DUBAI to ROME (Part 1) – April 2013

Please Note – I am currently editing the travel journal I started writing in 2007 and posting as I go. I welcome feedback and encourage my readers to post comments.

Next Around the Bend – New York & Boston

The Bostonians 

(Miracle at the Boat Drill)

For Huckleberry B and me, our cruise holidays start when we have fully unpacked and the much dreaded boat drill is behind us. Whilst a necessary evil, boat drills are typically a tedious affair.

On this occasion we tramped downstairs to the main dining room where the ship’s safety procedures were to be explained. Looking around, we saw that most of the seats had already been taken, except two at a nearby table. A couple walked towards the vacancy before inexplicably turning away. As it transpired, their ill-advised decision turned out to be our profound good fortune.

We sat down and introduced ourselves to the couple already occupying the table; Peter and Robin. We soon began chatting and continued our chat after the boat drill had concluded and everybody else had returned to their rooms.

Not since meeting the Texans in the Galapagos Islands had we created such an instant rapport with two fellow- travellers.

We liked Peter and Robin very much. Peter is engaging and tells a good story in his measured English accent. Robin is more brash and outspoken but also a compelling story teller. We were soon to learn that she does not suffer fools either gladly or with even the mildest hint of patience. She’s a quick and accurate judge of character and will immediately dismiss a fool from her presence. This aspect of her character makes us feel vindicated because she seemed to warm to us immediately.

Like the Texans before them, we anticipate spending much time with the Bostonians on this cruise.

Oh Man! Are We Really in Oman 

(Speaking Frankly About Frankincense)

After two idyllic days at sea – onboard Seabourn Odyssey – we found ourselves in Oman.

I have described in a previous journal that one of the benefits of a cruise holiday is that sometimes your boat takes you somewhere you would never, in a million years, whimsically allow your wandering mind to even casually contemplate visiting. If memory serves, I made that observation about a previous trip to Tallinn in Estonia.

Oman clearly falls into the same category.

When discussing our ‘Travel Randomly And Valiantly Embrace Leisure’ List, I am 100% sure neither Huckleberry B nor I have ever spoken enthusiastically about an intense desire to visit Oman. Doubtless, even an ambivalent acquiescence to visit the place has likewise never passed our lips.

Our initial view of Oman was shared by others, including our new friends, Peter and Robin, who declared that this represented their second visit Oman: namely “the first and the last”!

All I really knew about Oman, prior to this voyage, was that it bordered Saudi Arabia and Yemen – other places which oddly do not feature on our TRAVEL List – and that the Socceroos are regular visitors to the Omani capital of Muscat for World Cup and Asian Cup qualifiers.

Rather than venture to Muscat, however, Seabourn Odyssey took us to the Port city of Salalah.

I would have to say that Salalah is the Murmansk of the Arabian Peninsula. The city itself is of very little appeal, despite the potential created by its natural setting, particularly the steep, arid escarpment which runs parallel to the coast.

However, there are some hidden treasures nearby.

Our guide took us to Job’s tomb, high in the mountains outside Salalah. It has since been suggested to us that the tomb may be a fake, however, the visit remains memorable for its solemnity.

We then proceeded down the west coast, which was quite simply stunning. After a long beach where waves from the Indian Ocean rolled in to ripple effortlessly on the Omani shore, we visited a blow hole at a nearby headland. The blow hole, itself, was not as impressive as her cousin in Kiama, New South Wales, but the coastline in each direction was spectacular. To the west an angular escarpment rose sharply from the sea and presented a dramatic backdrop.

Other than the natural beauty surrounding Salalah, the other highlight of our visit to Oman was learning about Frankincense.

Are you aware that Oman is “the land of Frankincense”? Well, before this visit, neither were we.

Do you know what Frankincense actually is? Nope, us neither until now.

Prior to visiting Oman, I knew that Frankincense was of sufficient importance to warrant being offered by one of the wise men to Mary and Joseph at the birth of Christ. However, neither Huckleberry nor I had any inkling whether Frankincense was animal, mineral or vegetable.

Frankly, I had a lazy ten bucks on ‘mythical’, if I were to be honest.

It transpires that Frankincense is, in fact, the sap of a tree of the same name. We were taken to see two Frankincense trees in the hills around Salalah. We also saw different varieties of hardened Frankincense in the local Souk. We were told that there are kinds you can burn to create a pleasing aroma. Others can be dissolved in water for the treatment of various ailments. We happily purchased a couple of bags. Let’s see what use we put them to!

Overall, our short visit to Oman was worth undertaking. We have no particular reason to come back, but can, at least, say we have been.

The Gulf of Aden

After our vessel left the Port of Salalah – and ‘the Land of Frankincense’  disappeared over the horizon – we took a deep, relaxing breath and looked forward to four straight days at sea, as we headed to Safaga, Egypt.

Huckleberry B and I love sea days.

We have always treated our cruises ships as the primary destination of our travels. Should there be pleasing ports along the way, all the better!

Onboard Seabourn Odyssey, our sea days adopted a familiar pattern. We were extremely virtuous in the morning; getting up at 6am and spending an hour in the gym before breakfast. As the day progressed, however, we became progressively more slothful. Other than attending the team trivia quiz at noon and enjoying a light lunch, our afternoons were typified by lying in bed either watching a movie or sleeping (and quite often both simultaneously!).

These afternoons of frolicsome leisure reminded me of the song early in the Pirates of Penzance, when the Major General’s daughters are climbing over the rocks towards the shore:

Let us gayly tread the measure,

Make the most of fleeting leisure,

Hail it as a true ally,

Though it perish by-and-by.

We just pray that our blue and golden days of fleeting leisure are not interrupted by a Somalian pirate climbing onboard singing, “I am a Pirate King!” whilst followed by a small band of musical acolytes.

We joke about the prospect of out ship being overrun by pirates regularly, but there’s always a touch of gallows humour involved.

After Oman, we sail through the Gulf of Aden; the State of Yemen to our north and Somalia to our south. Many thousands of ships sail these water each year, so the truth is that our quiet enjoyment is unlikely to be rudely interrupted by Somalian pirates with evil on their minds. However, Seabourn has employed four security guards, armed with semi-automatic weapons and high pressure hoses, to ensure that any risk to our safety is further minimised.

They say that the security guards – former SAS officers – walk amongst us. That certainly makes us feel more secure; unless one of them is the elderly gentleman I saw earlier; falling asleep whilst working on a crossword puzzle, a Suez Canal of saliva leaking from one corner of his mouth. If that guy’s been sent here to protect us, then we’re all in serious jeopardy!

After the Gulf of Aden, we sail north-west along the Red Sea, towards the Suez Canal. On our right, just over the horizon, lies Saudi Arabia. On our left, we pass Djibouti, Eritrea and Sudan, before reaching Egypt.




MYANMAR – January 2013

Please Note – I am currently editing the travel journal I started writing in 2007 and posting as I go. I welcome feedback and encourage my readers to post comments.

Next Around the Bend – Dubai to Rome on Seaborne Odyssey

The Pagoda Fields of Bagan

We arrived in Yangon (formerly Rangoon) late on the 5th of January. After spending one night in the former capital, Huckleberry B and I flew to Bagan where our week- long tour of Myanmar was to begin.

Whilst churches may have been the main attraction in Europe, our journey around Myanmar was dominated by temples, monasteries, stupas and pagodas. We learned, early in our trip, the difference between these religious structures.

A stupa is shaped like an immense, ornamental bell, with its circular base on the ground and its handle pointing to the heavens. Unlike a temple or a pagoda, one cannot enter a stupa. Whilst religious relics may be placed inside, there are no doors permitting entry once the stupa is sealed.

Pagodas come in a various sizes, but are a similar shape to a stupa. We saw – quite literally – hundreds of pagodas during our week in Myanmar. The vast majority were constructed of red brick, but some were painted white or gold. Unlike a stupa, a pagoda includes one of more open archways which allow one to enter and see the Buddha placed inside. Some are sufficiently large to allow a visitor to walk upright. Others necessitate the visitor to crouch whilst negotiating the entry point.

Neither a temple nor a monastery requires further explanation.

We saw several temples in Bagan, a monastery and a very impressive stupa. However, what made Bagan extraordinary was the vast number of pagodas which had been constructed in the fields outside the small city. Standing at the summit of a tower at our resort, at sunset, we could see dozens upon dozens of them in all directions. Some were only marginally taller than a tall man, others were the size of a two storey house. They dominated the vista in all directions.

There was something both mystical and peaceful about the scene.

We inquired why so many pagodas had been built in this area. Our guide said that Bagan was a major point on the Silk Road and it was important that the weary traveller have a place for spiritual refreshment.

We were fortunate, whilst in Bagan, to stay at the Aureum Palace Resort, which was truly exceptional. Our private villa was spacious and far in excess of our requirements; which is not to say we did not take full advantage of the perks made available to us.

One of the best features of the resort, which will long remain in the memory, was the outdoor dining area. We sat at table adjacent to an infinity pool which reflected the image of two illuminated, ancient pagodas which sat just outside the resort precincts. In the distance, a golden stupa stood proudly on the horizon. It was the perfect setting to enjoy our Tom Yum soup, Thai chicken with basil and Myanmar beer.

Remembrance on Taungthaman Lake

Huck B and I spent two days in Mandalay, the second biggest city in Myanmar.

Of our three Burmese destinations, we would have to say that Mandalay was our least favourite. In many respects, it was similar to many other Asian cities we had visited. However, we did, nevertheless, enjoy our tour of more temples, pagodas and stupas. We were not as thrilled by the uncomfortable ride in a small, horse-drawn carriage, over a bumpy road from one site to the next; however, it was another ‘experience’.

