A Riverboat Fantasy

Day 1Amsterdam

Arrive in Amsterdam, capital of the Netherlands, and transfer to your ship.* After boarding, the rest of the day is yours to relax or begin exploring the city on your own.

She says on behalf of both :

Our big adventure is now underway!

I guess before I write about the cruise, I should summarize the trip from Canada.  My Facebook friends will already know that I suffered a major setback in my packing and organizing the night before we left.  Traumatizing, it was!  I was sorting out things to go in my purse.  I picked up my leather passport case  and decided to check one more time to make sure I had my new passport and not the recently expired one.   The case was empty.  No problem; it had to be there somewhere nearby.  I cleared off the desk it had been on, and then the bed where my packed suitcase and carry-on bags were sitting.  Nothing.  Under the bed?   No. I dumped out my purse, then my carry-on.  Still no luck.  Finally, in the middle of unpacking my suitcase and frantically trying to remember when I had last seen it, I remembered that the previous day I’d scanned it and sent myself a copy so if it got lost or stolen in Europe, I’d have the information I’d need to get home.  Problem was, I’d stupidly left it in the scanner.  Thank goodness I checked when I did.  Somehow, I don’t think I would have made it very far by presenting an empty passport case to the airport security guys!

We travelled Swiss Air.  Since they don’t fly out of Ottawa, they provide a coach transport from the Ottawa train station to PET airport in Montreal.  We’ve done the transfer on past trips and it’s never crowded, but this time we were the only passengers, so we had our own private chauffeur and plenty of room to stretch out for the 2 hour trip.  That almost made up for the way Swiss Air packed us into their plane.  We’ve done Air Transat excursion trips to Cuba and the Dominican, so you’d think we’d be used to tourism togetherness, but this plane must have broken the Guinness Record for sardine packing!  But the food and the service were fine, we made our connecting flight from Zurich to Amsterdam by the skin of our teeth after another trauma at security, and the Viking people were there to meet us and transfer us to the boat, so it was all good.  (I won’t get into the security trauma except to say that Richard’s magnetic personality always sets of security alarms, and that he now knows the ins and outs, so to speak, of a full body search.)

It’s been my experience that the brochures don’t always reflect the reality, so it was a lovely surprise to see that this boat really does look the way Viking advertised it.   It’s a year old and beautifully maintained, and the staff are incredible.  We arrived mid-morning, and knew before we arrived that people from the previous cruise wouldn’t be leaving until noon, and we wouldn’t be able to get into our cabins until 3 PM, but the lounges began to fill early with jet-lagged, grubby travellers anxious to shower and change, and staff members did everything they could to make our wait bearable.  They fed us a wonderful buffet lunch, made sure we knew where the toilets and bar and coffee dispensers are, and took care of our luggage so we could wander around the city while we waited.    They also offered a walking tour of the downtown area of Amsterdam.  Our original plan had been to walk to the train station and take a hop-on, hop-off boat tour of the city but it was pouring rain and we were exhausted, so we talked ourselves out of that idea and convinced ourselves that it would be better to stay dry and sample the food and drinks on board while getting to know some of our fellow travellers.

At 3 on the dot, we received our keys and were shown to our cabin.  I think we were too tired to appreciate how bright and well thought-out the place is in a sleek Scandinavian style, but we were happy to unpack and shower and have a chance to lie down for a bit.  We’d been told that there was an introductory get-together at 6:30 that we should attend so we could hear the plans for the following day, so we made sure we were awake for that, but being a practical, self-disciplined pair, we decided that we’d come back to the cabin right afterwards and skip dinner; we needed sleep much more than another meal, after all.  But during the meeting, such delicious smells wafted through the room that we agreed that perhaps we should go into the dining room for a bowl of soup or a light snack before turning in.

Then they brought the menu.  Hmm….lobster bisque sounds nice.  Oh, look!  Surf and turf with king prawns.  Then the gooey chocolate dessert for me and the cheese plate with assorted Dutch cheeses for Richard.  And, of course, the complimentary wine that accompanies lunch and dinner, and the great-smelling coffee, and two hours later, we rolled back to the cabin and I swear we were asleep before our heads hit those cloud-soft pillows.  Heaven!

                                            

WALTZING DOWN THE DANUBE: HISTORY AND MORE

                       

HE SAYS:  

A few introductory remarks are in order before we push off on our latest globe-trotting adventure. By popular demand we will retain our HE SAYS/SHE SAYS format for its well- known insight and wit; it goes without saying that I am right and she is wrong.  (She says:  Smile and agree.  We know the truth, though, don't we?)

Travel lust, it seems, has triumphed over lust and common sense. Summer is upon us again and after about six months of planning we have decided to fulfil one more bucket list dream of doing a river cruise of Central Europe, starting in Amsterdam, going down the Rhine into the Danube from Germany, Austria, the Czech Republic, to Hungary. The high points will be Vienna, Prague and Budapest, the land of my forebears. Others with less restraint might say that the high points will be the cafes and pastry shops.

