Garry's Ramblings

Friday October 16th 2009 - Synchronicity

2009-12-01T06:33:00.000-08:00

Bryce left Boston today. He was travelling on a train to San Francisco – not everyone’s cup of tea. We rose early and I drove Bryce back to South Station in downtown Boston. It’s a quick ride mainly on freeway. We stopped at the drop off point and wished each other well till next time. Bryce strode into the sunset, well actually just the concrete station building in mid-morning. It was a great trip and totally unplanned. On the domestic front, Bryce was a hit. Gail and Maddie liked him a lot.
Fast forward to about noon when I was in Newtonville going to the post office and pharmacy … As I was walked over the bridge spanning the train line and Massachusetts turnpike, I suddenly realized that Bryce’s train would be passing by at any moment. It was scheduled to leave Boston at 11:50. Should I wait for the train? As it may have already passed through, I decided not to wait and went to the pharmacy. About 5 minutes later on my return, I heard a train coming. Sure enough it was Bryce’s Amtrak inter-continental express. The train was very short with only three or four carriages, one of which was a double-decker. The dining car was at the rear. Although the train was moving very fast, if Bryce had been looking out the left side window, he probably would have seen me standing on the bridge. That was a nice little coincidence (no pun intended). I think the correct word is Synchronicity.

Thursday October 15th 2009 - The Long Haul

2009-12-01T06:32:00.000-08:00

After a full breakfast in the hotel, we proceeded directly to the bus stop. We had a long wait, but as it was first come first serve, we had no choice. We were at the head of the line and gradually other people showed up. After some time, a non-English speaking family created a second line, much to the consternation of those already in line. But finally the bus came and we all boarded in correct order.
The ride was not too interesting. I wanted to video trucks with an unusual axle configuration that I’d seen for the first time. The land was flat and many farms had un-harvested corn that was probably going to be used as some sort of stock feed. We crossed the border without incident. The US Customs officer looked like he was in his seventies and worked at a leisurely pace. This obviously was a backwater in the Customs service. A lone SUV blocked the road to stop vehicles proceeding. The inspection amounted to one or two short questions in the Customs building and a search of the bus. Within 10 minutes we were back on the bus. The Customs official moved the SUV and we were on our way. As we were leaving, a semi-trailer loaded with damaged cars was being inspected before entering Canada. We drove into Vermont. The scenery became hilly with vibrant autumn colors. Several times, we glimpsed Lake Champlain between the hills. Finally we drove slowly through Burlington, Vermont, stopping at several traffic lights. We drove down a side street to the bus station which was little more than an elevated wooden shed in an unpaved paddock. We had about 40 minutes, so we bought lunch at the local produce store which also sold pastries and sandwiches. It was like an indoor market. We bought lunch and a couple of cakes for the trip. After eating lunch in the market, we walked back to the bus station along an abandoned railway track that paralleled the street. Our next stop was close to the Vermont/New Hampshire border. It was a more substantial, permanent facility than in Burlington. We sat and watched TV for a few minutes – some breaking news about police chasing a home made helium balloon believed to contain a child. It landed in a field without the child, and before finding out more information we had to leave. The ride back to Boston was a long one. Our last stop before Boston was the airport in Manchester, NH.
We arrived at South Station in Boston at about 6 PM, and had planned to continue on a bus to Newton, but the next bus wasn’t until 8 PM! Bryce had the excellent idea of catching a local train, so travelled on the so-called Commuter Rail to Newtonville station. I phoned Gail who picked us up on her way to collect Madeline at Gymnastics. We made a short stop at Starbucks and sat down with warm drinks. It was cold rainy night. We collected Maddie and drove home. Gail feels the cold, so the car was like a furnace inside. Bryce professed to be sweating profusely.

Wednesday October 14th 2009 - Back on the Rails

2009-12-01T06:30:00.000-08:00

We rose early and walked up the hill into the old town. One amusing incident occurred as we walked up the hill behind the hotel. Bryce stopped to check something in his bag and immediately I heard the click of a car’s door locks. We’d stopped next to a parked car with a nervous driver inside. Did we look that unkempt?
We walked all the way to the top of the Quebec City old fort – quite a climb. The views across the St Laurence Seaway and beyond were spectacular. We paused for a moment before heading back down to the hotel. We took back roads with quaint buildings probably dating back to the late 18th century. Eventually we came across the old town wall so we decided to walk along it as far as possible. It was accessed by a stone stairway. Once on top there was a pathway to walk along. This changed to the wall proper at one point. Again the views were quite something. As we went along there were boards displaying the history of each section of the wall. In one nook we saw a shelter for a homeless person, but there was no sign of anyone. Further down we came to the end of the wall and a restored factory building. This was also part of the historical tour route. We emerged near the road leading down to our hotel, so collected our bags and walked to the railway station. After waiting about an hour, we boarded the very comfortable train to Montreal. There were plenty of spare seats, so we moved to one side of the train or the other depending upon the scenery. But after our first stop, the train filled, forcing us back to our reserved seats. We ran alongside the Seaway for a few miles before crossing it over a long steel bridge. Mostly the terrain was flat with grain farms. At Montreal, we crossed a series of bridges over a canal and then the Seaway. It was getting dark as we pulled into the station.
Our next destination was the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts which had a J. W. Waterhouse exhibition. I’d seen the exhibition poster when we walked to Montreal station on our way to Quebec City and decided it was a must see. I’d admired his art for years and always wanted to visit the Tait in London. We thought about taking a train to the museum, but after walking what seemed like a mile along underground passageways and stairways we decided to exit and walk to the museum. When we arrived, the entrance fee was half price after 6 PM, so we waited half an our or so. The exhibition was superb. It was the largest collection of his work ever assembled. Everything was there. The crowning glory was probably “The Lady of Shalot”. Each painting was accompanied by a longish description of the work. I read most, but not all owing to limited time. As with all modern museums, the exit was through the museum shop. I bought the soft cover exhibition catalog, a sizable book in its own right. Bryce bought some postcards.
We had difficulty finding a station. In the end Bryce asked a cyclist and we were literally outside the entrance. Before catching a train, we got some supper in the form of gourmet sandwiches and ate in the small café. The train went about 2 miles to our bus station and hence our hotel. As on our previous visit, we didn’t have a booking, so we checked in upon arrival. We then ventured out to the local milk bar for a few snacks and drinks. It had been a long day.

