Cricket Anyone?

 It's that time of year of course. The days are long, the shadows longer, insects hum among the bushes, the sun burns brightly overhead and some poor bastard in a red suit and fake beard is gritting his teeth in what he thinks is a grin as small children torment his last moments before collapsing from heat exhaustion. Yes, it's Summer in Australia. 

And then there's the cricket. I can't emphasise how important the cricket is to me right now. The chirruping little bastard won't let me get any sleep. Having finally managed to evict the pigeons from my apartment (to be fair they just got bored with tormenting me and left of their own accord) I thought I was due a wildlife free week or two. But nooo. Lying in bed the other night I was ready for sleep. I had locked the front door, wept silently in the bathroom for an hour, removed my make up, removed my other make up and sprawled on my bed ready for the little death to come upon me when an unearthly noise jerked me from my incipient slumber. 

I lay there for an hour or two as what appeared to be every insect in creation held a metal concert in my bedroom. Finally I took action. With a hysterical sob I hurled a pillow in the general direction of the noise. Not only did that not help but I then had to get up and fetch my pillow. With a deep sigh I turned on the lamp. The noise stopped. I turned the lamp off, the noise started again. The cricket and I went through this cycle for so long it's a good thing neither of us was epileptic. 

Eventually I accepted I was going to have to do more than just turn a lamp on and off. Turning the lamp on one final time I lurched out of bed and conducted a forensic search of my bedroom. I didn't expect it to take too long. From the noise I expected a six foot long insect with a drum kit. Finally after hours of frantic searching I encountered something tiny crouching on a piece of furniture. I stared, was this tiny shred of existence what I had been searching for? Apparently yes. I had geared myself up for insect slaughter, wreaking a bloody revenge for my lost sleep but I couldn't remain angry at the tiny, cute little insect now staring up at me. Gently I scooped it up, took it out onto the balcony and released it into the wild. By "released it into the wild" I mean I flapped my hand about frantically until air pressure finally dislodged its apparent death grip on my finger.

Pleased with my non-lethal resolution of the problem I went back to my bedroom, turned off my alarm and got ready for work. The next night the little bastard was back. This time he didn't even wait until I was in bed. It was early in the evening and I was engaged in rocking in a foetal position on my couch when the noise started. The light was on, the television was blaring and over it all came the smug metallic grating of a cricket who had worked out that I was too soft hearted to stomp it into mush and was prepared to take full advantage. Once again I escorted the cricket as far as the balcony where he vanished into the night. He didn't come back, instead I lay awake all night waiting for him. Every slight noise had me alert and trembling but the chirrup didn't come. By the time dawn came around I was exhausted, sleepless and slightly hurt. Wasn't my apartment good enough anymore? I prowled around pretending I wasn't looking for him but the cricket didn't show. Finally I went to work with a deep, unresolved sense of loss.

It occurs to me that I must be the only person who has Stockholm Syndrome delivered to him.

Travelling Pathetically - Greenway Edition

 It's finally here! After months, nay years, of local government newsletters giving gushing updates on its progress the Greenway is finally among us. "Please Neil, tell us more," I hear you beg. That is true but it's only fair to point out that I hear a lot of things, in fact the voices in my head rarely shut up.

So what is the Greenway? Well, largely by coincidence the existence of a goods rail line (now repurposed for light rail) the Hawthorn Canal and various other bits of defunct industrial infrastructure had left my local council with a few shreds of undeveloped land too small to build a housing estate on (and already I can hear a property developer saying "hold my beer"). It was decided to develop these into a walking and bike path that would lead from the Cooks River all the way to Iron Cove threading through these tiny bits of wilderness and urban decay. Along the way it would link up with various parks and reserves which represented previous attempts to make a parkland virtue out of a dingy necessity. Now it's ready, six glistening kilometres of shared path that would enable people to travel from river to river without the need to get into a car. As long as you lived within walking distance of the Greenway of course.

The grand opening of the Greenway took place this Sunday and the general public were invited to come and traverse its length. Despite this warning I decided to do so anyway. I would do the thing properly, I would trot down to the Cooks River which oozed noisomely in its bed not too far from the shabby flat I call home. I would cross said river and set foot upon the Greenway and not stop until I had arrived at Iron Cove.

Of course it didn't quite work out like that.  I got to the Cooks River easily enough (it was a little too big to miss) and crossed on a faux rusted bridge. Seriously they built the bridge out of some material that looks like rusted iron so it would appear rustic or possibly unsafe. It has the advantage that when the bridge does rust no one will know until somebody tumbles into the water.

Looks as rustic as hell doesn't it. The non stick surface dates to medieval times

Across this future relic I padded appearing in a park. From here the Greenway would commence its journey towards the Parramatta River. I assume. I say that because I didn't actually find the start. I came out a little far and blundered around suburban streets until I wound up in rough proximity to the Dulwich Hill light rail station. This was useful as you could get onto the Greenway here. Get onto the Greenway I did as did half the population of the Inner West. People, dogs and bicyclists (I suppose technically they're people too) jostled together in a human (and bicyclist) tide. It's the only time I've been on a walking path where I found it necessary to check my blind spot before overtaking a slower walker.  The sun was beating down on us and the glare from the bright white path was almost blinding. Fortunately pedestrian sanity prevailed and before long the path changed to something grey and non reflective. 

 

A rather dazzling path. This is the only time I saw it with so few people

Shielding my eyes against the brilliant footpath I stumbled forward. We were paralleling the light rail line and I knew that at Dulwich Grove station the cutting the line ran through left absolutely no room for a footpath. I was keen to see how the Greenway would solve this problem. So basically it just climbed and I had to cross the road. This is the thing of course. It can't be a completely connected course, roads and buildings have been placed in inconvenient locations. A couple of the bits of the Greenway are simply suburban streets (although they do have trees) but they've done their best and for the most part one can walk along without encountering anything as offensive as a car.

Now that's a slightly less visually painful surface

 At random intervals along the way there were artworks adorning (if that's the right word) the path. I glanced at these as I went along. My opinion was varied but I could fully accept that the council might feel it was a good idea to keep the people who made them off the streets even if that meant buying what they produced afterwards.

Past Dulwich Grove we hit Arlington and Johnson Park. Seizing on the existence of a piece of pre-existing parkland this was where the opening ceremony had taken place most of which fortunately I had missed. Nevertheless there was a human throng thronging vigorously and I had to squeeze my way past while children frolicked and even bicyclists were forced to dismount immediately looking clumsy and ridiculous as they wheeled their steeds through the horde. Somebody had got hold of a microphone. It is axiomatic that the person who winds up with the microphone is the sort of person who shouldn't be allowed near a microphone. It's the political equivalent of karaoke. This person was giving a speech where she extolled the fact that people could now move about without having to use a road. Excuse me? The Greenway is an artificially created path so that humans can get from one place to another. What exactly does she think a road is?

Leaving behind the definitionally confused I continued along the Greenway. Despite its occasional intersecting with more vehicle specific roads they have actually done a good job of burrowing underneath them where space permitted. The tunnels providing another opportunity for local artists to justify their welfare cheques and, according to certain promotional literature, providing a haven for microbats. I didn't see any microbats but it was broad daylight and frankly every living thing had probably fled for the hills at the approach of the seas of humanity (and bicyclists).