Contrary to the advice of some friends who suggested a major cruise in a floating city, we have decided to approach things on a smaller scale and in a more civil fashion by opting for a floating restaurant and hotel with about 150 people to see the gorgeous countryside. Funny, in the mid-1970s, in another life, I took a barge trip through the Beaune region of central France. I’m told that prices since that time have gone up by a factor of seven. We look forward to a relaxing and enjoyable time with haut cuisine and the occasional glass of wine.

This trip has many dimensions and has many elements, as well as having a certain sense of trepidation and unease about it. Unlike most of my forays to unknown worlds where I have spent extensive, some might say excessive, time preparing for the trip by reading 30-40 books on the history, culture, literature, economy and local flora and fauna, this time I have shown real restraint and have limited myself only to 11 + books (the + is still being read as I wait for the taxi). Fortunately, I know the Central European classical music repertoire fairly well, and I have always enjoyed Liszt (Hungary) and Dvorshak and Smetana (Czech). Vienna is of course, synonymous with the classical music tradition – in particular, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, Wagner, and Bruckner; for those who enjoy watching the ink dry on a musical score, there is always Mahler.

Some elitist music critic once said, “There is German music and then there is other music.” Alas, that is probably true; but then there are those unnamed people, with their unrefined (if not peasant) tastes who can’t bear to listen to violin music. Being a warm sensitive type of guy I won’t inflict Gypsy – Roma music on anyone, but we do have tickets for a Mozart and Strauss recital.

For myself, my one serious indulgence will be to spend half a day at the Vienna state art gallery. With its eight halls it is reputed to have one of the finest art collections in the world, although The New Prado and The V & G in London are probably my favourites. In order to accommodate travelling companions with short attention spans, I have reduced things at the state museum down to 3 halls and 6- 8 major paintings.

For this consideration, certain compromises were extracted from me (but a contract under duress is no contract). Two are most notable, namely, in the first instance we hit 4 – 6 cafes in Vienna. She who thinks she must be obeyed has declared this. And who am I to object to about 6!!!! different types of frothy, whipped cream topped Viennese coffees (count them), and so many mouth-watering pastries that heart disease and obesity are the national sports. On a more serious note, in terms of the social and cultural history, what is interesting is that since the late 1880s Vienna’s cafes were notable for their cultural and intellectual life and every major historical luminary had their favourite café, like a British pub but with coffee  rather than beer. Café life flourished. Some cafes are famous for their pastries, others for the coffee, and one for the hundreds of international newspapers. The Café Central is perhaps considered to be the most famous and at any moment I will expect to see the ghosts of the great men who went there such as Freud himself, Lenin (that’s VI, not Harpo), and Trotsky selling shares in an ice pick company.


But She Who Knows No Restraint drove a hard bargain. Not only are we forced to do the cafes in assembly line fashion, we are forced, like peasants, to sample the infinite number of delicious schnitzels with their various sauces, along with the waist expanding pastries. Ah, life is tough…Especially, when we are told that there is a 6 am !! exercise class on the river boat. FAT chance….

All that said, there are, on my behalf at least, some very real personal reservations and a constant unease, like walking through a graveyard. It is well established the Central and Eastern Europe since the 1890s has been a cauldron of politics - ethnic and ideological. One of the great turning points in Western European history was the dissolution of the Habsburg Austro-Hungarian and Romanoff Czarist dynasties as a consequence of the First World War.

Europe witnessed the rise of fascism in the 1930s. The history of Red Vienna between 1918-'34 and the February 1934 uprising against the Austrian Nazis by the Schutzbund are a source of inspiration.  What is not usually appreciated is the fact that many countries had their own historically independent fascist and anti-Semitic movements, quite separate from Germany’s. Significantly, and what is not ordinarily known, is that the Austrians, Ukrainians, Estonians and Latvians and Lithuanians did the Germans' dirty work for them in the death camps. The Soviets had quite real and legitimate scores to settle. In the post–war period the Germans have done much more in terms of accepting culpability, re-education, and engaging in national introspection than have the Japanese and Austrians. The Austrians and Japanese, unlike the Germans, have never confronted their history.

Deep, down, I have never forgiven the Germans for World War Two, not even after the passage of 60 years. And this has nothing to do the Holocaust. About 45 million people died during WW II, 25 million Soviets, 15 million Chinese, and about 6 million Jews. No, the real issue is: Have we learned anything from the Second World War? Or, did we merely continuing eating our schnitzel and stuffing our faces with pastry? The grim fact is that social and intellectual historians for years have studied and questioned how and why people were turned into beasts. We are no closer to any real answers.

