rain threatens but so far holds off. This is a new flight arena and it is incredibly well done but sitting waiting for the show to commence we don’t know the half of it.

The first bird to make its appearance is an African Fish Eagle. This bird we are told is virtually synonymous with Africa. Food is thrown into the water and the eagle neatly drops down and picks it up and is away in a graceful arc. We are even given a count down for photographs but I’m unco-ordinated and repeatedly miss the moment. After a few rounds and a good wing stretch the bird heads off and we await our next visitor.

Tolkien the Milky Eagle Owl flies in. This bird’s specialty seems to be flying very low above the patrons virtually brushing them with its wing tips. He’s another large bird with a very prominent beak for an owl. He swoops back and forth drawing gasps from the audience.

Our next performer is an African Tawny Eagle who makes short work of cleaning up the opportunities for a bite to eat as he flies back and forth and sees what’s going near the mock up buffalo carcass. It does a good job of warming us up for the next, enormous pair of wings to fly towards us from behind the crest of the hillock. This is a White Backed Vulture and it is massive. It has a wing span of around 2 metres. It is an amazing bird to see in flight. Gosh you’d have to have some nerve to handle one of those and support it on your arm with confidence.

But wait, the dry season has reached a point when the savanna is beset by fires. Smoke erupts and several Yellow Billed Kites fly over the burning ground on the look out for food. The handlers throw food skyward and the hawks catch it on the wing in an instant. The fires are followed by replenishing rains and the flight arena bursts into fountains of spray over the pond and surrounding ground.

Meanwhile a couple of meerkats have popped their heads up out of their burrows and appear to be feeding on something. This facility has done a simply marvellous job of putting together this presentation.

Our last demonstration is half performance and half training flight. The flock of Sacred Ibis are coming out and with them a bird that is free flying for the first time so who knows what it will do. The main flight troupe perform immaculately, the new bird nicks off quick sticks to the land behind the hill. The show progresses to its natural conclusion and then we’re told that it’s now a training situation and hopefully the bird will come back.  We smile. It reminds us of the bird show in Darwin where one of their birds of prey, I think it may have been a buzzard, would just routinely leave and not come back. No training situation just that the bird had a mind of its own. It was well known in surrounding districts and people would phone the park to tell them where it was or the bird would just come back in its own good time.

Looking at the program of events across the day it would be just so easy to spend the whole day here relaxing at the tables or picnic ground between items. There’s two more shows and they will go ahead whatever the weather although if the rain is really coming down they may relocate them to the savannah arena where there is some shelter for the visitors.  We are invited to have an English Barn Owl sit on our hand after the show. I get distracted at first and nearly forget Hubby prompts me to get on over there and take my turn. The Owl has the most beautiful plumage. It’s like it’s overlaid with the finest delicate lace. What an exquisite bird.

Hubby and I consider our options for the afternoon over lunch. There’s a large cafeteria onsite with a nice area of outdoor tables for use on sunny days. Hubby goes for Sausages, beans and chips and enjoys that. The chips don’t look all that flash but are actually excellent. I ordered a bacon roll which comes with a reasonable salad. The roll itself was a bit pathetic, one rasher on a huge baguette. It improved a little when I put both halves of the rasher on one half of the baguette, but honestly… someone pop up to the Glencoe Café or the café at the People’s Palace in Glasgow and have a look how a good bacon roll is put together.

It’s a tough decision but the weather looks like it’s deteriorating rather than improving and we decide that we will head off. We’ve had a wonderful short visit. Well worth going out of your way for. Really impressive. You’d never see a better flight show than that.
Where to now? Well. We decide to do something crazy. It’s something I’d looked at and ruled out when planning this day. We pass very close to Stone Henge and we’re no more inclined to stop there today than we were last time. There's also an option for Wood Henge, or so a sign tells us. A large visitor centre appears on our right, is that Wood Henge? We pass through Larkhill, home of the Royal Artillery and it’s obvious from the properties and the people we pass. Where on earth are we heading? I just have the most overwhelming urge to drive back through Somerset and go back to Mark. We’re so close. What if I never get the chance to come back. I know a lot more about the rellies from Somerset and their extended families than I did back in 2012. It seems that I must be prone to this sort of wild scheme as departure approaches. There’s no more denying this than leaving Bath in favour of Blenheim on our last day of our trip in 2012.  I’m selecting destinations and then changing them to make sure that Tommie keeps us off the Motorway. Aim for Muchelney for a while, no, Tommie now aim for Wedmore. We travel along Reynolds Way, through a tunnel of greenery along a ridge. As we head west the rain only gets worse. Eventually we come through the rain and are in sunshine. Look back east the sky is dark. Glad we didn’t stay hanging around at Andover it looks like that rain depression is headed that way.

A flash of recognition as we get to Shapwick. A rush of adrenaline, should we stop and see the reserve? We keep on. Through Burtle and here we are in Mark.  A different angle on the approach, I realise as we near the end that we’ve been driving along Southwick, so familiar from the census records. 