Not a microbat in sight but I presume they're very small

The path passed by Waratah Mills which used to be a flour mill and is now apartments. Then onto Lewisham West where there's another park as well as a storm water channel which is the less than impressive start of the Hawthorn Canal. Brightly coloured splashes of graffiti (or possibly another artwork) relieved the grey concrete and probably made it a little more difficult for the channel to be torpedoed by U-boats.

Lewisham West, which also gives you an idea of exactly how close habitation is to the path most of the time

As I put Lewisham West behind me I started to head towards an area where trees could be considered something more than an ambitious nature strip. This was Gadigal Reserve where undeveloped land had delusions of nature. Trees crowded and the canal got a little more serious about its job as well.

Look Ma, trees!

 The trees provided welcome shade from the day which was rather warm and the canal, well it was there. In defiance of probability a couple of waterbirds were picking their way through the shallows probably wondering if anything they caught would be safe to eat.

OK I can probably accept that there might be a microbat or two lurking in this one

There's probably a fair bit more I could tell you but at this point I ran into a music therapist who was disposed to be friendly and spent the rest of the walk chatting to her and not really paying too much attention to my surroundings.  I did stop before I fell into the Parramatta River though. 

 

 

Transformation

 Do you remember those old werewolf movies. A standard shot of the full moon and somebody who's previous claim to fame was stilted acting covered their face in their hands. The camera would pull away to a neutral setting while the afflicted actor made a noise like someone having an asthma attack under water. When the camera returned the actor now adorned with fake fangs and what looked like a fuzzy bathmat strapped to their chest would give a gargling howl (the plastic fangs really impede the vocal range) while the villagers would flee in panic instead of collapsing in hysterical laughter. Eventually of course it would all work out. Some dashing hero would fill his afflicted colleague full of silver bullets while the female lead spilled out of her night dress and looked anxious. Collectively the above is referred to as "the golden age of cinema". I don't know about cinema but it must have been a pretty good time for the makers of bathmats. Jekyll & Hyde is another example and the plot is disturbingly similar. The moon scene is replaced with a beaker full of a foaming liquid but otherwise everything is pretty much the same. 

I mention the above simply to point out that transformation is a part of the human existence (and to pad out what would otherwise be a rather short blog entry). The change of one thing to another has been brought rather harshly to my attention by my local cafe. This establishment is all clean, sharp lines, sterile black and white with a sense of openness about it that doesn't interest me in the least as long as they serve coffee. A few weeks ago I entered to satisfy the desperate urge for caffeine which had been building since my last coffee ten minutes earlier. The attractive Asian lady behind the counter announced that the cafe would be closing for a few weeks. I choked on my coffee. I begged, I pleaded, I accused her of abandoning me in my time of need. She was unmoved finally I was moved to ask why they were closing.

"We're transforming the place into a Mexican restaurant."

"Will you still serve coffee?"

"Yes."

"Ok then, I don't care."

But I was wrong, I did care. My stock of coffee at home was dwindling and suddenly my regular supplier had turned its face away from the camera and was undergoing a transformation at least as ridiculous as any fifties werewolf movie. After three desperate wretched weeks (well they were for me) the establishment turned back to the camera revealing itself in all its newly Mexican glory. The chairs had been painted orange and a couple of supposedly Mexican theme murals adorned the tiles on the walls. That was pretty much it. It was the sort of Mexican theming you get if its done by someone who has never been to Mexico. At least there weren't sombreros hanging from the walls, there wasn't even a fuzzy bathmat in sight.

I walked in and was immediately struck by how underwhelming it all was. I presume the menu had changed but I didn't bother to look. I'm thinking sour cream and jalapenos are going to feature prominently. 

"What do you think?" I was asked brightly, a question I struggled to answer as I was having difficulty thinking of anything to say at all. It wasn't quite stereotypical enough to be offensive and not authentically Mexican (or anything else really) to strike one as a little slice of Mesoamerica made real. Finally I did manage to ask one question.

"Can I have coffee?"

The answer, praise God, was "yes". Which was fortunate because I had been living on instant coffee for three weeks which had seen my own transformation not into a slathering fury driven monster but a tear soaked hamster curled in a foetal position on my bathroom floor. To be fair I spend a lot of time in this position anyway but now I had a reason. I wish the newly christened Casa Loco all the best and hope they serve the finest faux Mexican food in the southern hemisphere. But if they tell me they're going to transform it again I will be digging out some silver bullets. Three weeks on instant coffee is a terror undreamed of by any horror writer and one I don't intend to suffer again.

Silly After Action Report - Volunteers Became Scarce

 Major Kim Oh Noh peered through the light woods in front of him, his eyes seeking the enemy positions. Beside him Commissar Kim Poh Sibul read an inspiring tract from Lenin to the troops. It was a mark of their enthusiasm that very few nodded off. The major beckoned a corporal to him. "Corporal, ah..." "Kim Boh Tye," said the corporal helpfully. "Take a few men with the heavy machine gun and set up a firing position." The corporal nodded and turned to the men, "Kim, Kim and Kim, follow me," he called. The major sighed, "Is there anybody here who isn't called Kim?" he asked. A hand shot up from among the ranks. "What's your name?" asked the major. "Deborah," replied the soldier. "I'll call you Kim."

So this is my first full foray into the Korean War. My nemesis Dave has been eager to play some KW stuff for a while but buggering around with infantry platoon movement irritated me so much that I only agreed to play another scenario as long as that wasn't a thing. Cue this scenario from Rally Point which pits Koreans North and South against each other in the dark early days of the war. At least they were dark early days if you were on the southern side. It was pretty good for the northerners. Here my North Koreans supported by some garage sale T34/85 tanks will attempt to dispossess some South Koreans of a group of buildings (definitely not huts). As if to punish me for my aversion to IPM (which sounds like a beer) the North Koreans are saddled with the early war doctrine which hampered their Soviet role models. I suppose it was too much to hope that the North Koreans would emulate 1945 Soviets rather than 1939 Soviets. The North Korean commissars aren't as effective as their Russian counterparts but they are just as unforgiving towards those recalcitrants who fail to rally.

To win my North Koreans have to capture eight buildings (not huts) from their South Korean defenders. It has to be admitted that I have been given the tools to do the job. I have ten elite squads (three 628s and seven 458s) plus four squads of first liners making up the numbers. Three leaders including a 9-1 and a 10-0 commissar urge them forward. They have three lmgs, two atrs and a hmg in support. Rolling on to help my troops forward are six T34/85 tanks from the 105th armoured brigade. Three enter on the first turn and three on the third. Facing me are Dave's hapless South Koreans. He has twelve first line squads (an equal mix of 557s and 447s) a pair of crews, three officers including a doughty 9-2, a mmg, two lmgs, a BAZ45, a DC and a 57L antitank gun plus six concealment counters. But wait, that's not all. He gets a -1 to Human Bullet creation die rolls which means I can anticipate a stream of death crazed maniacs hurling themselves at my clanking metal beasts apparently under the impression they can tear the tracks off with their teeth.

 Below is my set up. Elite North Korean troops can deploy (suck on that Russians) and I dutifully deployed a squad of my 458s to take advantage of the fact. The bulk of my force was heading through the (light) woods on board 62 heading for the buildings (and Dave's main defences) in the corner. A handful of squads and my most expendable leader were allocated to cleaning up the board 48 buildings. I did assign two of my turn 1 tanks to help them. By SSR huts exist on board 48 reducing the number of victory locations on that board to four.

