Our travels about in Europe and further afield. UK, France, Germany, Belgium, Italy, Switzerland, Poland, Sweden, Ireland, USA, Austrailia and of course, New Zealand.

Photos from Crete

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Our first night was spent in Kilmore Quay, just half an hours drive from the port, where we had our first encounter with the friendly southern Irish men and women. I don't think the size and population of Kilmore Quay has altered much in the past 150 years despite its prime location to plentiful fishing grounds in the Atlantic - commercial fishermen fish out of the sheltered harbour and seriously recreational anglers come over from the UK en masse to hire out launches from the new marina. Nothing appears to be processed in the village so it retains its small sleepy-fishing-village atmosphere completely unspoiled. After settling into our pre-booked lodgings, part of which were the original Telegraph Office, we prepared to inspect the 3 or 4 restaurants within the tiny village and struck up conversation with an English lady who'd also just checked in with her husband. She thought we were Irish and was amazed at how easy it was to understand us, until she asked us which part of Ireland we were from. After discovering her mistake, her husband finished doing whatever he was doing inside and joined us outside so she asked him what part of Ireland he thought we were from. He replied, "Sounds like South Island to me." They had been to NZ in February.

Anyway, they ate at Kehoe's Pub and had a wonderful evening amongst the locals while we ate at the Silver Fox, which offered more of a fine dining atmosphere to the pub. Their menu obviously favoured fish dishes; we both couldn't resist Fillet of Cod wrapped in Smoked Salmon and stuffed with prawns, served with a light cream and chive sauce. Each fillet was absolutely enormous and I regretted ordering Seafood Chowder as a starter. Pete managed to eat all of his but I certainly couldn't eat all of mine. We had a Hunters Sauvignon Blanc with the meal; don't think we have ever seen Hunters wines in England.

Next morning we decided to take the back roads (more accurately described as pot-holed, narrow lanes) back to the N25 (the main drag to Cork) via a different route to that which we came in on the previous evening, and just on the outskirts of the village is Forlorn Point overlooking the great sweep of Ballyteige Bay, but renamed by the locals as "The Graveyard of a Thousand Ships". They have created a memorial garden in the shape of a mooring bollard containing a 'stone ship' and a Vigil Sculpture of two grieving figures looking out to sea. A plinth is engraved with the names of those lost at sea. A close-knit community who have undoubtedly known more than their share of tragedies through losses at sea.

Waterford is not an overly inspiring town although it is apparently the oldest in Ireland. We parked in a quay-side car park that floods at certain times of the day at certain times of the year, and went off to investigate 'safe' in the knowledge that the car park wasn't going to flood that day. Apart from some intriguing medieval cobbled lanes twisting about in narrow alleyways, the town centre presented in just as an homogenized appearance as town centres throughout England so after a quick latte we carried on to find the Waterford Crystal factory where we spent about an hour choosing a couple of pieces as tokens of our visit to the famous lead crystal works. (See photo attached with Pete's choice.)
I had acquired a map of the streets of Cork before going to Ireland but when we reached Cork, the map and the physical layout were somewhat disparate! As usual in these sorts of situations, Pete dived into the first car park building he could find until he could recce the place and get an idea of where everything is. I've since heard that the Irish don't take too much heed of the 'No Entry' or 'No Right Hand Turn' notices and this would explain why traffic flow was a total mystery to us; and Pete uses it as his excuse for blatantly driving through a red light, much to the incredulous disbelief of the mad Irish drivers. He told me he was just following the bus in front of him because we were sick of going around in circles over the various bridges linking the city with the mainland (Cork is built on an 'island' where the River Lee splits and joins up again much further downstream).

On our second day, Saturday, in Ireland we decided that we might as well go and kiss the Blarney Stone even though it's a total tourist have but we're glad we did. Blarney Castle is a crumbling ruin but remnants of its former glory and importance in fighting off Viking marauders and Cromwell's slaughter-men are evident in what's left of the main keep and battlements. At a cost of 7 Euros each to get in, you walk through park-like grounds beside a babbling brook to reach the castle, climb the spiral steps to the battlements where the passage becomes so narrow towards the top that we had grave misgivings as to whether the 2 hefty ladies approaching the castle as we were leaving would make it to kiss the stone. When it is your turn to acquire the gift of eloquence, you sit down with your back to the outside wall, grasp the iron bars behind you and lean backwards until completely upside-down. Some 200 feet below is the ground, but you wont crash to your untimely death because they have put in safety bars to prevent such a happening, and there is a jovial Irishman sitting beside you to hold and guide you. Because of a constant line of tourists, the process is over before you've had time to register that you have just dangled upside-down from a great height and, if you really did kiss the stone, have probably just contracted AIDS or some other ghastly disease. It's all great fun.