The highlight of our time in Mandalay came at sunset on the first day.

The U Bein bridge straddles the Taungthaman Lake. Stretching 1.2 kilometres  in length, the bridge rests upon 984 teak pillars. Each set of pillars is only two or three metres apart. It’s a sturdy structure which has survived over 200 years, having been completed in 1784 (although we understand that part of the bridge collapsed under the weight of revellers one Burmese new year, but was quickly restored).

We arrived at Taungthaman Lake shortly before sunset and were quickly ushered to one of the long boats on the shore. Minutes later we were out on the water. The vista which greeted us was iconic south-east Asian. As the sun hovered just above the horizon, beyond the wooden bridge, those traversing the boardwalk above were reduced to hazy silhouettes which drifted gracefully across our field of vision. To add to the idyllic scene, the image of the bridge, and those upon it, was now mirrored on the surface of the glassy lake. Though there were several dozen fellow travellers in close proximity, the reverent silence we shared was only broken by the lapping of water against our long boats and the clicking of cameras.

As our oarsman paddled us back to shore, it was only natural that my mind’s eye took me to Blackwattle Bay, near Sydney’s fish markets, under the ANZAC Bridge, where B and I had spent countless hours enjoying the exertions of dragon boat training.

I could hear the voice of our coach, S, yelling out “one – two – three – four – that’s it – stretch it out“, as our boat surged forward.

My beloved told me later she had the same thoughts that evening at U Bein Bridge.

As the sun finally set, and we helped each other out of our long boat – as we had done so many times at Blackwattle Bay – I wondered how S was. He had been battling cancer for some time, but I understood the outlook was bleak. Tragically, Boh and I received an email from our niece, three days later, to let us know that Simon had passed away on Christmas Eve.

We will never forget S; a friend of the clan and ever present in Sydney’s Chinese community, we have never known anybody so willing to give up his time, for no reward, to help others. Whether it was dragon boat training, lion dance tuition, charity work, or simply offering sage advice to Chinese youths marching towards adulthood, S just never knew how to say “no”.

Gone at just 43, S has left us far too soon. We are glad we both thought of him as we enjoyed that enchanted scene on Tuangthaman Lake in Myanmar.

The Students at Phaung Daw Oo Monastic School

Our second morning at Mandalay was dominated by an extended boat ride; this time on a reasonably large vessel, similar in size to a maxi-yacht.  Not surprisingly, the scene at the end of the boat ride was another stupa and another pagoda. It must be said, however, that these ones were special.

The stupa we saw was distinguished by the fact that it was incomplete. Had it been finished it would have been the biggest stupa in Myanmar. The pagoda was unique because it was white in colour and surrounded by a series of seven wave shaped circles which bordered the central structure.

After the return boat ride, we did something truly special.

We had learned that there was a monastery school in Mandalay which a vast number of students attending. In Myanmar, parents are required to pay fees in order to send their children to government schools. Those families who are poor – of which there are many – send their children to schools run by the local monastery. These schools relied entirely on donations to operate. They have no government funding.

My darling, Huckleberry B, directed our guide to take us to a store selling rice and purchased five 50 kilo bags to be delivered to the monastic school. In the scheme of things it was probably a small offering, however, it was something.

We took the receipt to the school and gave it to the vice-principal. We were privileged to sit with the monk and chat for a while. We subsequently met his brother, the principal of the school.

When the invitation of a tour was offered, Huck B was quick to accept. We were shown some of the class rooms and were ultimately ushered into a room where the PCP students were taught. B asked what `PCP’ stood for and we were told they were preparing for college. We spent some time with these bright and enthusiastic teenage students and, among others, met a girl who wished to be a tour guide, a boy who wanted to work in construction engineering and a girl who harboured the worthy ambition of being a doctor.

One of the students asked Huckleberry how she succeeded in becoming a lawyer. This gave her an opportunity to address the class about the importance of education. B outlined how her upbringing was similar to those in the class. She had been sent to the bus station in Johor Bahru to sell lottery tickets, with her sister, when she was just six years old. She wasn’t much older when her parents routinely sent her to the markets to pick vegetables out of the rubbish bins; the still edible items would be included in the family dinner whilst the rotten bits would be fed to the family chickens.

However, despite the deprivations experienced by a Chinese family in Malaysia in the 1970’s, Huck recognized that education was the key to a better life. She worked hard and obtained a scholarship to attend high school in Canada. Though, at that time, she hardly spoke English, she was suddenly studying Hamlet. Yet she graduated with honours and was accepted into university in Iowa.

At this point in the narrative, I looked around the class and saw that many of the students were transfixed. I could see the spark of inspiration in their eyes.

Huckleberry B continued by describing how her university career in the USA was brought to a premature end by illness. However, she persevered and successfully applied to study law  in Sydney. Twenty years after graduating, she now has a comfortable life which permits her to travel the world, including Myanmar. Education was the key.

When she had finished, the teacher thanked my beloved for her inspirational speech. Undertakings were made to keep in touch by email.

I was very proud of my wife that afternoon in Mandalay. Though the meeting was brief, it was obvious that she had inspired some young minds. Standing before the class was a woman who was once like them, but had climbed up the societal ladder armed with little more than her own determination.

Doubtless, B’s words were even more valuable than the 250 kilos of rice which had just been delivered to the principal’s office.

An Episode of Unwanted Attention

Our time in Mandalay was capped off by a leisurely dinner at a local restaurant.

It turned out that our charming Burmese guide’s sister had owned and operated a thriving cafe not far from the monastic school. Our guide and our driver agreed to join us. We had enjoyed our two days with them and we all got on well. So well, in fact, that before dinner, our guide introduced us to her mother, sister, niece and nephew, who all lived in a comfortable house across the road from the family restaurant.

The restaurant, itself, was very well set up. We opted for dining in the garden area on the block next to the building housing the restaurant. We all enjoyed the food and the pleasant ambiance.

As it transpires, however, it appears that one of our party enjoyed the dinner more than he should have.

When we were preparing to leave for the airport the next morning, the phone rang. It was our guide to explain that the driver’s car had broken down and another driver would be coming to collect us.

We now believe that what we were told was a cover story.

Later in the day, B received an email from our guide. Whilst she did not want to disturb her, our guide saw Bo as a mentor. She therefore wanted to tell her that the driver who had joined us for dinner the night before was ‘not a good man’. Our guide explained that after dropping us at our hotel – and despite having a wife and two children – the driver had made a pass at her!

It seems to us that the driver enjoyed dining with the young, charming guide with whom he worked…and wanted more than was being offered.

The Fisherman of Inle Lake

The lean and athletic fisherman stood at the front of his fishing boat, in the middle of the mile-wide lake, as the sun set behind the distant mountain. His boat was as shallow as it was narrow; probably only half the length of a dragon boat.  He wore three-quarter pants and a small straw hat.

The fisherman balanced adroitly on his left leg whilst he wrapped his right leg around a long paddle which was braced against his right shoulder. As his right arm controlled a net, the fisherman propelled the boat forward by manipulating the paddle through the water; employing a rounded running motion with his right leg.

There was something remarkably graceful about the fisherman’s ancient technique.

Not far away, but still far from the distant shore, another fisherman used his paddle to break the surface of the lake. His intention was to scare the fish below and cause them to swim towards his net, which lay silently in wait. A third fisherman poked his paddle deep into the water, with the same cunning plan in mind.

All the fisherman dragged behind, deep under the surface of the lake, a large conical net constructed of bamboo and wire. The more methods employed, the greater the daily catch. As the fish were caught they were placed in shallow pool of water in the centre of the fishing boat. Later, the fisherman would fetch whatever price he could obtain.

These fishermen – and scores of others on Lake Inle – were employing the same fishing methods which had been used by their forebears for centuries. They spent hours on the lake, demonstrating remarkable agility, as they patiently went about their trade.  Whilst balancing on one leg, they moved their centre of gravity instinctively to counteract the small waves caused by motor boats traversing the vast lake. Not once did we see any of them lose balance.

Sometimes they would sleep on their small boats; for the early fisherman catches the morning fish.

We will long remember the image of the fisherman of Inle Lake.

The Canals of Inle

The two days we spent at Inle Lake were probably our most memorable in Myanmar.

The lake itself is immense. When in the middle, the shore on each side looks a long, long way away. A multitude of villages are positioned around the lake; the houses constructed high above the water on stilts. Some look strong and stood tall and proud. Others seem to be less well constructed and lean either left or right.

Like Venice, there are no roads in these villages, only canals which run off the main lake and multiply the deeper you travel into the village.

What made our time in Inle special was our mode of transport. For two days we travelled everywhere on a long boat – in much the same dimensions as a dragon boat – which was propelled by something akin to a lawn mower motor attached, through the means of a long pole, to a propeller.

On our long boat, there were three wooden chairs placed in single file along the centre of the boat. We simply climbed on and sat down and away we went.

It was simply sublime to zip across the water – the sun on your face and the wind in your hair – from one site to the next. Some of the journeys occupied over half an hour; more than sufficient time to get lost in your own thoughts as you watched the life on the lake go by.

The most memorable of these journeys was on the second afternoon, when we were returning to our resort, on lake’s edge, shortly before the sun went down. The water was cast in a beautiful shade of blue and the sky had turned crimson.

When we reached the middle of the lake, our boatman stopped the motor so we could talk to a nearby fisherman. Huckleberry B wanted to purchase some fish to be divided between our guide and the boat driver, on the understanding that they would describe, the next day, how the fish had been cooked.