Tuesday October 13th 2009 - Museums rock

2009-11-11T11:48:00.000-08:00

We rose early, detached our picnic basket breakfast from the hanger outside our door and devoured the meagre contents in short order. We'd decided to scope out a museum or two in Quebec City. At checkout, the staff member was friendly and helpful allowing us to store our bags for the day, even offering to help us find another hotel for the night. They were fully booked, otherwise we would have gladly stayed. So we set off early down onto the river flats where the main museum was located. On the way I stopped at an antique store and bought an old 1959 Quebec number plate. In the US and Canada, old number plates are bought and sold on a regular basis, unlike Victoria Australia where it's probably still a criminal act. The Quebec ones were black letters on yellow, so quite striking. I considered it a souvenir in lieu of the something made strictly for the tourist market. It’s something a bit more authentic, but not everyone’s taste. Next stop was a small breakfast café. On Bryce’s initiative, we got a single order of crepes which were light and tasty. Our hotel breakfast was very light so it was good to get something more substantial for the day ahead. We stayed there in no hurry to leave. It was a warm and friendly place with locals dropping in and chatting to the staff. After walking along cobbled lanes we reached the museum. Inside the first stop was a tour of an indigenous peoples’ exhibit. Our tour guide was descended from one of about 15 different indigenous groups and explained how people lived and mixed together. The next stop was an exhibition of the French and Indian War against the British from 1754 to 1763. Each exhibit involved quite a lot of reading, but it was worth the effort. One of the most tragic aspects of it was the forced resettlement of thousands of French farm families in Nova Scotia to make way for British settlers from New England.
Then we did the Egyptian exhibition, but it was pretty much as you’d expect, or possibly I was jaded by this point. We had a late lunch in the museum cafeteria where the staff only spoke French, so I finally got a genuine taste of Europe. This was unusual as everybody we’d met to this point had been able to switch to English after starting a conversation in French. Bryce had acquired the habit of saying “Hello” clearly to discretely announce his mother tongue. I can’t recall the theme of the next exhibit, except to say it dealt with migration of people into Quebec. One highlight was the oral history tapes listened to by pushing a button on a console. Each was about one minute in length. They were done by actors reading a script. Our last few minutes were spent watching a film about the history of Quebec independence and the sad story of the referendum failing by less than one per cent in the year 2000. This had a strong effect on me. I finally appreciated the independence sentiments and understood why they insist on immigrants speaking French as their first language.
After leaving the museum we walked back up to the old town along the wall facing the Seaway. We talked about old UK TV shows that had withstood the test of time. We reckoned that Faulty Towers and All Creatures Great and Small were the best examples. Onward and upward we trudged, finally coming to the landmark hotel called the Fairmont Le Château Frontenac. It’s a magnificent picture postcard building on the top of the hill. We walked into the basement arcade and browsed in the tourist shops. A hotel tour was just starting, but we opted not to join in, considering it likely to be pretty hokey. We found out enough information to know that “haunted rooms” were one of the main features of the tour. So off we went exploring. In the main lobby, Bryce asked the cost per night; roughly $340 with tax. It would have been like staying in the Windsor Hotel in Melbourne so I supposed the expense would be worth it for one night, but we decided against it on cost. Bryce then kindly purchased a box of chocolates for my wife Gail. The method or rather logistics of the purchase we certainly entertaining. When the box was selected selected from the counter, it was tipped some degree from the horizontal resulting in the contents “settling” shall we say in one corner of the box. The sales lady laughed and explained what had happened, speaking mostly French. She then continued in English. Bryce and the sales lady had a delightfully happy conversation with Bryce successfully attempting some French. I was just an onlooker.
Next we meandered our way back to last night’s hotel via several tourist shops. In one I heard the unmistakable broad Aussie accents of a couple probably in their mid-sixties. It seemed somehow out of context to hear such strong accents in Quebec. Bryce had a short conversation with them at the sales counter only to discover that they came from the Sunshine Coast and he from Armidale. They were on their way to Nova Scotia and apparently were regular travelers to this part of the world. From memory, they had a daughter in Canada. (Bryce please verify.) I have to admit that my days of seeking out fellow Aussies have lost steam over the years. I tend not to engage these days, but with hindsight I would have liked to know more of their story, like where they really came from in Australia before moving to the Sunshine Coast, since over the last 20 years or so there has been a mass migration from southern parts of Australia to the warmer Queensland climate. At the sales counter, the cashier asked everyone where they were from, and within earshot of the Aussies, I said “Boston” to keep things simple, but they probably detected my accent. I did regret that we didn’t talk. No doubt they an interesting story to tell.
Returning to our hotel, we collected our luggage and the hotel lady kindly booked us a room in an hotel just around the corner at the reasonable rate of $140 per night. She explained that this was a great deal, as she’d booked us into the Presidential Suite no less. Our new hotel was down the hill, past the “out-patient” hotel, outside the old city wall, somewhat near the museum. We checked-in with Bryce having a friendly, humorous banter with the hotel lady. The room was a so called “suite” with connecting rooms on the top floor.
It was time to eat so back we walked up the hill to the old town. I’d spied an Irish pub the night before, so I twisted Bryce’s arm to assist his culinary decision making. No cause for alarm here, Bryce was a willing victim. We took a detour into an unusual shop full of tourist type stuff as well as more authentic collectibles. It turned out to be the sole gem in a sea of tourist trap establishments. After my purchase of a Quebec number plate, Bryce could see himself with one or two on the wall of his soon to be built garage. This shop must have had hundreds of number plates in all sizes, so Bryce bought a couple and I bought one more from 1955 to match my old 1955 Daimler. There were lots of unexpected collectible nick-nacks in this shop. As we were buying so many number plates, I bargained for a small discount. The owner agreed but only if we paid in cash.
The Irish pub was a disappointment. We sat in an open area lacking the expected pub atmosphere. Bryce wanted a small Guiness, but they only offered a 16 oz glass so there was some negotiation with the waiter. But in the end we both got the 16 oz variety. The place was almost empty and the meal forgettable. We left about 9 PM and went straight to our new hotel.

Monday October 12th 2009 - A Fascination With Railways

2009-10-18T07:09:00.000-07:00

We rose early, ate at the breakfast buffet before heading to the main Montreal railway station. The buffet was an all you could eat breakfast of reasonable quality. We fortified ourselves with cereal, coffee and toast for the day ahead, not knowing when our next meal would be. The walk to the station was long and the pace unremitting in the cold icy conditions. The wind was brutal and we had difficulty finding the station which had an easily missed double-door entrance to a huge underground retail and railway complex. It was like an underground city down there. The midday train to Quebec City was fully booked so we waited in the hope of a cancellation. The professional staff were working hard to accommodate us, even to the extent of walking out into the concourse to find us and give an update. This felt good after our bus ride from hell on the previous day. The level of commitment and professionalism of the train staff contrasted starkly with that of the bus personnel in the US. It reminded me of Australia or at least how it used to be. We boarded at the last minute and had seats in separate carriages. The exit from Montreal was unusual in that the train reversed into a siding before moving forwards for the rest of the trip. We passed through typically inner city industrial decay before moving into the suburbs and beyond into farmland. By and large the land was completely flat. About halfway into the trip, Bryce came and told me of empty seats in his carriage, so I moved. Upon arrival in Quebec City we had no maps and no idea of where the station was or where we were going. After consulting an out-of-scale tourist brochure excuse for a map, we orientated ourselves and headed into the unknown. Our first stop was an hotel where everyone sat around the entrance in wheelchairs. We quickly realized our mistake and trying not to give away our embarassment, moved on. Despite having the word hotel fixed to the side of the building, it was now converted into an out patient facility. But our luck changed. As we rounded the next street, we came into the core of the old Quebec City. We passed a couple of hotels before settling on one that looked reasonable both in price and quality. The person at the counter was very friendly and helpful. The cost? About $140 per night. Being on foot, the location was ideal. After checking in we explored the old town. Quebec City definitely has of European feel with the old Georgian buildings and shops. We walked to the old fort high on the hill overlooking the majestic St Lawrence Seaway. At this point it was probably at least a mile wide and reminder me of views I'd seen last August in Seattle. We continued on through the old town until we reached the old town walls. The walled city aspect was visually very similar to that of York in the UK. On we walked, past many hotels, one of which I entered at Bryce's bidding to ask the cost per night. Alas, the lobby was full of people, so we left. At this point Bryce threw in the towel in regard to being our resident navigator and requested I take over. So uncertain of where we were I just navigated by instinct. We ended up somewhere near our hotel and entered into a store selling mediaeval wares. Bryce was tempted to buy a well presented quill and ink set, but resisted. I was tempted by some mediaeval tapestry reproductions suitable for who knows what, but they looked nice and were certainly something you don't see every day. We ate at a British style pub, sat in at a corner and ordered beer. The meal was good. We made it back to the hotel around 9 PM and Bryce tapped away on the micro laptop.

Sunday October 11th 2009 - The Case for Urban Renewal

2009-10-17T09:37:00.000-07:00

Where to go? Montreal by bus was the choice. Bryce found a route via Albany, NY leaving from Newton, MA in 45 minutes. I phoned Gail, who offered to drive us to the bus stop only 2 miles away, after dropping Madeline at Sunday school.
Pittsfield, MA? I'd never really heard of this place, but we passed through this sizable town about half an hour from Albany, NY. Later Gail said it's an abandoned industrial town famous as a center for General Electric Corp.
The wait at the Albany bus transfer station was not good. One old cranky bus driver refused to take passengers to Montreal, saying he had plenty of seats, but no room for luggage as everyone had packed for a long weekend. This was not possible. I can only imagine he had a private deadline to meet and wanted to go through customs without increasing the delay by adding more passengers. The bus driving profession attracts all sorts, many who make their own rules with little or no repercussions. In 2007, one driver we had from New York city accosted my sister who was in the bathroom with one of her kids, thinking that someone was in there taking drugs. Several months later the same driver appeared on the nightly news because he had refused to let passengers off the bus for a toilet break. He was given a token leave of absence and presumably is driving buses to this day. Hence passengers are at the whim of some very eccentric drivers. At the transfer station, one New Yorker (in my estimation at least) asked us to mind his baggage while he went for a 10 minute smoke. He had a single seat surrounded by his luggage and quite unusually, a man of little means and no luggage sat in the seat. The New Yorker returned. I shrugged my shoulders as if to say there was nothing I could do about it, but he took it in his stride.
The bus trip had two significant incidents. The first occurred when the bus driver was forced to return to pick up a teenager who had gotten off the bus thinking it was a meal stop where passengers are allowed to alight. The young guy had the presence of mind to at least call the bus company who radioed the driver. The driver didn't want to return complaining that he was forced to do so as the passenger could make trouble for the bus company. The other significant event was the loss of time at the border. We waited in a line of about 10 buses for an hour. Yet again, it amazed me how fearsome custom agents can be. Somehow they make even the most innocent traveler quake in their boots and feel uneasy. There's always the slight chance of a miscarriage of justice, so perhaps that fear is real. It wasn't a pleasant experience. One young male passenger who looked like he had a history of questionable medicinal intake commented "man am I glad that's over".
To our surprise, the bus station was surrounded by hotels of varying age and presumably repute. We took the easy out and settled on a Comfort Inn, confident that the quality would be fine. It was. As we left, the check-in counter a New Zealander standing behind us asked which part of Australia we came from. I recognised him as one of our fellow bus passengers. We returned his question to discover he came from a town north of Auckland, but we failed to ask the obvious question of why he was in Quebec City. Bryce said owing to the late hour, he didn't want to be delayed getting to the room. I concurred.

