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.

Travelling Hopefully - Minor Disaster Edition

Inverness Airport is of modest dimensions but possesses all the charm you might expect from a large concrete building whose occupants have the avowed intention of leaving as soon as possible. British Airways stuffed me into a narrow metal tube and aimed me at Heathrow. For context I was heading to the Faroes and I was now further away than ever. Eager to compensate for this a mere six or seven hours later they stuffed me into another narrow metal tube and aimed me at Copenhagen. Once there it was a mere two hours before I was stuffed into a third narrow tube and this time I was assured that the destination was the Faroes.

I was placed in a seat next to an emergency exit and the stewardess informed me of my stern responsibilities should the plane suddenly fail to do the one thing we expect of it. Drunk with power I surveyed the passengers mentally deciding who would live and who would die. We were told not to open the exit if the plane went down in water which given our destination made the whole thing pointless. I had been awake for about thirty hours by this stage so it’s probably a good thing my emergency skills weren’t called upon.

My spirits rose as the plane thumped down to a technically safe landing in the Faroes. I was finally here. My newly elevated spirits plummeted when it became obvious that the airline had lost my luggage. They plummeted even further when I stepped outside and found my taxi driver must have got sick of waiting and had abandoned me in the icy drizzle. Fortunately another taxi driver who was picking up a load of luggage took pity on me and squeezed me in among the suitcases and drove me to my hotel.

My hotel has what is called “self check in” which basically involves receiving instructions from a disembodied voice at the other end of a telephone on how to access my room. This was the first part of my visit to the Faroes that went without a hitch. Leaving the abandoned reception I rattled up to my floor in a lift that belonged in a museum. The lift added to the entire “you’ve wandered into a Scandinavian horror movie” vibe but I was so tired I didn’t care. I crawled into the narrow bed and decided the psychopathic killers could do what they want.

Travelling Hopefully - Carriage 52704

 Carriage 52704 introduced itself hopefully, dare I say needily, by means of an ingratiating sign placed at eye level in the carriage toilets. This sign anxiously hoped that it was looking its best and urged the reader to report any lapse in the pristine beauty of the carriage toilets to the appropriate authorities. Since the only people who could read this sign were men taking a piss may I suggest that a better way of keeping the immediate environs clean was not to distract us while we’re doing so.

I don’t know if the trains only other carriage had a similar message or if that carriage was more confident in its appearance. ScotRail’s passive aggressive railway carriages weren’t the only example of misplaced signage on display.

Earlier in the morning we had clambered onto the same Viking promoting ferry that had dumped us on the Orkneys a few days earlier. Now it was busily engaged in dragging us back to the coast of Scotland. There was an open to the elements section where passengers could smoke, photograph the scenery or suffer for no reason at all. In a fit of completely unjustifiable optimism the door to this bleak wind and rain swept expanse bore a sign saying “Sun deck”.

Travelling Hopefully - Scapa Flow

 Scapa Flow is a large chunk of sea water surrounded by various Orkneys. During both the first and second world wars it was the major base for the British fleet selected possibly on the theory that if the British high command was prepared to do that to its own sailors what it would do to the enemy would be even worse.

Scapa was bleak, remote and devoid of facilities but it had one priceless advantage. From here the Royal Navy could enforce a blockade of Germany that cut them off from raw materials and ultimately food.

Scapa was supposed to be secure, a reputation that took a bit of a hit when the battleship Royal Oak also took a bit of a hit courtesy of a German u-boat. One of the consequences of this was that the British imported a group of Italian chapel builders to improve the defences. They finished the defences at about the same time as the war came to a conclusion, the chapel took a little longer.

We clambered onto what was either a small car ferry or a second hand landing craft and plied the grey waters of Scapa to the island of Hoy where a museum and no end of war era relics abound. The museum is compact but informative covering the surrender and scuttling of the German High Seas Fleet after the end of the First World War and various naval tragedies both natural and German inflicted.

With little time to waste we jumped from ferry to bus to yet another bus. The buses whipped around the narrow Orkneys roads with what seemed to be more enthusiasm than caution. Nevertheless we were deposited at a historically significant hole in the ground with zero injuries.

The Maeshowe Cairn is another Neolithic site. The word cairn seems to imply the presence of corpses but according to our guide it was never used for burial. It seems to be a highly specific calendar. The tunnel into the cairn has been built in such a way that on the Winter Solstice the sunlight will pour up that tunnel and illuminate the cairn’s interior thus announcing that winter was half over and that people should start cracking out their Stone Age beachwear. There was also a dragon but it was small harmless and might have been a dog.

Travelling Hopefully - Neolithic Edition

 People have been living on the Orkneys for a very long time. The next day we set out to discover traces of Stone Age settlements. Fortunately the Orkneys are covered in such things. A gentleman with a gloriously waxed moustache and a minibus was waiting to ferry us to all things Neolithic. But first; the Italian Chapel.

During the Second World War the Orkneys had an influx of involuntary Italian immigrants as the British army tried to find somewhere to house the Italian prisoners of war they had captured in North Africa. For some reason a fair few of them wound up working on various defence installations in the Orkneys.

Feeling somewhat spiritually bereft the prisoners were granted permission to build themselves a chapel. They did this by the simple expedient of sticking a pair of nissan huts together and over decorating the result.  The interior is beautifully decorated and indeed the prisoner responsible for the decoration stayed after the end of the war to add the finishing touches.

More importantly outside the chapel was a field with shaggy cows. Once we had recovered from our ecstasy (whether religious or bovine) we piled into our minivan and pointed our noses towards the Stone Age.

There are so many Neolithic sites in the Orkneys that one finds it difficult to understand how they squeeze the current inhabitants in. The Ring of Brogdar is a big attraction. Built several thousand years ago by people who had altogether too much time on their hands it comprises a deep ditch, an embankment and a ring of stones in a circle.

The “too much time on their hands” comment is absolutely true. Stone Age they might have been but the local inhabitants must have been doing very well indeed to allocate the vast amount of time, resources and manpower necessary to create the thing. According to our guide the ditch alone (carved five metres deep out of the bedrock) must have taken about eighty thousand man hours to create.

So what’s it all for? No idea. It might be religious, it might be cultural it might be an early attempt at a skate board park. Whatever it’s certainly impressive.

Just down the road (literally) from the Ring of Brodgar is the equally Neolithic village of Scara brae. This was discovered when a storm swept away all of the sand that had previously covered the place. There is a visitors centre and a replica of an intact house to assist tourists in imagining what life might have been like in Neolithic times just in case the sight of a number of anonymous holes in the ground doesn’t fill you with the sort of giddy excitement archeologists expect.