Answering a call in Burmese, the fisherman wrapped his right leg around his paddle and stoked his way across to our stationary boat. He was a striking figure as he balanced on the front of his narrow boat, towering above us as we sat in or chairs. The purchase made, the motor was re-started and we were, again, on our way.

Huckleberry B and I agree that our boat rides around Lake Inle were the highlight of our time in Myanmar. We hope to return again soon to explore other parts of the lake as yet not seen.


THE DANUBE – December 2012


The Nuremberg Christmas Markets

After flying from Sydney to Abu Dhabi to Frankfurt, we finally arrived in Nuremberg late on 22 December 2012.

The final hour’s flight, on a very small plane, was rendered surprisingly enjoyable – despite our travel weariness – by a large American whom we later learned was named Tom. His quips during the flight had both his wife, Pat, and ourselves in hysterics.  We were most pleased when he strolled up to join us on the Uniworld bus bound for the River Duchess. We had made some friends and we were not even onboard yet.

By the time we reached our new floating home it was dark and cold in the German winter. The River Duchess looked warm and inviting as we wheeled our luggage up the ramp. However, after our long journey, we were exhausted and fell into bed at the earliest opportunity.

As we fell asleep, we looked forward to our twelve day cruise down the Danube River; through the Bavarian countryside; into Austria for New Year’s eve in Vienna; and finally to the Hungarian capital, Budapest. It promised to be an engaging journey.

The next morning, we awoke uncomfortably early and prepared ourselves for a city tour of Nuremberg. In addition to our inevitable jet lag, the day was afflicted by steady rain which made it even more difficult to get truly into the spirit of the moment. But we ventured onto the tour bus nonetheless.

Thankfully, our tour guide was most entertaining. He commenced by asking us if we knew the German words for beer, house and mouse. When we responded with bier, haus and maus, he concluded that we all spoke German very well.

Our city tour took us to Nuremberg Castle and the Christmas markets in the square below. Whilst picture postcard perfect, our enthusiasm for the tour was dampened – quite literally – by the persistent rain which continued to fall. We hoped for clear skies in the days ahead. We expected it to be cold – which it certainly was – but we could do without the rain.

Echoes from a Time of Madness

It is difficult – even now – to visit Germany without thinking of the grotesque atrocity of World War II.

For the most part, we observed Basil Fawlty’s sage (and timeless) message of peace.

However, when the opportunity arose in Nuremberg to go on a World War II tour, temptation was difficult to resist.

In truth, when in Nuremberg, reminders of that time of madness are ever present.  The city witnessed both the rise of National Socialism and the final chapter of their terrible story.

Our tour began at the Zepplin Airfield where the Nazis held massive rallies in the 1930’s, before the outbreak of war. The area has been preserved, although hockey and football fields now lie where the immense parade ground once dominated. The raised seating areas still circle the playing fields, albeit overrun with grass and weeds; the past must be remembered, but banished to the past.

The best preserved aspect of the rally grounds is the front stage area which was once reserved for Nazi  officials. The stone seating area still remains, as does the rostrum from which Hitler delivered his rants. There once was a row of columns at the back of the seating area, furnaces at each end and a gold eagle perched atop the centrum at the rear. However, these have been removed. Again, the past must not be forgotten but nor must it be glorified.

Standing to one side of the rostrum, and squinting my eyes, I could readily imagine that the anonymous tourist striding to the speaker’s position was Hitler and I could hear the distant chants of Zeig Heil. It was chilling.

After the rally grounds, we visited the Nazi Congress Building. Modeled after the Coliseum, in Rome, the Congress Building was planned to be immense, standing 50% higher than the original. However, the massive testament to Nazi might – and Hitler’s limitless ego – was never completed. Doubtless, human and capital resources were diverted to the war Hitler craved.

If completed, the Congress Building would have seated 50,000 people who would gather for the sole purpose of listening to Hitler’s self-indulgent ramblings.  A skylight in the roof of the building would have illuminated the stage and cast the speaker in the glow of a messiah.

Today, one corner of the Congress Building is devoted to a museum which chronicles the rise of the Nazis and the war they orchestrated, with special emphasis, of course, on the role which Nuremberg played. We spent some time in the museum. However, after visiting the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem in 2007, we are a hard couple to impress.

Court Room 600

What did demand our attention, however, was a visit to Court Room 600…

Even before the end of World War II, Roosevelt and Churchill were determined to conduct war trials, in order to bring to justice those responsible for the war and for crimes against humanity. Stalin, we were told, was just as happy to line up anybody with a German name and have them shot.

Roosevelt and Churchill prevailed and the Trials were held in Nuremberg. It was explained to us that Nuremberg was an ideal location – and preferable to Berlin – because the Court House had largely survived the bombing and, moreover, so had the adjacent prison complex which was linked to the Court by tunnels. There was a genuine fear that allowing a high profile Nazi to be brought to Court from a remote location might result in either abduction by a cell of supporters or assassination by a lynch mob. By comparison, a short walk along an underground tunnel was clearly preferred.

The other factor favouring Nuremberg as the venue for the War Crimes Trials was, of course, its past.  Prosecuting the Nazis so close to where they held their pre-war rallies added an extra element of well- deserved humiliation.

We were privileged to sit in the public gallery of Court Room 600 and listen to our very well informed guide describe the events. Back in 1946, the area in which we sat was occupied by the prosecuting team.  The Judges’ Bench was under the window to our right and those accused of some of the most diabolical crimes against all human-kind sat to our left.

I will long remember our animated guide walking over and slapping the balustrade before intoning: “Herman Goering sat right here; next to him Rudolph Hess…”.

That’s the moment it became real for me. This is where it all happened; where international law was born.

Our short time inside Court Room 600 was compelling and we enjoyed the visit very much.

There was one funny story though. Our guide told the group that on another tour, an old man had put his hand up and said that he was actually present at the trials. He explained that he had been a young GI and was ordered to attend Court and take photographs. When asked whether he was aware, at the time, that he was a witness to a profound moment in history, he paused and thought for a moment before replying: “Not really; I was 19 and all that interested me was beer and Frauleins“.

Everybody has their own perspective!

Midnight Mass in Regensberg

On the morning of Christmas Eve, River Duchess began her journey to Budapest by wandering down the Nuremberg Channel, towards the Danube.

The purpose of the man-made channel is to link The Rhine with the Danube, in much the same way the Panama Canal links the Pacific and the Atlantic. It allows a boat to travel all the way across Europe from Amsterdam to the Black Sea.

The journey was quite pleasant. By this stage, the sun had come out and the green country scene was tinged with orange and gold. For most of the journey, a dirt and gravel path ran along the side of the river. We could see the occasional cyclist or jogger braving the wintry conditions. The green meadows and hills were punctuated by small towns dominated by church steeples shaped like onions.

I half expected Charles Bronson to scamper down the riverbank and steal an idle row boat or for Steve McQueen to flash by on a motorcycle. It was that kind of Bavarian countryside which floated by.

By evening – which arrives well before 5pm during the northern winter solstice – we were docked in the medium sized German town of Regensberg.

Given that ’twas Christmas Eve, and we were in Germany, we took the option of joining a large number of our fellow passengers in attending Midnight Mass at the Regensberg’s St Peter’s Dom.  Despite the huge number of people packed in the church, it was remarkably cold inside, particularly during the extended wait to the commencement of Mass at 10pm. Ultimately we persevered for as long as we could. However, by around 10.45pm, we felt we had a good a sense of what a German Midnight Mass was all about and decided that the call of our warm air conditioned room and quilted bed had become too loud to ignore.

‘Twas then that a Christmas miracle occurred.

Looking around the large number of people standing in the aisles – many of them probably locals who resented the tourists in ‘their’ Cathedral – we spotted an elderly woman and offered her our seat. She and her husband were grateful to accept.

However, what sticks in my mind is the sight of the woman’s adult son nodding at me and whispering thank you, with tears welling in his Aryan eyes…

All I did was offer his parents a seat! It’s not like I offered to feed the gathered multitude with a bag of chips and half a Mars Bar!

Yet our gesture appeared to be a miracle in the young man’s eyes and if we brought some joy to his Christmas, we are pleased.

“Are We Still in Regensberg?”

Going to sleep on Christmas night in Regensberg, I was a contented traveller…

We had been onboard the River Duchess for three nights and were enjoying the ride. We had already met some fun people, must notably Tom and Pat from Orlando, Florida and Bill and Luisa from Dallas, Texas, although there were others we were getting to know and enjoying. I had gone for a five kilometer run that morning along the river bank and was looking forward to doing the same, most days, particularly given the daily change in scenery.

As I fell asleep, I was contemplating the joys which lay around the next bend in the river…

However, two factors were about to conspire against us!

Firstly, there was the river itself. It turned out that there was too much of it.

Normally, excess water in a river is not a problem unless the banks are threatened. However, further down the river, a series of low bridges lay in wait. With the water so high, the River Duchess could not safely traverse below them without losing her head (and shoulders).

We were stuck in Regensberg until the swell of the river subsided.

Secondly, there was our own health. It transpired that our middle-aged bodies were unable to repel the threat of a European winter. We both succumbed to a rather virulent chest infection, which kept us confined to our rooms for several days, sustained only by the kindness of the River Duchess staff, particularly those kind enough to bring food to our stateroom.

It was very sad because this river cruise had so much to offer. Had the River Duchess continued on her planned journey, with us healthy onboard, I suspect this holiday would have been a classic. We were particularly sad to miss the side trip from Linz to Salzburg. Doubtless, our fellow passengers were probably grateful that our voices did not join in the ‘Sound of Music’ sing-a-long, however, we are sorry we missed it.

Ultimately, River Duchess remained in Regensberg for three additional nights. As far as we know she is still there. ..