And it can happen again. Look at the current political situation in a number of European countries, including some that we are visiting, and you see the contours of the past and of things to come. Look at the rise of the Arrow Cross right in Hungary, the neo-Nazis in Austria, the Golden Dawn in the recent Greek elections, and the rise of the right in Britain and Norway. It would be a great mistake to ignore these groups and what is happening. Fascism provides people with stability.

Sinclair Lewis in his novel, "It Can’t Happen Here", postulates that a native fascist government can be elected in the US. Those will be some of the things that I will think about as we sail down the Rhine and I sip on my German wine, all in good style of course; and as I go into a fitful sleep I hope that the noise outside isn’t the muffled sound of jack black boots on the cobble stoned streets of these beautiful cities.



SHE SAYS:

Just 3 days to go before we leave for Amsterdam, and I’m exhausted already!  Watching Richard prepare for a trip would tire anyone out, believe me.  For three months at least, he’s been reading all he can get his hands on about the five countries we’ll be visiting.  He now knows almost all there is to know about each country’s art, music, history, economics, and politics.  I say “almost” because he has one book left to go: a long, plodding tome covering the history of Hungary from the instant that homo became erectus to the present day.   It’s a slow, dry read,  he’s starting to worry that he’ll run out of time before he runs out of pages, and he says he won‘t go if he isn‘t done.  I‘ve pointed out that if he doesn‘t finish it, the Tourism Police in Budapest won‘t refuse him entry as long as his Visa card is still in working order; this is not a university course with required reading and a final exam.  But he’s too busy reading to appreciate my logic.  I think his plan is that if our tour guide suddenly develops laryngitis mid-trip, he‘ll be able to take over at a moment‘s notice and lead us through the rest of  Central Europe.

In every other way, though, he’s ready for the trip.  Except for his razor and comb, he’s completely packed!  His credit card companies and the newspapers have been notified, bills have been paid in advance, the people looking after the house have been given detailed (trust me!) instructions about what to do and when to do it, Euros and other currency have been bought, and in his spare time, he’s written a 10,000 word article for a book that isn’t being published until next year.  He’s booked tickets for a concert in Vienna and a walking tour in Prague (thanks for the link, Sandy!)  In fact, if it wasn’t for that last damned book, he’d already be sitting on his suitcase by the front door calling me to hurry up.  This is not normal!  It’s Wednesday and we don’t leave until Saturday.

 If you asked him, he’d probably tell you that I’ve been slacking off and leaving things till the end, as usual, but I’ve been working hard, too!  I’ve made a list of things to do, and tomorrow I‘ll start checking things off.  I’ve caught up on lunches with different groups of friends that I won’t be seeing for a month.  I remembered that the wheels were dying on my suitcase after 5 years of hard travel, so I spent a day shopping for a new one, and I was practical enough to buy one with a peacock feather pattern that‘s so colourful  I‘ll be sure to spot it on the luggage carousel from the other end of the terminal.  Then I spent another day shopping for comfortable shoes so I can walk comfortably on cobblestones and sandals that will go with the dressier things I need to take for dinners on the boat and for  the concert in Vienna, then a couple of days hitting the sales to make sure I have enough clothes to go with the new shoes, and a few hours at the drugstore making sure I have a month‘s supply of toiletries.   Now that I'm shopped out, I guess I have to stuff it all into my suitcase.

The bed in the guest room is piled high with things that are waiting to be packed, and to the untrained eye (aka Richard) it may look as if I‘ve just dumped everything I own in a huge jumble, but a lot of deep thought has already gone into my packing.  There’s the “must go” pile that at the moment is still surprisingly small.  The larger pile is the “make up my mind” pile: if I take the black and the beige, do I need the navy as well, or should I forget the beige because it gets dirty too quickly?  And if I take navy capris, do I need the long navy pants, too?  Should I take that extra skirt?  The third pile is the “conditional” pile: if I decide to pack the navy, then I’ll need this top, but if I stick to black and beige, I won’t.  These things are important!   The last pile is for things I don’t really need but if there’s room after all the other considerations and deliberations, I’d rather have what I don’t need than need what I don’t have.

A certain nagging person has pointed out that we’ll be stopping in a different city every day so if I’d just get busy on my list of things to do and call Visa to let them know I’ll be travelling in Europe, I could travel light and buy what I need as I go, but that’s just silly.  Airlines keep statistics;  if we all travelled light, they’d  conclude that their  luggage  weight limit is overly generous and they’d reduce it, causing untold hardships for the tourists of the future.  I refuse to be responsible for that!   I’ve informed that nagging person that despite his scepticism, my 50 lb. suitcase and I will be ready to go when the taxi ( which he booked last Tuesday and is sure to call to confirm on Friday and will be timing with his stopwatch on Saturday)  pulls up at the door.

But I worry.  If he doesn’t finish reading that book, my brand new suitcase and I may be making this trip alone.