At start

Dave had allocated similar token forces to board 48 as myself. Board 62 was where the real battle would take place. But board 48 would have its day in the sun as my throwaway troops and a pair of T34/85s barrelled down on a collection of concealment counters lurking in huts and buildings. Down on board 62 I eased forward lugging a monstrously heavy hmg (for some reason I didn't think of dismantling it) probing for his defences. Of course it wasn't quite that simple. At the bottom of board 62 my mighty 628s ran into a spattering of long range fire and that was enough for one squad to flee squealing for the dubious protection of the woods behind.

 

End of Korean turn 1 (both sides are Korean but I don't intend to make it easy for you)

The inevitable crumbling of my eight morale troops to inconsequential fire not withstanding I was pleased with my first turn. As Dave struggled to turn the tide board 48 exploded as human bullets charged my tanks, can openers clutched in their eager hands. Just for once I had troops supporting my armour but at least one human bullet charged through a cloud of metal to hurl themselves (note non gender specific pronoun) futilely against the clanking metal beast that menaced their positions. Incidentally my pronouns are clanking metal beast/dicebot bitch. Despite several nervous moments Dave's human bullets bounced off my armour without effect. Down on board 62 while 48 hogged the spotlight I had captured a halfsquad and oozed lava like closer to my goal.

Also the end of Korean turn 1 My tank crew is currently engaged in hosing human bullet off the chassis

 The battle on board 48 raged on but South Korean hopes were clearly fading and media attention turned to board 62 where the looming presence of a North Korean horde had forced Dave to shuck some concealment counters as he rearranged the deck chairs on his personal Titanic in what would no doubt be a futile attempt to slow my raging warriors. One tiny tickle of concern for me was the non-appearance of his atg. It must be hiding somewhere. I dealt with this in my usual way, I forgot all about it.

 

So now I just have to cross a shallow bowl, drive out or kill his defenders and capture the buildings. Easy, no?

Turn three arrived and so did three more T34/85 tanks. I had so many tanks I wasn't sure what to do with all of them (to be fair I have the same problem if I only have one tank). As they buffed their nails and waited for the second half of their armoured support my troops on board 62 incremented forward plunging into close combat when Dave was silly enough to stand and fight. I was already seeing a slight problem. Time was starting to run out and the geography was awkward. Oh yes and there were a bunch of untouched South Koreans ready to greet me with fire and steel or at the very least smoke and plastic.

Board 48 lies near forgotten as the real battle starts

By now, gentle reader you must be thinking "But Neil, things are going so well, how are you going to fuck this up?" Patience children, all will soon be revealed. Just let me revel in my premature triumphalism for another turn or so. Rather to my astonishment close combat was decided in my favour. My troops were weaving through the woods heading towards the buildings which were Dave's "must defend" terrain. Up on board 48 Dave's last troops had gone down but nobody cared. With my reinforcements now up at the front I had six tanks and a plethora of troops. It was true that the South Korean squad in the forward building had shown an irritating failure to break under fire but I had the men and the machines. What I was a little short of was time.

This is the last picture. I was crying too hard to take any more

After such a build up the crash came hard and fast. I found his atg when a tank parked next to it and I was promptly reduced to five T34/85s but this was a pinprick. The victorious board 48 troops scurried down the road to menace Dave from another flank as my troops on board 62 wormed and squirmed their way through the woods ready to lunge for the last buildings. I finally broke the South Korean squad in the forward building but an ill advised follow on shot sent the bastards berserk. That was tedious but not a problem, one way or another he would be leaving the building. I shoved a tank into bypass and built up enough troops to slaughter the hapless inhabitants.

But now I had a problem. My troops from board 48 were menacing him from the top and a building was within reach. That meant I had to take two more. With only two turns left this meant I had to occupy the hex circled in red above as a jump off point. Said hex was covered by a South Korean squad. I drew fire as much as I could but I still had to risk a 2FP shot if I wanted the hex. A 628 squad led by my 10-0 commissar entered boldly. Dave rolled a four. My commissar pinned and the squad broke. I raved and wept but I had no choice, I needed the hex. One by one I pushed another pair of elite squads into the 1FP residual. Each time Dave rolled a four. Each time my eight morale troops couldn't handle a normal morale check.

I'm not sure what happened next but when I woke up in the psych ward the attending doctor told me I had conceded the game. I had plenty of troops left but they weren't close enough to menace the buildings without taking lunatic risks and my troops had proved incapable of surviving quite reasonable risks. Despite the soul shattering way it ended both Dave and I thoroughly enjoyed this game. Congratulations to Dave who delayed me long enough to force me to take the risk and a thousand curses on the dicebot that chose this moment to sodomise me without mercy.

Major Kim Oh Noh crouched further down wishing the trees were a little more thick on the ground. The attack had collapsed at the last minute when the commissar came under fire and had a nervous breakdown. A rustle disturbed the undergrowth and the major froze. 

"Kim?" he asked, it seemed a safe bet.

"Actually it's Deborah," came the response, "but I'm thinking of changing it to Kim." 

 

Silly After Action Report - A Hotly Contested Crossroads

Major Boris Diginaditch stared at the scene in front of him with disfavour. 

"Tell me why this particular crossroads is so damned important?"

Not by a single inflexion did the staff officer allow criticism to enter his voice.

"The regimental commissar feels this is the most important territory between Berlin and Moscow. He has convinced the regimental commander of this inescapable fact."

"This isn't even the most important territory in this neighbourhood," protested Diginaditch.

"I shall inform the regimental commissar of your opinion if you like."

"On the other hand," said Diginaditch reflectively.

"Wise decision."

So this is Scenario OB13 - A Hotly Contested Crossroads where my Soviets will attempt to disrupt the German grand strategy of dragging out the war for a few more weeks. In order to win I have to capture fourteen buildings most of them in the vicinity of the aforementioned crossroads. Dave, commanding the 8th panzer division's reconnaissance battalion will attempt to ensure that this is one speed trap that will remain forever German. All buildings are wood except for AA7 which is stone and has a steeple. So its either a church or home of the fiddler on the roof.

 It has to be admitted that my force is late war Soviet at its finest; fourteen elite squads including three of assault engineers (imagine, Soviet troops with smoke) are ready to storm the lair of the fascist beastie guided by four officers including a 9-2. Support weapons consist of four light machine guns and a pair of demo charges. Armoured support is provided by a trio of T34/85 tanks and three almost as impressive SU-85 assault guns. Snuggled into the buildings around the eponymous crossroads Dave's force is equally impressive. He has seven and a half elite squads of various types with three lmgs and a panzerschreck, plus a pair of crews that can set up hidden anywhere ready to fire panzerfausts at the approaching Soviet tanks. His armour consists of a pair of Hetzer self propelled guns, a PzII OP tank connected to 80mm artillery, a honking big armoured car which has managed to squeeze a 75mm gun onto its chassis at the price of having virtually no ammunition for it and a pair of halftracks including one with an easily removable hmg. Three officers including a 9-1 inspire their troops to "more than mortal deeds for the fatherland."

I was ready to play but before I began there was one more thing to do. Dipping into my knowledge of ancient texts and blasphemous oracles I uttered a dark and grim prayer to the Dice Gods. Once the appropriate sacrifice was made and my immortal soul thoroughly mortgaged I could begin.

Below is a picture that says very little but effectively my intention was to move all of the question marks on the right side of the map as far to the left as possible.

