from brighton to blackpool...it's the people you meet

While we were sitting on a bench in Brighton, we met the most morally confused homeless guy ever. After insulting a nearby busker by way of introduction, he asked us for a cigarette then told us his life story. Which included gun point robbery of an alarming number of post offices, two murders and a 30 year jail sentence. He also lectured us on how precious life is and in his very next breath told us he could kill us as well. Then we decided we probably had to go somewhere else that wasn't near him. He got very offended by this. So we either met an incredibly sane looking raving lunatic or a self-righteous murderer. Still not sure.

We also met some good old-fashioned non-homcidal people in Brighton. Mostly they were cool young post-grads doing creative things and living in filthy sharehouses. We filled our short time in this city by the sea going for (very) long walks on the beach, avoiding murderers (ok, one murderer) on the street, listening to talented MCs and poets fight it out slam style in a very crowded pub and cafe hopping to avoid the rain. England and rain is like night and darkness...an infatuation with wet is what you need if you are considering a life here.

We'd finished exploring (that's not true but our short time had run out) this vibrant seaside city of the south and we jumped on a bus for a 10 hour journey up north, to another seaside holiday town called Blackpool. But not before we had experienced the worst coffee I have ever encountered. It was literally undrinkable- we both forced down 3 or 4 sips and then decided no coffee was better than fighting the urge to vomit and threw them away. (I later tried to redeem this experience by buying two ridiculous chocolate concoctions from Starbucks, which Will deemed disgusting so I decided to drink both, spilled half all over myself whilst trying to manouvre around in the bus seat and then felt incredibly sick for the rest of the journey.

As we wearily alighted into the night of Blackpool, the very first thing we saw was a fairly vicious physical fight between two girls who were surrounded by a group of laughing morons ahem 'young men'. We had just spent 10 chocolate soaked hours on a bus to get here so you can imagine what we were feeling...

And although the very last image I have of Blackpool is of the group of young lads stumbling around the streets shirtless (this is English winter), very very unsoberly, at five-thirty on a Saturday afternoon, the time in between these two encounters was actually quite nice (we were staying outside of the actual town of Blackpool...perhaps this helped).  

We had decided to venture to this part of Britain for 3 reasons: we had seen a lot of the south and a lot of the south was flooded, we were flying to Cyprus from Manchester airport, and we were visiting some lovely people we met in Spain who said we could stay with them if we made it to England. We had only known them for 3 days- they are friends of James and Cathy, with whom we wwoofed for a month- and they welcomed us into their lives like we were long-lost friends come to stay. It was lovely. They are Tracy and Julie and they took us out for some amazing Italian food at the type of restaurant that is full purely on the merit of the food, they got us free entry into Blackpool's biggest tourist attraction the 'Blackpool Tower' and they insisted we come back and stay upon our return from Cyprus. We also met Tracy's two daughters, one of whom was a carer for elderly people and subsequently regaled us with almost unbelievable tales of octonegarian cunning (one lady switched her husband's false teeth glue with super glue to "get him to shutup!"- they had been married for 70 years and had apparently expected they would be long dead by now), and her dogs, Ruby and Dixon, two huge, slobbery, lovable boxers. 

As for what we did while in Brighton?...sheltered from a lot of rain (surprised?), did some knitting (Will), made brownies and lemon tart (me) and wandered around the slightly sad centre of Blackpool...being a seaside holiday town it isn't really the place to be in the middle of winter. It had the feel of a closed down carnival- the kids have all gone home, the popcorn and ice-cream is finished and there are just a few bored carnies hanging around, hoping to trick the few tourists who wander past unsuspectingly. 

We also visited Manchester, which is a very welcoming sized city with much live music, theatre, graffiti and hip youngsters. We sampled lots of food and coffee and spent the evening watching the opening night of four short plays by four different playwrights (unfortunately the rain bested us yet again, as it slowly drenched us while we wandered around for at least an hour searching for the theatre, after which we discovered was not actually within walking distance at all...it was a damper evening than I normally prefer for a night of theatre).

And here are some pictures of our exploits...

Brighton!

We found the original(?) Mad Mouse! It looks just as death-trappy as ours.

In the middle of a most thoughful birthday present...

The menace of the ocean in Blackpool

Manchester...

The famous ballroom at the Blackpool Tower

And how windy it was whilst we were there- that pole is usually straight.

Now we are in North Cyprus, which I can happily say has been bathed in sunshine for nearly every single day of the last three weeks. But more later. 

mince pies, moors and some very happy ducks.