THE RETURN OF THE NATIVES: HOME SWEET HOME

THEY SAY: After 5,400 kms or 3,400 miles, and after nearly 5 weeks of touring England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales, we have come full circle. We returned to London on Wednesday and flew home on Thursday. It is hard to believe that this magnificent, but tiring, trip is over, and it will take a while for life to return to normal. It has been a once in a life-time opportunity to experience the “real England”. By that phrase people usually mean seeing the rural – and green – England, rather than confining ourselves to the large, urban cities with their Karl Marxy smoke-stack reputation.

For both of us, having experienced Britain in very different personal lives in the mid-1970s and early 1980s, travelling or studying, we can unreservedly say that England has changed, and undoubtedly for the better. Today the so-called mod-cons, wine and coffee bars, restaurants, culture and so forth are marvellous and meet the highest international standards, which was not necessarily our earlier experience.

Hopefully, there will always be a Britain. There is much to admire about this country, including its value system and its fundamental sense of fairness, propriety, and decency. Less admirable however, has been its historical elitism and social stratification, chauvinism and colonial policies (domestic and international). But then what would the world do without a good pint, whisky, or football (soccer) match, or literate newspapers?

In our last day we lazily travelled through the English countryside (with Richard appreciating the Gainsboroughesque fields and counting cows instead of sugar plums, and Eleanor drooling over the masses of wildflowers and the gardens overflowing with roses and making plans to visit the garden centres as soon as we’re unpacked). We all began to wind down from our adventures as we headed eastward towards one of the most hyped archaeological sites in Britain: Stonehenge. Stonehenge is that odd mixture of fact and fiction. Evidently it was first constructed about 5,000 years ago and has gone through a number of basic structural changes and refinements. Part of the mystique is that no one really knows what it was used for: religious purposes by the Druids, human sacrifices, celestial navigation, an agricultural calendar, or as some ancient type of status symbol?

The vertical stones themselves seem much smaller than portrayed in the conventional TV documentary, which was quite surprising to us. The site itself is literally in the middle of nowhere, or more accurately in the middle of a vast field on the Salisbury Plain, which makes them appear even smaller and diminishes their alleged mythical and mystical character. The average stone in reality is about 15 – 20 feet tall and weighs 5 – 20 tons! Richard maintains that the similarity between Stonehenge and the megaliths in Brittany (France), those we saw in the Orkney Islands, and others that exist throughout England and Scotland, suggests that they all served a common purpose, whatever that was, and should therefore be studied together.

Determining what our favourite region or cities might be has generated a lot of discussion between us. For Richard, the Orkney Islands (northern Scotland), the Lake District in central England, and Wales were the most memorable and scenic areas, while his favourite cities are London, Dublin and Bristol. It was no historical accident that Fredrick Engels, Marx’s co-author, used Glasgow (and Manchester) as his stereotypical English city for his indictment of nineteenth century British capitalism.

Richard, as might be expected, was captivated by the universities he saw, especially Oxford , the city of Spires, immortalized in CP Snow’s novel, The Masters. St. Andrews and Edinburgh universities, alas, stand in dramatic aesthetic and architectural opposition. At St. Andrews every effort has been made to maintain the integrity of the campus by maintaining the same coloured sandstone and general design of the new buildings thus integrating the campus, while Edinburgh, the renowned 18th and 19th century university of learning which set the standard for philosophy, economics and medicine, is a horrific stylistic mess with differently designed modern office-like buildings covered with posters and graffiti - a blight on the old charming campus.

Eleanor, on the other hand, enjoyed London and Edinburgh, but still feels that except for a few spectacular historic sights like Edinburgh Castle and the Tower of London, if you’ve seen one city, you’ve seen ‘em all. For her, the highlights of the trip were the picturesque villages and the rural areas, particularly the mountains and the seacoast. She agrees that the most beautiful places were Wales and the Orkneys, and with a little encouragement, would happily pack up and move to escape the Canadian winters forever. If we ever decided to move to Britain, Wales would be her first choice because it’s further south and therefore milder, with more winter daylight. Since we don’t speak Gaelic, there could be a slight communication problem in parts of Wales, but why let the reality of their version of bilingualism interfere with a good dream?

Before we sign off we are, again, compelled to heartily and genuinely thank our tour guide, Dylan J, and our bus driver, Neville P, of Insight Travel for their professionalism, decency, good humour, and vast store of knowledge. They made this trip a real pleasure in so many ways. Even if we had been brave enough to rent a small car for a month and risk driving on the wrong side of the road, we would never have had the courage to negotiate some of the narrow mountain roads that Neville managed in a gigantic coach, we’d never have learned so much about the history and the people, and we’d never have found a guidebook that would lead us off the beaten track to many of the interesting places that Dylan introduced us to. Thank you, guys.