The village lasted for some six hundred years and we don’t know why it was abandoned although it’s entirely possible the inhabitants got sick of sweeping sand out of their houses. Again Skara brae shows signs of wealth in so far as it was too small to be (in the archeologists delicate phrase) genetically viable. To put it more bluntly incest will only take a community so far and then your only options are to acquire fresh breeding stock or get elected Holy Roman Emperor. The population of Skara brae were obviously able to source husbands and wives from elsewhere which implies being part of a wider, flourishing community.

After that we visited an eighteenth century manor house but were too late to see baby chickens being fed to the falcons.

Travelling Hopefully - Kirkwall

 Kirkwall sits roughly in the middle of The Mainland which is the inaccurately named main island of the Orkneys. The day dawned bright and sunny to the confusion of the population and those of us who were so inclined wandered down the hill from our guest house in the outer suburbs to the centre of town. It took us about ten minutes.

Our missing comrade turned up at breakfast and pretended she had been there all along. We didn’t ask questions. The cathedral of St Magnus dominates the skyline not that it has a lot of competition. The cathedral is an impressive pile of red sandstone that dates back to 1137. St Magnus was a holy man who was murdered by an opponent. Once he was dead miracles started to occur (something Magnus might have appreciated when he was about to be killed). A relative of Magnus knocked up the cathedral in his honour. 

There was a flower show inside the cathedral which helped to explain the absence of flowers elsewhere. Left to our own devices the only non Australian on the tour and myself wandered around the narrow street sightseeing. Once we had seen the sight we had coffee. Then we went to a small but neatly organised museum which waxed lyrical about the Neolithic, Iron Age, Pictish and Viking past of the islands. Some of those bits may overlap. After the museum we had coffee.

Having immersed ourselves in the history of the islands (and coffee) we cast about for something to do. At this point our guide mustered about half of us for a gentle afternoon walk to a cairn. Cairns were an ancient way of gathering funeral goods together to make it easier for grave robbers to loot. Alert to their responsibilities grave robbers had dutifully looted this cairn leaving nothing but a stone lined hole in the ground. In order to visit this subterranean crime scene we left the town and climbed a hill. Then we climbed a bit more of the hill and after a brief pause to rest and complain about the damn hill climbing we climbed some more of the hill. The summit loomed ahead and our feeling of achievement grew. But before we could slap ourselves on the back our guide veered to the side and we began a long wearying trek around the hill instead.

We plodded through the heather our journey lightened by the hysterical shrieks of one of our number as every flying ant in the Orkneys targeted her for special attention. She became a seething mass of insect life her plaintive cries barely audible above the buzzing of insects. In this fashion we reached the cairn and descended a ladder into the bowels of the earth. And there we stopped. To access the chambers we would have had to crawl on our hands and knees through mud and water in pitch darkness. A quick vote was taken and nobody seemed keen on that idea so we emerged back into the world of light and life and left the darkness of the cairn to the doomed spirits condemned to haunt its walls.

On the way back I saw a fat caterpillar but nobody cared.

Travelling Hopefully - But With Slightly Gritted Teeth

 I awoke in my standby hotel (which was perfectly fine by the way) eager for the Orkneys. Today I would finally set foot on these fabled isles. But first I had to set foot on a train.

With the sun high in the sky I found myself hanging around Inverness train station trying not to look like I make a habit of such behaviour. Fortunately the rest of my tour group arrived before the police moved me on. Like most Intrepid tours the travelers were an eclectic bunch hailing from the four corners of Australia. Our guide was also Australian although he had lived in Scotland long enough to go native.

From Inverness we would catch a train to Thurso then a rather large ferry to Stromness and voila; Orkneys. Drama started early when it became apparent one of our number was missing. I looked very carefully but it wasn’t me. Eventually deciding to abandon her to her fate we piled onto a rather small train and headed for the coast.

Once on board the other members of our group introduced each other in the traditional manner by hurling hot chocolate at each other. We are now united as one family or possibly have started a blood feud which will last down the generations.

With its passengers glaring at each other and hot chocolate running in the gutters like blood the train set off on its journey. It travelled at a pace that afforded great opportunities to enjoy the highland scenery and enjoy it I did. There were cattle, sheep, horses more cattle and no end of sheep. Having hit the coast the train sensibly turned left rather than run us into the North Sea. Our guide attempted to impart essential information. “Seal!” I screamed in excitement before apologising. We all decided seeing a seal was way more important than whatever our guide was saying. I still don’t know what he was trying to tell us. At later points in the journey I would shout “Rabbit!” And “Deer!” but by this time they thought I was making it all up. It’s a good thing I didn’t see a wolf.

What is a train without a delay? The two go together like Sydney and rail. Our train stopped at a tiny Highlands station for fifteen minutes or so while another apparently far more important train was permitted to go past us. Our guide looked mournful and muttered something about calling the ferry to make sure it didn’t go without us. At least I think that’s what he said I was busy shouting animal names at the time.

Finally we turned up in Thurso and immediately piled into a taxi to get a little more ferry adjacent. The ferry was named something Nordic and had a Viking painted on the side. I understand wanting to keep in touch with your proud seafaring history but I wonder at the wisdom of reminding the locals of what used to happen when Scandinavian ships sailed into harbour. Fortunately we weren’t met with a hail of arrows.

It was evening by the time we arrived in Stromness and we were immediately bundled into another taxi to take us to god knows where. I’d stopped caring by this point and just assumed accommodation would present itself at some point. For once I was right.

Travelling Hopefully by Train

 Having exhausted the amusement value of Edinburgh or possibly vice versa I turned my face towards the heart of the Highlands. That’s right I was going to Inverness. The name Inverness comes from the Gaelic words Inver (phony) and Ness (sea monster). The city has served as the de facto capital of the Highlands ever since the Highlands was deemed to need such a thing. 

I arrived at Edinburgh’s Waverley station in plenty of time which gave me the opportunity to sit around for quite some time and wait for ScotRail to catch up with me. I’m not sure it ever did really. Still there was an electronic indicator board which displayed my train and proudly announced that it was on time. What it didn’t mention was the platform that the on time train would depart from. This became more and more of an issue as the time for said departure inexorably approached. With a mounting sense of panic I stared at the indicator board willing further information to present itself. In fact I was concentrating so hard on the indicator board that I almost missed the attendant bellowing out the platform currently occupied by my train. Fortunately it was directly in front of me.