I just had a look at my last post about Devon...it's massive...and I see I managed to slip a little Bath trivia lesson in there. Read up, there'll be a quiz later. But this one will be less of an investment of your time, I promise.

With a bagful of home-made gifts and a couple of jars of home-made fruit mince under my arms (I had a lot of time on my hands before christmas...), we delved deeper into Devon, to a little town called Winkleigh where some more of Will's extended family live. On the night before christmas we arrived at a wonderful thatched, converted barn- there were ruins to explore, baking to be done (and a subsequent truck-load of mince pies to be eaten) and table tennis to be played so we were all very happy.

On christmas morning we woke to pancakes and bacon, a surprise bag of very thoughtful gifts each and the promise of an enormous lunch. Will was oblivious to all this though; being finally allowed to play with his (christmas present) yoyo after pestering me all week for it, he did little else the rest of the day.

If you don't call the underside of a rock home, you will know about the fairly hefty amount of moisture this little island has been drowning in of late. Fantastic for the ducks and their brethren; not awesome for two Australians who are keen on sunshine. It does mean though that when the skies do stop crying, we are outside before you can say 'hey look at those two weirdos splashing around in the puddles'. So we have managed a few sun drenched adventures. I like to call them sundrentures.

We admired some very dramatic coastline and pondered over a dead cow on a beach in western Devon, then fed our appetites for tiny cobbled fishing villages and cream teas in Clovelly.

I demonstrated how being bad at tennis probably means you are also going to be bad at table tennis and Will and our new friend Ed demonstrated how boys will be boys by getting all aflutter upon finding full fire extinguishers on an abandoned train.

We got lost on a bike ride on Dartmoor and saw some Dartmoor ponies. I drank any kind of mulled beverage I came across (it's cold here, okay).

We outwitted the floods and managed to find our way down to Cornwall when most of the public transport demonstrated how pathetically unable to deal with water it is, and stayed in  a shack that will probably be in the sea in 10 years (this is no exaggeration- cliff-edge houses have been toppling over at an alarming rate recently). And the next day we had poached eggs for breakfast, a cider and a wander around the blue and white houses and smuggler's coves of Polperro for lunch and got a wee bit lost looking for a coastal path (after sitting in the growing dark and cold for 3 hours, waiting for a lift that was not coming, we were saved a 6 mile walk in the dark by the kindness of strangers- a lady who, according to her fam who were all bundled in the car, liked to 'collect' the lost and hungry looking).

We walked 5 miles on an internet pilgrimage and then had to walk home in the rain (luckily we had pre-rewarded ourselves with a pint before we left town).

And on those days when going outside was vetoed by a look out the window, a look at each other and a weary sigh into a cup of tea, we did other things. Like learn to knit. I am almost the proud owner of a completely boyfriend knitted, extremely warm and cosy looking scarf. And visit the smallest cinema I ever did see to watch about the muted horrors of Irish catholicism. And cook cinnamon buns and go shopping for hiking boots and visit a marble museum.

And in a wonderfully satisfying circle, we then went back to Halberton and Hugh, Lindsay and Jess, who were the very first stop on our Devsplorations. We spent our last day in Devon watching incredibly posh people on huge horses mingle with archetypal English farmers in wellies and those hats before charging off down the road with their hounds, wandering through a wintry forest next to a murky river, clambering halfway up a hill in the mist on Exmoor (and running back down it when that mist turned to rain) and trying to find somewhere that would give us lunch after 2.30pm in small-town Devon on a winter's afternoon.

Take-away pork pie anyone?

P.S. here are some pictures from last blog. enjoy.

This Kombi sells excellent coffee. This is my favourite thing ever. 

Exeter. We spent many a rainy day here shopping. This day we spent watching swans preen.

A country manor. We have delusions of grandeur.

The beautiful Devon at sunset.

What this? It's only the most famous stone circle of all time.

We did a spot of time travel whilst in Bath.

Some of John Wood's architecture.

it's chucking it down but DON'T MENTION THE WEATHER.

Welcome to Devon, England. Here you'll find cream teas aplenty, thousand year old country lanes and farmers of all kinds. Have fun, watch out for floods and remember, DON'T MENTION THE WEATHER.