The rather discreet start

A little more specifically my plan involved using the building in the north as cover for the bulk of my infantry which would surge forward hopefully encountering and overrunning his HIP tank hunters along the way. In the south a smaller force (but including my assault engineers) would push forward with armoured support following at a discreet distance and hopefully hit is defences from two directions. For some reason I was obsessed with the prospect of a German hmg in the steeple. Check the OB, the Germans don't have an hmg. There's one in the halftrack but that is hardly likely to be in the steeple on the first turn.

 

End of Soviet first turn

Perhaps unsurprisingly my force made it through the first turn without serious loss although various parts of Dave's OB had started to reveal themselves. Neither of his tank hunter half squads had made their appearance though. I had gobbled up the undefended buildings and would now actually have to fight for any more.

 After a slightly understated first turn things kicked off in the second. Pushing forward my troops suffered some losses, but others pushed forward to the wall in the north. His Hetzers revealed themselves wrecking an SU-85 but in return one of my T34/85s nailed a Hetzer with a critical hit providing me with some useful smoke cover. Dave's OP tank dialled in his artillery but it settled for dropping a spotting round in the next county.

End of turn 2

With his Hetzers revealed (and one fried) I started probing for his flanks if only to get as far away from his artillery as possible. Up in the north I sent an SU-85 around his flank or at least I intended to. Actually it got as far as the wall when it discovered a halfsquad with a panzerschreck. It spent the next couple of turns in motion hiding behind the wall desperately praying for hull hits. Hull hits were duly provided and my SU unaccountably survived. Dave moved his artillery to pound the brush now playing home to two of my T34s. Fortunately they survived, even the one that was foolishly CE (I really was pushing that 8 morale to its limits). My 9-2 took command of a trio of squads with lmgs and sprayed the concealed force in the steeple to find it was only dummies. I'm not sure when I realised Dave didn't have an OB provided hmg but by the time I did he had unshipped the one from the halftrack so it didn't really matter.

Scenting victory (or possibly my neighbour's dinner) I pressed forward. A tank on my left circled around to bring his defenders under fire while my recently rallied troops pushed forward. Up in the north I was winning the battle for the wall and soon hoped to be contesting for the yard. His surviving Hetzer was banging away at my tanks and would sooner or later get a result so I rolled an SU up next to it. My thinking was that either Dave could shift his covered arc (and hopefully miss) or or I would get a side shot on a Hetzer. Unfortunately I pushed the entire CE thing a little far and his hmg (now appropriately ensconced in the steeple) pinned the crew who buried themselves on the floor of the vehicle trembling in fear.

End of turn 3

Despite such idiocy imposed setbacks I was pushing forward. With a real target to shoot at my 9-2 kill stack broke his hmg halfsquad while in the south Dave slunk back out of harms way allowing me to capture a couple more buildings. His artillery had been more of an irritation than a war winning weapon and this was brought to a close when I finally managed to take out his PzII which had been sitting cheerily under a hail of 85mm shells up until that point. I managed to get a squad forward to support my SU-85 in the north and his schreck toting halfsquad decided not to stand upon the order of its going.

End of turn 4

 

Turn four was heavy on armoured casualties with his Hetzer taking out one of my T-34s but in return another critical hit burnt the Hetzer (we rolled three critical hits between us in this turn). The trade was one I was happy to make. I was dismantling his infantry and his armoured support was gone. Over the next turn I slowly gripped his remaining troops in a vice which not even the destruction of another tank could prevent. Dave seeing the writing on the wall offered me the concession. The close combat in the south was Dave's last desperate attempt to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.

 

 

 

Lest I appear a military genius (stop laughing) it had to be conceded that with the exception of a couple of critical hits Dave's dice were absolutely dreadful. My sacrifices to various dark gods had not gone unanswered. We both enjoyed this scenario although its fair to say that I enjoyed it considerably more. Dave's dice stats were truly dreadful. I somehow failed to muster up any sympathy. Many thanks to Dave for the game and the dicebot for the win.

 "The crossroads is ours," announced Diginaditch brushing bits of wrecked Hetzer off his uniform. The staff officer gave a sickly smile. 

"It turns out the regimental commissar had the map upside down. The important crossroads is five miles down the road."

"Should we give this one back then?" 

I Need A Falcon

"Get out of here you filthy, disease riddled bastard!" Not, it has to be admitted, the first time I have heard those words but it is the first time I have had to say them. Things are getting a little awkward at Chez Neil with the great outdoors showing an increasing propensity to become part of the great indoors. The latest to blur the boundary between civilisation and the untamed wild is a pair of pigeons who have decided that the top of my bookcase makes as excellent roosting spot and, by corollary, that my floor and furniture are perfect things upon which to shit.

My neighbours are of no assistance in helping me deal with this avian assault. When they hear incoherent shrieks of horror and outrage emanating from my flat they just figure its another Saturday night. As for the collection of plush toys which I once foolishly thought might help me defend my humble abode. They have crawled into corners as far from the incontinent marauders as they can get.

I think what really gets me is their sheer brazenness. I lurch into my loungeroom shrieking and waving my arms wildly. If there are pigeons present they rise in their own time and casually flap outside but they don't leave. They sit on my balcony railing waiting for me to get out of their lounge room. If I pursue my offensive outside they fly precisely two feet up into the air, sit on my gutter and again wait for me to get out of their way. Which, being a busy person and not wanting to break down into frustrated tears in front of a pigeon, I eventually do.

All of this really came to a head yesterday. After a long day selflessly sacrificing my health and sanity for the benefit of my employers I stumbled home tired and traumatised. I lurched in the door, dropped my bag, waved hello to the pigeons and shambled into the kitchen for a drink. What the fuck! I retraced my steps and yes there they were; two pigeons sitting on top of my bookcase looking down with calm politeness as I had a minor meltdown.  I don't know how they got in. I had to open a window and a door so that they could get out. Once I had managed to evict them (and after several hours indoors they were understandably reluctant to leave) I then spent the next half an hour on my hands and knees dealing with the inevitable consequences of having a couple of pigeons indoors for several hours. If I'd waited any longer I could have opened a phophate mine.

The pigeons must go. I need something sharp of eye, cruel of beak and vicious of claw and fortunately I know where to get it. Sixty floors up on the office building I am increasingly inclined to call home (if only because of the relative absence of pigeons) there is a falcon. This alone is sufficient to explain said pigeon absence. It swoops down from its lofty height, talons outstretched and feeds on lesser breeds with cruel gusto. "Lesser breeds" being loosely defined as "those who didn't get out of the way quickly enough". A quick conversation or two along the lines of "plenty of delicious pigeons" should be enough to persuade it to relocate.

I can't wait to see the look on the pigeon's faces when they shoulder their way into my apartment to find them caught in a falcon's predatory gaze. It will be carnage. Of course then I have to pick up bits of mutilated pigeon but I only have to do it once, or at least once per pigeon. My pigeon problems are soon going to be a thing of the past. Only one question remains. Does anybody know how to get rid of a falcon?

The Dark Heart of Paradise

 Near where I, for the want of a better description, work is a food court. In this court dispensers of "protein" frequently liberally adorned with "leaves" hawk their wares to a stream of office dwellers apparently unconcerned that protein and leaves could well mean fruit bat and oleander. Protein and leaves present themselves in all sorts of ethnic variations and combinations referred to as "fusion" or "mutation".or (in a rare burst of honesty) "I accidentally dropped one food tray on another". All around are happy people gorging themselves as they try and find the strength to face the afternoon.