Saturday October 10th 2009 - No One Here Gets Out Alive

2009-10-17T08:08:00.000-07:00

We drove to Mt Washington today - the highest mountain in the eastern USA. We stopped en route in Ashland, NH. It turned out to be a picturesque old 19th century mill town, with a restored railway station, but on an in-use railway line. We parked the car across from a local eating place. Bryce, still unsure of crossing roads in the US where the ingrained "look to the right, look to the left, look to the right again" was literally life threatening, nervously made it to the other side. We had an inexpensive diner style brunch in a very homely, family run business. It was an excellent meal and a genuine, small town American experience.
We arrived at the foot of Mt Washington, at the Cog Railway station. The mountain was obscured by fog. In fact, visibility at base camp was about 30 yards. After the de rigueur visit to the souvenir shop, we queued for the train in freezing weather. After a few minutes we heard the train descending well before it emerged from the fog. Since my last visit 2 years ago, diesels have replaced some of the steam trains. Prior to that it was exclusively steam. As the train slowly passed our queue, icicles were seen to be hanging from the solitary carriage. Most of the passengers alighting were shivering including a group of Amish people of all ages. What a sight that was! They were dressed in simple clothing, mostly black and grey, presumably in an early 1800s style - truly wonderful to see.
We were second on the train and chose seats at the back near the engine. These diesels were obviously custom built and appeared to be engineered to an older, heavily constructed steam engine standard, complete with hydraulic bogies that could tilt the engine back to level during the steep ascent. The ascent was slow, maybe 10 mph at most. Bryce and I clowned around standing upright on the sloping floor, but at an obvious and amusing angle to the rest of the carriage. At the top the wind was blowing a gale (80 mph) and the wooden carriage was severely buffeted and moved alarmingly. The roof, of thin wood plank construction, flapped like a tent. For a fleeting moment, the specter of mild panic made itself known. It occurred to me that if a certain chain of events occurred, it would be quite impossible to survive given our lack of appropriate clothing. But survive we did. Moving from the train required braving the gale and making it safely inside the sole building, without slipping on the icy footpath. A trip to the summit marker, only 30 meters away was out of the question. Visibility was virtually nil. A group of hikers were sheltering inside and drying their pants and socks on the heater. Fortunately Bryce was able to view the surrounding country side from a 180 degree photo inside the museum. Many structures have been built here over the years, but most only survived 20 years or so. The current one is concrete and not in danger of being damaged any time soon.
We descended into sunshine and spectacular views across the Mt Washington valley. A steam train passed as we sat at a mid-point siding. It was a spectacular sight, but obscured at Bryce's only photo opportunity. As we were told, it takes a ton of coal to make the ascent. We had a somewhat surly cog railway guide in our carriage, preoccupied with telling errant passengers to return to their seats and sit down. At one point he was asked a question by a German (I think) tourist, but simply said he could understand them and that was that.
Once off the train, Bryce went again to the tourist shop and I informed him of my dilemma with respect to the car. Upon arrival here I'd smelt something burning near the rear wheels, so now considered that a car trip into Canada was out of the question. I'd stewed over this for some time, before deciding that the best course of action was to go to Burlington, VT and hire a car. With Bryce's navigational skills, we headed in that direction. We saw our first evidence of working farms, many with red barns of the Vermont postcard variety. As it got dark we entered Montpellier, VT, the state capital. I made about a dozen phone calls from Bryce's internet list and finally was told that no accommodation was available in the vicinity. It was the height of "leafer peeper" season and a long weekend to boot, so it wasn't surprising. As Bryce said in his blog, we headed to Boston dreading Gail's smug "I told you so". Ignoring her advice earlier in the day, we'd decided not to book accommodation.

Friday October 9th 2009 - The Return of the Native

2009-10-17T07:36:00.000-07:00

I sneaked out of work at 3 PM hoping to arrive home before Bryce found our house. He was walking from the Newtonville, MBTA station - about a mile away. Madeline had just got home from school, but no Bryce, so I drove in search of him along his expected route. Just before the end of the street, I spotted the unmistakable apparition of Bryce in full backpacker rig, trudging along in a slight drizzle.
We had a couple of hours before dinner so went for a walk to the Charles river at the end of our street, crossed the pedestrian bridge, and went to the local supermarket specifically to purchase oatmeal, milk and Twinings tea bags. The Charles river is the "Yarra" of Boston and of a similar size. When crossing the bridge, despite being only 10 miles from Boston, one can imagine that this was exactly how it appeared hundreds of years ago.
It's a Friday night ritual at our house to dine out, so we decided on The Diner, an American diner-style restaurant with corresponding fare in Watertown. Diners were typically started in the 1930s or so in old railroad cars, and this one was modeled along those lines, even complete with a curved interior train-carriage-like ceiling. The menu features many relatively exotic items, so at our recommendation, Bryce tried the Bison burger. As we were leaving, he sensibly declined to buy a souvenir t-shirt or mug. Madeline liked Bryce, saying "he's funny", humorous that is.
Note that this blog is supplemental to Bryce's blog at http://brycelittlestravel.blospot.com.

Hebrides Travel Diary

2007-11-04T10:04:00.000-08:00

Friday October 5 – Anticipation

Preparations had gone well. I’d written an extensive list of things to do and pack before my departure. All was completed except that I hadn’t booked our first night’s accommodation as planned, but this turned out to be a blessing given our undecided itinerary for the first day. We left for the airport at 5:15 PM with Gail driving. I said my goodbyes to Madeline and Gail, checked in and waited for some time before boarding the aircraft. The flight was delayed by an hour, so I spent the time window-shopping in the duty free stores, tossing up whether or not to buy John Nash (who I was meeting to collect some Daimler parts) a bottle of Scotch. In the end I didn’t feel confident that it was appropriate, so I gave it a miss. The Virgin Atlantic 747 flight was not too bad given that it was a “red-eye”. The seats in economy are crammed together like sardines, so I appreciated the spare seat next to me – one of the few on the flight.