We have been in the motherland for nearly two months now and we are learning ever more about our English friends. Like when it's raining it is actually 'chucking it down', if you want to do something you are actually 'up for it', tea preferred over water, you are allowed to put exclamation marks in the names of towns, a la Westward Ho! (I'm not sure what Westward Ho!ians do when they want to jubilantly welcome visitors to their town though...) and although the locals are allowed to be as derisive and moany about the (at the moment fairly terrible) weather, as a visitor you are most unwelcome to join in the chorus of whinge unless you want to hear 'this is England! What do you bloody expect!'. I feel it may be a bit of a sore spot. We are clever though so now when it is raining we just smile resignedly and say 'ahh well, we had that lovely spot of sun last week, no problem.'

Since leaving London we have been taking full advantage of the expansive hospitality of Will's distant relations, and meandering through Devon along the way. We have celebrated christmas England style: roast turkey and all the trimmings (including that odd English condiment, bread sauce) and pudding with custard and fruitcake and thousands of mince pies, danced in the new year in a barn amongst kids and dogs and wellies and a punk band, wandered down countless tiny country lanes that are so old the road level has sunk several inches below the fields on either side and so narrow that if two cars come upon each other one has to reverse until they find somewhere to pull in, drank warm pints of ale fireside in homely little pubs, eaten scones with clotted cream thick as butter and admired some beautiful cloudscapes. And spent more than one relentlessly rainy day getting our cabin fever on. It's all terribly English really.

Our explorations of Devon started in Halberton, a little hamlet near the thriving metropolis of Tiverton, about 3 hours south of London. We eased our way into country life with walks along the nearby canal and cycle rides in and around Tiverton, a town where there is no excuse for bad hair ("Tivvy" is no metropolis- that was my facetious side shining through- but as a relatively small English town it has no less than 7 hairdressers...we counted. And this is a recurring theme in small town England; apparently a complete absence of sun is bearable if one has perfectly coiffed hair). We visited Exeter, the nearest city, and wandered along its quay, admired the kitsch for sale at the christmas market and took a tour around the wonderful cathedral. Here we learnt about the cat that was employed, at one penny a week, to catch the vermin drawn into the church by the animal fat used to grease the huge mechanical clock and about why Americans should not be allowed to join group tours. We bought each other christmas presents then tried to forget what they were so we could be surprised on christmas day. We decorated the christmas tree and made lots of goodies to ingratiate ourselves with our obliging hosts.

As I couldn't come to England a fourth time and again miss one of its most iconic sites- and Will was also keen- we borrowed the car one Friday evening and hit the open road. After we had packed- the kitchen sink stayed in situ, but barely- I jumped in the driving seat and we were off. Well, I jumped in the driving seat, sparked fear in Will's heart as I panicked and "jokingly" clarified which pedal was which, and we were off!

Our plan was to sleep in the car and be at Stonehenge for sunrise the next day, as it was the winter solstice and something very clever is supposed to happen involving the sun and the stones and the shadows on the winter solstice at Stonehenge. Of course, the English sun is a little bit contrary and on this morning, to the consternation of the thousand or so people standing around in the miserable dark drizzle, it decided that the clouds probably had everything under control and it might just stay in bed. We did get an unexpected glimpse into paganism though as we celebrated the solstice druid style. For those playing at home, here's how it's done: first call for peace in all corners of the globe, then get everyone to chant together- this will create an eerily harmonious sound in the circle, then talk a bit, do some praying and beat some drums, smoke weed and be cheerful. Dress-ups are appropriate...unicorns, human trees and capes aplenty.
Pagans are a slightly odd bunch, turns out, but welcoming in the shortest day of the year with them in a huge stone circle in a field in England was certainly memorable.

However, we aren't druids and after about an hour the magic of the morning could no longer block out the freezing cold wind and rain and we jumped gratefully back into the car, turned the heaters to full and drove to Bath. 2000 years ago we would be eagerly heading for a day of pampering and socialising; preparing to have our skin scrubbed and scraped, our eyebrows plucked and our ears cleaned, to sweat in a sauna and re-energise in a plunge pool, and to gossip, giggle and flirt our way around the swimming-pool sized main bath. All the while in the nude. Fast forward several millenia and we are wandering, fully clothed, around a slightly more subdued bath-house complex guided by the disembodied voices of Bill Bryson and a knowledgeable English lady. We couldn't take a dip, unfortunately, but we did drink from the fountain of magical (very irony lukewarm) Bath water. We are now immortal.