On the 29th of December, the passengers and most of the crew were loaded onto buses and driven to Vienna where, after a night at the Intercontinental Hotel, they were welcomed onto their unexpected new home, River Beatrice, which had been called back into service only days after being closed down for the low season.

We found out about the move completely by accident, having banished the evening briefings in favour of more rest. Huckleberry B learned of the upheaval during a casual telephone conversation with the front desk on the previous afternoon. Repacking in our state was rather daunting, but we got the job done.

However, rather than join our cruise mates on a day long bus drip from Regensberg to Vienna, via several arduous tourist sites along the way, we opted for a much simpler option. We headed to the train station and caught a train direct to Vienna. Whilst still a four hour journey – in strangely uncomfortable seats and with passengers of questionable consideration – it was a better option than the joining the never ending bus journey.

Once onboard River Beatrice, we spent another day in bed, before finally emerging on New Year’s Eve.

Remarkably, we were missed during our hibernation. It turns out that Tom – who entertained us during the short flight from Frankfurt to Nuremberg – did a lap of the restaurant each night to see if a confirmed sighting could be achieved.  He was sufficiently concerned to eventually secure our room number from the front desk staff and call to enquire after our well-being.

We later asked Tom what fun we had missed during our confinement. His response was: “Not much really. Here’s a summary: bus, church, church, bus. Another bus, church, bus.  Loooooong bus, church…

Too funny!

Whenever I emerged from our room to get some more water or to head to the chemist, I would field enquiries – sometimes from people I did not recall ever seeing before – about my wife’s well being. I eventually concluded she was the ship’s answer to Ferris Bueller!

New Year’s Eve Dinner with the Griswalds

We were standing in a room where Beethoven and Salieri once stood!

It was New Year’s Eve in Vienna and Uniworld had arranged for dinner in a (small) palace in the centre of the elegant city. As we enjoyed our canapés in the front room of the venue, our portly Austrian host regaled the gathered throng with a story about Beethoven and Salieri meeting in this very room for a contest involving impromptu composing. Somehow, Salieri reputedly cheated and Beethoven stormed from the room only to return, after his temper had cooled, and vanquishing Salieri with his superior genius.

It was a good story and set the scene for a night of food, drink, string quartets, ballet, waltzing and general joyous carousing.

Controversy, however, lurked in the shadows…

Huckleberry B and I had put our names down to dine at the same table as Tom and Pat – at Tom’s insistence – and their friends, Larry and Chris. However, when the time came to commence dining, we found we had been seated elsewhere. Worst still, it emerged we had been placed with a family of four who had been causing management and guests some trouble during the cruise and were considered “a little strange”. This is not an appropriate forum to provide particulars of their behavior, however, suffice to say that the Captain of the River Beatrice threatened, at one point, to have them removed from his vessel.

When Tom discovered the calamity which had befallen us, the otherwise amiable and remarkably humorous gentleman transformed into an angry old man who berated those responsible.

To her enormous credit, however, Huckleberry B decided to make the most of a dismal situation and engaged “the Griswalds” in conversation. It took me some time to warm to the idea, but eventually followed her lead. We managed to make a reasonable evening of it.

We have since rationalized that when the seating arrangements were concluded the River Beatrice management had a dilemma because nobody wanted to sit with the strange family who had been causing problems, but somebody had to.  We probably presented a good option (for them) because there was a reasonable chance that we’d not show up, having missed dinner the previous six nights.

Still, it wasn’t much of a reward for us. Whilst resting and trying to shake the constant coughing and spluttering in our room, our focus was on being sufficiently well to make it to the New Year’s Eve dinner in Vienna, which promised to be one of the highlights of the trip. We managed to make it to the event, only to be relegated to the weirdo’s table!

In any event, the festivities concluded with the waltzing in the Beethoven / Salieri room, followed by an uplifting ballet demonstration by two dancers whilst the string quartet played ‘the Blue Danube’.

It was a memorable way to welcome in 2013!

The New Year’s Day Concert

The other highlight we were keen not to miss was attending a New Year’s day concert in Vienna.

Unfortunately, the main concert – held in the Opera House and televised worldwide – was both exclusive and expensive. The concert we attended was more reasonably priced and held in one of the sumptuous concert halls around the corner from the Opera House. It was a remarkable event and we felt privileged to attend.

The concert featured a series of arias from Operas. I had heard many of the tunes before, but readily confess not being able to name them, although I did recognize that one was from “the Magic Flute”; the one about Papageno.

The concert culminated with a sublime rendition of ‘the Blue Danube’ and the rousing ‘Radetzki March’, which brought tears to Huckleberry B’s eyes. It was an uplifting event which left us feeling warm despite the freezing weather outside.


Our twelve day long rive cruise – divided by illness and only involving two days of actual propulsion down the Danube – ended in Budapest.

As we were constantly reminded by both crew and passengers, Budapest is actually two cities. The city of Buda lies on one bank of the Danube and is dominated by a sharp escarpment and a majestic hill, whereas the city of Pest lies on the open plains on the other bank.

I suppose – but for an accident of history – we might know the Hungarian capital as “Pestbuda”.  Evidently “Budapest” was preferred.

(My apologies for the lame joke in the previous paragraph!)

In any event, Budapest is an attractive city.  We enjoyed a half day city tour in the freezing winter morning. Whilst many of the buildings had been renovated since the ravages of World War II and the degradation of the Cold War, there were some buildings which remained run down and very tired looking. Some even had bullet holes in their grey facades; a reminder of the 1956 uprising against the Soviets.

We were amused to hear, however, that those buildings which awaited the funds for renovation were in high demand by movie makers. They constituted an ideal representation of Cold War Moscow.





THE GREEK ISLES – October 2012


Back to Istanbul

It was only this time last year that Huckleberry B and I spent a short time in Istanbul, after our pilgrimage to Gallipoli. However, we really did not see the city.

Our stay would again be short. However, on this occasion, our day in the Turkey’s largest city will remain long in our memory.

For starters, Huck B had arranged for us to stay at a charming little hotel – the Neorion – in Istanbul’s old city. Unlike our hotel last year, which stood along a reasonably wide boulevard in the central business district, the Neorion was nestled in a nondescript laneway amongst the maze of narrow streets which meandered down from the Hagia Sophia Mosque to the shore of the Bosphorus. As part of the old city, both the small hotel and the location boasted genuine character.

What made our day in Istanbul so special, however was the time we spent with our friend, F, who had returned to Turkey for several months to finalize the affairs of her late husband.

We met F at the ferry wharf and, after hugs all around, set off on a delightful ride across the Bosphorus. Never has the journey from Europe to Asia been so easy and so short. It was lovely to sit on the benches on the outside of the ferry and watch the expanse of Istanbul drift by, its hills covered by small dwellings punctuated by the domes of a dozen or more mosques with their minarets reaching for the heavens.

Before long we were joined by F’s sister, B, and it was off for a leisurely lunch at a fish restaurant by the ocean. Unfortunately, getting to the leisure of the lunch was less than leisurely. If there is one thing about Istanbul which has not changed it’s the traffic. Getting anywhere on Istanbul’s roads is traumatic. We have never seen such smothering congestion. For much of the time, it is thrilling to achieve a walking pace. For the majority of the time, our vehicle was stationary.

To make matters worse, on this particular journey, our taxi driver was not sure of the exact location of the restaurant for which we were looking. He would stop periodically and stick his head out the window to ask somebody strolling by for directions. Invariably, the helpful individual would point in a direction opposite to our travel and in contradiction to the last helpful individual.

Happily, we finally found our restaurant and sat down to a spread of mezze followed by some delicious fresh fish. The location was lovely. Adjacent to a marina and overlooking the ocean, we had the place much to ourselves.

After lunch, we strolled out to the main road to look for a taxi. However, to our surprise, we were greeted, instead, by a slim Cavalier King Charles spaniel trotting happily towards us with her master. Huckleberry B and I instinctively smiled and waved at the charming little dog. Noticing this, the CKC’s  master smiled at us and stopped so we could say hello. We soon learned that the dog’s name was ‘Chico’, who was almost one year old. Whilst fondling her ears, Chiko jumped up and placed her front paws on Huck B’s thighs and craned her neck forward to give my wife a kiss on her cheek. I told Chico that she was a good girl.

Later in the day, after I had overcome a bout of Chico-inspired homesickness,  we did some shopping. However, this proved more difficult than may first have been anticipated. We were, specifically, looking for business shoes for me, to go with the ones I had purchased in Istanbul the previous year (with which I was pleased).  Unfortunately, when we arrived at the sister store by taxi, we discovered that the shop had closed. The bright side was that this gave us an ideal excuse to sit down at the adjacent Godiva shop and enjoy a round of coffees and iced chocolate milk.

Next, we were back in the taxi to another shopping district in search of the elusive shoe store…

With the store located, shoes sampled and  purchases made, it was (obviously) time for more coffees and Turkish delight. We sat down in a bustling market area where, we were told, only locals ventured. The place was teeming with Turks of all shapes and sizes. At a nearby table, I could see a mother listening intently to all the excited words which were spilling from her son’s mouth whilst her husband sipped quietly on his drink. Meanwhile a rotund young man strolled by with his arm draped around his girlfriend’s shoulders.  Across the alleyway, a mother and adult daughter sat in contented silence.

In every direction we looked, we could see the colours of the local football team. F explained that there was a game that night and the spectators were having a quick meal and a drink before heading to the stadium. When I observed that only one team’s jersey was in evidence, F stopped a supporter pushing past our table and asked who they were playing that night.

The supporter spat out a word in Turkish and F explained that the opposing team was also from Istanbul and ‘those people don’t come here’. I made a mental note to avoid the stadium that night; sounded like some bitter rivalry might by playing out.