I had bought a first class ticket but due to some inadequate signage wound up in economy instead. By the time I realised my error I was surrounded by people with more people beyond and fighting my way out would have required a troop of Cossacks at my back or, preferably, front. The view out the window was the same, I presume.

The view out the window changed rapidly from the outskirts of Edinburgh to fields and finally to more Highlands related terrain. The ground got lumpier, the horizon got closer and there were trees and gorse and stuff. Why I don’t have a job travel writing I don’t know.

I kept an eye out for deer. What I saw were cows, sheep and the occasional unenthusiastic attempt at agriculture. Despite the slight chaos surrounding its departure the train slid into Inverness bang on time.

Inverness as a destination didn’t particularly interest me but it was the starting point of my tour of the Orkneys. I was due to meet my tour group at the train station the next day. In deference to this  fact I had booked a hotel largely for its proximity to the station. The Royal Highland Hotel was literally a one minute walk from the station. I entered and was immediately entranced by its elegant old world style. I congratulated myself on an excellent choice. I think you can guess what’s coming next.

I announced myself to the receptionist and told her I was staying there that night. “No you’re not,” she replied. Apparently some of the rooms had not proved as rainproof as one would normally expect in a hotel and as a consequence I would not be staying there that night. They had graciously booked me into another hotel down the road. Apparently I should look for a big sign that said B&Bs. I obediently did so and found my place of repose. It was just past the tattoo parlour and the piercing shop a couple of doors along from the gentleman’s club and across the road from the Travelodge. Still it could have been worse, at least it wasn’t in the Travelodge.

Travelling Hopefully - Tattoo

 Yes the Edinburgh Military Tattoo gets an entry all to itself. Not necessarily because I have anything interesting or profound to say about it but let’s face it if you were looking for interesting or profound this blog probably wouldn’t be your first destination. In fact I could delete the word “first” from the previous sentence without impacting its accuracy.

Seeing the Tattoo has always been a dream of mine. I used to watch it on the ABC when l was younger but  because they broadcast it over the Christmas/New Year break that’s when I thought it was on. If I had thought about it for a moment I would have realised that doing the performance in Edinburgh Castle in midwinter would have been impractical. The performers might have survived but the audience wouldn’t.

So eager was I to ensure I got in (despite a pre booked ticket) that I turned up three hours early. The previous performance was still going on. I loitered with intent for the next couple of hours taking shelter under some trees to protect me from the biting wind, the showers of rain and the hot sun all of which turned up to mock me during this time. 

Finally a queue began to form and I joined it. Now surrounded by queue buddies I waited patiently until I thought my muscles would atrophy. Eventually the word was passed down the line and we surged towards the castle. Actually given that the average age appeared to be about seventy surged probably isn’t the right word to use. Eventually the word was passed down the line and we oozed towards the castle.

Dizzy with excitement (or possibly simply as a result of standing up for three hours) I took my seat and waited for the drink stands to be cleared away. As I waited I saw paramedics pushing away an elderly guest in a wheelchair. Apparently the excitement of turning up had been too much for ber.

There isn’t much I can say about the actual show. If you like that sort of thing it was staggeringly good. If you don’t then it was still staggeringly good but you won’t care. There were guest bands from the Ukrainian navy, the Polish Border Guard and the US army. My favourites were the Top Secret Drum Corps from Switzerland and the US Air Force Honor Guard Precision Drill Team who were amazing. There was pretty much every band in the British Army, Highland Dancers and probably not random others.

Once the final pipes had died away and blasts of fireworks had ruined the sleep of every bird in a five mile radius I got up to go and realised it was very very cold. Not by Edinburgh’s standards of course, the water was still liquid and the homeless made it through the night but it was cold for me. With pipe music ringing in my ears and my blood flowing somewhat lumpily through my veins I made my way ack to my hotel. By the time I arrived my circulation was behaving more or less as it should.

On my last day in Edinburgh I bought socks.

Travelling Hopefully - Underground

I went quite a bit of my time Edinburgh without seeing the sun. This will surprise nobody who has been to Edinburgh but in my case it was at least partially deliberate. I found myself drawn to various subterranean tourist attractions. Underground tourist attractions all work on the same principle; everything looks more interesting if it’s dimly lit and if your customers are trapped underground they’re less likely to run away. In fact The Real Mary King’s Close takes the latter part of this to extremes by warning anyone who wants to go back to wait for a guide without which presumably they will wander the underground streets of Edinburgh for ever.

For clarity a close is a street. The Royal Mile serves as the spine of old Edinburgh and the closes ran off it rather like ribs or legs of a millipede. The closes were narrow, filthy and were lined with tenement buildings up to twelve stories high. The closes tended to be named after a prominent resident. Mary King’s is the only one named after a woman.  Like the other closes on this side of the Royal Mile they all sloped down to what was then an artificial lake, part of the city’s defences, and is now the best fertilised park in Edinburgh. Fast forward a couple of centuries and the local council is looking to build a prominent new building on the Royal Mile. They did this by purchasing four of the closes including Mary King’s chopping off bits of the buildings there until they were level with the Royal Mile and building the new construction on top of what was left. This means that underneath the cellar of the new building is a maze of rooms, building remnants and streets. Down into this man created labyrinth we would journey to see how people lived in days of yore.

The answer is badly. For the poor it meant being crammed in tiny rooms surrounded by people you’d rather avoid (mainly relatives). For the less poor (and Mary King was by no means poor, she was a property owner and a businesswoman at a time when technically women could be neither) it still meant being crammed into somewhat more space with perhaps fewer irritating relatives but still not somewhere you’d go on your holidays. Ok so I did go there on my holidays, do you honestly think I’m an example to follow?

We were guided through the maze by a cheerful woman dressed as a serving woman from the sixteenth century only clean. There was a series of instructions beginning with “turn off your mobile phone “ there were other instructions but I didn’t hear them because the man next to me’s mobile phone went off for the remainder of the speech.

We went through the home of a family that died of plague which was quite a popular thing to die of at the time. The various types of plague were explained. Despite the bad press bubonic plague was definitely the one to get if you had the choice. The plague doctor had a treatment for that with a 50% survival rate. Definitely the best odds in town.