Saturday October 6 – Daimler heaven

Unexpectedly, the passage through customs was almost non-existent at Heathrow, just a simple check of your passport, unlike the multi-step US procedure. I walked out into the terminal, but Bryce was nowhere to be seen. I wasn’t concerned since the flight was delayed and we’d arranged to meet at the rental car office if all else failed. After walking among the waiting crowd for a minute or so, I came upon Bryce who hadn’t noticed me exit from the arrivals lounge. As we hadn’t met for over 10 years, this wasn’t unexpected given my graying, receding hair! Bryce looked pretty much the same, and definitely had the air of a well seasoned traveler complete with a full backpack. We soon fell into easy “long time no see” conversation as we made our way to the car rental location.
After choosing a Vauxhall Astra 4 door hatchback, we drove down towards the Jane Austen house. In the meantime, I suggested we visit Selbourne to see a typical English village. We walked up the zig-zag path to the top of the Selbourne Hanger and updated each other on family matters since our last meeting over 10 years ago. Selbourne is noted for Gilbert White who with his brother built the zig-zag path. White was a pioneering naturalist and ornithologist who is best known for his book The Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne (1789).
The next stop was Jane Austen’s house in Chawton about three miles away via narrow, hedgerow-lined lanes – the only way to travel in England if you have time. We parked right outside, paid our £5 and entered. The Austen house was quiet with only a few people inside. Each room had authentic items of interest such as letters, clothing, etc. with informative descriptions. The most remarkable room was Jane’s bedroom which she shared with her sister Cassandra. She lived here from 1809 until 1817 when she became too ill and needed to move nearer to her doctor in Winchester (3 weeks before her death). We had the room to ourselves and started reading the biographical notes scattered around the room. Reading a letter from Jane’s niece about their last visit to Jane was quite moving. This was the room where she had received her last visitors. The sense of connection in the room to her life and presence was more than I had expected.
We drove on, heading for Salisbury via the back roads. Passing through Winchester, we became a little unsure of our route. A few miles further on, we had a late lunch at the Dolphin Inn in Ampfield. The food was excellent, but we declined beers owing to jetlag and driving. Along the back roads we tracked a roman road for some time. As we veered off this roman road, it was still visible as an overgrow track going off into the distance, straight as an arrow. We passed through several small villages, at one point stopping to get a closer look at some shaggy Highland cattle with three foot long horns. An English couple next to me asked me what they were, and seemed a little embarrassed when they realized they were being informed by a visitor from the other side of the world.
At Salisbury, we walked half a mile to the cathedral standing in a field on low lying ground. This approach allowed us to see the complete building from several angles. The frontal aspect with its multitude of statues surrounding the doorway is stunning. I walked back to see it from a distance, as did Bryce. Inside the organist and the boys choir were rehearsing. The sound of the singing backed by the pipe organ reminded me of the Cambridge Boys Choir recordings I’d listened to years ago. It was sublime in the extreme.
By now it was almost dark, so we sought a B&B post haste. A quick diversion into Fordingbridge (a town I knew from my previous UK trip 4 years ago) produced a twin room in what was really a small hotel. The room was tacky to say the least, but at least freed us from the anxiety of having no accommodation. At 70 pounds for the room, it wasn’t cheap. We wanted to make an early start, so we settled on breakfast at 8:00. Later I changed this to 8:30, but only because the manageress had said her husband was making breakfast and wasn't too keen on rising early on a Sunday.
Next item on the agenda was a visit to John Nash in Christchurch to collect some Daimler parts. I’d been emailing John before the trip, but as our emails had been sporadic, I wasn’t sure what he’d managed to find from my wants list. It was almost dark as we arrived. A knock on the door was answered and we entered into a house with every square foot of floor space put to some use. Things were stored everywhere. Even the front yard had a caravan used for storage. We were shown into the study and generously given a cup of tea by John’s wife. The walls were lined with shelves of china draft horses amounting to probably well over a hundred. John had the parts laid out on the floor. Each one was well packed. We check each part off the list and totaled up the bill. John couldn’t find a working calculator so Bryce’s mental arithmetic was put to the test. I unashamedly took advantage of the rare opportunity of talking to another Daimler devotee and fully indulged myself. We talked of how to do this or that job on my 1955 Daimler Regency among several digressions into arcane Daimler lore. But by this time I suspect Bryce had suffered enough, so with that we departed. I could barely contain my excitement, but didn’t want it to be too obvious to Bryce. I’d really enjoyed the meeting – a thoroughly good time. It’s always something special to go into someone’s home when traveling and I appreciated the opportunity.
Back at Fordingbridge, we had a greasy take-away meal of hamburgers and chips from the local fish and chip shop. Some teenagers were handing around outside the shop, but apart from that the town was deserted. Back at the room, I packed up all the Daimler booty and reorganized my bags for the coming trip.

Sunday October 7 – Heading north

Today I sensed that this was the real beginning of our trip. Our adventure was about to start. We were heading for parts unknown in Scotland! First we had a full breakfast at 8:30 and small-talked with a fellow English guest about world-cup rugby and our travel plans (or lack of them). During breakfast, I spotted a feed mill across the road and drew it to Bryce’s attention. Heading out, we did a quick pass of the feed mill with Bryce now lamenting that he didn’t pack a copy of AusPig as suggested by one of his work colleagues. But not to worry, off we went to Stonehenge. I’ll refer the reader to Bryce’s blog for a fuller description than I could possible give. We listened to our guided tour on headsets with numbers corresponding to plaques on the ground. Most interesting was the still visible avenue leading up to Stonehenge from fields across the road. There were also a number of small barrows in the vicinity.
But time was tight, and before being overwhelmed by the contents of several tour buses, we departed. We took a wrong turn out of the car park and headed towards Salisbury before hitting a roundabout and reversing our direction. We decided to take back roads across the Salisbury plain in Wiltshire. We passed through a variety of villages, some quaint, some with new development, before getting lost in the maze of streets otherwise known as Cirencester. Here we developed our strategy of negotiating the English roundabouts. The plan was simply to keep circling until we’d established the correct exit. But it became a little embarrassing when I realized that we had blocked the same car from entering the roundabout on successive laps.
After skirting Gloucester, we headed north on our first motorway – the M6. The pace was fast and furious with the miles ticking away at a steady clip – the only way to travel if you need to cover a large distance in a short time. We stopped at a motorway service stop for refreshment and Bryce uncharacteristically took a photo of a TVR sports car – I had no idea Bryce was so inclined. No doubt my car talk with John Nash had made a lasting impression! Showing good manners, Bryce politely asked the couple sitting in the car if they minded.
As we entered the Lake District the weekend exodus had caused motorway grid-lock for miles and miles in the other direction. Thankfully we were heading against traffic, something we managed to do for the whole trip. It was getting late so we took a minor road into the Lake District looking for a B&B. In Windemere, we turned into a side street and promptly got snared in the weekend traffic trying to get out of the town. After five or ten minutes of bumper to bumper congestion, we were on our way again. We stopped by a lake and walked through an estate garden down to the water’s edge. It was quiet and peaceful, but the light was fading. We drove to Keswick and got a room in the first B&B we found. It was an unattractive modern building, but ideally located close the town centre. We walked half a mile in a slight drizzling rain and after exploring the town chose one of about four pubs and had an excellent meal with a nice local beer. The town was quite busy for Sunday night. Most of the shops catered to the outdoor traveler and the tourists walking the local trails – a big thing in the Lake District. On the way home, I noticed a small motoring museum, but it didn’t interest me in the least.

Monday October 8 – A taste of Carlisle

We took the scenic route to Carlisle via Cockermouth, a sizeable town west of Keswick. At Carlisle, the town centre was closed to traffic and surrounded by a network of ring roads. We found some difficulty finding a parking spot, but after a couple of circuits of the ring road settled on a pay-by-machine lot close to the town centre. I liked Carlisle. It was a small, vibrant town with small shops around a market square and had an excellent combined bakery and butchers shop. And as a bonus, people spoke with that delightful north-country accent. Bryce was on a mission to find somewhere to upload his blog. He got misdirected once, but then found an upstairs internet cafe. While Bryce was uploading his blog, I walked around the market square and sought out a toy store I’d seen from the car. As luck would have it, this had a room at the back devoted to collectible model cars and trucks, train sets and slot cars. The experience was similar to my childhood one of seeing the latest toys in the Ivanhoe newsagency in the mid-1960s. I felt like kid again browsing through the range of high quality toys.
I returned to find Bryce wandering around the market square and then bought some cold medicine, but after reading all the dire health warnings on the packet, I decided not to use it. Before departing we dropped into the bakery to buy lunch. I introduced Bryce to English pork pies, each of us buying two for the trip. Carlisle was a friendly, likable town and probably my favourite town of the whole trip. The reason wasn’t difficult to see. Traffic was not allowed to enter the central market square and several side streets were now pedestrian malls. I only wish more towns would adopt traffic free areas. We saw Carlisle at a good time - a busy Monday morning. I always prefer to visit a town on a workday when people are going about their business – there’s a sense of purpose that is totally lacking on a weekend.
From here on we drove for miles and miles on the motorway, skirting Glasgow without seeing anything of it. The only thing of interest was the road works between Fort William and Mallaig. The road is being widened at several points, so the quaint country road will soon be no more. We paralleled the railway for some of the way and I managed to get some video of a railcar as it passed. The driver double-tooted his horn in acknowledgement. At one point we passed a beautifully restored (or maintained) station. It was the archetypical village station with a small wooden ticket office and white picket fencing, not unlike stations on the Puffing Billy line in Victoria. Arriving at Mallaig we made a quick decision to get the waiting Isle of Skye ferry, due to leave in 30 minutes. Mallaig was really just a ferry stop linked to the railway with few, if any B&Bs, so it was an easy decision. The alternative may have been to backtrack to Fort William where B&Bs were plentiful.
We arrived in the dark at Armadale and followed signs to a B&B. Fortunately they had a vacancy. It had three B&B rooms and was run by a middle age couple, not the more typical retired couple. They had an excellent video selection, so we watched Mel Gibson’s Braveheart, skipping the gory last scene upon Bryce’s request. I was happy to oblige.