Our appetites for local history not quite satiated we took a walking tour around the city and learnt about Bath: the making of. Obviously the presence of natural hot springs play a major part in Bath's history, in that there wouldn't be a city there at all if it wasn't for them (and those canny Romans turning them into a fashionable destination). The limestone found in the local hills is also a major player, being the main material for most of the old buildings.
Moving into the human realm, the city owes it's outstandingly aesthetic architecture to a father and son team named John Wood (elder and younger). They were champions of the Palladian style-elegant, harmonious, proportionate and balanced- and sought to turn Bath into the Rome of England. A square, a mansion and the foundations of the Circus- his magnum opus- later and John Wood the Elder died. His son took over, finished the Circus and added to it the Royal Crescent, which is considered to be one of the best examples of Georgian architecture in Britain- and speaking as someone with no architectural knowledge at all, it is amazing; a building that makes you happy just by being there. He was obviously pushing the right buttons; most of central of Bath is his work. We'll leave the Woods to their building and move onto the man who cleaned up Bath's society. Beau Nash came onto the scene in 1705 with his velvet and diamond rich wardrobe, his fortune made in gambling and his personable charm and transformed Bath. He commissioned a ball room, set in place a curfew so that people felt safe on the streets, introduced rules such as the one that forbade 'exhibitions of resentment from either gentlemen or ladies on the grounds that someone had danced out of turn'. Essentially he poshed up Bath, and he looked damn fine doing so...

"(Beau) wore his gold-laced clothes on the occasion, and looked so fine that, standing by chance in the middle of the dancers, he was taken by many at a distance for a gilt garland".
                                                                                                         Lord Chesterfield

100 years later Jane Austen ensured Bath would be on the future literary trail by making the city her home for 5 years and using it and it's society in Persuasion and Northanger Abbey.

Before we left Bath we visited another of John Wood's creations, the Assembly Rooms, a function centre housing some incredibly glittery chandeliers and the fashion museum, where we looked at lots of dresses and I got to see how uncomfortable women used to be back in the days of hoop skirts and corsets. The answer is very, surprise surprise.

Then with our brains heavy with new information we ran back to the car, made it within minutes of our parking ticket expiring and headed home to rest our fact-filled little heads. Christmas was mere days away and we needed to be bright and well-rested for all the eating and present opening to come.

stinge-ing out in paris and london. part two

No surprises here...

Welcome to London, where professionals are worked so hard they start hallucinating and mentally break down, a cup of coffee costs 3 pounds ($5) and if you are idling along the footpath, well, stop idling or get out of the freaking way! The sun has long ago abandoned ship but the curious thing is that people continue to flock here from all (far sunnier) corners of the globe, to live the London life. But if you are not a professional working 12 hour days, you can expect a long commute because the cost of living is far too prohibitive for any of the more free-spirited bohemians (read waitresses) to survive in the city. Unless, you know, you aren't too keen on food.

St Paul's Cathedral, of Mary Poppins fame.

London is...grey. It is a big, grey machine. People are busy busy busy. There is money to be made and money to be spent. And if money isn't your thing you won't last in the city. But there are pockets of humanity in amongst all the suited people. And the flag of socialism is flying high above the art galleries and museums, which are completely free for all (unfortunately the privatisation of rail companies means the same can't be said for public transport, which is rather horrendously expensive). Housed in elegantly imposing old buildings there are wonders from every place and age, from dinosaurs, to the Rosetta Stone- the key that unlocked the heiroglyphs, to more modern treasures from Dali and Picasso. And since night begins to fall at about 3.30 and it is kind of cold in London right now, they are the perfect places to while away afternoons.

I spy with my enormous eye...

We met up with some Australian friends who happened to be in London at the same time as us and we took them to Shoreditch, a deeply hipster enclave north east of the river. We had explored the area previously and I found it very agreeable because with the pretension of hipsters comes good coffee, vintage shops and graff. So much graff. Graff on every corner, on every wall, door, window...An interesting place to wander and much more accepting of idlers than the business centre of the city. As our little Aussie gang made its way around we found a sign leading to some sort of farm, so we followed the trail and ended up at a brilliant little city vegie farm, complete with donkeys and ponies. And an awesome spinning see-saw.

Home of the hipsters, Shoreditch.