We were subsequently led through a cow byre (in the middle of what was essentially an apartment block just in case you were wondering how the plague got a hold in the first place) and a comfortable middle class home (three whole rooms) which of course had a ghost because that is a must have accessory for any sixteenth century home. The ghost is that of a young girl. She caught the plague and her parents did the responsible thing and abandoned her there. Somewhat closer to our own time a Japanese mystic visited the place for one of those “inconclusive bullshit about ghosts” television shows. Said mystic identified the presence of the ghost (where would we be without such people?) but it was what she did next that impressed me. Having determined that the girl had been stuck alone for centuries with no one to play with this mystic popped back up to the Royal Mile and bought a barbie doll which she left in the room for the girl to play with. Others have followed the example and there is now a whole shrine of toys (and other weirder items) in this room. Definitely dying miserable and alone was the best thing to happen to this little girl.

The tour was fascinating and it was possibly as a result of this experience that I made my second underground foray. I admit I skimped on the initial research. Basically I saw a sign saying “Edinburgh Dungeon” and I thought it would be an informative and educational guide to some of the grimmer parts of Edinburgh’s history. It was more of an interactive music hall show without the music. Performers chewed the somewhat shabby scenery, encouraged audience participation with a slight edge of desperation in their voices and sound effects and occasional bits of moving furniture added to the atmosphere. The atmosphere being that of a group of performers taking full advantage of the fact that their audience couldn’t run away. It was the sort of thing that would be loads of fun with fewer children and more alcohol.

Travelling Hopefully - Finally Here

 Every city has a purpose. The purpose of Frankfurt is to make the rest of Germany feel better about itself. My own sojourn in Frankfurt was confined to the airport and was simultaneously mercifully brief and eye wateringly long. Once I looked at the planes and had a curry wurst I was still left with seven hours to kill before Lufthansa would graciously agree to take me on the final leg of my journey to Edinburgh. I spent the time reading and once I’d finished my book I filled in a few hours weeping hysterically.

Other people weeping hysterically likely include the readers of this blog who are now into the third entry and haven’t even reached the beginning of the holiday yet. Firstly I would like to point out that reading this blog is not the  cause of your problems but merely a symptom and I would urge you to visit a therapist or exorcist as quickly as possible. Secondly I’ve done it, I’m finally here. With Lufthansa’s farewell chocolate still sticking to my lips I stepped out into the land of my ancestors. Well some of my ancestors, probably. I inhaled the sharp Scottish air as I was informed there was a thirty minute wait for a taxi. Once he deigned to show up my taxi driver informed me he couldn’t take me to my hotel because of trams or something. He did drop me off within walking distance and pointed helpfully.  By the time I reached my hotel I had spent almost as much time travelling from the airport to my hotel as I had travelling from Frankfurt to Edinburgh.

I had come to Edinburgh to see the Tattoo. After years of watching it on TV I was finally going to see it live. Assuming I could make my way through the crowds. Not only was the Tattoo on but also the Edinburgh festival and an Oasis concert. As a result the streets were swarming with humanity and Oasis fans.

I set out on the big day at 8.30am. A little early for a performance that starts at 9.15pm but you don’t know my talent for getting lost. With jet lag still dragging at my heels my intention was to find my way to the castle to ensure I could do it again at a more appropriate time. The old town of Edinburgh is made of grey stone an aesthetic choice which was essentially a defensive technique. Given the prevailing Scottish weather it was entirely possible an invading army would simply fail to see it.

The weather on the evening I arrived had been beautiful and the new day followed suit with bright sun and blue skies occasionally fighting their way through the clouds, cold wind and pissing rain. As a result no matter what weather you had dressed for you were wrong.

Edinburgh loomed grey and impressive before me. I climbed steps. This is something you’re just going to have to get used to in Edinburgh. A lot of the city is directly above and sometimes actually on top of the rest of it. I walked up the Royal Mile and came to a halt when something blocked my way. It was Edinburgh Castle. Having achieved that in literally the first twenty minutes I was left in the somewhat embarrassing position of not really knowing what to do for the rest of the day.

Fortunately Edinburgh came to my assistance. I looked to to one side and found Camera Obscura which is five floors of optical illusions and camera trickery guaranteed to appeal to children and a certain type of adult. I am that certain type of adult. Giggling with immature glee I tested all of the exhibits while parents nervously ushered their children away from me. I did manage to leave before the police arrived but that was probably more due to the crowds in the streets than any judgement of mine.

Travelling Hopefully - Copulating Otters and the Shabby Bladdered Four

 The above sounds like a dubious jazz band. I have to admit that at least on international flights the airlines have stopped even trying to pretend that their safety briefings are going to keep you alive in case of a crash or even a mild cold. As such the safety video is little more than an opportunity to highlight various photogenic scenes selected apparently at random.  Nothing as plebeian as an aircraft makes its way into any of the scenes.  I was directed to my life jacket by a woman wandering through an aquarium while what looked like otters expressed their feelings for each other in the most vigorous of ways in the background. Should the plane crash I know to brace myself in the rose garden and if the cabin loses pressure an otter will apparently drop from the ceiling.

With the safety of its passengers thus assured the aircraft reversed out of its corral and headed in the general direction of Singapore. Seven hours of enforced immobility gave me the opportunity to look at my fellow passengers. Specifically the three older somewhat battered looking men who visited the toilet on a rotating schedule every ten to fifteen minutes. Three? Well I have pretty much recovered from the cancer but I still find it wise to stay within easy reach of a toilet. Particularly when I travel.

Possibly it was our monopolisation of the bathrooms which prompted virtually every other passenger to try and piss in a cupboard.  The cupboard was set some three feet above the floor of the cabin. This didn’t stop an endless stream of passengers from rattling desperately at the handle apparently under the impression that relieving themselves involved completing an obstacle course.

Apart from the urinarily misdirected the flight was uneventful and I landed in Singapore without once having to deploy the emergency otter under my seat. While I waited for my connecting flight I went and visited the airport’s butterfly garden. The number of butterflies in evidence at ten o’clock at night could be counted on the toes of one hand.

Travelling Hopefully

 I’m always paranoid and nervous at airports. I shamble nervously through the teeming throngs always afraid that I’m about to be pulled aside and informed that not only am I not boarding my plane but that I will be removed to an undisclosed location and held incommunicado for the rest of my life. While free board and lodging has its appeal it would be a pity to miss out on the holiday.

Strangely the authorities unaccountably failed to detain and abuse my innocent person so I guess it’s back to the dating apps when I return. I was pleased to see I had once again booked an airline that parked so far from the entrance that I suspected I was leaving from Melbourne. Still the walk let me build up an appetite which is an essential precursor to airline food so I’m going to call that a win.