For ourselves we have learned a lot from our Australian friends: a chook is a chicken Who'da knew??); 10 C is their idea of cold, but they easily tolerate 40+ C summers that would frazzle us; kangaroos and koalas are commonplace, but squirrels are exotic creatures that deserve photo ops; nobody in Australia drinks Foster’s beer-they just export it; their off-beat sense of humour is much like ours, and although we share the same British history and traditions, in many ways they are more British than we are. Since it takes about 26 hours with stopovers for them to get to London, many people we travelled with have plans to visit other parts of Europe for a few weeks before they head home.

For us, 5 weeks away from home is definitely enough. As much as we enjoyed our trip, we’ve learned that in the future, a two week bus tour is pretty much our physical limit before terminal fanny fatigue sets in and the novelty of living out of a suitcase wears a little thin. There is much to be said for sleeping in one’s own bed and not having to wake up to an alarm clock at dawn every morning…at least until the next attack of wanderlust strikes.

As you read this we have already returned to Ottawa to pick up the strands of our lives, so this is obviously our last blog concerning our British trip, but we will add photos as promised, so check back in a week or two and nag us if we put it off too long. We hope you've enjoyed our account of our adventure. Any feedback is appreciated.

After our regular winter escape to a warmer Caribbean climate (probably Cuba), hopefully with our respective children and grandchildren this year, we will resume our globe-trotting -- and start a new blog -- probably from a beach on the Algarve in Portugal, where we’ll be studying the different types of vino verde. Alternatively, we may do a river cruise down the Danube and visit various European venues to enjoy their pastry and chocolate shops and the occasional art gallery or Mozart concert. We’ll unpack and tackle the dirty laundry and the garden before we start arguing about which one comes first.

Until then, Happy trails ….

RICHARD’S CASTLE, THE RED DRAGON, AND THE THREE-LEGGED SHEEP

THEY SAY: Okay folks, the title was just to see whether you were still awake. The Red Dragon refers to the pre-Christian symbol of Wales, whereas the White Dragon refers to the wicked English dragon of the east. Richard had a shank of great lamb with mint sauce for lunch, so the reference to a three-legged lamb is to the poor creature with 3 remaining shanks which is hobbling around somewhere in the English countryside. It should be noted in passing that as we left Ireland and went on to Wales and returned to England prices fell by about half; Ireland is bloody expensive.

Well, we have left Ireland, and have woven our way through Wales and back into England. I was perhaps errant in failing to mention that Dublin has a wee Jewish community of about 1, 000 people, split between the Reform and Orthodox clans of the tribe. Those of you who survived your Intro to British Lit will remember that Molly Bloom, Joyce’s buxom, red-headed heroine in “Ulysses”, had a husband who was Jewish. But if you didn’t remember that you at least remember the opening sensuous and titillating Molly Bloom first paragraph in the novel that would make DH Lawrence blush.

We travelled through northern Wales and through Avon, which is associated with King Arthur, although this is something of a feat since there really is no hard proof that he actually existed. From what I can tell, both King Arthur and Robin Hood are both composite figures created over the centuries from stories, legends and folk songs. Interestingly, only in later centuries were their respective heroines and love interests added, no doubt to spice things up.

Further into Wales we journeyed into what used to be coal mining country. The classic novel and b&w film about the harsh and dangerous lives of Welsh miners was told in Llewellyn‘s classic, “How Green was My Valley”. Subsequently, an academic discovered that Llewellyn changed his name to make it sound more Welsh; in reality, he was from east-end London. Perhaps the most powerful, brutal and heart rending of all novels about unemployed coal miners during the depression is Orwell’s “The Road to Wigham Pier.” But times have changed. At the turn of the century there were about 100, 000 miners employed in the Cardiff area, today 2, 000. But heating our homes and powering our factories with coal came with a sharp price tag: we stopped at a memorial to the 266 miners who died in a 1934 pit explosion; earlier in 1913, 800 men were killed in another mining accident.

I think we mentioned earlier that our guide, Dylan, is Welsh, and pulled a few strings to prolong our trip through Wales, so instead of an hour or two rushing along the motorway en route to England after our ferry ride from Dublin, we spent a full day driving through the Snowdonia Mountains, visiting a walled town and its castle in Conway, and then driving south to Dylan’s home, a beautiful town named Llangollen, where we were invited to his local pub for drinks. He ordered a Welsh whisky for Richard called Pandenic (no, not a pandemic) which was as good as any Scottish single malt. Eleanor had a great local beer, but unfortunately the memory of its name was gone before the glass was drained.