As the sun began to set over the Bosphorus, we headed back to the wharves and took a ferry back to our corner of Istanbul. It had been a wonderful day. We felt as though we had sampled some of the ‘real’ Istanbul. A day to remember.

Silver Spirit

After our memorable day in Istanbul, we boarded Silver Spirit and looked forward to our seven day cruise among Greek and Turkish ports.

Of all the vessels we have had the privilege of experiencing, there is no question that Silver Spirit is the most impressive. Our standard verandah suite was spacious and very well appointed.  I adored the wooded paneling on the feature wall.

Entering the room for the first time, I was very pleased with what I saw, but wondered where the television was. I soon discovered that it was set inside the mirror opposite our bed. Once activated, part of the large mirror became a TV screen.

Outside our stateroom, the rest of the ship had its attractions too. In particular, there was a speciality Japanese Restaurant which we frequented regularly. On the first night, we enjoyed a Japanese degustation menu. Most of our lunches involved a seemingly endless stream of sashimi and sushi.

Across the aisle from the Japanese Restaurant was a speciality French Restaurant. Whilst very pleasing in its own way, we preferred the Japanese.

There were other dining options too. In addition to the main dining room, we could enjoy a hamburger or a hot dog around the pool. The area used for buffet breakfasts and lunches was converted to an Italian Restaurant  in the evenings, which we also sampled on one occasion.

What makes the dining options so remarkable, is that Silver Spirit is only a small ship. Its capacity of some 540 passengers compares favorably with Sapphire Princess‘ guest list, which exceeds 2,000.

Overall, the food on board Silver Spirit was simply outstanding, as was the high level of service.


`Capitalism Will Kill You’

With deep regret and a very heavy heart, we left Silver Spirit on the morning on 15 October.

It was so sad to close the door on our Stateroom and leave the vessel for the last time.

Soon enough, we were on a bus for a day tour of Athens, before being dropped off at the Sofitel Hotel at Athens Airport, where we would stay for one night before flying to Cyprus for my birthday.

We spent about 90 minutes being guided around the Acropolis. That was quite a thrill. We had seen images of this ancient structure so many times on TV and elsewhere. It was wonderful to finally see it in person.

Our tour also took us through the streets around Constitution Square. We saw some evidence of the recent ‘troubles’ in Greece over the government’s austerity measures. A small group of protesters were positioned on  a street corner, albeit not vocal when we passed. Some riot police vans were parked around the corner. Graffiti was splashed on some government buildings including the message: “Capitalism will kill you”.

However, the Greek Capital appeared to be at peace during our short city tour. Two major unions were, ominously, planning protests on the coming Thursday. Worryingly, that is the day we are scheduled to fly out of Athens on our long journey home. As we headed to the airport hotel we crossed our fingers and hoped that the protests would not interrupt operations at the airport.

Whilst the day of protest remained two days in the future, it turned out that the driver of our bus was about to stage a personal protest in the next 15 minutes.

When the bus pulled up at the departure hall of Athens Airport, we dutifully disembarked with the other passengers and collected our luggage which included three large bags and three small ones.  From where we stood, we could see the Sofitel. However, to get there meant dragging our bags across a road, down some stairs, across another road and over to the hotel.

We had told our guide that we were going to the hotel rather than the airport. Very helpfully, she approached the driver and asked him to drive us to the front door of the hotel, representing a detour of five minutes max.

Whilst we are illiterate in Greek, we are both fluent in body language.

It was obvious that the driver was resisting the guide’s requests. He looked at his watch and slouched his shoulders. Then we pointed to our bags, with the implication that he was not minded to put them back on the bus. The guide resorted to reaching into her pocket and thrusting ten euro towards him, however, his truculence triumphed. Thinking that our tour was over, I handed the guide our ten euro tip, comprising two five euro notes. She immediately took one note and handed it to the driver. Finally, his threshold of resistance breached – evidently valued at 15 euro – the driver angrily heaved our bags back onto the bus and climbed into the driver’s seat. As they say: ‘capitalism will kill you’!

Less than five minutes later we were at the hotel’s front door and our bags were unloaded again. The driver had the last say though. As he reversed the bus, the front swung around and knocked two of our bigger bags over. We’ll never know whether this result was achieved by design. Either way, the driver’s attitude and conduct certainly stood in stark contrast to the exceptional service we enjoyed on board Silver Spirit. It reminded us of our last visit to Athens when a taxi driver insisted on a 20 euro fare to take us the length of the cruise port.

A Birthday in Cyprus / Austerity Strikes Back

After a night in Athens, we rose early to fly to Cyprus. It was 16 October and my last day as a 43 year old.

We landed in Lanaca mid-morning and found our driver without any difficulty. Our luggage loaded, we set out – for the second time on this trip – on a journey to traverse the breadth of an European island. First it was Dublin to Galway, now it was Lanaca, on the east coast of Cyprus, to Polis, on the west coast. Our destination was the Anassa resort. When we arrived the view of the Mediterranean Ocean was stunning.

An afternoon swim, a beautiful dinner and, come the next morning, by birthday had arrived!

Unlike last year, I didn’t celebrate my birthday by swimming in the Dead Sea in the morning before being serenaded by Bedouins singing Arabic love songs in Wadi Rum in the evening. However, I remained a very happy, dimple-cheeked birthday boy whilst enjoying the day with Huckleberry B at the Anassa Resort in Polis, Cyprus. The location was stunning. Standing on our balcony on the second floor, we looked across a garden to some white washed villas with the azurre blue Mediterranean Ocean a short distance beyond.

Unfortunately, the mood of the day changed when, early afternoon, we received an email from Olympic Airlines which caused B to gasp in horror. The email said that our 10am flight back to Athens would now be leaving at 12.00 noon and arriving at 2pm. Ordinarily, the extra hours’ sleep in the morning would be welcomed. However, the problem was that our connecting Etihad flight to Abu Dhabi and then to Sydney was scheduled to leave Athens at 2.35pm and we had no chance of being their in time.

A google search of `Athens strike’ revealed that – amongst a large number of protests – the Air Traffic Controllers and firemen at Athens Airport were walking away from their radar screens and hoses at 10am and would not return until 1pm; hence the forced delay of our Olympic Air flight.

The rest of the afternoon was spent variously googling updates on the strike, checking whether our Etihad flight was also going to be delayed and calling Olympic Air and Cyprus Air to see whether there were seats available for us on an earlier flight at 8.10 am. After much frustration, Huck B finally convinced Olympic that we would miss our connecting flight if forced to remain on their flight and we secured two of the last seats on the Cyprus Air flight. Even then, we were not out of the woods, given that our driver was scheduled to arrive at 6.30 am to drive two hours across the Island of Cyprus to Lanaca airport. Thankfully, he was most accommodating and agreed to collect us two hours earlier than planned, at the horrific time of 4.30am.

Our revised plans now in place, all that remained was to enjoy my far from austere birthday dinner and brace ourselves for the 3.45 am wake-up call.



DUBLIN, IRELAND – October 2012

Good Irish Jokes

The Irish jokes began even before we even left our plane at Dublin International Airport.

After unbuckling our seat belts and retrieving our carry-on luggage, we stood and waited – with unrestrained anticipation – for the doors to be opened so that we could spill out of the plane and head for customs and immigration, Dublin-bound.

However, as the moments passed, it became apparent that something was amiss. Huckleerry B had the best view from her position by the window. She saw the airbridge jerk forward, stop, jerk forward again and come to a permanent halt.

Soon enough, the head purser announced that the airbridge was broken and the ground crew were looking for some stairs so we could exit onto the Tarmac.  Looking out the window it appeared confusion abounded. After an impatient minute or two, a couple of likely looking lads hastily wheeled a set of steps to the rear door of the plane…

Welcome to Ireland.

As our driver – who I would describe as both sounding and looking ‘typically Irish’ – explained;

“There’s two ways of doing anything. First there’s the obvious and easy way, which will get the job done. Then there’s the Irish way.”

He added later that, “the Irish are only good at two things; drinking and fighting!”

When Huckleberry B looked out the car window and saw some dark clouds gathering, she made a polite enquiry about what we could do in Dublin on a rainy day.

“It never rains inside the pub…“, came the inevitable reply.

So far, Ireland had lived up to expectation. And we weren’t even at our hotel yet.

Speaking of hotels, Huck B had booked us in at the Fitzwilliam, in downtown Dublin. She chose very well.

Standing opposite Saint Stephen’s Green and immediately adjacent to the bustling shopping mall in Grafton Street, the historic buildings of Trinity College and Temple Bar were a short stroll away.

Entering our room, I was immediately drawn to the view from our window on the third floor. Below  us, pedestrians approached a light rail station with varying degrees of speed and enthusiasm. Beyond, the scene was dominated by the trees lining Saint Stephen’s Green. To our left, we could see the stately buildings of Merrion Row and the colourful shopfronts below.

I suspect that, in the future, when I think of Dublin, that view from our third floor window, overlooking Saint Stephen’s Green, will come immediately to mind.

The Pub Crawl

As an Irish philosopher – of little notoriety – once observed; it never rains inside the pub

Soon after arriving in Dublin, we found that we could experience four seasons in as short a time span as one hour. One minute, we might be standing in brilliant sun light and feeling hot. Ten minutes later, a chill wind would bring with it some steady drizzle. Soon enough, the rain would pass and the sun would come out, but it would remain cold.

Given this constant threat of rain, we applied our new found wisdom and spent much of our evenings inside a pub.