So there are places to escape the capitalist machine. Another such was an amazing little food market that Will and I were delighted to find one afternoon. We ate curry and a gourmet hotdog with pickles and a brownie and tried butter beer- it's a real thing and it tastes like warm butterscotch mixed with weak beer- and enjoyed my seasonal tipple of choice, mulled wine. And this was all sourced and produced locally and cost about the same as one large pizza from Pizza Hut (which, I am ashamed to say, we were unable to avoid patronising in order to satisfy our friend's hunger pangs and which is still disgusting but has now turned fancy- gone are the days of the all-you-can-eat dessert buffet...).

Tower Bridge and the king of Westminster.

During our first couple of days in the city Will indulged my consumerist alter-ego and we swanned from store to store pretending we had the space/money/inclination to buy all of the shinies we discovered. (I did buy boots...I am a girl after all). We also visited a bookshop on Marylebone High Street called Daunt's books, which is in a wonderful Edwardian building of 3 levels with green balconies and a stained glass window, that specializes in travel books and maps. Nothing remarkable, except that until the 1980's it belonged to Will's family. His great-great grandfather opened it as a book store specializing in travel but unfortunately the family had to sell it...and I have to say, they must be absolutely kicking themselves now- it was pumping (as much as a bookshop can be pumping) when we went in.

Another vestige of old London

So we've indulged our stomachs, our brains and our urge to buy- time to hit up the theatre. The first theatre I ever saw in London, several years ago, was 'Guys and Dolls' and 'We Will Rock You', the Queen musical. The first that Will and I saw together was rather more subdued and thought-provoking. We were in a pub listening to some terrible performers at an open-mic night and we decided to go across the road and check out a play we had seen advertised. It turned out to be two men, talking. More specifically, 2 homeless men and their conversations. It was enthralling, considering it was just a couple of guys on a tiny stage above a pub.

Also impressive was this here deer, made out of vacuum cleaners (and dad, as you can just see, from John Lewis).

 When we met our friends, we decided we all needed to have a night out, London style (but not too late because we all had trains to catch and, you know, we needed our 8 hours), so we wandered through the bright lights of Leicester Square until we found a show we agreed upon (and still had tickets available). It was called "Strangers on a Train" about, incredibly, 2 strangers who meet on a train. What followed was the psychological torment of one man by another, spiralling ever further out of control. The story was good but the sets were incredible and the theatre itself- gilt, gold, velvet and chandeliers- was very memorable. As was the man sitting in front of us who, after listening to Will and Tristan have a rambling conversation about melting chocolate dogs dipped in honey and how it would make a good show, turned around and swelled their egos immensely by saying he would watch their show.

I didn't really like London before this trip. In fact I told everyone it was a bad city and I never wanted to go there again and neither should they. I was certainly not qualified to make this judgement, having only spent, cumulatively, about two weeks there. But the things that stood out in my mind were the ridiculous cost of everything, the bad weather, the greyness of the city and the terrible hurry that everybody always seemed to be in. This recent visit has changed my opinion somewhat. I still don't want to live in London and it still isn't a city that has you conjuring up romantic fantasies of a new life (a la Barcelona or Paris), but as its charms were slowly revealed I found I was beginning to like London. I'm not sure exactly what changed my mind; it may have been the red fox that we saw strutting through a city park in the middle of the day (much to the delight and amazement of all us tourists), it may have been the way it is just as easy to spontaneously go to the theatre as it is to the movies or the joy of surprising myself- and Will- with my ice-skating abilities at the Tower of London. It may have been the discovery that with the changing of the guards comes the closure of several roads, an army of policemen and a marching band and that they do this everyday (every second day in winter) and it is essentially just a shift change.

No fox here but there were these guys too.

So it won me over. I still think it is far more stressful, expensive and commercially driven than necessary, but I'm no longer a hater. (Will, who was expecting some kind of "soggy, grey, expensive compost toilet" of a city, liked it almost immediately and thought I was nuts for my harsh earlier judgements). Well done London.

P.s. Will wanted to feed a goose. With his face. 

happy snaps from cheerful chaps.

And off we go again, up through Europe and into central France.

Will finally grabbed a bull by the horns in Belem (and then rode it into the pit of hell...)

Porto. The best city in Portugal.

Porto's river at dusk.

So happy to be in Bordeaux that we stayed the night.

Pretty Bordeaux.

Please take us. Please.

The cottage and the countryside.

It's freezing but don't worry I have a tree.

Autumn.

You get a prize if you can guess who we're channelling. 

A chateau. 

Casually stealing sunflowers.

This was at the castle in which Joan of Arc met the king. We found egg stools and did the natural thing.

The French countryside.

And that's what we've been doing the last couple of months.