As I settled down to fill the gap between the time you’re expected to arrive and the time they graciously allow you onboard the metal sky tube I felt my excitement rising.  At least I call it excitement, my doctor has another word for it. Ahead of me lies Neolithic villages, puffins, sheep and at least one tattoo. Either that or three weeks staggering around Edinburgh airport looking for the exit. Either way it will be an experience.

Travelling Hopefully - Marsupials in the Mist

 After our fungus ridden heroics of the previous day both my correspondent and myself were ready for a quieter, less physically demanding day. In this we were assisted by breakfast. The previous night I had raised, purely hypothetically I assure you, the possibility of a breakfast that involved pancakes, butter, maple syrup and bacon. Quite specific for a hypothetical scenario I'm sure you'll agree. I was expecting the location of a cafe that might serve such items to eager travelers. Instead my correspondent recruited an ex-prison guard who filled me so full of food that walking was out of the question and even registering a pulse seemed like too much effort. 

However I couldn't spend all day rolling on the floor clutching my belly. At least that's what my correspondent said. Whether she was keen to show off her neighbourhood or simply desperate to get me out of her house is a matter of debate but eventually I shambled after her as she set a brisk pace towards a nearby stream. 

The aforementioned stream runs down a valley that my correspondent's house clings to the side of and provides a little local bushland within walking distance. Or at least it was walking distance for those who weren't stumbling along with bacon fat dribbling out of their eyes. My correspondent waxed lyrical about the bush, a small cave positioned for our entertainment and marsupials. Yes apparently furry, hoppy things abound. If we came back at dusk we could see them. I refrained from asking what we were doing there in the middle of the day.

Before the thrill of caves and marsupials however there was water.  The stream had been dammed a little upstream of my correspondent's home and the ensuing modest lake provided its small mite to Hobart's water supply as well as a residence for homeless water birds who I can only assume were living in bus shelters until the dam was built.

Here is the aforementioned lake doing its best to look like a natural feature

 I agreed that the lake was picturesque and definitely a fine example of lakedom (actually "lakedom" sounds like a rather niche porn site). I took photos and gathered my strength before embarking on the cave aspect of our journey.

"Where's the cave?" I asked looking around hopefully. My correspondent pointed straight up, there may or may not have been a malicious gleam in her eye. I should have guessed that. Since her locale was blessed with a creek it should not come as a surprise that there was a certain amount of verticality to the land immediately on either side of it. A road snaked up the hillside. Apparently if we climbed for a certain distance we could then strike out for a brief stroll until we reached the cave. Unspoken was her assurance that if I didn't make it up the hill she would leave my body to the tender mercies of the elements and marauding marsupials.

I gasped, retched, heaved and sweated and once I had made it to my feet set out on the hill climb. I suppose it wasn't that brutal as steep ascents go. It was relatively short and I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I prayed for death as my wobbly legs somehow propelled my breakfast heavy body upwards. My correspondent chatted on the way, I'm not sure who to as my conversation consisted of ragged gasps and occasional moans. 

When the path finally tilted back in the direction of horizontal my correspondent invited me to admire the view. The only view I was admiring was the red mist in front of my eyes but it has to be admitted that was spectacular. A short way along and the cave was presented to me in all its glory.

A small but definite cave

I took my time admiring the cave. Frankly I would have admired a rubbish heap if it had given me a chance to catch my breath. I agreed with my correspondent that it was a charming and understated example of the species then I turned my back on it so I could photograph the surrounding scenery.

The surrounding scenery. Somewhere at the bottom of this is the lake we just left

We sat and chatted idly in the shadow of the cave while some of us waited for our heart rate to get down to a level where coronary was only likely rather than inevitable. Once having exhausted every excuse for not moving, and disliking the look of the clouds charging over the top of Mount Wellington we decided to depart. Rather than retrace our steps down the road we went down the hillside instead. It took us about five minutes which made my previous whining seem a little pathetic. 

Once back at lake level my correspondent presented me with two options. We could either return to her house or cross to the other side of the creek and walk through the bush there. For reasons which I can only describe as pure masochism I selected option B. I almost gave up when the first thing that happened was we started climbing again but fortunately this was of short duration. With the creek somewhere below us on the right we strolled along the narrow path. I glanced down and came eye to eye with a wallaby which had been hiding in a bush hoping we'd go by without stopping. Caught out it graciously posed for a photograph before fleeing into the trees.

Well that was unexpected

Quite cock a hoop I continued along with a spring in my step. I looked more closely at the bush from then on and was rewarded with close views of the bush. A black blur caught my eye, I initially passed by but retraced my steps. I peered at the blur and it resolved itself into something roughly marsupial shaped. A potoroo according to my correspondent. 

This is the best I could do, it was considerably further away than the first one

Naturally I looked for platypus in the creek and naturally I didn't see any but I was over my platypus fixation now glutted on marsupial sightings. "Just wait," promised my correspondent.

Later that day after an afternoon nap/coma my correspondent returned me to the lake amidst mounting drizzle and mist. Apparently marsupials of various stripes congregated on the open grass once all of the tourists had buggered off. We sneaked up on vague, black shapes in the rain and gathering darkness. Closer they resolved into vague, black shapes that were, well, closer. Fortunately the quality of my phone puts my eyes to shame.

It was nowhere near this clear or this bright.

 

 

I'm not sure what this is but it hopped and was furry so I'm going with marsupial rather than frog

With my trip to Tasmania crowned in marsupial glory there was nothing left but to thank my correspondent for not killing me at any stage in the proceedings and retire to my hotel in preparation for my departure the next day. At the airport I bought the latest book by Richard Osmond and finished it by the time I arrived back in Sydney.

Travelling Hopefully - Waterfall and Fungi Edition

 Daylight comes slowly in Hobart in Winter.  It generally manages to turn up several hours after the day has begun without the slightest apology for being late. My hotel informed me that they served breakfast from 6.30 in the morning and that they recommended wearing warm clothing since they served breakfast in the "atrium". For the hard of understanding an atrium is essentially an aircraft hanger with furniture. It is not easy to heat and the hotel had solved that problem by refusing to try.  I slithered over the ice coated tiles, chased the snow leopards away from the table and signalled to one of the staff members that had not yet succumbed to hypothermia that I would like breakfast.  The speed with which I was served was an indication that movement was the only thing keeping my waitress alive.