We had come to Dublin for the annual International Bar Association Conference. One of the major attractions of these Conferences – other than the engaging speakers at the various sessions – is that there are a series of cocktail parties each night hosted by the local major law firms or the local legal societies.

Unlike Dubai, where most of the parties were dry, there was no risk of the alcohol running out in Dublin.

Shortly after arriving in Dublin’s early evening – and despite a serious lack of sleep – we hastily ironed our formal wear and headed to the opening gala dinner. It was there that we met up with our dear friends, DR, and his wife, Dr MD.

The following night we embarked on our first pub crawl. First was a reception hosted by local firm, William Fry, at the Mansion House (which, fortuitously was an easy stroll from our hotel). Thanks to a mumbled introduction, we failed to recognise that we were meeting the Mayor of Dublin at the end of the reception line. I suppose the heavy gold chain anging from his neck should have given away his identity. I thought he was just a rather extravagant sommelier.

We tagged along to two further functions, both hosted by local tax attorneys. The first was at the Shelbourne Hotel, where Oscar Wilde reputedly used to misbehave. The next (and last) venue for the evening was a short distance away in a local pub. It was there that Huckleberry B and I each downed a pint of Guinness. It seemed like the right thing to do!

The next night’s entertainment promised to be a highlight, but ended up being a disappointment. Another local firm, Mason Hayes, had hired the dining room at famed Trinity College for a cocktail party. I was looking forward to this event very much. I envisaged quiet and stimulating conversation in sumptuous surrounds, whilst wine flowed and canapés floated by in a continuous stream.

The moment we were herded into the wood paneled room, however, I realized my expectations were misguided. So many people had accepted the invitation issued by Mason Hayes that the atmosphere inside the dining hall more resembled the bar at a packed football stadium than a dignified cocktail party. The chatter was so deafening that we adjourned to an austere area adjacent to the dining hall of unknown purpose.

After a day in the country – described below – we attended the final leg of our week-long Irish pub crawl; a function hosted by Allen Ovary at the Four Seasons Hotel.

We certainly enjoyed our pub crawl in Dublin. And our driver was right; not once did we suffer any rain inside the pub!


Wednesday,  3 October, saw Huckleberry B and I join DR and MD on a drive across Ireland to Galway. I was somewhat surprised to find that it only takes three hours to traverse the Emerald Isle. We were there by lunchtime.

After lunch we drove along the coastline of Galway Bay before heading north across the countryside.

Whilst the drive across Ireland offered us some pleasing views of rolling green hills dotted with sheep and other livestock, I felt, at times, as though we were driving  from Sydney to Bowral.  The landscape north-west of Galway, however, was like nothing we see in Australia. The land had now turned dark green and where once there had been grass there was now moss. The hills were more ragged than rolling and were punctuated by rocky outcrops. Streams gurgled hither and yon.

When we visited the Falkland Islands in 2010, I remarked to Huckleberry B that the  landscape looked ‘British’ and not ‘Argentine’. I am now able to provide evidence to back up my statement.  The landscape near Galway was very much in keeping with what we saw outside Port Stanley in the Falklands.  All that was missing was the rusty remains of a deceased helicopter.


Kings of the World

During our road trip, we observed a strange phenomena.

Perhaps we were unlucky; perhaps we simply came across every slovenly miscreant in Ireland. However, everywhere we went, men were treating the Irish countryside as their personal toilet.

The first such sighting occurred not long after leaving the heart of Dublin. Whilst at a set of traffic lights, we saw an oddly dressed gentleman approaching a bus stop. At first we thought he was simply engaging in an ‘adjustment exercise’. However, before we could look away, the man whipped ‘it’ out and relieved himself on the grass. The odd thing was that there were some trees and low lying shrubbery only five or so stumbling steps away. The disturbing thing was that there were some teenage girls waiting at the bus stop.

Later, whilst driving along the picturesque road north of Galway, we saw an ambulance parked casually by the road. Again, there was the driver standing nearby with a torrent streaming in a graceful arc onto the ground. There was much mirth in our vehicle at the second sighting of the day.

Minutes later, we rounded a bend and saw a man standing on a mound adjacent to the road, overlooking a small lake.

DRs asked, “what’s he doing up there?” before exclaiming, “oh no, don’t tell me…!

Yes, this brazen fellow had chosen the most prominent position possible to unzip and proclaim his dominion over nature.

For the record, none of those in our vehicle decided to adopt the “when in Ireland…” approach, preferring to prudently take advantage of the available facilities at each opportunity. Doubtless, you are pleased to hear it.

My Favourite Dubliners

On one morning during the IBA Conference, Huckleberry had some errands to run, whilst I embarked upon the 25 minute walk from the Fitzwilliam Hotel to the Conference Centre alone.

I took the opportunity of grabbing my iPod before I departed and listened to the distinctive sound of U2 as I walked. Dubliners all, their music never sounded so good.

On another afternoon, I went for a walk around Saint Stephen’s Green and Merrion Park. After a lengthy walk, I found what I was looking for. In a corner of Merrion Park sits a large rock. Lounging on the rock, in his iconic green overcoat, is a statue of my favourite Irish story-teller, Oscar Wilde.

Across from the statue were some columns upon which some of Oscar’s perfectly phrased quotes had been written, including my favourite; “We’re all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

I don’t know whether Oscar ever said “it never rains in the pub” , but I am sure that he wishes he had!

After bidding Oscar farewell, I walked across the road and saw the house he lived in before his move to London where he made is name as one of the world’s leading playwrights and satirists.

I don’t know whether the band members of U2 are Oscar Wilde adherents or whether Oscar would have been enthused by U2, but I like them both.


ALASKA, USA – September 2012


North to Alaska

As I write this account, I am sitting in our Stateroom on-board Sapphire Princess as our vessel cruises around Glacier Bay, Alaska.

Our voyage began five days ago in Vancouver, British Colombia, Canada. Joining us are our semi- regular cruise companions; Huckleberry B’s brother Y and sister ML and their spouses, C and D. We’ve had a rollicking good time; days full of food, trivia quizzes, food, laughter and more food. Huckleberry B and I have even made it back to the gym for some long overdue cardio- vascular exertions. If we disembark without having gained any weight, it will be a good result.

Speaking of food, I will long remember our welcoming dinner  when the six of us met up in Vancouver, the night before our cruise began. Huck B and I had been in town for about nine hours – and had slept for most of them – when we stumbled down to the lobby of our hotel to meet up with the others. Such a strange thing seeing familiar faces in an unfamiliar setting.

Huckleberry B had done a marvellous job making reservations at a restaurant lying a maximum of 25 meters from the front door of our hotel, called Cardero’s. Just as well she did because it was Friday night in Vancouver and the Harbour-side restaurant was packed.  We strode happily past a long queue of impatient would-be diners as we were shown to the table which had been sitting in wait for us since it was reserved some six months earlier.

Not long after sitting down, we were disturbed by a loud clanging noise and the sight of some nautical flags being hoisted towards the ceiling. After this startling event occurred a second time, we asked our waiter to explain the significance. It turns out this was the method Cardero’s deploy to advise those still languishing in the queue that their table was now ready. Upon arrival, waiting diners are given a flag to carry. Once he or she espies the replica flag hanging proudly on high, it’s safe to exchange the flag for the pleasure of a seat at a table and some eating utensils.

Having not eaten for almost 24 hours – desire for sleep having trumped desire for food both during the second half of our flight and upon arrival in Vancouver – I have rarely suffered such ravenous impatience whilst waiting to place my dinner order. My affliction was so obvious that Huckleberry was compelled to apologise to her siblings, on my behalf, for my restless fidgeting. The immense New York steak which eventually landed in front of me was, therefore, hugely welcomed and soon devoured.

My stomach full and my hunger sated, I looked forward to the week ahead. The Sapphire Princess would take us ‘way up north’ along the Canadian west coast to Alaska, where we would visit the ports of Juneau, Skagway and Ketchikan as well as fabled Glacier Bay.

Why Alaska?

There are two reasons.

Firstly, because we heard it was well worth the visit. Secondly, and more importantly, to silence our cruise-loving critics.

Every fellow cruise lover we meet – particularly American ones – react with limitless shock and unrestrained horror when Huckleberry B and I convey that we have never traveled to Alaska. Apparently, voyaging along the Beagle Channel and the Drake Passage in South America, on the way to the Northern Peninsula of Antarctica, is insufficient. The Fjords of Norway and the Island of Spitsbergen also, evidently, fall short of the wonders of Alaska in American eyes.

And so we finally embark upon the most popular cruise route on the planet. It will be interesting to see how it compares to the majestic wonders which have enthralled us elsewhere on the globe.

The Iceman Cometh…

Our Alaskan experience got off to a truly memorable start.

On 24 September 2012, we walked across the frozen expanse of a glacier.

That morning, we docked at Juneau, which we were surprised to learn was the State Capital of Alaska. We had always assumed that it was Anchorage. What makes this piece of trivia even more remarkable is that there are only two means of accessing the Alaskan Capital; by air or by sea. Even now – in the 21 st Century – there is no road access. In Alaska, no roads lead to Juneau.

Yet when in Juneau, do as her Juneau-ites do…

Actually, I have little idea what a Juneau-ite would do other than eat salmon, hunt bear or sell tacky gifts to tourists. So we did something else instead.

And that ‘something else’ was spectacular.

Huckleberry B had arranged for Y, C and I to travel 15 minutes by helicopter, over a nearby mountain, and land on an immense glacier. Once the helicopter made its somewhat tentative landing, we unbuckled and walked on the ice. Thankfully, we had been given some ice shoes which fitted over our sneakers to permit reasonably confident walking. However, even with the these shoes, there were some spots which remained slippery and careful treading remained well-advised. I concentrated on taking short steps and even ensuring one foot was secure before lifting the other.