But wait gentle reader, what's this? Is there a rotten heart to this nourishment for profit paradise? Indeed there is. A dark looming presence that casts a pall over the happy scene. Customers avert their eyes as they hasten past the grim location. Small children whimper and dogs flee. Actually given that the customer base is exclusively office workers there are no small children or dogs but if there were they would whimper and flee respectively.

It squats, a dark barren place in the midst of plenty. From time to time the brave attempt to penetrate its depths to no avail. Despite their hopes, their dreams, their ambitions, all come to naught in the face of this squat malevolence. It is the boarded up shop! Once there was a food vendor here indistinguishable from any of the others. Possibly they sold indigenous sushi or Lithuanian fusion pasta but it matters not. Whatever implausible collection of leaves and protein was foisted on the general public from the glistening counters and faux something or other bench tops are long since gone. The vendors transgressed! Some foul crime against the Gods of Semi-fast Food was committed and those mighty deities unleashed their wrath. 

Their hopes in ruins the vendors fled, thankful at least to have got out with their lives even if their artisan cheese board was sacrificed to make good their escape. Since that time the curse has festered, its dark tentacles worming into the very structure of the haunted location. From time to time a new vendor arrives with a heart full of dreams and an trailer load of animal parts and leaves. Surely fame and fortune are just a few deconstructed sandwiches away. But no, even as they unveil the gleaming counter and stock the fridge with bottles of juice so adorned with words like "cold press" and "artisan" that it is difficult to identify the fruit that purportedly went into their creation, dark forces are moving against them.

What exactly happens no one knows. The other vendors know better than to ask questions. All anyone can say for sure is that a few weeks to a couple of months after that proud, hopeful opening the place is surrounded by boarding once more. No longer will customers be able to purchase cumquat and cape buffalo sandwiches on artisan rye bread hand fired in their own oven according to a traditional recipe used by a Gypsy tribe that starved to death in the fourteenth century. Grateful to have escaped with their lives the vendors themselves have been forced to work at McDonalds in order to survive.

Still it could be worse, at least they're not forced to eat at McDonalds in order to survive.

Silly After Action Report - Danger Forward

At some point during the extended period of self harm that was the Italian war effort in World War 2 the high command demanded that the infantry be provided with a support vehicle that would add a little sorely needed firepower to their attacks. Thus the semovente L40 da 47/32 was born. Or rather thus the semovente L40 da 47/32 was hastily cobbled together in Ansaldo's version of Frankenstein's laboratory. Essentially Ansaldo plundered the graves of various Italian armoured vehicles and patched the semovente together from the pieces. The chassis was that of the L6/40 light tank. The gun was the 47mm that had been serving the Italian army with decreasing effectiveness since 1937. These two things were merged together by means of a rectangular metal box which was also (in a burst of misplaced optimism) intended to house the crew. Ansaldo thus managed to produce a vehicle which was simultaneously brand new and hopelessly out of date. Nevertheless the Italian high command, secure in the knowledge that they themselves wouldn't be called upon to operate it, declared themselves satisfied. A bottle of champagne was broken across the first vehicle to christen the series and as soon as the armour plate dislodged by the impact had been replaced the little semovente trundled off to war.

In trundling off to war the semovente was aided by the fact that the war was now significantly closer to its manufacturing facilities and it didn't have to trundle too far. With its cramped crew compartment which made loading the gun under fire an act of suicide, its absence of machine guns, its thin armour and open top the little semovente was, well probably as good as any other Italian AFV at the time. The 47mm was aging but its high explosive rounds could definitely support infantry and its HEAT round could at least notionally penetrate the frontal armour of a Sherman if said Sherman somehow failed to blow the semovente to scrap before reaching point blank range. In the upcoming scenario I command two of these magnificent beasts. A measure of my faith in them is the fact that I placed more reliance on the two armoured cars I was also equipped with. 

For reasons I cannot begin to justify I have been eager to play this scenario for quite a while. This is scenario AP 16 - Danger Forward which depicts an Italian force attacking the town of Alimena in Sicily despite the fact that the Americans have just attacked it themselves. The locals of Alimena refer to this period as "the time of popularity". 

To win I need to finish the game in possession of at least four stone buildings only one of which is within my set up area. Hampering me is the fact that the Americans set up and move first thus allowing them to plunge deep into the village before I can even move. I command what was probably officially called an "all arms force" but is perhaps more accurately defined as a random collection of detritus shoved together to form a combat unit. I have twenty two squads, six of bersaglieri and sixteen of increasingly reluctant first liners. These reluctant warriors are led by three officers of moderate competence and are equipped with precisely three machine guns, two light and one medium. The strongest man in the unit stumbles under the weight of a solothurn 20mm antitank rifle. Providing, well not so much support as vague encouragement, is my armour. Two of the little semoventes mentioned above and two AB41 armoured cars which whatever their other deficiencies have a rotating turret and machine guns.

Opposing me my opponent Dave commands sixteen first line American squads each with double the firepower of its Italian counterpart. These troops are led by three somewhat better officers and are equipped with a pair of medium machine guns and two bazookas. Rolling on in turn two is his tank support, a pair of M5A1 Stuart tanks which were apparently provided to demonstrate to the Italians what light armour was supposed to look like. 

Below is the at start set up. Dave moves first, his troops poised to plunge deep into the town. My troops are gathered together in an incoherent mass. My sole consideration was to get my troops into such of the town as remained unoccupied without taking too many casualties enroute. I wasn't entirely successful on that score. I had my 7-0 and a couple of squads in the sole stone building within my set up area largely because it would simply be embarrassing to lose that one. 

As start, Dave's forces are well spread out ready to move tactically. Mine are clumped together ready to move impractically

Dave's Americans pushed forward pegging out claims although he didn't push quite as far forward as I expected. I felt a little surge of hope. That surge petered out when his pair of medium machines managed to stun one of my little semoventes and break both the squads lurking beneath its dubious protection. 

 

End of American turn one. The Italians are eager to get into the town if only to protect themselves from the mmgs up on the hill

 

With turn one upon me I hustled my remaining troops into the town. My plan, and I did have one, was to try and control the last two streets of the village. This would protect the ownership of more than sufficient stone buildings. An armoured car was sent to the bottom of the board to help the troops there ward off a flanking attack while the remaining three vehicles were supposed to lurk behind buildings and add their firepower to the defence. A fair bit of this plan actually worked which just goes to show it must have been a pretty rubbish plan.

End Italian turn 1

 My troops surged through the buildings but nervously and with a definite "keep out of the Americans way" vibe about the whole process. Having recovered from being stunned one of my semovente snuggled in behind some convenient buildings. I had no illusions about taking out the Stuarts with these things (although theoretically it's possible) but I planned to use them to bolster my somewhat fragile infantry defenders. This they succeeded in doing, briefly.

The first couple of turns were a feeling out phase as both sides grabbed buildings and made plans for the future. Readying for the oncoming storm in the case of the Italians and digging out their best uniforms for the victory parade in the case of the Americans. 

 Dave's Stuarts arrived making every other armoured vehicle feel shabby and inadequate. The Stuarts plunged deep into the town, one of them promptly stunning my other semovente. A powerful force swung around my left while his troops pressed my front line (it was more of a front blob). A close combat raged in one of the buildings I had hoped to hold for some time.