Our next port of call was exactly that; we drove to Cobh (pronounced Cove). For many years it was the port of Cork and has always had a strong connection with Atlantic crossings. The Titanic made her last stop here before sailing into shipping history all too well known to even us present-day jet-age travellers, but most importantly to Pete (and I), Cobh is from where Patrick and Johanna Coffey sailed to New Zealand, establishing a new dynasty which, in time, produced the amazing Peter Douglas - the rest you know. Patrick and Johanna were mere specks in the epic tale of the Irish Diaspora; the mass emigration of the impoverished working class and Potato Famine victims, and previously, Cromwell's expulsion of tens of thousands of soldiers and civilians who were sold into slavery, followed by tens of thousands of convicts transported to Australia and 4000 orphaned girls taken from the workhouses to resolve the problematic lack of mates for the male dominated colony. I read somewhere that this port must be the most tear soaked port in the whole world. Needless to say, our visit to the Heritage Centre was quite moving.

Coming up next is the gorgeous South West Coast in County Kerry - next to New Zealand, perhaps the most scenic part of the universe (mind you, we haven't seen it all yet!).

Killarney claims to have been a tourist town since the mid 17th Century but it wasn't until the 18th Century that Lord Kenmare developed it as a centre for tourism which attracted royals and dignitaries from around Europe. Back in the mists of time dating from the Neolithic period, Killarney was an important Bronze Age settlement where copper ore was mined. It was a sub-kingdom to Cashel (also known as the Rock of Cashel, which was the centre of power in Ireland) during the 4th Century, and became a stronghold of the O'Donoghue clan - if you happen to be a descendant. In the 7th Century, Killarney became the focus of Christianity when St Finian founded a monastery on Inisfallen Island in Lough Leane (Lake of Learning).

West of the town stands St Mary's Cathedral with a huge tree in the front lawn. The cathedral was used as a hospital in the 1840's, and during the Famine it acted as a refuge for the destitute - the tree marks the mass grave of those who died. At the northern end of High Street is a memorial to Famine victims erected in 1972 but the inscription reads: "This memorial will not be unveiled until Ireland is free." The quest for a united Ireland, subliminal or otherwise, knows no appeasement.

Present-day Killarney has few individual attractions unless you are one of the hundreds of thousands who use it as a starting point for the magnificently scenic Ring of Kerry, whether you self-drive it, take a coach tour, walk it or cycle it. In which case, Killarney is second-renowned for having more registered accommodation than anywhere else, after Dublin.

The Ring of Kerry is not the only attraction outside the town. You can fish for trout and salmon in the Rivers Flesk and Laune and in the lakes in Killarney's 10,236 hectare National Park. Also enclosed within the park is Ross Castle, the residence of the O'Donoghues and the last place in Munster to succumb to Cromwell's forces.
Nearby is Muckross House and Gardens built in the Victorian style and donated to the park (I just forget the details of the benefactor without looking it up). Muckross Traditional Farms are reproductions from 1930's Kerry farmhouses complete with chooks having free range to the houses and gardens. Visitors are encouraged to talk to the traditionally dressed labourers as they work on the plots growing food and crops organically, husbanding the animals in the ways or yore, practicing apothecary, making vegetable dyes and cooking by traditional methods. And there is also a Muckross Abbey, founded in 1448 and burned by Cromwell's troops in 1652.
Three to four kilometres on, you come to the Meeting of the Waters. This is the point where the 3 lakes meet - Lough Leane (the Lower Lake or Lake of Learning), Muckross (or Middle Lake) and Upper Lake, which doesn't have the added distinction of being named after something inspiring or famous. Just plain Upper Lake, which hardly seems fair when it is no less functional or picturesque than its contemporaries.
A hike through oak and yew woodlands lead to the Mangerton, Torc, Shehy and Purple Mountains and by all accounts, the Torc Waterfall is a sight worth the rough climb.
Red Deer are known to have been in Ireland for the past 10,500 years - from the end of the last cold period in fact. The Killarney Herd, numbering around 700, is the only wild herd of native Red Deer remaining in the world and naturally, they are fiercely protected.