Tuesday October 9 – A change of plans

The next morning, the husband served breakfast and talked with the guests. There was a family from England with 6 month old twins, and they were genuinely concerned that they had disturbed us during the night. Apparently the twins were awake several times, but we heard nothing. When talking to the other family, the owner said he owned four Triumph cars. That was quite a coincidence as I’d owned several myself back in Australia. I mentioned this, but after he inquired which ones I owned, he didn’t seem interested in pursuing the discussion. Of course I was hoping an invite to see them would be forthcoming, but none was offered. Most of the discussion around breakfast was between the family and the owners. By and large, Bryce and I only made polite small talk. After eating, we had some time to kill since Bryce wanted to visit the castle gardens in Armadale which didn’t open until 10 AM. We headed down to the sea in front of the B&B lead by a pack of three dogs charging ahead. It was very rugged rocky, coastline. At one place there was a natural deepwater mooring place next to a flat rectangular rock about ten feet long. It may have been natural, but I suspect it had been hewn from the rock many years ago as a small boat landing. The dogs went swimming and barked at each other in a state of high excitement. I walked down to the sea over the slippery rocks. The water was crystal clear and not too cold at all – very similar to Philip Island in Victoria. The B&B was actually a small hobby farm with chooks, goats and a vegetable garden. While we were there a Scottish RSPCA inspector visited the owner to check on his animals.
Just before departing I suggested an alternative travel plan, but was unsure what Bryce would think. Instead of our previous idea of going from Skye to Oban via the road bridge, I suggested we visit the Outer Hebrides. I’d been mulling this over since the night before. I’d always wanted to go there and now that we were so close, it seemed too good an opportunity to miss. To my delight, Bryce jumped at the idea. After discussing it, we realized that our previous loose plan of visiting Cornwall at the end of the trip was now not possible. But we both agreed that Cornwall was a much more accessible place, and easily visited on another trip. This wasn’t so with the Hedbrides.
We parked the car and walked around the Armadale Castle Gardens. This was the ancestral home of the MacDonald clan, now managed by the Clan Donald Lands Trust. The so-called castle comprised three joined buildings each of different antiquity. Each section had a completely different architectural style. The original section dated from 1790 with the mock castle section being added in 1815. Then a central section replaced most of the original house after a fire in 1855. Both more recent sections are in ruins, although there are plans to restore the mid-19th century central section.
We stopped to buy petrol and I heard what I thought was Gaelic for the first time. But the people turned out to be tourists, probably Scandinavian. Bryce asked the attendant where there was a bakery and was told the only bakery was in Portree, the largest town on the isle of Skye.
Portree was a very picturesque, quaint old town on the side of a hill. All its buildings were in excellent condition. One row of terrace houses on the water’s edge were painted in all the colours of the rainbow. We sought out our bakery and bought several items including a small lemon cake, which turned out not to be what we’d expected. We ate in the busy town square next to the war memorial. I noticed that many young people here have that fair, translucent, unblemished skin which obviously hasn’t seen too much sun. At the newsagent I bought a copy of the Heritage Commercials magazine.
We headed to Struan on the west coast of Skye to get a photo for Bryce’s brother by that name. The town itself was really just a few houses with a roadside sign bearing the town’s name. Then we stopped at Dunvegan castle – the oldest continually inhabited residence in the UK. I bought a few clan MacLeod memorabilia items in the car park shop, since I’d grown up in Macleod, Australia. The castle was well worth a visit. There was so much history on display and short, one page descriptions of each item. There were portraits of the clan chiefs, and such famous items as the clan’s drinking horn used for initiating a new chief, and the McLeod fairy flag. On one wall was the original letter from Boswell (of "The Life of Samuel Johnson" fame) thanking the McLeod chief for his hospitality on their visit to Skye. In yet another tourist shop at the castle exit, I bought a CD of bagpipe music mainly for the Last of the Mohicans theme. I also got a few other MacLeod odds and ends while I had the chance – key chain, coaster, bookmark – the usual stuff.
The plan was to get the ferry from Uig on Skye to the Outer Hebrides. At Uig I headed into the Calmac ferry office to find out the ferry times and cost. As there were two ferries, I asked Bryce to come in and we discussed our options with the Calmac representative. We chose the Tarbert ferry as it was leaving earlier and my preferred destination was Harris and Lewis. At this point we still didn’t have any plans once on the Outer Hebrides. We were definitely winging it.
At Tarbert it was dark and we did our usual B&B search. At the first B&B, a lady said there no vacancies, but judging by the lack of cars we doubted that. We suspect that our mistake may have been to both go to the door after dark – perhaps this was a little too intimidating. Henceforth we decided that a better plan would be for only one of us to go door knocking. We accepted her tip of another B&B “a couple of minutes up the road” (having no idea what that meant in terms of distance). The next B&B was definitely worth it. The lady answering the door showed me inside to view the upstairs room. She was in her 70s with a cheerful, vivacious energy.
That night I phoned Gail and Madeline in Boston, but unfortunately Bryce's phonecard cut out after a minute or so. Then I decided to drive into Tarbert in search of a phone. It was a bit unnerving being in a strange town in the dark, driving along poorly lit roads. I was concerned about finding my way back to the B&B since it was about 10 PM and the town was deserted. The first phone booth I came across on the outskirts of Tarbert was out of commission, but after driving along a few winding side streets, I found a working phone and made the call. Back in the car, I breathed a sigh of relief when I found the familiar ferry terminal and back-tracked from there. Back at the B&B, I'd earlier found a booklet lying on the coffee table in lounge room. It was published by local year-12 students and was a compilation of reminisces of elderly people on Harris, including one Mr. Morrison who I believe was our host. I managed to read most of it before turning in for the night. It was a fascinating read of how things used to be years ago on Harris.