Once sated with breakfast I took a call from my correspondent. Which did I prefer, caves, coast or waterfalls?  I pointed out that I'd already had breakfast but apparently she was referring to bushwalks that could be undertaken. Shyly I indicated my preference for waterfalls and in less time than it takes to tell (especially if I'm telling it) I was in a car travelling in the direction of downward heading water.

We left Hobart and headed towards the wild interior of Tasmania (approximate travel time, 27 seconds). The Derwent River uncoiled lazily on our right and then appeared on our left due to an unscheduled interaction with a bridge. My correspondent pointed out that this was absolutely not the river that produced the waterfalls, apparently Tasmania has at least two. Our destination was Mount Field where sufficient of the native forest had been left standing to justify walking trails and generalised outdoor activities. My correspondent waxed lyrical on the profusion of fungus that would present itself for our delectation as we wandered through the bush. To meet her hype fungus would have had to be throwing itself out of the forest at us at every turn. Strangely she wasn't far off.

Mount Field of course has a special place in my heart as it was here some years ago that I saw a platypus (very briefly) swimming down a creek. I knew the chances of a repeat performance were slim but I stared at every patch of water we encountered in breathless anticipation. Sadly the monotreme visibility on this particular visit would be on the low side.

The day was cool, there was moisture in the air (to be fair there was a good deal of moisture at ground level too, particularly the more waterfall intensive parts) and we set off into the bush at Mount Field in good spirits. By good spirits I mean my correspondent promised not to kill me if I kept my mouth shut.

The Tasmanian bush plus an indication of the ruggedness of the trail we were walking on

The next seven kilometres was a waterfall splashed, fungus ridden wonderland. At least it was if you like both waterfalls and fungi. For reasons I can't adequately explain, I do. If you don't like waterfalls and fungi then the next seven kilometres was a waterlogged, mouldy hellscape. A vast profusion of fungus presented itself for my delectation and I was busy with my camera taking what, for the most part, turned out to be rather inadequate photos. I'm not particularly good with a camera as the number of blurry fungus photos in my possession proves despite the fact that fungus doesn't move particularly quickly and is generally prepared to pose for the paparazzi. 

We'll get to the fungus later but first, a waterfall

It had rained recently and the waterfalls were quite enthusiastic about their job of transporting liquid vertically downward for the excitement of the audience. We greeted the sight of gravity doing its job with appropriate awe stricken noises although the real excitement would have come if the water had done anything else.

We moved slowly through the bush our pace dictated by the idiot freak with the camera insisting on pausing to photograph every piece of fungus that presented itself.

For example

As the day went on and the number of fungus photographs climbed into the low hundreds I started getting a little picky, turning up my nose at examples of fungi I had already seen. This quickened our pace somewhat but by that time my correspondent had already begun to despair of ever seeing her family again. 

 

Of course it couldn't be all fungi and waterfalls, despite my best efforts.  From time to time in the interests of balanced reporting I took photos of trees and logs and things. But then the next fungus would present itself and I would sink happily back into old ways.

We snuck up on the next waterfall from above so that instead of seeing water cascading down a cliff we saw water vanishing into the void. From above it looks as though the river just stops which I suppose is true in a sense although the water keeps going.

 

The river stops and starts up again somewhat lower down

In deference to the fact that the water going down is the picturesque part of a waterfall we then followed the water's path (somewhat less precipitously) for appropriate, cascade style photographs.

  

The same waterfall believe it or not

With two waterfalls under our belt we re-immersed ourselves in the world of fungi so thoroughly that I'm surprised we ever emerged. At some point during our walk the quiet of the bush had been shattered by a gang of black cockatoos that had rendered speech nearly impossible while simultaneously remaining to far away to be effective photographed. So here are some more fungi shots instead.

If you don't have a burning interest in fungi you could probably go to the end of this blog entry now. Oh wait, you already have

The path went on and so did the fungi, dogging our steps whether we were climbing hills or wandering through valleys. By this stage I was a total fungus snob refusing to photograph anything but the choicest selection.

 

 

The fungi have improved, sadly my photography hasn't

 

 

As is traditional on bushwalks we had taken a generally downward trend which required a definite amount of climbing to return to our starting point.  This climb took the form of a staircase leading up through the bush.  I had been given dire warnings about this staircase and approached it with distinct trepidation but with my correspondent leading the way I made it to the top without any more than the usual dizziness and black spots before my eyes. My correspondent congratulated me on my fitness while I wheezed and tried not to vomit on her shoes.

After I had recovered somewhat I stumbled after her back to her car, arriving just in time to thwart her plans to race off and leave me to the mercies of marauding fungi. We had dinner that night at a restaurant so close to my hotel that even I found it impossible to get lost on the journey.  The next day I had been promised marsupials.

Travelling Hopefully - Evacuation Drilled

 At slightly later than advertised but nowhere near late enough to complain a random group of people united by nothing but their desire to reach Hobart without getting seasick obediently clambered up a rickety looking gantry to gain entry to a rather small aircraft.  The aircraft it had to be admitted was an awkward size.  It was too small to use the usual terminal gateways but wasn't quite small enough that you could simply walk up to it and hop in, hence the meccano set inspired stairway.  If you don't know what meccano is, ask your parents to ask their parents.

Once we were all stuffed in a narrow metal tube the safety briefing began. I have sat through so many of these that I could recite them in my sleep or at least I could if I had listened to any of them. There was a new twist to the standard "in the unlikely event that you survive an emergency" talk this time though. Just ahead of me a pair of wings sprouted from the sides of the plane and those passengers fortunate enough to be sitting beside them were taken aside by the stewardess who quizzed them on the likelihood of their keeping their wits sufficiently about them in a crisis to open the evacuation doors which were apparently right over the wings. Apparently sufficient greasy assurances were provided by the passengers to satisfy the stewardess and she got on with the rest of the briefing. I eyed my fellow passengers suspiciously, one of them was already toying with the safety release and I wondered how many previous passengers had precipitated an emergency by being a little too eager with the evacuation protocols.

The rest of the briefing was all the standard stuff.  We were told that our life jackets were under our seats where they would be easy to grab assuming the aircraft crashed on a perfectly even keel. If it tilted at all passengers were far more likely to be trying to remove the seat in front of them from their face to reach for a life jacket which was now likely above their head. Said life jacket was equipped with a whistle. Air passing through this whistle would produce a high pitched screaming noise which would save the passengers the effort while they were plummeting to their deaths. A convenient light which would activate in water was also provided to assist rescuers in finding your corpse. If the plane isn't going down over the sea try and aim for a swimming pool or large puddle otherwise they may never find you.