All this history and splendor was not mine to absorb and admire unfortunately, as time was of the essence, not to mention my beloved's aversion to strenuous exercise! Lonely Planet said to consider the pocket-sized village of Kenmare as a more sedate base so we left kitschy Killareny in our wake and proceeded south east.

The road to Kenmare skirts part of the National Park and took us through an enchanting ancient Yew forest where a thick carpet of emerald green moss up to 6 inches deep in parts covers rocks, roots and trunks; past lakes glistening in the late afternoon sun under whose refracted surface lurked wily trout; and over precipitous rocky passes where hairy (rather than woolly) sheep scramble about the rocky slopes like goats.

Pete discovered that the saying about English, American and Irish drivers is positively true - the English drive on the left, the American's on the right and the Irish drive down the middle of the road! Meeting oncoming locals in the centre of the narrow bumpy 'poor excuse for a road' didn't do his heart a lot of good.

I attach pictures of this stretch of road, which illustrates in part how captivatingly picturesque it is, in addition to how hazardous.
Kenmare was all that was promised. Not so much pocket-sized as Mary Poppins carpet-bag sized, it stands in a basin between Mangerton and Knockboy Mountains, where 3 rivers empty into the great Kenmare River (more of an extended bay really). We drove into well laid out X-plan one-way streets lined with colourful fronted shops, pubs and B&B's bedecked in flowers, and a triangular market square in the centre. On the outskirts of town, we found a series of guest houses snuggled against rolling leprechaun green hills, quietly and unhurriedly basking in the late afternoon sun - who said it always rains in Ireland?

We chose Druid House as our overnight shelter, attracted by the Celtic name and the promisingly eccentric look about the place. When you have stayed in as many B&B's as we have, one develops an eye for recognising the tell-tale signs between a private residence and a home offering a bed for the night. And B&B connoisseurs such as ourselves have also developed a preference when it comes to choosing the type of environment created by the host and/or hostess. Druid Cottage appeared to have just the right ingredients; hutches crouching between the drive and hedge that possibly housed chooks for the provision of fresh eggs at the breakfast table, an unruly assortment of flowering plants in containers rather than a highly disciplined formal garden pruned for inspection, white resin deck chairs with their backs to the stone wall in order to take full advantage from the sun's rays and the heat absorbing granite, and most interestingly, about 4 pairs of shoes all turned up-side down along the wooden edging separating the car park space from a strip of lawn. What did the up-side down shoes signify? We were intrigued. Despite its unorthodox appearance, Druid Cottage looked inviting so I walked up to the forest green painted door, knocked expectantly and waited to see what lay beyond.
The third and, I hope, final chapter will follow but I will try to make it sooner rather than later. The good news of today was that the All Blacks beat England again. The game was only televised on Sky TV, which we don't have so have had to rely on a written report on the internet.

Looking forward to hearing from you....  

To top it off, when we were ready to go back down so that we had time to visit Port Meirion, the 3.15 train was not running because it had broken down somewhere along the track. We didn't have to wait too long till the next train and the ride back gave an even better spectacle as we went down through rugged mountain ranges above which buzzards glide lazily, through black as pitch narrow tunnels, into woodland of larch, wild rhododendrons, pine trees and ancient sessile oaks, emerging at unexpected clearings with dizzy views down in to the deep Vale of Ffestiniog or breathtaking panorama of the river meandering towards the Irish Sea with Harlech Castle on a headland in the distance. The train stops at several stations along the way, either to let tourists off to enjoy the many miles of woodland nature trails and mountain tracks, or to let residents off who live in numerous townships lower down.  It is truly amazing to consider that the track bed was hewn by hand over 170 years ago and is still in good repair.

We have eaten reindeer stew, meatballs in lingon gravy with juniper berries, pickled herrings, herrings in mustard sauce, rye bread in varying recipes and tomato ghoulash as well as more familiar dishes. The food tasted so fresh and wholesome in sharp contrast to the stale, stodgy food that the UK has to offer. Wine is not their preferred drink of course and since the sun is well over the yard arm, I think now is an appropriate time to address our wine deficiency! Alcohol is horrendously expensive in Sweden but then the government encourages people to moderate their consumption in the interests of their health, which they regard highly. They tend to drink beer or Schnaps with their meals - alcohol is not served before mid-day and the drinking age limit is 20.