Wednesday October 10 – Black pudding for all

We woke to find that the room had a spectacular view across a sea loch to the rugged hills of Harris. At breakfast we met our host’s husband who was a thin, sprightly gentleman probably in his late 70s. Asked if we’d like a full Scottish breakfast including black pudding, we both made a pact to try it. I said to the owner “providing I don’t have to finish it” at which she laughed and replied in her thick Hedridean accent “No, we won’t make you finish it”. The black pudding was a surprise. It tasted quite ok if you didn’t think about its origins. After breakfast, Bryce asked if there was a place with internet access in Tarbert and the owners generously offered their own machine, so Bryce was all set. All four of us started talking and we discovered that our hosts were traveling to Australia at the end of October to visit a cousin in Narre Warren of all places. Narre Warren is on the Princes Highway not far beyond Dandenong in Victoria. We told them we both grew up in Australia not far from there. Immediately they warmed to us. Then in answer to what it was like down there, Bryce made a witty comment about Narre Warren being the “second most beautiful place in the world” (after Tarbert that is). There was a moment’s pause then the gentleman burst out into uncontrolled laughter. I went upstairs to pack while Bryce uploaded his blog. Then I returned and sat in the lounge, talking one-on-one to the gentleman. I discovered that his uncle had emigrated to Australia years ago, lived to 85, but never returned to Harris. Understandably he seemed quite pensive and a little saddened by this. The uncle had two daughters, one of whom they were visiting at Narre Warren. They had never met the cousins before. We both wished them well for what was their first their trip to Australia. Apparently getting to Heathrow alone was going to take them 12 hours, so it seemed to me like a big trip at their age, but good on them. I wish them well.
Tarbert is a small town with a line of shops on a cliff above the ferry terminal. Bryce bought a scarf in the Tourist Information Centre and we went to the general store for supplies. While browsing inside the store, the owners were unloading a van that had just arrived on the ferry. It was all fast work. Several older retired men came to the store for their morning paper and probably for a chat as well. It was a social occasion. The older men here seemed to be a healthy lot – very thin, at least average in height, with straight backs and an easy conversational manner. They all spoke in Gaelic.
We agreed to a plan of heading south along the chain of Outer Hebridean islands, so with no time to lose, drove south from Tarbert. One possible stop was the Harris Tweed centre, but to make the ferry to the next island there was no time for a visit. We stopped at a beautiful sandy beach in South Harris where I collected a few shells. Most of the Hedribes are surrounded by rocky cliffs, but here was a broad beach with fine sand the equal of anything in Australia. We could have been on Wilson’s Prom. What a revelation!
We took the ferry from Leverburgh to Berneray at low tide. We passed many small islands and got a sense of the number of islands making up the Outer Hebrides. There are over 200 with only 14 now inhabited. Approaching Berneray the ferry slowed to a crawl as we passed close by many rocky outcrops, some only visible just below the surface of the water. Obviously it was a dangerous passage taken with extreme caution.
Back in the car, we crossed onto the island of North Uist via a causeway and took the more westerly route, heading south. After a few miles, we stopped at a “Bakery”, Bryce hoping to get the ever more elusive Cornish pasty. However our hopes were dashed after discovering it was simply a small supermarket with no onsite baking. Bryce, by now shaking uncontrollably from Cornish pasty withdrawal, questioned the checkout girl about the available baked goods and the use of the word Bakery, but the Cornish pasty gods weren't listening and none materialized. We did however get some nice large scones that we appreciated later that day.
We drove on and noticed that time was getting tight if we were to make the next ferry. After possibly missing our turn-off, we asked for directions in a smoked meat specialty shop. We discovered we were still on the right road, so all was well. We made the ferry at Eriskay early, so we drove around some back roads in the immediate vicinity. The roads were sealed, but barely wide enough for one car. We came across a small isolated fishing jetty with a small fishing trawler. The whole jetty area and surrounding buildings appeared to be quite run down, with no sign of upkeep. There were several inhabited houses back here, all small cottages in reasonable condition.
The ferry crossing was less treacherous and faster than the previous one. Barra is definitely more interesting than the middle Herbridean chain of Berneray, North Uist, Benbecula, South Uist and Eriskay, all of which are relatively flat. On Barra and the islands beyond, high hills more reminiscent of Harris abound. By the time we arrived at Castlebay is was getting dark. The town was deserted with no sign of life so we drove to the end of the road on the next island of Vatersay. This is the most southerly drivable part of the Outer Hedbrides. The road somewhat anti-climatically ended in a small group of about four houses, with no outstanding views. This was the end point of our outward trip. From here on, we were heading back to Heathrow with little time to spare, albeit using an alternative route where possible. Driving back a young girl walking a dog on Vatersay waved to us. The people out here are by and large friendly, happy folk. I should mention that the main roads south of Tarbert on the Hebridean chain are single lane roads only wide enough for one car. Passing points exist at regular intervals of about 200 metres and without exception, people wave to acknowledge the courtesy of the stopped car.
Back at Castlebay, the Oban ferry was just arriving, as we sought out accommodation. Our first try was a hotel with starched white table cloths and silverware settings. I wanted to get out of there immediately. The place was deserted, but after a minute or so we found the lonely barman who didn’t know the price. He disappeared and eventually returned with the news - 95 pounds. That was too rich for my blood so we went to the opposite extreme and entered a youth hostel. Again the place was deserted. In fact the whole town seemed deserted for that matter. It was just getting dark when an American father wheeling a barrow and his daughter came around from the back of the hostel. He was doing some gardening and explained that he and his wife were minding the place while the owners were on a trip. Not a bad deal I thought. Soon his wife appeared and showed us inside. It was a typical hostel with a kitchen smelling of stale grease, a comfortable sitting room with a fireplace and books people had left behind. We were almost apologetically told the price of 30 pounds all up. This suited us fine especially as we were the only guests in a place that probably held about 30 people. We selected an upstairs twin room in preference to a more expensive room in a new wing and paid on the spot. The American couple appeared to be new-age types and the hostel had Buddhist images in several places – I truly felt like I was in a time warp circa post-hippie, Eastern religion revival 1975. But in all honesty that wasn’t a bad thing, quite the contrary. We headed out in search of a restaurant in our deserted western Hebridean town, skipping the white tablecloths, and settling on the only other hotel in town. The hotel was high on a hillside overlooking the bay and we entered through a back door. A few locals were playing pool, but we were the only dinner guests. We both ordered lamb which was more mutton than anything else – tough and fatty. Dessert was better, but the bill was more than we paid for accommodation. I should explain one thing about the Outer Hebrides. They don’t have local brews or locally distilled whisky. The people are involved in sheep farming, some cattle raising, fishing and the cottage industry of Harris Tweed cloth. Everything else revolves around the tourist and transport industries. Once you get off the main road, the Outer Hebridean isles definitely show some signs of poverty and neglect. Crumbling houses, and old debris such as dead buses, etc. are quite common.
Back at the hostel, we settled into our upstairs wood-lined room of about ten feet square. Bryce’s cold was starting to take hold so he turned in early. I read for a bit, turned out the light and lay awake for a while. The room was basically an attic with a skylight for a window overlooking the bay. In the darkness, it was almost dead silence except for the gentle rain on the skylight. It was a special moment. I lay there just listening to the rain with the satisfaction of knowing we’d made it to the end of the Hebrides.

Thursday October 11 – North to Lewis

We rose early and left at 8 AM without seeing the hostel keepers who were staying in a house behind. By design we took the alternative western route back to the ferry terminal. With time to spare, we toured further north and saw the unusual airport on the sandy beach. It’s only usable at low tide and the passengers literally walk out onto the sand to board the light aircraft. We also stopped at a small cemetery at Eilean Dallaig where a friendly ginger cat on the stone wall insisted I give it some attention. The names were exclusively Scottish. McNeil was one, McNicol another. Barra was McNeil clan territory.
On the ferry trip back to Eriskay we were accompanied by one busload of teenagers and another one of octogenarians. One of the kids sang an unaccompanied Gaelic folk song. It was beautiful. Everyone clapped. Then one of our older brethren jokingly asked Bryce if he also sang, so we threw out a few witty comments in return.
Back on Eriskay the race was on. We had two hours to make it to the next ferry if we were to return to Harris that day. The only stop was at a Hedridean tourist shop on Benbecula I’d seen advertised on the ferry. It had an excellent selection of local books, but we didn’t have time to browse. I was hoping to buy a Harris Tweed scarf or hat, but the cupboard was bare. The ferry crossing was uneventful. Back on Harris we took the easterly route back to Tarbert. The first stop was a small 16th century church at Roghadal. This contained the tomb and remains of several McLeod of Harris clan leaders. We both walked to the top of the church bell tower and I walked around the outside cemetery noting names on the gravestones. There were many McLeods buried here. It was a small quaint church with lots of history and well worth the visit.
As we continued the country got very mountainous, rocky and bleak with small, house-size lochs abounding. Apparently, in the mid-19th century, the Harris landowners had cleared most of the people from the more fertile western side to the almost uninhabitable eastern side of the island. It was unbelievably rugged country out here. There were many houses, but most looked more like holiday retreats for outsiders. There wasn’t much evidence of old local family homes. We detoured to a local craft store where I bought a woolen scarf. Back at Tarbert, we bought some supplies including pork pies for our lunch on the go.
A few miles outside Tarbert we suddenly realized the car was almost running on empty, so we did a U-turn back to a small store with a couple of petrol bowsers. The tank took £48 of petrol at 1.08 a litre - about $100 US!
The scenery between Tarbert and Stornoway is breathtaking. At one point, we were in a wide valley with massive mountains on either side and in front. This was the most spectacular scenery we’d seen so far. Closer to Stornoway we saw several large modern wind generators. These are now becoming a common sight across the UK. Accommodation was hard to find in Stornoway. Door knocking at a couple of B&Bs on the outskirts of the town proved fruitless. One was closed for the season, and another was full. Finally we settled on a small hotel in the centre of town, which was pretty good value at £65. The location was ideal. We walked around the town, bought a little food in a tiny supermarket and had an early night. As we’d eaten late in Tarbert, there was no need for a sit down meal. Back in the room we watched a local TV show about plans to restore the castle at Stornoway. In this part of the world, the BBC broadcast many shows in Gaelic from their BBC-Alba division, which has a studio in Stornoway.