We really believed that our disappointment in the scenery of Ireland was due to having seen the spectacular highlands of Scotland beforehand, but our love of the highlands didn’t get in the way of our appreciation of Wales. It really is stunning. Sitting in that lovely old pub right beside a fast-moving stream in such a beautiful mountain valley, was one of the highlights of the trip for many of us. Several people mentioned how happy they would have been if the Chester leg of our trip had been cancelled, and we had stayed in the pub for dinner. I’m not sure where a busload of tourists would have been able to sleep in Llangollen, but we’d have taken our chances. Except for the fact that the majority of the locals speak Gaelic, we’re thinking it would be a lovely place to retire…and the weather’s much nicer than it is on the Orkney Islands. It would certainly be nice to come back and spend a longer time seeing the rest of the country.

The following morning we went to see the lovely town of Chester (pop 80, 000) with its Roman walls and half-timbered shops and houses. Just being able to stand on the rampart walls where the Romans stood to view this outlying and backward province of Pax Romana was a real thrill. Contrary to what we had learned in high school Latin, despite the fact that Britain was viewed as a backwater whose savage inhabitants were to be kept at bay by Hadrian’s wall, you realize after you the see the Roman amphitheatre (3 AD) here in Chester and the elaborate baths in the City of Bath that the Romans intended to stay and were more than passing through. They were here for 400 years! And compared to the locals of the time, the Romans probably represented progress in a variety of ways given their level of civilization and culture. As well, after one appreciates that Brown’s dress shop in Chester was founded during the reign of George II (early 1700s), one has an entirely different sense of historical time than do we upstart North Americans. The fact that the Blue Coated Hospital (later a home for boys) was founded in 1700 again re-enforces the point.

Earlier in our trip, after Oxford going north, we passed by Sheffield, which used to be part of the Britain’s industrial base in the mid-lands. In the 1980s it became part of the rust belt with massive layoffs. That demoralizing story was told in the almost humorous film, “The Full Monty”; whereas the desperate situation of unemployed municipal labourers in the 1980s was told in a pathos-filled BBC mini-series titled, ”The Black Top Workers.”

As we were driving through the countryside, it was pointed out to us that in certain parts of Wales the pub was located right next to the Church. What cause and effect was, in this instance, remains to be determined; perhaps it was just a matter of convenience. A cynic, however, would suggest that it was necessity.

In Ludlow we had lunch at a pub called The Blue Boar and then went to walk around a lovely outside market with local produce, sweet stalls and book vendors. This is much like our Byward Market in Ottawa. This little market, we were told, has been around for a mere 900 years. Lordy, the notion of time is so different. It makes one feel small- like the proverbial grain of sand. But despite its great age, the food is fresh, and their chili-chocolate fudge was great!

One of the recurring things that Richard keeps saying is how the English countryside and the paintings of Gainsborough and Constable mirror one another. The rolling pastures and meandering streams, the cows, sheep, trees, and the infinite shades of greens and yellows are all captured and reflected in the social realism of Gainsborough and Constable, although they wouldn’t have called it that. They were gendre painters who captured a particular milieu , and social set such as Gainsborough’s painting titled Mr. and Mrs. Andrews, who were landed gentry, and caught their personal relationship which was based more on finance than on romance. What these painters do is to turn the prosaic into art. Richard says he will never look at the English countryside in the same way again. Eleanor, on the other hand, doesn’t care who painted what; the countryside looks like a huge patchwork quilt in shades of green, with trees or stone walls dividing the square fields and cows and sheep and wildflowers adding tiny touches of colour for effect.

Today’s trip took us to the beautiful old Roman baths built on a hot spring in Bath, with a detour to pass the grand old houses that the Londoners spent their summers in while “taking the waters” in Jane Austin’s time. At least 2 of her novels were set there, and there’s a Jane Austin museum there as well. This afternoon we arrived in Plymouth, and after a cruise on the harbour, when the sun came out to greet us for the first time in a few days, we settled into our last hotel, where we spend our final two nights of the tour, before heading back to London. Tomorrow, we visit Cornwall: Princetown and across Dartmoor to visit Tintagel, the supposed site of King Arthur’s castle. We return to Plymouth via Bodwin Moor.

Tomorrow night we have our farewell dinner, because when we arrive in London on Wednesday, the group will be scattering. Some head home that night, some leave on Thursday, and many of the Aussies in the group are getting their clothes cleaned and heading off on other 2 or 3 week tours in different parts of Europe. That sounds strange to Canadians who can get to Europe in 5 or 6 hours, but it takes them 26 hours to reach London and once they’re here they make the most of it! We’ve enjoyed our time, but are happy to be heading home and unpacking at last!

It sounds almost anti-climactic, but on the way back to London we’ll make our final stop to see Stonehenge. That means that we have at least one more instalment of this blog, so don’t give up now! We probably won’t tackle that until we get home, but when we’ve caught up on our sleep, we’ll also post photos, so stay tuned.

Irish whisky and Blarney

SHE SAYS: Looks as if the tantrum is over- for now, and the Blarney Stone worked. (see below) Although he wants it on record that objects to my wording of the previous sentence. Still, he's baaaack!