It was just on dusk as we were ascending the spire but becuase we were packed in like sardines and also the steel framework, our view was partially obscured going up.  It is 1050 feet high.  We stayed up there for a good hour watching Paris fade from a geometric design of grey/brown buildings and streets to a glitter of lights spread almost as far as the eye could see.  Pete and I used the vantage point to pick out familiar landmarks from our visit in Sept 2000 and to further orietate ourselves ready for the next day's sightseeing.  The River Seine is outlined in street lighting and the tour boats that ply the river appeared as sea green steaks of flurescent light moving up and down.  Lietta was suitably impressed and especially awed by the size of Paris.  She commented on how she used to think Christchurch was big from when she first saw it from the Port Hills but in comparison to Paris, Chc is just a village.

Pete and I are going walking in the Cotswolds tomorrow.  My friend Trish and her husband Nigel were supposed to be coming too but they have both been crook last week and don't think they will be able to handle 14 miles.  Till next time then.....  It wont be so long as last time because I have told Pete he has done enough work on the work web site in his (our) free time and he can tell Terry, his boss, that he has been ordered to spend more time with me AND let me use the computer for 5 minutes.  Pete reckons they are scared of me at his work but Terry has only once done what I told him to do.  That was invite partners to the Christmas doo.

The first thing we noticed as the taxi took us to our lodgings in Iona Place was how much tidier Dublin was compared to English towns.  Practically all handkerchief-sized front gardens were as neat as pins and while small, each one was enclosed in a smart, shiny black wrought iron fence.  The streets were virtually rubbish free and there seemed to exude more of a sense of pride in the city.  We later learned that Dublin is famous for it’s front doors, covering all the colours of the rainbow.  Each householder vies with the whole street to have the brightest painted door and indeed, the doors looked as though they get a fresh coat of paint every year.

After settling into our hotel room, we headed into town but I can’t remember if we took the bus on this first occasion or if we walked.  I think we did take the bus, which dropped us near McConnell Street, the main artery of Dublin city.  I do remember that we walked to The Old Jameson Distillery thinking it wasn’t too far away but by the time we found Arran Quay, the distance was quite adequate.  The only way to see through the old distillery is to pay £3.95 (Irish) each for the guided tour.    

The tour was very interesting – Pete and I didn’t know a great deal about Irish Single Malts, our speciality being Scottish Single Malts.  The Irish distil their whiskey 3 times, the Scots twice and the Americans once.  Naturally, the Irish consider their whiskey to be the most superior and Pete and I have to admit that by comparison, it is smoother than the Scottish whiskey.  However, it is a matter of taste, as was proved at the end of the tour when 4 people from the tour were asked to be tasters.  They had to blind taste 3 glasses of liquid and choose the one they liked best.  Then, they had to taste a 4^th glass, which turned out to be American bourbon, and although one taster quite liked it, they had to concede it was very rough compared to the more civilized twice and thrice distilled malts of Scotland and Ireland.  Lastly, the tasters were asked to pick their overall favourite ‘drop’ and 2 chose the Bushmills (an Irish whiskey now owned by Jameson), 1 chose the Jameson and the 4^th couldn’t make up her mind between the Jameson or the Scots single malt.  She had to have further tastes and despite good-natured reminders that she was in Ireland and in the Jameson Distillery, she finally chose the Scots.   We were all given a small glass of Jameson to sip while the taste test was going on. 

By this time, it was approaching tea-time – or, at least, time to start searching for a nice restaurant.   Pete had heard about Temple Bar, an area of narrow cobble-stoned streets that is famous not only for its European restaurants to traditional Irish pubs but also for its art galleries, recording studios, second-hand clothes shops and craft shops.    I think we picked up a brochure in one of the souvenir shops with a map marking the tourist spots.  The Temple Bar was on the other side of the River Liffey, the famous river that cuts the city in two and over which numerous renowned bridges span.  One such bridge is The Ha’penny Bridge, which got it’s name by merit of the fact that for a number of years, people were charged half a penny to cross it to pay for the cost of building it and although the bridge was named the Wellington Bridge, the Ha’penny Bridge stuck.  A cast iron footbridge only, it arches gracefully from one side of the Liffey to the other, the preserved Victorian lamps spaced at intervals evocative of the Olde Worlde era.