Friday October 12 – Steaming from Stornoway

On the ground floor, the hotel owner ran a small bakery and coffee shop with dining tables. We breakfasted in the shop among local women speaking Gaelic who all knew the owner on a first name basis. It was a warm and friendly atmosphere. We chose the full Scottish breakfast – eggs, bacon and black pudding. After breakfast, we walked around the town. The town centre is very small - just a few streets lined with very old buildings. We entered a Scottish clothing store where I bought a McLeod of Lewis mug. I asked the owner if they shipped clothing overseas as I was considering the purchase of a Harris Tweed jacket. There’s nothing like the genuine article. At Bryce’s suggestion, I tried a jacket for size and then Bryce did the same. We had an enjoyable conversation with the owner about being Australian and tweed jackets in general. Among other things, he told us that Hilary wore Harris Tweed on his ascent of Everest.
Bryce uploaded his blog at a computer shop with internet access. Then we walked back to the car and drove north to the Butt of Lewis – the northerly most point of the Hebrides.
As we headed north, we passed through various non-descript towns with a mixture of old and new buildings. Many old buildings were in a state of disrepair and at times the landscape was littered with old farm debris such as old vehicles and equipment, not at all picture perfect. We reached the Butt of Lewis lighthouse and walked around for a few minutes. There were no fences or guardrails next to sheer 100 foot drops into the ocean. I peered over the edge to see waves crashing onto rocks below. It was breathtaking. The sea was wild and treacherous. I looked north over the sea, conscious that there was nothing between here and the North Pole.
On the drive back we decided we had time to take the circular route around the west coast of Lewis. There’s not much to report, other than the circle of ancient standing stones that we didn’t have time to visit. There were several towns, some more picturesque than others. We arrived back in Stornoway with, as Bryce said, “three minutes to spare” owing to the deadline being 45 minutes prior to the actual ferry departure time. We just hung around waiting in one of several lines of traffic queuing for the ferry, standing outside the car and rearranging some of our luggage while time permitted.
This ferry was our largest of the trip. We stood on the outside upper deck as the ferry left Stornoway behind. A few birds followed. As the shoreline receded, I wondered with a tinge of sadness if in this life I'd ever see it again. We then relaxed in the upper enclosed front deck, watching the scenery and reading. There was a following sea with large swells coming in from the rear lefthand side, causing the boat to roll from side to side. The swell was traveling much faster than the ferry. Each one was clearly visible as it passed and moved off into the distance.
At Ullapool on the Scottish mainland, we found a beautiful little town, but didn’t have time to stop. The race was now on as we had a hard deadline of noon Sunday at Heathrow airport in London. So we drove like crazy, me doing most of the driving at this point. Bryce was the better navigator and I was the faster driver, so that was the pattern we adopted for most of the remainder of the trip. We took a detour along minor roads to bypass Inverness and take a more direct route to Loch Ness.
At Loch Ness we stopped at Urquhart Castle and I saw what I thought were rocks in the water, but as I started to video the scene, they moved out of sight behind one of the loch’s banks! After a moment’s excitement, Bryce reviewed the video and concluded it was three ducks swimming in the water. It was getting dark as we drove on. B&Bs were thin on the ground in this part of the world, so we hatched a plan to drive the Fort William if all else failed. Fortunately, the first B&B we found at Spean Bridge had accommodation. Bryce was over the moon and couldn’t contain his excitement! I think this was largely attributed to our dwindling hopes of finding any accommodation that late. By now it was about 7:30 PM and prior to this good fortune, we were expecting the worst. We’d expected this place to very expensive and/or booked out, but it was only 25 pounds per person and very well appointed. This was our most luxurious B&B to date and was being run almost as a hotel, rather than a B&B. It looked to be a purpose built B&B rather than a converted home.

Saturday October 13 – Driving like the wind

We were offered the usual full Scottish breakfast, but opted for just eggs and toast. The large breakfasts were fine for a while, but eventually we tired of them, given the effect on our waistlines. Bryce paid while I loaded the car. In the car park was a restored Morris Minor, and a couple more were parked next to a barn close by. Across the road was a herd of highland cattle. When Bryce returned, he said the owner took the money and was not in the least friendly. We drove over the mountains to Perth and down to Edinburgh. Just before Edinburgh we bought some food at a service stop for the day’s journey and discovered that there were 30 minutes delays across the Firth of Forth road bridge. It was decision time, but we still decided to give the bridge a go with the intention of driving through Edinburgh for a quick look (I’d never been before). As we got closer and became ensnared in the traffic, the posted delay increased first to 40 minutes and then to 60 minutes. In the end, we made it over with roughly a 30 minute delay. The view of the Firth of Forth railway bridge was spectacular. We drove on the ring road around Edinburgh after having decided there was no time to pass through the city. In any case, a quick drive through wouldn’t do the city justice, so I was happy with that. Just south of Edinburgh, we struck more road works. Apparently, road maintenance delays become more disruptive on the weekends in the UK. This took us along a local parallel road for several miles. Suddenly at one roundabout, I saw a sign “1 mile to Rosslyn chapel”. This is the chapel of “The Da Vinci Code” fame. Despite no available time, we made an executive decision that this was too good an opportunity to miss. We were obviously being guided by a higher power, having made several key decisions that finally brought us here almost by luck. So we parked at the chapel, entered via the tourist office and attached ourselves to a tour in progress inside the chapel. It was a small building after the English cathedrals, but very ornate. The guide explained the various carvings and told stories about the stonemasons including of course the apprentice who carved the Apprentice Pillar while his boss was away. For his efforts, he was rewarded with a mortal blow to the head by his enraged employer. There was so much history here, but to be honest I didn’t feel as connected to it as I expected. It didn’t seem alive to me, possibly because we were in a rush that day. The history at Jane Austen's house and the small church on Harris seemed much more accessible. The chapel itself was covered by a temporary roof to allow it to dry out. We walked along the scaffolding at roof level and then departed via the bookshop where I bought a booklet on the Templar tradition and some coconut biscuits.
Onward we drove. We needed to be within driving distance of Heathrow tonight. That is, only about 2 hours away. So I maintained about 70 – 75 mph and we didn’t stop for hours. Bryce, still getting over his cold, slept for some time, waking periodically to ask where we were. He was surprised to find that he had missed Carlisle altogether.
We passed Manchester, then Stafford and Birmingham. Our plan was to stop in a rural area south of Birmingham. Bryce took the wheel from just north of Birmingham and I navigated around the city and into the local roads near Stratford-on-Avon, Shakespeare’s hometown. We passed one B&B close to the motorway, but as it was the first one we saw, we decided to see if we could get something better. Driving around, we didn’t have any luck for some time and it was getting dark. I was just about to go back to our first B&B when I saw an accommodation sign pointing to a village called Wilmcote off the main road. In the village, Bryce asked if there were any B&Bs and was directed to one just across the road. After a little hesitancy, the male owner allowed offered us a twin room. Then we met his wife and were shown the room. We talked in the room for a couple of minutes and at their suggestion headed out for dinner at a local pub. The village is in a well-to-do rural area in Warwickshire. The pub was a delightfully quaint little place, possibly 15th century, with an equestrian theme. We ordered lamb and tried the local apple cider. Both were first rate. The rugby world cup final between England and France was on the TV. It was a warm and friendly place. England definitely has the edge when it comes to village pubs with their good food and local brews. That evening we watched a DVD of Casablanca in the room, and I did some final packing. Bryce lost his power point adapter.

Sunday October 14 – Back home

We rose early and went down for breakfast. This was undoubtedly our best B&B of the whole trip. The table was meticulously laid out and we had a superb breakfast. The fruit selection and quality was superb. There was more than we could even think about eating. Bryce commented that he hoped they had a dog to enjoy the leftovers. The house was the old village post office, built in about 1800. We talked for some time with the owners Geoff and Kathy Mander. They were both excellent hosts and very friendly. We left virtually on first name terms. After walking around to see the church across the road and some 15th century houses, we drove to Stratford and took the motorway to Heathrow. When we hired the car, we purchased tank of fuel from the rental company with the aim of bringing back the car on empty. So I had to drive economically to ensure our arrival on the little fuel we had. By driving in a truck’s slipstream, I was able to increase the range shown on the car’s computer from 40 miles up to about 110 miles – more than enough to make it back. We made a little game of this, helping to avoid the monotony of the motorway. At Heathrow, we took a few wrong turns, but finally made it back at noon. We vainly tried to get the added insurance removed from the rental charges, but I was in no position to waste time in a lengthy argument. Before the trip, I’d taken insurance in America to cover theft and damage, but unbeknown to me, the rental employee had added the company’s own insurance when we hired the car.
We took the bus to the terminal and said our goodbyes. We’d both had an incredible trip. Bryce headed back to his friend’s place in Sheperds Bush and I flew back to Boston. Bryce was leaving for Australia next Wednesday and in the meantime planned to visit Cornwall. In the terminal, I had a set of wheel trims for my old 1955 Daimler in a bag as well as a small pack, but I was only allowed to carry on one item. So I put the pack in my checked duffle bag and carried the wheel trims to security. I was a little anxious that they could be considered to be a dangerous item, as they were steel rings with a serrated edge. By I passed through security without an issue. The flight back was relatively short compared to Australian flights, so in no time I was back in Boston. Gail and Madeline met me while I was waiting at the luggage carousel.