Turn 2 and already under pressure

In my view close combat is an unnecessary risk for the Americans. An Italian squad can face down an American halfsquad in CC and if the odds are greater there is always the chance that the grey heroes will get lucky. My grey heroes did indeed get lucky. They killed a US halfsquad and accompanying leader and reestablished my front line. This was useful as my back line was rapidly filling up with broken Italian squads who had fled the front line. On my right a Stuart took a second shot at a semovente and made no mistake this time, the little vehicle going up in flames. My surviving semovente was stunned (again) I think collectively both vehicles managed to break one American squad. My armoured car in the street played a greater role, using its machine guns to help defend my front line buildings which was useful as my squads were folding like wet carboard. 

In the east (bottom of the board) I decided I could waste a squad and an armoured car on an act of reckless foolishness. I sent both squad and car racing to the south end of the board where the squad leapt into a building taken but abandoned by the Americans as they swept for my flank. I had no hope that they would hold this position but intended to divert a little of the seething mass of American firepower and preserve my main position for a little longer.

One semovente is gone but my front line is reestablished (sort of)

 Distract they did although the armoured car didn't distract for too long. I had completely forgotten that the Americans had a couple of bazookas. In the next turn David reminded me of the fact and my flanking armoured car was duly destroyed. However he did have to send some guys back to chase my troops out of their newly acquired building. In the centre Dave pushed his luck with a Stuart too far and my atr team managed a deliberate immobilisation hit. Dave's tank crew declined to stay in the vehicle and were cheerfully shot to death by Italian infantry. I was delighted at this especially as my other semovente had managed to malf its main armament and fled the scene. The other however positioned itself where it could command the street I had hitherto been using to funnel reinforcements to the front line.

 

A Stuart is gone but so is most of my armour

That was pretty much the end. I clung on for another couple of turns but stone buildings were not enough to protect my Italians from the staggering firepower the Americans could generate. Having learnt his close combat lesson Dave took no further chances and remorselessly squeezed me literally shooting the Italians out of the buildings. With my number of stone buildings shrinking and Dave's Americans pouring mineable quantities of metal into my hapless defenders I gave the surrender while I still had a stone building or two to my name.

I don't know why I wanted to play this scenario (hint: Italians) but now I've done it and I never had to do it again. Many thanks to Dave for the game and a MVAM to the squad with the atr who provided the Italians with their one brief moment of glory. 

Travelling Hopefully - Copenhagen Briefly

Despite fog and a seething mass of humanity at Sorvagur airport my flight took off on time and even more fortunately I was on it. This wasn’t guaranteed and I stood in the queue for the Faroes only metal detector in a frenzy of impatience as I watched the time until departure tick steadily away.

It had been raining in the Faroes but the weather in Copenhagen was more accommodating. I had a ridiculously long layover in Copenhagen and had decided to get out and see a little of the city while I waited.

I had a walking tour for 8pm but I got out of the airport so quickly that I found myself in Copenhagen with a couple of hours to spare. I was due to meet my guide next to a statue of Bishop Absalon, a10th century cleric who was almost certainly not the founder of Copenhagen. The statue depicts Absalon in a typically devout pose; on horseback, dressed in mail wielding an axe. The church did things a little differently in those days.

On the metro into town I was approached by what looked like a street thug (metro thug?) and I prepared myself for fight or flight. Well flight or whimpering for mercy if you must know. Just as I tensed my knee muscles for the grovelling to come he indicated he was there to check my ticket. Weeping with relief I waved the little cardboard slip and sank back to recover my composure.

I stumbled across the Danish royal palace or rather I encountered four of them clustered around a square decorated with a statue of what I presume was a prominent  previous member of the Danish royal house. He was on horseback too so It’s entirely possible it was another psychopathic bishop. I went and saw the little mermaid because one does this when one is in Copenhagen doesn’t one.

With that out of the way I made my way to the bishop’s statue. I sat on the axe free side just in case. My guide met me and ushered me through the gathering darkness and occasional flecks of rain. He appeared knowledgeable easily identifying various structures as they loomed out of the gloom. Of course he could have said anything, I didn’t have the knowledge to challenge him.

I also learned that while Danes are a pleasant, peaceful people for some reason the blood of their Viking ancestors comes to the surface the moment they get on a bicycle and they charge across Copenhagen like the raiders of old. I cringed on the far fringes of the footpaths, on a couple of occasions I attempted to climb the walls to get away.

With Copenhagen thoroughly explored and death by bicycle narrowly avoided I returned to the airport which would be my home for the next thirteen hours to discover that the airport lounge I had hoped to bunk down in closed at 10.30. I roamed the corridors of the airport like a sleep deprived ghost waiting for sunlight or at least an indication that the lounge would be opening soon.

I have now been awake for over twenty eight hours and I’m not entirely certain whether I’m typing a blog entry or scratching markings into the airport wall with one of my own finger bones.

Travelling Hopefully - Puffins!

All week our tour guides had been lowering our expectations for puffin sightings. It is late in the season, most of the puffins will be gone back out onto the ocean where they improbably lead their lives. It was definitely with a sense of foreboding that I dragged myself from bed in preparation for the journey to Mykines. 

Mykines is one of the most westerly of the Faroes Islands giving puffins easy access to the open sea. We had to drive to Vagur and then hop on a quite small boat for a slightly bouncy trip out to sea.

The island of Mykines is quite small. One doesn’t realise at first glance how small. There is a tiny harbour and steps that lead up to the obligatory picturesque village. Behind the village the land rises to a ridge. And that’s it. On the other side of the ridge is the ocean which can be conveniently accessed by losing your balance and plummeting to your death.

Along the aforementioned ridge seabirds nest. Gannets, fulmars, skuas and if the whim takes them, puffins. The whim takes the puffins each breeding season as they seek a home where their egg won’t immediately sink to the bottom of the sea. Once the product of said egg is more or less functional they have no reason to stick around.

Birds there were aplenty as we made the climb. Even the occasional puffin teased us by flying past too distant for a decent photo. Puffins don’t hang elegantly in the air like other seabirds incidentally. They barrel through the sky like miniature torpedoes, wings threshing like mad. By the time you see them they’re gone. I reluctantly accepted that this would be the closest I would come to a puffin. I traipsed along the cliff top glumly when suddenly there was a puffin directly in front of me. My girlish squeal frightened it away but fortunately others were made of sterner stuff. I photographed and gurgled in delight in about equal quantities as puffins posed for photos, landed in the grass in front of me and generally behaved like extras in a David Attenborough documentary. And just when I thought I was satiated with puffins suddenly there were more and I went into avian induced ecstasies once more. We walked the length of the ridge, snobbishly ignoring the other birds that desperately tried to attract our attention. Finally when we could take no more we repaired to the tiny village for seafood soup. Carrot soup was provided for those of us with a fish issue.

On the journey home the sea was a little rougher (ie still pretty calm for the Atlantic Ocean). We clutched desperately to  convenient pieces of boat. Meanwhile our guide, a former sailor, stood unaided on the deck despite knee braces and a walking stick and wondered what all of the fuss was about.

This was a near perfect end to my trip. My puffin cup runneth over and with the Faroes well and truly visited I could leave happy. The only thing that could have made it better is if I had seen a whale but if I had I would probably also have had to watch as my guide ran it ashore and killed it.