After wandering around the Temple Bar area checking out the many restaurants, we decided on a Sicilian establishment.  It was small, looked new and was on the outskirts of the area but the waiters were tripping over themselves to serve us, with the utmost politeness.  Best of all, it was a non-smoking restaurant and for us, it was such a pleasure to eat our first meal in a public place without the stench of cigarette smoke.  All over England, everybody smokes and the pong of stale smoke is ingrained into the wood, the carpet, the curtains…  

The night was still young after our lovely meal and we went looking for night-time entertainment amongst the pubs and clubs.

Next morning, we went back to O’Connell Street, a 50 metre wide boulevard, the centre of which is lined with bicycle stands, trees and monuments.  The most impressive monument is the O’Connell statue, in honour of the man who was responsible for campaigning for a Catholic voice in parliament at Westminster.  Before Irish Catholic’s gained the right to stand for election as member’s of parliament though, they first had to fight for the right to vote and O’Connell spent his life doing this by passive means.  The rabble, of course, wanted to take up arms (pitch-forks etc in their case) so he had a two—fold job in convincing them violence wasn’t the way to winning their cause, while showing the English and Protestant land owners the Catholics were human beings with the right to respect and equal opportunity.  I’ve read an historical account of the potato famine and have discovered how politics and bigotry contributed to the suffering of millions and death to hundreds of thousands, whereas before, I just thought it was an agricultural disaster.  Not so.  I have a photo of Pete wearing his £99 (NZ$300) leather jacket, standing in the foreground of the statue, honouring this eminent man of Irish history.

As you were – we had walked to O’Connell Street to find breakfast for, although we could have had it back at the guest-house (not included in our tariff), we had seen some promising restaurants advertising all day breakfasts.  The one we chose was almost as good as the Casino in Chc.  I had traditional Black Pudding with mine, which was very tasty.  Now why can’t England provide a good place to eat breakfast?

The day before, we had booked a coach tour on the Wild Powerscourt Tour.  We had to report to the Gresham Hotel near the Information Centre at “One t’irrty” for our pick-up.  In the meantime, after breakfast, we visited Christ Church Cathedral dating from 1230 and lavishly restored in 1875 at the expense of a wealthy Dublin whiskey distiller, St Patrick’s Cathedral standing on the site of a Celtic Church of Saint Patrick probably founded by that saint, where we met 2 French girls on holiday, and we found more parts to the Temple Bar in the daylight, including some wonderful souvenir shops. 

At one t’irrty, we reported to our pick up spot and a Mercedes bus duly pulled up to collect the small group that had joined us.  We got a short tour of the city as we called at another couple of hotels to pick up more sight-seers and as we drove down one particular street in the rich part of town where many of the diplomatic residences are, our driver told us how they dug up 600 Viking soldier’s bodies during construction of the road.  They gathered them all up and buried them elsewhere. It leaves us to ponder why so many Viking bodies were buried in one place because our image of them is one of plunder, ravage, burn and kill; the idea of 600 big, strong, barbaric conquerors being slain on the spot doesn’t fit somehow. 

After the city tour, picking up strays along the way, we headed south along the coastal route with our driver pointing out sights and places of local and historical interest.  At Sandy Beach, the only bit of sandy beach near Dublin, he told us how it was once reserved for gentlemen only to bathe in the nude.  Chauvinists!

We stopped overlooking Killiney Bay, said to be Dublin’s ‘Bay of Naples’ for it’s beautiful outlook towards the Irish Channel and home to the rich and famous.  The average Joe Bloggs couldn’t afford to buy the garden shed in even the smallest of properties and we were suitably horrified when the driver pointed out houses of varying sizes, telling us how many million punts (Irish currency) each was sold for within recent months or the last two years.

We had a choice of driving past Bono’s mansion or Enya’s castle and the loudest chorus was for Enya, much to the driver’s (pretended) relief because he reckoned he got the bus stuck in the narrow and hilly road down to Bono’s house the week before.  The roads were terribly narrow and he drove with less caution than we would have, taking into account the long drop down to the sea on the left side.  I dare say our gasps of terror relieved his boredom from doing the same run, saying the same things, 3-4 times a week.  