Final Thoughts

The nature of the trip was this:

No preplanned itinerary

No booked accommodation

A spontaneous adventure of exploration

We had a rough plan to visit Scotland as our highest priority, followed by Cornwall (time permitting). I have to say this is the best way to travel. The last minute decisions to take this or that route added to the sense of adventure.

Large sections of Scotland are wilderness and the scenery in places is breathtaking. This was a revelation to me and certainly seems to be understated in the travel literature. To find this literally on England’s doorstep is surprising, as were the fine sandy beaches on the Isle of Harris.

The weather was extremely mild for October with jackets rarely needed.

UK drivers are the most dangerous I’ve seen. They ignore speed limits and drive “like the clappers” as a matter of course. I was driving quite fast on our return journey from Scotland to England, but was still holding up traffic on the single lane roads. By comparison, US and Australian drivers are sedate – the former by inclination, the latter by strict enforcement of speeding laws.

The Outer Hebrides

After a while I became aware of the silence in this part of the world. In many places, there was no background noise except for a flowing stream, waves on a beach or the odd solitary birdcall. Quite incredible in this day and age.

The isles are very sparsely populated. Most of the landscape is rocky and barren. Some pine plantations have been started, but there is little natural forest. However there is forest on the Isle of Skye in the Inner Hebrides.

The isles are in a state of flux. Already most of the older stone cottages are in disrepair and sadly within a few years most will be no more than a pile of stones. So the landscape is changing.

There were two distinct cottage types – the modest single storey type with a central door flanked by two windows, and the more upscale cottage similar to the other type but with three dormers. In both cases, there are two chimneys, one on each side of the house. A few older cottages do survive, but mainly the more well-to-do variety. Most people live in modern post-war homes shaped somewhat like the old cottages and not much larger. These appear to be built to a standard design.

There is virtually no evidence of wealth on the islands. It seems that most people exist on small incomes or government subsidies. The main income seems to be derived from tourism, sheep farming and some cattle farming. There is still a small fishing industry comprising small locally owned trawlers. Harris tweed and knitwear are also produced for the tourist industry and export. We didn’t see any local products worn by the locals, who dress no differently from other people in the UK.

The locals speak Gaelic amongst themselves, but are quite capable of speaking good English. Gaelic seems to be holding its own after years of decline. The BBC now have a studio in Stornoway on Lewis called BBC Alba. This features programs in Gaelic.

UK preparations

2007-09-08T13:42:00.000-07:00

Today is going to be a record temperature in Boston - about 95 deg. F. I took Madeline to gymnastics then we grabbed burritos for lunch. Next stop was our local booklovers bookstore where they still maintain the old book store snobbishness of cataloging everything by publisher. However they have the best remainder section of any bookshop I've seen. Madeline agreed to come on the condition I pay for half of a webkinz (trendy animal soft toy). I ended up buying 4 guidebooks for Britain - three $5 remainder books on 2006 hotels, B&Bs and inns/pubs. Of course all proved pretty useless once I got them home and started reading. Even the coupons inside all expired in 2006. But one find was a book called The Rough Guide to England. It's up to date and written in a very down to earth, almost sarcastic, witty style. It gives honest opinions on all sorts of things and is over 1000 pages. I also dug out my old 1/400,000 Michelin maps (3 cover England and Wales) and several Ordinance Survey county maps. Detailed maps are a must when driving a car and allow you to find all sorts of off-the-beaten-track roads and places.
I've started thinking about places to visit. If we go to Cornwall, St Just-in-Roseland and the surrounding area is supposed to be beautiful. If we amble over to fair Yorkshire, James Herriot's town of Thirsk and the museum therein may be worth a visit, but getting to Yorkshire may be a bit of a stretch given other plans.
Just read an email from Bryce so I will go ahead and hire a car that is not too small given the two of us and luggage. I intend to travel very light and not to wash (clothes that is). One pair of shoes, two jeans should do it. Shorts? By October that shouldn't be necessary. The only extra bulky item would be my not-state-of-the-art clunker of a video camera - rather old and heavy. I just need to allow for a few small car parts if I manage to pick them up in Bournemouth. But after a quick look at my "needs' list, they'll take an insignificant amount of space. I think my wheeled duffle bag should do it.
Looking forward to visiting Merrie Olde England.

Latest news

2007-09-07T13:39:00.000-07:00

The work week has finally ended after a stressful 3 days! Today I booked tickets on Virgin Atlantic arriving Heathrow 7:30 AM on Saturday October 6, leaving at 2:30 PM on Sunday October 14. Several ads for cheap tickets proved misleading once the fees were added. This ticket was cheaper than anything else I saw by about $300, so going to Manchester wasn't an option. Oddly this ticket also gave me direct flights and the best arrival & departure times allowing me to work a full day Friday and then leaving England mid-afternoon. (The last departures for the US are circa 3:30 PM.)
Next step is probably to book a car, but first I'll ask Bryce if he wants to book it and keep it after I leave. Otherwise, I'll book it myself for the days I'm in the UK. Looks like it won't be too expensive, especially if we share costs. Other things to do are to decide where to go. I'm not sure of Bryce's interests, but on my list of possible places to visit are Viginia Woolf's Monk's House and Jane Austen's house, both south of London. However, these are only suggestions and since I can revisit at any time (and aussie Bryce cannot), I'm happy to fit in with him. England is a small country so it's only a day's drive (traffic permitting) to go from the south to the north.

More on Aruba ... I have to say the place is expensive, especially if you eat out for all meals. The hotel strip is a bit of a tourist trap, with all the restaurants being quite expensive. I didn't actually buy anything to take home. Madeline bought some small presents for her friends and Gail bought virtually nothing. Madeline and I spent quite a bit of time playing arcade games. My favourite being the Suzuka 8 hour motorcycle race. I managed to work it out and get some good lap times by the end of the week. However, basically our days were spent between the hotel beach and pool. Hiring the Jeep for 2 days was stressful as it was such a shonky operation that I feared being hit with bogus rental expenses, although it did allow us to explore the island to some degree. But outside the tourist area, it appears to be a little dangerous, and this was confirmed by a co-worker who used to live in Caracas (about 20 miles from Aruba). One highlight was the hotel bird collection - parrots, macaws and several cockatoos. Madeline loved this most of all. Gail liked Aruba, found it relaxing. That's it for Aruba. Future posts will be mainly about preparations for my UK visit.

Ramblings

2007-09-06T18:38:00.000-07:00

My first blog - inspired by Bryce Little's blog created for his first UK trip in September/October 2007. Bryce is an old school chum from RMIT computer science days and lives in Armidale, NSW.
I've just returned from Aruba with Gail and Madeline - nice trip, relaxing and busy at the same time. The weather was hot, but not too humid, probably in the 90s every day and with a steady, tropical wind blowing all day. The sea was turquoise and very warm - no trouble in taking that first dip.
We started out on the last Monday in August from Boston via Puerto Rico which looked nice and civilized from the plane. It even boasts one large freeway, no doubt courtesy of the American Govt. After three hours at the airport, we flew to Aruba and took a bus to the hotel on the tourist strip consisting of about 10 multi-story hotels, a main road and restaurants to cater for the visitors.
The room had two kingsize beds and a flat screen TV hooked into the satellite to give us New York city TV including local NY advertisements. The first night we went to "happy hour", free drinks for guests. I rashly had two drinks instead of my standard limit of one. After some hokey entertainments involving the audience getting up on stage, we stumbled into what seemed the only place to eat. We ate a largely meat buffet and then another hokey audience participation show started, so we got the bill asap. Shock, horror, the bill was $105! And this for a few greasy pieces of meat! This proved to be our worst ripoff of the whole trip. Lesson learned!
These hotels all have casinos and are isolated from the rest of Aruba. It's a tourist isle within an island where everything is priced for the tourist. Aruba seems to have two cultures - the tourist culture and the relatively poor local inhabitants.