Travelling Hopefully - Suduroy

 Suduroy is the southernmost of the Faroes and some distance from the rest. While most of the northern isles are connected by tunnels and in some cases bridges the only way to get to Suduroy is by boat. Or at least it’s the only way for a budget conscious tour guide with two minibuses and a dozen random humans to transport.

We piled onto what was either a large ferry or a small liner and set out across the ocean wave. Fortunately the ocean wasn’t waving too vigorously and the passage was mercifully vomit free. Along the way we saw other smaller islands most of which were inhabited although not necessarily by too many people. There were sheep of course even on the most inaccessible.

People are a bit different in Suduroy. At least our guide assures us this is the case. The people are blunter, more earthy with a rather distinct way of speaking. Our guide (not from Suduroy I must point out) mentioned the case of a man from Suduroy who was arrested for calling a police officer “a hellish dick licker”. The case was thrown out of court because “that’s the way they speak down there”.

People from Suduroy refer to anyone from any of the other islands of the Faroes as “Northerners” no further distinction being necessary. Strangely we hadn’t come to interact with the locals. We had come to visit garbage dumps.

In days long (our guide assures us) past the Faroese disposed of their garbage by taking it to the most picturesque piece of coastline they could find and dumping it in the sea. Fast forward what I hope is a reasonable period of time and minibus loads of foreigners are driven to the locations to take photos.

There wasn’t actually any rubbish there of course. It had no doubt washed up on a random beach half a world away many years ago. All that was left was a couple of atmospherically rusting car wrecks drowned by the tide and some spectacular scenery. Nowadays of course the Faroese don’t dump their rubbish at sea, they either burn it or send it to Denmark.

Not bad as rubbish dumps go

Once we had exhausted the photo opportunities afforded by rubbish dumps it was time to dine like a local. You know what this means. For some reason tour guides have an absolute fetish for digging out the most dubious aspects of their culinary history and encouraging foreigners to eat them. Possibly they’re taking bets on who will throw up first. The Faroes version was better than many insofar as it was presented as snacks with the promise of a proper meal later.

So the Faroese delicacies? Dried fish, fermented lamb and potato slices accompanied by whale meat and blubber. I begged off from the fish for dietary reasons but nobly took part in the rest. The fermented lamb was quite enjoyable but the only thing I can say about the whale is I can’t believe anyone who’s ever tasted it would want to do so again. We had it with Faroese beer which is excellent although I would probably have drunk urine to get the whale taste out of my mouth. Strangely urine wasn’t on the list of Faroese delicacies.

On the ferry returning to relative civilisation in Torshavn a pod of pilot whales was spotted not too far from the ship and apparently half the population of the Faroes took to their boats and gave chase. Sadly for the islanders but happily for the whales they didn’t catch them.

Disclaimer: At least one fish, one sheep and one whale were killed in the making of this blog entry but from the taste not recently.

Travelling Hopefully - The Great Sheep Mortality

One cold day in the Faroes (ie any of them) in the early 1600s the locals woke up to a shocking sight. Sheep corpses stretched as far as the eye could see. Panic struck the people. Was this the wrath of God? A mass suicide attempt? A grim foreshadowing of the apocalypse?

In fear and trembling the population gathered often having to move a sheep corpse out of the way in order to do so. Agonised discussions followed. Had the community sinned? Was this the precursor to an invasion? Had someone decided to hit the Faroese where they were most vulnerable? As the extent of the ovine cataclysm became more apparent the discussions became more frantic. Local witches were burnt, desperate attempts were made to propitiate apparently irate deities, the oldest and wisest among the villagers took counsel desperately seeking the reason for the horror inflicted on their innocent communities.

Eventually they just put it down to one of those things, imported more sheep and got on with their lives. Oh yes and everyone ate mutton for a month. 

As near as we can tell it was the weather. After living on the Faroes for generations the sheep finally decided it was a bit too cold for them and turned up their woolly toes.

To be fair to the sheep there was a decided cold snap at this time and on the Faroes a cold snap is more of a snarl. Once things calmed down a little the replacement sheep flourished and their descendants remain to this day, living outside in Winter, clinging to the sides of mountains and steadfastly refusing to die despite all the opportunities to do so. This say much about the resilience of sheep and the inability of humans to learn from experience.

Travelling Hopefully - Cliffs and a Surprising Number of Trees

Once again I and a minibus full of randomly selected strangers headed out over the misty Faroese roads. We had  been promised sea cliffs and birds. At least one of these was guaranteed to be present. After a brief stop to enable the newcomers to enjoy the local prison we headed for the village of Vestmanna which had a harbour. At Veatmanna a modestly sized boat was tethered waiting for us. It turned out it was waiting for a fair few other people too. We were given a choice; did we want views and hypothermia or neither? If we selected option A then we might want to make sure we were first in the queue so we could get a spot on the top deck. Those who liked their extremities could stay below. Our guides had helped with the decision making process by making sure we arrived early but we almost blew it by lingering in the gift shop relishing the last shreds of warmth we would feel for some time.

Still we made it and I like most of my fellows clambered up taking a stranglehold on the best viewing positions. With little fanfare our boat headed along the harbour towards the open sea. Along the way steep sided hills sloped sharply down to the water. The inevitable sheep grazed there maintaining their balance presumably by having two legs shorter than the others. An unworthy desire to see one of the woolly steeplejacks tumble into the bay rose within me but fortunately for the sheep I had no means of initiating the process.

Once out of the bay (or fjord I should call it) the sea became wild and rough. Or to put it another way the Atlantic was perfectly calm but for people raised on dry land our inevitable capsizing seemed only a matter of time. We took a sharp right turn and skirted the cliffs. The cliffs were very cliffy indeed. They towered sheer above us and the promised seabirds swooped and circled in the sky around.

It was spectacular and not the mist or the drizzle or the biting wind or the bitter cold could; sorry I seem to have lost my train of thought. Anyway it was spectacular in a wild and lonely way. Apparently feeling we weren’t impressed enough our captain steered us directly towards the cliffs. We were impressed then a little concerned and then outright terrified as he weaved his ship through narrow, sea carved inlets with birds shrieking above us waiting to feast on any survivors. I said before that the boat wasn’t that large. Right now it felt like a battleship as it snaked its way through rock fissures only slightly wider than it was.

With towering cliffs on three and a half sides of us we gasped in awe and no little relief as our noble steed weaved gracefully through wave lashed rock stacks and finally back not so much to the open sea as to the less immediately enclosed sea.

I SAW A PUFFIN! It came barrelling out of some cliff and hurtled past us but I saw it plainly, stripy beak and all. I’m very pleased I saw it as our guides have been delicately lowering expectations for our trip to puffin island over the last few days. It’s the end of the season apparently and the puffins are disinclined to hang around. At least I have seen one close enough for a positive identification. With my cup running over and my eyelids freezing shut the boat turned its head for home. After which the tour owner took us home to meet his mother.

Back in Torshavn with a few hours to spend I decided to use them walking to the national museum (the Faroes are not technically a nation but don’t mention that). I set off following the coastline from my hotel. Shortly before I fell into the sea the road turned inland and I turned with it. The area started to look familiar and I realised I had actually walked back to the vicinity of our guide’s mother’s house. She had given us cake the first time we turned up but I couldn’t expect repeat performance so I carried on walking.