We arrived at Powerscourt House where we could get off the bus for an hour and learn about its history and admire the beautiful gardens.  It has been a fortress since Viking times but like most castles that managed to escape destruction in the early centuries, it eventually became a residence from 1300 to whoever last invaded it or was awarded it by the king.  I don’t have any literature on Powerscourt and can only give you the basic facts as recalled by Pete and I.  By the 1900’s, the house was in danger of being sold due to successive heirs gambling and wasting their inheritances but the last heir married into the Slazanger family.  The house was rebuilt and restored to it’s former glory through the investment of millions and millions of the Slazanger’s money and on completion in 1974, they threw a party.

 During the evening a chimney caught on fire but the servants managed to put it out without disrupting the party too much.  The guests who weren’t staying overnight left around 1 a.m. and the rest retired to their rooms.  Mrs Slazanger was an insomniac and stayed up late reading.  About 3 o’clock in the wee small hours the lights went out for a moment but she didn’t worry too much when they came back on, assuming the servants, who were still cleaning up, had seen to it.  But later on when the whole household was asleep, she heard a crackling noise and thinking there was definitely something wrong with the electrics, she went to investigate.  What she found however, was a fire.  The earlier chimney fire had been extinguished but some sparks had got in between the walls and smouldered away until the heat had been sufficient to burst into flames.  She raised the alarm and evacuated the entire household – no one was hurt but the house burned to the ground.

The Slazanger’s still own the house (Pete reckons they bought it but I seem to remember reading or hearing in the video that they married into the place so don’t quote me {but I’m sure I’m right!}), which they are slowly rebuilding yet again.  The fabulous ball room has been restored and can be hired for weddings or other occasions requiring to make an impression, the gardens are cared for to within an inch of their life in exact layout to their design by a garden-mad heir from 100 or more years ago, and framed on the horizon overlooking the park-like garden and lake is The Great Sugarloaf, highest peak in the Wicklow Mountains. (Mentioned because of Sugar Loaf Hill in Christchurch, NZ and not dissimilar in shape.)

When we arrived, we all had to dunk our feet in a trough of disinfectant because this was still around the time of the foot and mouth epidemic.  A portly American woman lined up like the rest of us but she declined to dunk her feet when it got to her turn -  because she didn’t want to ruin her fancy shoes.  Too bad if several thousand head of stock had to be slaughtered because of her fancy shoes.

Further south from where our tour took us is a little village called Avoca in a valley of the Wicklow Mountains.  It was famous for centuries as a centre for handweaving but is now more famous as TV’s Ballykissangel, complete with Fountain Bar or otherwise known as ‘Fitzgerald’s’.  We will see it another time.

Back in Dublin, we left our bus and went back to Temple Bar for dinner.  We have learnt to eat early over this side of the world because most restaurants start closing from 9 p.m.  Pete was tickled pink with a place called Luigi Malones – an Italian Irish restaurant.  So we ate there.  We took a table in the underground section and one of the features at Luigi Malones is an almost complete tile dating back to the original wall built around Dublin in the days when invaders came from all points of the compass.  The red tile is called The Devil’s Tile and, reputed to be the oldest relic of the wall, is in situ where it was found during excavations for the present day building.

The name Malone is synonymous with Molly Malone, the infamous street trader of the 18^th century.  We saw her descendants in Moore Street market with their prams and battered baby carriages filled with fruit and flowers or toys and bric-a-brac.  The street traders of today are as renowned for their good humour, loud voices and sharp witted banter as in the days of Molly Malone, all of which we saw and heard for ourselves with much amazement and amusement.

The bus driver had told us where to find “Diddilly-Doo” music if we were looking for authentic Irish singing and dancing.  The entrance to the Arlington Hotel facing the River Liffey looked very ordinary from the outside and we had by-passed it the previous evening giving it the thumbs down.  Inside, the cavern-like pub was lit with hundreds of candles and muted  red glowing lamps; it was huge and crowded and very warm.  We asked a couple of similar age to us if we could share their table, to which they happily agreed, then Pete fought his way to the bar to get drinks.  I ordered a pint of Guinness, brewed using the crystal waters of the River Shannon – when in Ireland, do as the Irish do.

 Presently, the band arrived and took half an hour or more to set themselves up, all the while, the already crowded bar filling up more and more as people squeezed into every available space.  Once the band got going w e thought they were quite good but our new friends told us they were not.  However, with the place filling up to around 400 people according to Pete’s estimation, and the Guinness going down very nicely by me, 2 girls and a bloke took the stage for some Irish jigging – or Riverdancing as we now know it.  The crowd were thoroughly enjoying themselves and after the dancing finished, the stage was dismantled in a smoothly practised operation, the music kept going and everybody was either singing or dancing or both.  The whole atmosphere was fully charged with liveliness and friendliness; half the patrons seemed to be Irish and the other half tourists like us.