HE SAYS: We are entering the last phase of our trip and some people are saddle weary and becoming grumpy after three weeks on the road. (Not us, of course!) So some quick comments and observations.

Here in the British Isles there is an entirely different sense of historical time. Here castles and pubs date back to 1098 -- literally. The other day we had lunch at a pub that was 800 years old; that's before Shakespeare, and the other afternoon we were in another pub that had a Viking wall in it. And the number of castles that date from the 13th century is endless. Ho-hum, another ruin. In Canada history as a practical matter history doesn’t start until around 1750 with Kingston and the like. This doesn't even qualify as history on this side of the pond. Newer -- or younger -- does not necessarily mean better. In Europe and Britain one acquires a new sense of history and historical perspective.

One of the original reasons that I wanted to do this trip to the British Isles was to compare and contrast Scotland and Ireland, and their respective cultures side- by- side. Initially, I was going to make a smart comment that this was like comparing the dour with the maudlin. But that's too easy. The Scottish clan structure and home rule helped preserve their unique culture, while a tight peasant culture and the external British threat- and, of course, Guinness- accomplished the same for the Irish. After appreciating Scottish and Irish culture I've come to the conclusion that they are the lost tribes of Israel.

About two days ago we all kissed the Blarney stone, which was a lot of fun, but blarney. Dylan, our tour guide, tells us that while kissing the stone is fun, it’s even more fun to kiss someone who’s kissed the Blarney Stone. We did both, so we’re even more full of blarney than most. But you already knew that, didn’t you?

I had never thought of it before, but the different designs on Irish fisherman's sweaters were intended to help identify the bodies of drowned fisherman. And as bright as some of them are, tartans were designed to camouflage their wearers as they walked across the hills.

Today here in Dublin I went on a private tour titled, “The 1916 Rebellion Tour” to visit places associated with the abortive 1916 uprising against the British. Lorcan, the tour guide, was quite good, informative and humorous; while the rapidity of his delivery was like that of a British machine gun at the GPO. Certainly the best films about the Irish resistance to the Brits are “Michael Collins” and “The Hand that Shakes the Barley”. Both are fairly brutal.

Dublin is a city with history; it is a bustling, if not thriving city with many bistros, cafes and pubs. The Grafton Street area in city center is particularly interesting and lively, with buskers and outdoor cafes and wall-to-wall tourists. Dublin’s historical reputation and impact on twentieth century literature is probably unparalleled to any other city in the world. I was struck by the flourishing cultural life including the numerous small string quartets, live drama and film clubs. Killarney stands in contrast as a delightful, but small town with cobbled streets; I wished we had spent more time there. Notwithstanding the recent economic collapse and bailout of the Irish economy, life here seems fairly prosperous. Using the famous Deaton Car Index as a proxy of social affluence this is certainly suggested by the large number of big cars here when compared to the smaller ones in Italy, Portugal, France, Greece and other European cities.

We also went to visit Trinity College and the well-known Book of Kells, with its beautiful illuminated manuscript. That said, the Long Room Library was absolutely stunning and stole the show with its 20 foot floor- to -ceiling book shelves. The place just oozed culture and learning. All that was missing was the port from an Oxbridge High Table. To enhance this effect was an exhibition celebrating the history of the Trinity College Medical School; this was replete with 18th and 19th century medical textbooks, which were in their own right pieces of art and are medical treasures.

Tomorrow we leave Ireland at 5:30 AM (!!!) and head off through Wales, which was supposed to be nothing more than a direct route back to England. But Dylan is Welsh, and has decided that we need to spend a little more time in the most beautiful part of Britain, so most of tomorrow will be spent on a detour through Wales, including a stop in his home town and a visit to his “local”. Then it’s on to Bath, Plymouth, and Stonehenge; we come full circle and end the trip in London, as does our blog.

This Insight tour, our skilled driver, Neville, and especially our tour manager, Dylan, have been first rate. We have nothing but good things to say about him. It has been a real pleasure travelling with him. We have learned a lot, and have thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. While Guinness is referred to as black gold and definitely tastes much better in Ireland the way everybody says, personally I prefer Beamish. And without a doubt the best Irish whisky in the world is Redbreast, whilst the best Scottish single malt, at least to my taste, is Dalwinnie. Thank you, Dylan and Neville, for introducing me to the drink of the gods.

Land of the leprechauns

Greetings on one of our rare rain-free days.

In Ireland, if you're asked if you're happy, you say, "Aye". If you're very happy, you say, "Aye, surely".

Evidently, the stories about Leprechauns are partially true. There was a tribe in SW Ireland who were quite vertically challenged, but were known for being good warriors. I guess you compensate where you can.