A stream ran through some rough ground covered in grass and wildflowers so I left the road and walked through that instead. There were also trees dotted about the place. I mentioned in an earlier blog entry that the Faroes were distinctly short on trees. I may also have made some smartarse comment about trees being especially grown so that children know what they are before they visit the mainland. Well it turns out the Faroese government is way ahead of me. All of the trees I saw had been planted by children as part of a specific government initiative. Even so most of what I walked through was heathland rather than forest.

I made it to the museum half an hour before closing time. Shall we say I wasn’t so much steeped in Faroese culture as lightly dipped. The one fact that I remember is that apparently in the sixteenth century there was a great sheep mortality and most of the sheep on the Faroes died. But I couldn’t find out why. The sheep one now sees covering every exposed surface are the descendants of the sheep imported to replace the dead.  There was also stuff on fishing, Vikings and a display of a couple of skeletons to prove that even converting to Christianity is no guarantee that some curious bugger isn’t going to dig up your corpse at some time in the future and put it on display.

Travelling Hopefully - The Old Hamlet

The next day I (along with random others) was picked up for the next tour. My status had obviously increased as our guide today was the owner of the company.  This guy deserves a documentary made about him. He served several years in the Danish army including at least one tour in Afghanistan, became a fisherman, had to be evacuated out of the north Atlantic when it turned out he had MS and then set up a tour company because “I have three kids so I can’t lie on the floor doing nothing’. He’s only thirty six. Having succeeded in making at least one of his clients feel utterly inadequate he proceeded to tell us about our day.

Having visited the isle of lakes and airports yesterday today would be a more gentle assignment being taken to a couple of spots on the island we currently occupied plus a quick visit to its near neighbour. So near in fact that there’s a bridge between the two which claims to be the only bridge across the Atlantic Ocean. Possibly true but it has to be admitted that the Atlantic is rather skinny here.

To understand Faroes scenery you have to know its history. They were raised above sea level by volcanic activity and were then scoured down to the bare essentials by glaciers. The result is a rugged and almost treeless terrain split by streams and with settlements clustered around those areas of the coast flat enough to drag a longship ashore.

Our journey today took in the Faroes highest waterfall, a black sand beach which is apparently the only surfing beach on the island and a narrow gorge open to the sea which has still blue, green water that rapidly becomes snarling white flecked grey the moment the gorge meets the sea.

Our journey also took in sheep. Sheep are difficult to avoid on the Faroes, they’re freaking everywhere. There aren’t any huge flocks rather there are just random sheep dotted anywhere there is some open patch of green. Most of the Faroes is an open patch of green and the fact that much of this open space is at a forty five degree angle doesn’t seem to bother the sheep too much.

According to our guide it is still legal to throw a sheep thief off a cliff “Although we don’t do that anymore.” One wonders when they stopped, last April? You can mull over the morality of that while dining on a meal of pilot whale and puffin; two local delicacies I have no intention of trying. You can ascribe my refusal to moral sensitivities if it amuses you to do so.

Sheep and seafood are the mainstay of the Faroese diet because the soil is too poor and thin to grow much. Potatoes and rhubarb are apparently the only crops one can reasonably rely on. Our guide cheerfully informed us that any vegans would starve.

Having gazed in wonder at the somewhat bleak but undeniably impressive miracles of nature (see below) we pointed the minibus in the direction of Torshavn in the middle afternoon.

Gorge

The minibus dropped me at Torshavn football stadium so I could get a team shirt and our guide suggested I walk back to town through the forest.  Forest?? It’s rare to see two trees together in the Faroes but this was actually a park with a creek and especially planted trees presumably so the locals can get familiar with them so they aren’t scared when they travel overseas.

Once back in Torshavn I strolled through the old town. Here people still live in the fourteenth century homes of their ancestors. Well somebody’s ancestors anyway, it’s a safe bet they’re not around any more. It took me about thirty seconds to stroll through and then I turned around and strolled back through it again. It was more of an old village than an old town. Possibly even an old hamlet.

Travelling Hopefully - Spirits Rising

I woke the next morning somewhat surprised to have made it through the night. I pulled on the same mildly rancid clothes I had been wearing for forty eight hours and took the elevator of doom down to reception. To my surprise reception wasn’t littered with corpses. Even more surprising a thoroughly alive young man sat behind the desk giving every indication of being employed there.

He listened sympathetically to my tale of woe concerning lost luggage. From his attitude I could tell he had heard this story before. Frankly the fact that a taxi had been sent to the airport yesterday specifically to pick up luggage should also have been a clue. It would arrive he assured me. In the meantime I would just have to put up with filthy clothes. Or rather everyone around me would.

“Everyone around me” grew significantly larger just after 9am when a man with a minibus arrived looking to take me on a tour. There were four other passengers who crowded to the other end of the vehicle when I boarded.

Our journey would take us to the island of Vagar, I was already vaguely familiar with it as my plane had landed on it. It was fair to say I hadn’t been able to fully appreciate it at the time. Torshavn where I was based was on a different island. This would ordinarily involve a bit of sea travel but the Faroese have dug tunnels between the main islands so the chances of sea sickness are slight.

Vagar has one major attraction (if you discount an airport which has the world’s busiest lost luggage office). A lake which stretches to the ocean. The lake is prevented from being part of the ocean by the fact that it’s thirty metres higher and separated by a very narrow cliff.

Our journey took us past a low collection of buildings with a spectacular view of the harbour. This, our guide informed us, was a prison. A single low fence separated us from the no doubt desperate felons inside. I took a photo of their miniature golf course and we headed on. Our guide further informed us that serious offenders are punished by being sent to Denmark which probably keeps the crime rate low.

Of course we couldn’t just drive up to the lake. You have to earn it by traipsing through several kilometres of countryside first, oh the horror. Usually I’m keen for a walk through nature but usually I’m not wearing urban footwear designed for nothing more arduous than strolling around the shops. Nervously I enquired as to whether my shoes would be acceptable and received greasy assurances from a guide who had no intention of leaving me alone with his minivan while they did the walk.

We set off, our guide promising that the scenery was lovely. We had to take his word for it although the mist was very photogenic. There was a trail which was easy to walk except where there was mostly mud. I say “mostly mud” because the one thing you can’t get away from in the Faroes is sheep. Therefore there is a certain sheep component to pretty much everything you step in.

Slowly the scenery revealed itself and it was pretty impressive. Grey fields and a grey lake gradually took on colour as we advanced trying not to slip in the mostly mud. I photographed the scenery, sheep, the lake, sheep, rivulets trickling down the hillside, sheep and the occasional picturesque farmhouse.

As we progressed the weather got better and the thin clothing I was wearing shifted from inadequate to too much without any noticeable mean point. An aircraft thundered overhead. It turns out that if my pilot had overshot his landing we would have wound up in this very lake. Finally we arrived at our destination, the ocean all towering cliffs and shrieking seabirds. Cliffs and sea caves abounded and now we were able to see the full beauty of the lake, so close to the ocean they almost touch and connected by a waterfall which drops the thirty odd metres to the sea. 

Lake above, sea below

I was entranced, my issues with luggage forgotten as I took photo after photo until both my camera and my phone reminded me that my adapter plug was in my missing bag as well and they both ran out of battery.

I was delirious with delight or possibly sleep deprivation and returned to my hotel on a cloud. The helpful (and definitely not undead) man behind the counter informed me that my luggage had arrived, my day was complete. Also the Burger King in Torshavn shits all over the one in Edinburgh.