Again, we walked back to our guesthouse late at night, seeing no sign of trouble and feeling no threat to our person, as on the previous evening.  Dublin leaves an impression of easy going people who enjoy life, love their country, remember the suffering and hardship of their past history and perhaps as a result of that, are open and hospitable to visitors.  The tourists are pouring into Dublin apparently and so they will, for the shops are open every day, you can get a cup of tea whenever you want without having to walk the whole town finding a place that’s open and they have plenty of good restaurants and pubs. 

It is a city of great historical and cultural interest.  As the birthplace of renowned writers such as Jonathan Swift (Dean of St Patrick’s from 1713 to 1745 who led an ‘interesting’ domestic life), Oscar Wilde, W B Yeats, James Joyce, George Bernard Shaw and Samuel Beckett, Dublin often featured in their books.  However, Jonathan Swift felt himself, “dropped in wretched Dublin” and George Bernard Shaw complained of  “a certain flippant, futile derision and belittlement peculiar to Dublin”.  W B Yeats called it “the blind and ignorant town” and James Joyce seemed to agree yet despite all the abuse, a number of truly great writers became part of Dublin’s heritage.

Our ferry back to UK mainland was a mid-morning departure on our last day.  We got back to Holyhead, sailing on the James Joyce ‘slow’ ferry, to a brilliantly sunny day on the Angelsey coast.  We took the A5 home, whose route takes us through the heart of the Snowdonia National Park.  This route first of all takes you through the town with the longest name in the world – Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch!  Translated, it means; Church mary a hollow white hazel near to the rapid whirlpool church saint’s name cave red.  I asked the lady in the gift shop to say it for me and although she wasn’t born in Wales, she could say it but has to kind of sing it to get the rhythm.

The road through the Snowdon mountain pass was very picturesque with many little quaint villages nestling in valleys, tumbling rivers splashing harmoniously down rocky riverbeds and scraggy pine-like trees foresting the steep hillsides.  Nothing could have been in greater contrast to the gently rolling green fields, sluggish widely expansive muddy bottomed rivers and clusters of terracotta tiled roofs over earthy red bricked houses packed closely together in hollows of Mother England, and this must be how the British Isles came to be made up of separate countries.   Parts of Wales reminded me of the barren side (Canterbury side) of Arthur’s Pass and Lindus Pass, other parts had the look of the Otago side of Haast Pass just beyond Lake Hawea and still others resembled Lewis Pass. 

The A5 is the old London road to Holyhead that has seen a constant flow of traffic over the centuries between Ireland and England.  Politicians, noblemen and royalty have rattled over the same ground backwards and forwards on matters of state, observing the same scenes, without the modern highways, as we were on our way home to Milton Keynes, passing almost right outside our front door. 

Although hugely enjoyable, trips to Calais are characterized by very early starts and late home-comings. Saturday, 23-April was no different despite our two day fare and at 0300 hours in both the O'Douglas households situated in Milton Keynes an alarm sounds to summon us from our beds. Checking for the umpteenth time that we all have our passports and Don has the tickets, we set off in the darkness on a two-hour journey to Dover port.  The sun rises directrly in our eyes just as we reach Dover, our first destination.

Passing through Border Control entirely un-hindered by vigilant security guards we find ourselves so ahead of schedule that we manage to get on an earlier sailing.  SeaFrance Ferries, I'm afraid to say, please clean up your act!  The facilities were a disgrace, customer service non-existent and the over-priced breakfast was unpalatable, to put it nicely.  Never mind, the trip across the channel takes a mere 55 minutes or so and soon we are leaving behind the only disappointing aspect of the Road to Rouen (Road to Ruin.....get it) trip, as we have dubbed our short break.

First stop - the Carrefour hypermarket at Cite Europe to purchase a few obligatory supplies, namely 1 litre bottles of liqueur difficult and/or expensive to find in the UK, some interesting French wines perhaps, Normandy cidre for Pete and exotic real ales for me and our good friends in Leighton Buzzard, Trish & Nigel.  Pete likes to spend some time in the Gadgets department spying out new 'tech' or comparing prices, while I drool over the dispaly of cheeses (fromage) in the huge delicatessen section. I can tell the seafood is fresh from the smell but we can't buy any because it would go off before we get home.   In the fresh produce section the lack of packaging is conspicuous by its absence; it worries me how much plastic is used to package fruit and vegetables in the British supermarkets.