The view was spectacular!

Whilst we had flown over the length of the glacier, we landed at the bottom, near ‘the toes’. Looking up, we could see a crest and the remainder of the glacier rising majestically beyond. We were told that the snow which fell at the mountainous peak would freeze into ice, join the remainder of the glacier, and then begin its immensely slow slide down the mountain to the valley far below. The entire process would take over 300 years.

The ice we were standing on, in September 2012, had fallen from the sky – as snow – at the top of the mountain over 250 years ago; before Captain James Cook sailed the seven seas.

The ice beneath us still had another 50 years or so to reach the bottom, before it would finally melt and be released as water. Unless I live to beyond my centennial year, it is unlikely to occur in my lifetime.

Looking around, the glacier was mostly a grayish white color. However, there were a multitude of blue streaks which emblazoned the vista. Not far from where our helicopter landed, a small river had carved a sharp ravine in the ice. Despite the fact that the ravine was just wide enough to accommodate a falling man and deep enough to make escape very difficult (but not impossible), we were not warned to stay away. Indeed, every man with a camera had congregated around this spectacular sight.

I, however, remained a safe distance!

After 15 minutes on the glacier, we were reluctantly ushered back to the helicopter to make our return to Juneau.

On the ride back I happily reflected that Alaska had already given us an experience which Antarctica and the Norwegian Fjord had not.

The Train to White Pass

The day after Juneau, we awoke to find ourselves in the gold rush town of Skagway.

Our port information sheet informed us that the original name of the small town was, in fact, Skaguay. However, the local post office unilaterally deleted the `u’ and substituted a `w’.

The town itself was very quaint and was reminiscent of the wild western towns seen in Hollywood movies, complete with buildings with pastel coloured facades and saloons with swinging doors. During its heyday, whilst the Alaskan gold rush was at its most rushed, Skagway boasted a population upwards of 30,000 people. However, the permanent inhabitants now number several thousand at best. Temporary residents arrive during summer – otherwise known as `cruise season’ – to man the jewellery shops, but head to the Caribbean during winter. Even during the height of the tourist season, the arrival of two or three cruise ships triples the population for the day.

Incidentally, during our voyage we were tailed, for the most part, by one  or two Holland America vessels. We were told that most of the Alaskan ports could accommodate as many as five ships at once, resulting in the small, isolated towns being swamped by as many as 10,000 tourists!

In any event, the six of us only spent a short period strolling along the streets of Skagway, before boarding a train to make the journey into the mountains to White Pass and the Canadian border.

Huck B and I had enjoyed a similar train journey last year at Flaam, in Norway. Once again, the view was spectacular as the train made its way slowly towards the heavens, past water falls, and through the pine forest.

On this occasion, we were tracing the path plodded by the gold rush pioneers from Skagway to the Yukon Territory. At the Canadian border, we paused whilst the engine of our train detached, chugged its way to the other end of the string of carriages, before being re-attached so that it could commence the long journey back down the mountain…

Sled Dog Training

Our afternoon in Skagway saw Huck B and I  head back up the mountains surrounding the  bay for a truly extraordinary experience.

During the Alaskan winter, the local sled dogs compete in long distance races across the unforgiving snow clad landscape. The most famous race is the Iditarod, which traverses a grueling  1,100 miles across Canada’s central territory to  the Bering sea and back.

During the summer, the sled dogs train for their winter racing season. Today, we gave them our assistance!

The sled dogs we met were not the beautiful, cuddly grey and black Huskies we had seen on television. They were lean and hungry beasts, mostly cross-bred with greyhounds and labradors. The ideal sled dog, we were told, had the long legs and strength of a racing dog and the coat of a Husky to withstand the cold.

At first I felt a little guilty making the dogs run. After all, we are used to our adorable, but lazy, CKCs, whose ideal afternoon was a long snooze after chewing on a big bone. However, it soon became apparent that our sled dog training partners were anxious to get the training underway…and not a moment too soon was soon enough…

Our job was to provide the weight for the dogs to pull. Upon arrival in the forest training camp, Huckleberry and I were hastily ushered onto a trolley with wheels and a number of seats. No less then sixteen sled dogs, coupled in pairs, were already strapped to the front of the trolley. It was clear from their restless and incessant barking that they were impatient for the fun to begin. Even their trainer was anxious for us to sit down and put on our seat belts as quickly as possible.

Suddenly we were hurtling through the forest at breakneck speed on a narrow dirt track which weaved its way through the tall pine trees. At first, I was alarmed to find that there was nobody steering the trolley as it proceeded at terminal velocity along the barren path. Remarkably, however, the female dogs at the head of the pack knew the way. They even knew how to adopt a `race line’ by cutting the corners and running the shortest distance to each bend.

Some of the sled dogs liked to gallop. Others preferred taking quick steps. Some dashed forward facing the direction of travel.  Others found it easier to pull at a forty-five degree angle. Most remained quiet during the run, but one dog, in the fourth pairing from the back, enjoyed barking at the dog next to him and to the rear as he ran. Faster! Faster!

Our four laps of the training track were a thrilling experience. At the end we laughed whilst the dogs panted and waited for the next group of training `partners’ to arrive. They wagged their tails as their trainer introduced us to them in pairs. Some wore a green badge on their collars to signify completion of the arduous Iditarod.

And, as quickly as it began, the training was over. Alaska had given us its second unique experience.

Now I’m wondering how I can implement what I have been taught at the sled dog training camp in Alaska. If only there was a way I could strap our four girls to my lawn mower and teach them to run in circles…

Misty Fjord

After a day of scenic cruising in Glacier Bay – where we saw two majestic glaciers – we arrived in drab Ketchican; the world’s salmon capital.

Our visit saw us, once more, take to the air; this time upon a sea-plane. B had arranged for us to enjoy a scenic flight over Misty Fjord, which proved to be another very enjoyable experience.

Given the noise created by the small plane, we were given headsets to wear during the flight, which allowed our amiable pilot to pump some music into our ears in between stints of commentary. His choice of songs, however, was both  intriguing and somewhat daunting.

As our sea-plane bumped across the water and bashfully took to the sky, we were listening to the 80’s classic ‘Forever Young’, the lyrics of which posed the timely question: ‘Do you really want to live forever? Forever  young?

Successfully airborne, and the outskirts of Ketchican below us, the wistful lyrics of ‘Life in a Northern Town‘ filled our ears.

Not long afterwards, as the small plane soared between two mountain peaks  – whilst being buffeted by a mischievous alpine air stream – Tom Petty began wailing about the joys of ‘free falling‘!

Finally, as our sea-plane descended and skipped to a landing on the surface of Misty Fjord, as song of unknown pedigree was heard to include a chorus about being ‘surrounded by cold water‘.

As I climbed down the stairs to stand on one of the sea-plane’s floats, I asked the pilot whether the remarkably apt playlist was designed on purpose to fit the circumstances and he gave every indication of having no earthly idea what I was babbling about. Huckleberry – who had independently reached the same conclusion as I – assisted to explain. The pilot just chuckled and said it was a coincidence.

We don’t believe him. It was such a stitch-up!

Standing on the float, we were able to enjoy the fresh air of the remote fjord and marvel at the beauty of the vista. Not far from our position on the water, a waterfall loudly disgorged a mountain stream into the otherwise tranquil waters. The surface of the fjord itself was so clean that it gave the appearance of being protected by a thin film of glossy black oil. Though tempted to dive in, I held on tightly to the wing of the sea-plane to avoid being immersed in the freezing water.

Before long – and inevitably too soon – the pilot politely asked us to re-enter the plane in order to return to Ketchican. I wondered out loud what music awaited us on the return journey; ‘Living on a Prayer‘ perhaps? ‘El Condor Pasa‘ maybe?

The End of the Journey

As our voyage nears its conclusion, and a return to Vancouver, I also return to the question I posed earlier; why Alaska?

Whilst the scenery from our stateroom balcony was pleasing, it was not as dramatic as what we saw in Norway. I even wonder whether Fjordland National Park in the south western corner of New Zealand’s South Island is more spectacular. Doubtless, Antarctica remains our most memorable cruise experience and is unlikely every to be vanquished.

Thanks, however, to Huckleberry B’s careful research, Alaska did provide us  with a number of new experiences, which we are unlikely to ever forget, particularly walking on a glacier and helping some very enthusiastic sled dogs with their training.

Greatly enhancing the experience was the company we kept. I am indebted to Y and C, D and M for their cheerful company and entertainment. The thought of parting at cruise-end makes my heart heavy.  However our reunion in Sydney will not be too far away.



INDIA – December 2011

The Road to Agra and Other Disasters

The roads in India are simply diabolical.

Our cheerful foursome (Huckelberry B, sister-in-law, C, niece, MC, and me) arrived in Delhi before midday and, after dropping our major luggage at the local Hilton, we set off for Agra – and the famed Taj Mahal – at around 1pm. Our intention was to visit the Taj that afternoon before driving to Jaipur for the evening. The local agent with whom we were dealing assured us that our plans were sound. With time, however, we were to learn that caution was wise when it came to listening to anything this fellow had to say.

The distance from Delhi to Agra is less than 250 kilometres. By driving standards we are used to, we should have been in Agra by 4pm at the very latest with ample time to visit the renowned mausoleum before closing time.

What we were not prepared for, however, was the chaotically slapdash, every-man-for-himself, Persian bazaar, anarchic whirlwind of frenetic bedlam which is the Indian highway system.

And we thought the driving in Kathmandu was hectic…

Indian drivers make their Nepalese counterparts look positively obsequious by comparison.