In case you weren't listening to the stewardess all of this information was conveniently printed on a card that you didn't read either. I must admit I'm usually pretty sanguine about the safety briefing but sitting in a small, narrow plane that could apparently be torn apart by a couple of passengers certainly helped to focus my attention. What it didn't focus my attention on was the safety briefing, rather I focussed my attention on my fellow passengers to see which ones I was most likely to be able to kick out of the way as I scrambled for one of the holes ripped in the fuselage by someone who was almost certainly out of the plane already and probably dead.

After this build up it was actually a little bit of a let down when the plane landed in Hobart with barely a tyre screech to announce our arrival. 

Touring the Colonies

 I reached out to my Tasmanian correspondent the other day something I am reluctant to do ever since the "unpleasantness". Still she was technically my employee (or at least she would be if I paid her anything) so I felt within my rights to get in touch.  She obviously had a different opinion around the entire "get in touch" scenario but after a great deal of effort I managed to coax her onto a video call.

"How are you?" I asked.

"Fine," she replied with that sort of studied neutrality that implies an awareness of impending disaster coupled with uncertainty about its direction.

And that's where things stopped.  Having gone through all the effort of getting in touch it suddenly occurred to me that I had forgotten to have anything to say.  Suddenly inspiration struck.

"It's your birthday soon isn't it?' A look of pure horror crossed her face.

"No," she whispered, her voice a desperate plea.

"I might come down..."

"Dear god no!!"

"... and visit you."

"If you come anywhere near me..."

"I'll bring a present."

"I'll pick you up from the airport."

It is deep, dark Winter in Tasmania.  The days are short, the nights are cold and twisted creatures roam the howling wilderness seeking prey.  But enough of the Hobart night life.  I shall enjoy my correspondents hospitality (when she heard I was staying the night she was kind enough to insist I stay at a hotel) and will spend the days roaming the bush or the city or wherever else my correspondent abandons me as she makes her getaway.  I've bought return flights which in retrospect seems a little optimistic of me.

Tasmania has remote bushlands abounding in platypus and fungi and all of them (my correspondent assures me) unlikely to be disturbed should an interloping mainlander wind getting buried there.  Some of those remote bushlands are disturbingly close to my correspondent's home.  On an unrelated note she informs me she has recently purchased a new shovel "for gardening".  My correspondent expressed a hope that I would see a platypus which I thought was rather nice of her although I'm not sure why she felt obliged to add the words "one last time" to the end of that sentence.

So in a spirit of eagerness and trepidation I approach the weekend looking forward to when our nation's largest surviving airline shoves me into a metal tube and essentially throws me at Tasmania.  It's not enough that I have to survive my correspondent.  First I have to survive Qantas.

My Legions are Growing

 Recently my parents returned from New Zealand.  Somewhat less recently my parents went to New Zealand but that isn't part of this story.  As proof of their globe trotting ways they turned up at home clutching photographs and gifts.  Sitting down and looking at some of the former was the price I paid for one of the latter. The latter was a rather handsome kiwi themed plush toy which I have christened Spike.  I introduced him to his companions and all seemed to be going well.  Until the next morning.

I awoke to find the furry spider two feet away from my face, staring at me. I screamed and he jumped two feet straight in the air.

"What the hell was that?" demanded the spider.

"Sorry, foot cramp."

The spider rolled several of its eyes.

"Come into the lounge room," it ordered. In the lounge room the plush toys were gathered in a semi circle waiting for me.

"Oh god, not another intervention."

"Listen," said Humpy the camel, "we all love you..."

"Bullshit, half of you can't remember my name and I'm pretty sure I saw the puffin stirring ground glass into my dinner last night."  

"Which you didn't eat despite all the effort I put in," snapped the puffin. "All right, none of us love you but if you go completely over the edge and get hauled away to the giggle factory what's going to happen to us?"

"So what is it this time?"

"Have you seen how many plush toys there are about the place?"

I looked around, they had a point. There were definitely more of them than I recall.  Certainly more than I remembered buying.  It has to be admitted that what had started out as a harmless personality quirk had teetered more in the direction of something disturbingly pathological.

"All right, point taken. Now what?"

The plague doctor stepped forward with an unholy gleam in his eye.

"Fortunately modern medical science can come to the rescue.  Your humours are seriously unbalanced leading to an excess of black bile but fear not, relief is at hand." Proudly he displayed his tools; a set of garden shears and a selection of hand held drills some of which still had bits of previous patients adhering to them. I made a bolt for the exit but went down under a tide of plush toys, which rather proved their point.

"What are you going to do?"

"I recommend a course of remedial trepanning," replied the plague doctor.

"He's going to drill holes in your head," giggled the puffin with what I thought was seriously misplaced enthusiasm.  I struggled but to no avail.

"Don't worry," said the plague doctor, "I've never lost a patient." 

"Really?"

"Yeah, I know where all of them are buried."

"How the hell is this supposed to help?" I demanded struggling futilely against my bonds.

"Honestly," snapped the plague doctor his bench side manner almost exhausted. "I drill the holes releasing excess blood so that the black bile can dissipate and your humours can rebalance. It's simple medical science son." The puffin meanwhile was shaving my head with far more enthusiasm that the situation required as the plague doctor reached for what looked like the rustiest and most blood spattered of the hand drills.

 "Will it hurt?"

"Occasionally I get cramp in the wrist but not normally."

"I mean will it hurt me?"

"Oh hell yes, they'll hear you in the next state."

Forty five excruciating minutes later my humours were so well balanced that they were trickling out of both ears.  The plague doctor pronounced himself satisfied and the other plush toys crowded around congratulating him on his skill. I settled for showing my gratitude by whimpering to myself.

"I think I need another plush toy," I muttered.

"Buy as many as you like," replied the psychedelic shark with an evil grin, "our numbers must grow."

"Just one thing," said the plague doctor, "I may have left the drill bit inside of your head.  Try to avoid sudden movements, or sneezing." 