We head for the Anglican church. I didn’t bother with it last time because our lot were non-conformists. But I regret not just taking the time to get to know the whole village better. I fancy taking a look through the churchyard. I figure there might be some familiar names even if not my actual family.  Luckily there’s a church parking area down a little side street, by a property with a large apple tree in the backyard covered in fruit.  Autumn is making itself felt. Creepers climbing the stone wall of a cottage are turning red. Green in the portions where they are still protected by the overhang of the leaf above.  There’s not a lot to the heart of Mark, a pub, a small post office. I toy with maybe going in but I’m not in the mood to be social or answer questions. A little quiet time among the graves is all I’m wanting.

Puddy. Lots of Puddies here. And a few Coleman’s. Some of the cousins married Colemans didn’t they? Harriet Popham worked for some of the Colemans along Southwick, related by marriage I think they were. It was obviously a tight little community back in the mid-late 19^th century. Here’s a grave for someone Stephens. I have come unprepared but does it really matter who these graves belong to? I read and consider the lives reflected on the stone memorials. Perhaps those Stephens are related to my great grandfather’s half brother. I take a photograph to check later. I’ve photographed the Coleman’s too. Most graves are too recent to be those I feel I’ve come to know a little delving into the documents their lives have left behind. No Tidballs. Should we go across to Banwell where Permela ran a shop. Maybe one day but not today.  There’s just a couple of Pophams scattered here and there. Probably not connected but I’ll check just the same. I should come back properly prepared and find the rental house that used to be the church where I expect my lot worshipped or at least celebrated their life events. Surely Joseph and Merinda Popham would have had the resources to erect a gravestone over two year old Matthew when he drowned and surely Joseph himself has a headstone, they weren’t poor and his daughter and son in Australia were well off, surely they would have ensured a gravestone was erected.

Hubby’s made himself comfortable on a seat. I stalk around. Enjoying my solitude. After a short while I head back. We consider maybe relaxing in the Packhorse Inn for a short while but it’s closed at the moment. It’s time we started to head back across to Tetbury. It’s almost four o’clock.

Looking at the route Tommie has in mind I’m pleased that it is delightfully low speed and takes us back across via Wedmore.  Tunnels of hedges with occasional stone villages along Wedmore road. Views of the Mendip Hills. Paddocks of stubble with baled hay in autumn tones. Soon we’re climbing up through streets of bath stone. 

Crest a hill. Oh look at that! Gloucestershire laid out. Hubby whizzes on. Turn back, let’s stop and take a break back at the view. Hubby waits for a safe opportunity and we backtrack a few hundred metres to Tog Hill. The facilities here are welcome but we’ve found the low point of our UK toileting experiences. The antithesis of the appliances of Thomas Crapper. Simply awful.

The view is deciphered by a plaque at the survey marker. All meaningless names to me.  The trees and shrubs protecting the picnic area from the wind are growing up and obscuring the view. Trimmed back a little there would 180 degree views. Maybe that’s a job for the winter.

Our journey continues much the same. We resort to Dr Google to find the Royal Oak in Tetbury, enjoying exploring the little stone town with so much atmosphere and a beautifully consistent style. The Royal Oak is beautiful too. They’ve finished the new parking arrangements they mentioned as being in the offing back when I booked. We would have pulled up on the cobbles at the door of the pub but someon’s already parked there. I linger at my car door listening to the bird song drifting over from the little vegetable patch next door. Hubby’s hurrying me along. He’s got his cattle prod at hand a lot lately!  Yeah, righto. Hold your horses.

Check in is across the bar of the pub. We’re on the first floor of the adjoining building and the live in Inn Keeper takes us across and shows us the ropes. I’m keen to settle in for a few minutes and have a look at the information folder. Hubby’s keen for dinner. It’s already well after 6 pm so it’s fair enough we head over to eat.  The upstairs dining room is closed tonight so dinner is being served in the bar. We can take our pick of um… that table over there. The others all have people or reserved signs on them.  We settle down and consider what to have.

I am running out of time to have a fish supper, so I go for the house favourite Real Ale Battered Fish of the Day, Hand Cut Fries with Homemade Tartar Sauce & Garden Peas £13.50.  Now for the life of us we cannot remember what Hubby had. Whatever it was he had plenty to eat because my fish and chips was large and there was plenty of that to share. Hubby’s beverage tonight is Camden Stout, which he says is very good he likes it. It is light and dark, not heavy like most stouts.

The Royal Oak is a dog-friendly pub for friendly dogs and accordingly, patrons have brought their canine friends out for dinner. This is OK until a new dog comes in and its owner takes up a spot at the bar, not far away from another person with a dog. Our meal is accompanied by some quite aggressive barking, which gets a bit tiresome very quickly for non-doggy diners and drinkers. Another lady pulls up on the cobbles and comes in. She’s not only got a dog she’s got an enormous dog. It’s mostly well behaved but gets a reprimand when it too lets out a loud complaint over some matter of offence. Another patron suggests it wants some dinner. I’m thinking perhaps it has got the idea that barking is tolerated so it may as well speak up too.

We’re too full for dessert and I’m not the full quid health wise.  My cold has gone onto my chest though not in a way anyone around would notice. Bed is welcome.