I observed in my previous journal, that the fundamental road rule in Kathmandu was that you won right of way by placing your vehicle (or your body) in a position where a competing driver has a choice of either stopping or running into you. In India, the rule is the same, except that once you have won right or way you then have to scurry away before the competing driver does, in fact, run you down.

It’s a dog-eat-dog, every-man-for-himself arena where only those who are willing to risk damage to their vehicle – or injury to their body – can survive.

Even where lane markings existed, they scarcely even held advisory status. An Indian driver will use any available square foot of bitumen (or accompanying dirt) to progress in a forwards direction. The results is that a road designed for three lanes will typically be occupied by two cars, a donkey drawn vehicle and a tuk tuk or two; with an array of motorcyclists trying to push their way through.

I once wrote about the Desert Highway from Alexandria to Cairo in a previous journal. As hair-raising as that journey was, we were at least able to make good progress and, in fact, made it to the Egyptian capital ahead of schedule. The difference was that, on the Desert Highway, slow moving vehicles moved out of the way when our driver flashed his lights, allowing us reasonably unimpeded progress, as we hurtled towards Cairo at breakneck speed.

In India, however, every driver is only concerned with advancing his own position, without regard of any kind for others. So we found our progress frequently impeded by a slow moving bus in the outside lane, or even a cart drawn by an old, tired camel or, most absurdly of all, a stationary tractor or two.

As if all this were insufficient to create a tempest of ferocious mayhem, more often than can be believed our driver had to swerve out of the way of vehicles travelling along the inside lane in the opposite direction to the prevailing traffic!

It’s sheer pandemonium.

Due to this selfish, lawless and utterly anarchistic driving behaviour, nobody got anywhere in a hurry. Our journey of around 225 kilometres to the Taj Mahal took us almost 5 hours to complete and, by the time we arrived, the gates had closed and we were not allowed in.

Sadly, given that the Taj is closed on Fridays and there was no possible way we were going to risk being stuck in India’s diabolical traffic on the day we were to fly out, we had no opportunity to return on another day.

The Taj did not want us. Indian drivers are to blame.

Exactly and Approximately

Anybody who has seen the Indian movie, Monsoon Wedding – easily one of my all-time favourite movies and one of the reasons I was keen to visit India – will remember the event planner, P K Dubey. All of the quotes he offered for his services were stated to be “exactly and approximately”.

We found during our trip to India that our tour agent adopted a similar practice.

Our agent had agreed to provide us with a driver. The basic terms of the contract were that he would drive us to Agra, then to Jaipur and back to Delhi, concluded by a tour of the capital’s landmarks. However, during the course of our visit, the subsidiary clauses of our agreement – formed over a series of email exchanges – proved to be less clear. We found that either the sum we had to pay would increase or the inclusions would decrease. Suddenly, for example, our agreed sum only including picking us up from the airport  but excluded returning us there on our final day.

The total price in Indian Rupees also became a moveable Indian feast. It seemed to change from day to day in accordance with fluctuations in the exchange rate. However, the exchange rate which our agent applied was one personal to him; it was mirrored by neither the official rate nor the rate offered by the hotel. Of course, the variation was very much in the agent’s favour.

Then there was the Taj Mahal entry fee fiasco.

As we approached Agra, our agent contracted us on our driver’s mobile phone. He said that his information was that we were 10 minutes from the Taj Mahal gate and he suggested that his local agent buy us four entry tickets (to save time) on the understanding that we would pay him back 3,000 Rupees when we arrived. Moments after we agreed, we passed a sign saying that the Taj Mahal lay 17.5 kilometres down the road; a narrow road swarming with frenzied Indian drivers, all competing for the same square-inch of bitumen. It took us the best part of an hour to traverse that 17.5 kilometres and – as I have already reported – the Taj Mahal was closed for the day by the time we arrived.

We offered the local agent his 3,000 Rupees, but he declined; stating that if we did not see the Taj we did not have to pay. We offered to pay a second time and then a third time. The local agent refused each offer. At no point did he show us the tickets. To this day, we do not know whether he actually purchased them.

Be that as it may, our resolute Delhi tour agent contacted us the next day demanding repayment of the 3,000 Rupees. He asserted that the local agent was making demands of him. We do not know whether the tickets were ever purchased and we do not know whether the Agra agent was making any demands; but the whole episode left us feeling uneasy.

Victory at the MCG

Whilst travelling in Nepal and India, the four Test series between India and Australia was getting underway in Melbourne.

I was pleasantly surprised to find a 24-hour cricket channel on Indian cable TV, called Star Cricket. Much of its content, whilst we were watching in Kathmandu, Pokhara, Jaipur or Delhi, was devoted to the build-up to the series in Australia. There were in-depth highlights and analysis from prior India / Australia matches. Every ad-break promoted the telecast of the upcoming series, with the tagline: `Feel the Heat Down Under’. In one advertisement, former captain, Sourav Ganguly, said that in Australia, the players `talk about you’ and proclaimed that this is when the champion rises within.  In another, a local celebrity of some kind declared that when India plays cricket in Australia it’s `mind-blasting’.

I was somewhat bewildered, however, to discover that much of the promotion of the current series highlighted the controversy from the last series. The vision of Andrew Symonds and Harbajan Singh quarreling was replayed repeatedly, as were several other ugly incidents. As reprehensible as I found some of my countrymen’s conduct four years ago – and I truly believe we crossed the line too often back then – I wondered how offended the Indians really could be if they were using that conduct for the purpose of promoting the upcoming matches.

The rivalry between Australia and India on the cricket field is fierce. With the behaviour of Indians on the road and the practices of our tour agent fresh in our minds, Huckleberry B and I were keen not to lose to their national team on the cricket pitch. In these circumstances, the victory in Melbourne, by 122 runs, was particularly satisfying.

A Lovely Day in Jaipur

Our tour of India was not all bad!

We have, for example, loved the food!

There’s something about the mix of Tandoori chicken, naan bread and curry which is simply glorious!

After our disappointment in not being able to walk the grounds of the Taj Mahal, we drove to Jaipur where we stayed the night.

Little did we know the surprise Huckleberry B had in stall for us.

Our accommodation at Jaipur, the Shiv Villas, was a breathtakingly grand hotel constructed in majestic colonial style.

Upon entering, we were met by several hotel staff offering warm towels and cold champagne. The check-in process involved sitting at a lounge suite inside the central ballroom of the building, beneath a glorious painted roof complete with magnificent chandelier.  That night, we slept in a four-poster bed. In the morning we admired the heated pool surrounded by an impressive array of statutes.

Before heading back to Delhi, we embarked upon a tour of Jaipur; the `pink city’.

The highlight, for me, was the Amber Palace; a huge honey-coloured castle sitting above the town, surrounded by a forbidding wall which resembled – and was probably inspired by – the Great Wall of China.

A Day Tour of Delhi

After another hellish drive back to Delhi – which occupied over six hours but only involved a journey of 250 kilometres – we spent the night at the Delhi Hilton.

When we awoke we braced ourselves for a tour of Delhi’s highlights.

I have to remain honest and say that Delhi is a very unappealing city.

The first thing we noticed when we landed was the pollution. Even from the plane, we could see the brown smog enveloping the airport and its surrounds. We could barely see the terminal building through the haze. There was no possibility of viewing a blue sky.

The next morning, the pollution was mixed with a low lying fog, which allowed us to literally stand and watch currents of tangible smog wafting by.

On a previous trip to Xian – the home of the Terracotta Warriors – Huckleberry B and I were appalled by the pollution. However, Delhi’s putrid air is much, much worse.

Notwithstanding the smog and the ongoing battle to get anywhere on the roads, we actually had an enjoyable day Delhi.

First we visited Qutab Minar, the tallest brick and stone minaret in the world. Standing at 72.5 metres, the minaret rises from the ruins of an ancient Hindu temples.

Next, we went to the Lotus Temple, which bears a striking resemblance to the architecture of the Sydney Opera House. The Lotus Temple is a Baha’i house of worship and was completed as recently as 1986.

After another very pleasing lunch of various curries and naan bread – remarkably, despite it being our last full day on the sub-continent we were yet to tire of Indian spices – we toured Humayun’s Tomb. This proved to be a very impressive structure. Humayun, we learned was a Mughal Emperor who died in the 16th century. His wife commissioned his tomb in 1562. The mausoleum is somewhat reminiscent of the Taj Mahal – as if we would know (!) – albeit perhaps not as grand and cast in a pinkish colour. Apparently there is some debate amongst Indian historians as to which structure influenced the other.

Finally, we visited India Gate, which is Delhi’s version of the Arc de triomphe.

The primary purpose of India Gate is to commemorate the Indian soldiers who fell in World War I. However, its wider purpose is to mark those who fell during the fight for India’s independence.

We were impressed by India Gate. It’s an imposing structure and certainly a suitable memorial for all of which Indians are proud.

The End of the Journey

This evening, my beloved B and I will fly first to Kuala Lumpur and then home to Sydney. In the meantime, C and MC will return to Hong Kong for three days before returning to Sydney. After over two weeks of quite extraordinary adventure in Nepal and norther India, it was sad to bid them farewell. They were very good travel companions.

It’s been an extraordinary trip. Some of it was arduous and some of it was tedious; but all of it was memorable.

We will never forget walking along mountain trails in the Himalayas, majestic snow shrouded mountain peaks looking down upon us, cast against a radiant blue sky. Nor shall we forget the frustrations of India and the sheer difficulty in travelling from one point to another.

Huckleberry B and I have been most fortunate to be much traveled. Often our trips were memorable for the comforts offered by our trip. Our journey over the last 18 days will be unforgettable because it was hard.