Definitely not too many plush toys

 

 

Silly After Action Report - Bring Up the Guns

Rittmeister Gideap von Dobbin gazed around, proud of his command as they cantered through the woods. The young cavalrymen proud and tall sat astride their mounts their bodies moving in synch with the horses. Von Dobbin's eyes lingered on the gleaming flanks and well shaped fetlocks, the proud mane adorned heads tossing in the morning air. Reluctantly he tore his gaze away, he was already on three cold showers a day and it didn't seem to be making a difference. A sudden spatter of rifle fire split the air and the elegant formation dissolved into something resembling a badly organised gymkhana. Not to another man in the world would von Dobbin admit that he had a signed photograph of the Earl of Cardigan in his wallet but the knowledge of its presence steadied him as he reorganised his men with the assistance of a couple of veteran NCOs who had the bad taste to find the whole thing funny.  Above the sudden chaos he could hear a voice shouting in Dutch.

"What's he saying?" demanded von Dobbin.

"He's asking if we've got our passports," replied one of the troopers.

 Yes we're going old, old school here.  My regular opponent Dave dug this scenario out of some spider infested vault, blew off the dust and presented it for my delectation. This is Scenario G7 which pits some less than enthusiastic Dutch border guards against the horse fondlers of the German 1st Cavalry division. As the Germans my role is to break through the border post, loot the duty free shop and safely shepherd a bunch of wagons towing guns to the other side of the map. As the Dutch Dave's role is to grimly defend passport control to the death.  To achieve my goal I have a dozen elite squads and four leaders the best of which is a none too shabby 9-1.  Four light machine guns are my only support weapons.  This entire force enters on horseback. Additionally five wagons towing guns plod slowly down the road.  The guns can take no part in the battle, their presence is solely for the victory conditions.  I win by exiting at least three of them off the west edge of the board.  Thus Dave can win immediately by killing three wagons.  Situated inconveniently between my forces and the exit are Dave's troops; eight first line squads, two officers and a single light machine gun.  A pair of foxholes and eight wire counters allow Dave to thicken his defences although by special rule the wire can't be set up on roads.

 

At start

Above is the at start set up. The guns have to enter on the road and practically they have to stay on it as they don't have the time to exit if they don't.  The cavalry can enter anywhere on the eastern edge of the map.  I've chosen to send the bulk of my force (preceded by halfsquads) to flank him from the south and hopefully wrest control of the crossroads and exit before my guns arrive.  A smaller force will attack in the centre largely on a fire drawing mission. 

End of German turn 1

The fire drawing mission in the centre was unpleasantly successful as a halfsquad was killed outright by Dutch fire but another hurled itself from its horses to plunge into close combat with a Dutch halfsquad in a foxhole.  The rest of my force swung around from the south some of them heading towards the buildings the remainder dismounting to wriggle through the wire that protected the approaches.  This had its own problems as my best leader and the lmg squad he was leading would spend the next two turns stuck on the wire.  The guns clip clopped slowly forwards trying to get close enough to the exit for a last minute dash while simultaneously staying out of the firing line. 

In his turn Dave raced to reinforce his threatened position with mixed success.  A squad was broken but others pushed forward denying me a cheap triumph.  A halfsquad, still foolishly on horseback was broken (but survived falling off its horse).

In the next turn the horses were abandoned and my troops surrounded the building which was his main centre of resistance (except for those still hung up on the wire). Close combat had actually been my friend for once and I had wiped out his foxhole dwellers.  Of course this was "not without loss" as the propaganda rags delicately put it and a couple of units were cringing in wheatfields trying to find a horse to hide behind.

Things are looking suspiciously good

In his turn Dave started preparing for the future.  He kept a stack of squads out of harms way, funneling them into the main building in just sufficient quantities to force me to keep attacking.  Meanwhile he sent one unit, plus an officer, racing for the rear to take up a position where it could fire on my wagons as they lumbered past. For my part I finally managed to seize the stone building that had been holding me up and was at last able to concentrate some of my firepower against his remaining units (except for the guys still hung up on the wire).  I was starting to get concerned, although things had been going well time was starting to run out and Dave's repositioning of some forces along the road made me tremble for the guns.  Speaking of the guns they had been crawling slowly forward as my own forces advanced but there was still Dutch firepower between them and safety.

End of German turn 3, the guns are creeping forward

With time starting to get a little tight I felt obliged to bring my guns forward despite the fact that Dave had left a single squad as a stay behind force while the rest of his force took up new positions guarding the road. I paid the price as a wagon and gun was shot to pieces but the remainder made their way through the residual and nervously eyed the road ahead now lined with Dutch troops.  In actual fact there weren't too many Dutch troops. Dave had sternly defended the village and had paid the price but you don't need a great deal of firepower to shoot up wagons and I would need to clear the remaining defenders before my wagons could get through.  On the plus side my 9-1 and team had finally torn themselves free of the barbed wire and had dashed towards some horses, it was time to become cavalry again.

I've lost a gun but cleared the village

Mounting up my 9-1 and team galloped through the wheatfield to a location where they could menace his last defenders while other units pushed through the trees and behind hedges.  Dave didn't dare fire, needing to keep his concealment counters in place in the hopes of surviving the last couple of turns and either destroy or scare my guns.  The truth of this became apparent when I managed an advancing fire shot against one of his last units with results that were, shall we say, mixed.  I broke the squad and made the accompanying leader heroic.

Coming to the final showdown

Dave tried his last, sending his newly heroic leader into close combat alone against a squad of mine. He died bravely to no result.  The final turn rolled around.  This wasn't the final turn of the game but the last turn in which my wagons had the movement to make it off the map, it was now or never.  A single Dutch unit barred the way, I had four units within range to shoot at it.  If one of them could break the Dutch unit the game was mine.  As it so happened one of them did.  With resistance eradicated the gun wagons rattled past for a victory in the nick of time.

It is amazing how well this old scenario stood up.  Dave and I both thoroughly enjoyed playing this one.  For once I was happy with my play and didn't make any appalling mistakes.  Dave feels he made a mistake by not putting his foxholes in the south to cover that open flank thus allowing my guys to get up and personal on the first turn.  I greeted my victory with the same good natured restraint that I greet my defeats until Dave threatened to throw something at me if I didn't get off the table.

Rittmeister von Dobbin watched as the guns rattled through.  He eyed up the draft horses; solid, sturdy workers a mile removed from the elegant chargers he was used to but possessed of their own rough charm.  Von Dobbin took a deep breath and dragged his eyes away.  One of his troopers looked at him sympathetically.

"Wanna borrow my hair shirt?" asked the trooper.

"Maybe, yes" replied von Dobbin blushing slightly.  The trooper passed him something. "What's this?"

"Your passport," replied the trooper, "our visas are valid for six months."

 No horses were harmed in the playing of this scenario although Rittmeister von Dobbin's mount has lodged a formal complaint.