And in Scotland the Picts were the original warrior race - they went into battle naked except for their purple body paint. That would be enough to scare anybody, including Mel Gibson. The Picts destroyed the Roman 9th Legion in battle but their bodies were never found. Anthropologists have determined that the purple Picts had cannabalistic tendencies. I'm not too sure exactly which shade of purple they were, but on those cold winter days, I'm assuming there was more than a tiny touch of blue.

And talking of tribes, the Scots, Irish and Jews all have this kinship pattern in common. For example, Richards come from the ferocious O' Deaton clan from Budapest, and I, of course, am one of the Newfoundland O'Hora's.

Today we visited the gorgeous Ring of Kerry, which is the furthest southern (actually sw) point of Ireland. Beautiful. And while Ireland is loverly, like a patchwork quilt with 40 shades of green, our hearts still belong in Scotland.

On past visits to Britain, we've been shaken up while trying to cross the streets. We look left, see no traffic, and walk...only to be startled by the screeching brakes of the line of cars speeding towards us from the right. Something we've appreciated in the larger towns all over Britain and Ireland: at intersections, they often have "look left" or "look right" written on the sidewalk...probably to save their bumpers from stupid tourists.

Before we came to Ireland, we'd pictured the towns as collections of quaint thatch cottages peopled by simple farm folk. Hah! They now live in lovely newish houses, and every town has a few 600 year old buildings housing trendy cafes with a choice 10 types of coffee to sip with your croissant or fancy brioche.

Some little-known animal facts that Dylan has taught us along the way: 1. If you see sheep walking on the road impeding traffic, if everyone on the bus shouts, "Mint Sauce", they'll get off immediately. 2. If you count 7 horses in one day, you'll meet the person of your dreams and get married. If you count 14 white horses, you'll be pregnant by Christmas. If you count 24 of them, you'll get divorced. There are lots of white horses around here, so it seems as if you can live an entire life in one day.

Since we're further south now, a few more wildflowers have appeared to make me jealous. There are now fields of wild yellow irises in addition to the deep pink rhododendrons and the bluebells that line the roads, but the most incredible sight are the hedges of fuschia that grow 4-5 feet tall. When I think of how much it costs at home for one hanging basket of them, and how they die with the first frost, I start thinking about how nice it would be to live in a climate where these things grow as weeds, and where some gardens even have a palm tree or two. And we Canadians make jokes about British weather!

Back to reality, though. Houses in this area cost around E 1m (Cdn $ 1.5m), and even those caught in the market decline still cost E 300K.

And it cost a cool E 24 , or $36 to have our laundry done today.

Tomorrow we go and kiss the Blarney Stone. The Paddy' s whisky made us do it.

Are we having a good time? Aye. Are we glad we've done this trip? Aye, surely.

Living history: a blast in Londonderry

Yesterday, after a 3 hour ferry ride, we arrived in Belfast, Northern Ireland, and headed north along a coastal route that took us to an incredible natural rock formation called the Giant’s Causeway, and then on to the city that some call Derry, and others call Londonderry,depending on their religion. This morning, a local guide took us on a fabulous tour that showed us the sites of the Troubles back in the 60’s, and ended by saying that although the religious differences still exist it was comforting to him that his children are growing up without the fear of religious intolerance and violence the way their parents did. We left Londonderry just before noon and headed across the border into the Republic of Ireland. Tonight at dinner in the coastal town of Sligo, we learned that only acouple of hours after we left, a bomb went off in the very area we had been walking. Although the bombers haven’t been identified yet, the effort sounded very amateurish and nobody was injured, it certainly shook us up a little and gave us some interesting dinner table conversation.

So far, coming directly from the highlands of Scotland, we haven’t found the scenery here exactly “Ah”-inspiring (houses and fields and sheep and a few low hills, for the most part), and the green of the Emerald Isle seems exactly the same as the green everywhere else we’ve been in Britain, but I have a feeling that our opinion could change before we finish our drive along the coast and arrive in Dublin in a few days.

Ireland, like Scotland, cried tears of joy on our arrival, and the tears continued through the day and only stopped in time for us to take a walk after dinner tonight to burn at least 1 or 2 of the hundreds of calories we consumed. Who but the Irish would serve whipped cream with chocolate covered cream puffs? I know what you’re thinking: who but Eleanor would actually feel the need to eat the cream that was served with chocolate covered cream puffs? But all of us at our table agreed that refusing to do so would be a terrible insult to our Irish hosts, and I wouldn’t want to be insulting. Besides, it tasted great.

We’re travelling through towns and counties and have visited places that we’ve heard about all our lives: Donegal and the Beleek china factory, to name a couple. Tomorrow we’ll have lunch in Galway, and spend the night at Limerick. Guinness and Paddy Irish whiskey are the drinks of choice here, so Richard is trying them out (for research purposes only, of course) while I test the whipped cream and the soda bread, which I’ve read about but never tasted before. We’ll definitely be hitting the salads and the cottage cheese this summer!