Feeling light-headed through lack of a decent cup of tea or coffee, we make a bit of an exhibition of ourselves out in the car park but decide to press on, in a hurry to reach Rouen and the undoubted abundance of fine cafes and restaurants where we can eat and drink to our hearts' content.  In the early hours of the morning, while Pete was in the shower, I had made a thermos of coffee since the ferry 'hot' beverages are notoriously foul, and as we cruise down the French A16 motorway Pete suddenly takes the off-ramp leading to the Aire Autoroutiere de la Baie de Somme (or, Bay of the Somme service station).  The French service stations are more than a petrol pump and convenience store mostly full of confectionary; they often provide landscaped picnic areas and all the amenities long-distance travellers need or want. 

Set back from the motorway, behind the petrol pumps, an unobstrusive delightful surprise awaits that not even the presence of a lone, stark-white windturbine standing sentinal alerts us to what we are about to find. It's a picnic area - with a difference.  An ecological wood and glass mini-mall surrounded by duck and fish ponds blends into the surrounding daisy-pied meadow (Katherine Mansfield expression) with paths bordering the sedge-lined water channel enticing motorists to stroll along and stretch their legs. Everything is designed to be environmentally friendly and although the windturbine doesn't supply all the energy the complex needs, it helps to reduce running costs and usage of the national grid. 

After an impromptu picnic on the grass at which an army of uninvited furry caterpillars try to join in, we tarry awhile longer in order to take advantage of the views from the Lookout Tower.  A photo opportunity with all four of us in the frame together turns into a prolonged pose while Pete tries to set the camera on timer. The sunlight is so bright he can't see what it says on the display screen - so he tells us. 

Taking in the 360 degree vista from the Lookout one is struck by how flat the lay of the land is and I try to imagine WWI soldiers endeavouring to keep a low profile in muddy trenches, that must have existed almost 100 years ago near where I'm standing, in what has become famously known as The Battle of the Somme, one of the bloodiest military operations ever recorded (1 July to 18 Nov 1916). At the end of the battle British and French forces had penetrated a total of 9.7km (6 miles) into German occupied territory at the cost of 1.5 million lives. 

The bay is too far away to be able to see even from this high point and a shiver runs through me as I compare the tranquil scene before me with the horrors of yesteryear. It's obvious even to an untrained eye such as mine that today the area is an important bird, water-fowl and wildlife sanctuary. Also, Baie de Somme, I've since discovered, has a much earlier significance to English descendants; the invasion fleet of William The Conqueror assembled in the Bay in that famous year of 1066. Further exploration is warranted at a later date I feel.

Fully refreshed, just as Destination Baie de Somme intended, and with an empty thermos flask stowed away, we continue south to Rouen, arriving around 1 o'clock.  SatNav guides our driver through the outskirts of the expanded part of the city, down an extremely long and steep hill to where our hotel sits on the banks of the River Seine. Nobody has any idea of what to expect from Rouen; we are merely prepared for the un-expected, whether good or bad.

First surprise is a Gospel Service going on in the bar attached to the hotel.  The temperature is in the high 20's, un-natural for the time of year even for Rouen, and all the windows are open but with curtains drawn.  Barely able to hear ourselves think, Jill is our interpreter with her "smattering of English" (another in-family joke) and over the din of chanting Hallelujahs from next door she arranges keys to our rooms 2 floors above. The quaint little hotel lift is only big enough for 2 people to get into at a time so thereafter we take the stairs.

Having come totally unprepared, we don't even have a map of the town so Jill speaks to our concierge once again and he produces a tourist map (shouldn't he have offered us one when we checked in?). Serendipiously, we discover a superette just around the corner and because we don't know whether the shops will be open on the morrow, Easter Sunday, a brief conference is held on the footpath resulting in a concensus of opinion that we should stock up with snacks and any other essential supplies now. 

That done, and the spoils ferried back to Don & Jill's hotel room, which is on the shady side of the bulding, we point our noses in the Old Town direction.  Two blocks later we turn a corner, only to be pulled up sharply in sheer wonderment of surprise - for we have entered the first of many market squares flanked by tall half-timbered buildings.