Journeys with Noelle

One Perfect Day

2012-01-13T08:19:00.001+10:00

I have one day left to achieve so many things. One day left of my annual holidays, that precious few weeks off work in which I try accomplish so many things – dentist, vet, doctor, hairdresser appointments that I just don’t get time to do in my normal workaday life. I also try to use this time to de-stress from my high pressure job that entails a two and a half hour commute every day.

So what has happened to my other days?

Well, there was Christmas of course, and that whole week was filled with laughter, fun, family, friends, and eating.

Then there was New Year’s Eve which I spent in the company of my nearest and dearest. There was the usual retrospective glance back over the shoulder to the year just fading, an analysis of what I should have done, could have done, and would have done if I had had the time. There was also the mental checklist of what I will do in 2012, what I will achieve for myself and for my family, how I will live, how I will look after my health.

Then there was a blissful week where two days were spent in the peace and tranquillity of a writer’s retreat way up in the mountains. Bliss.

Then back to earth with a thud. My poor little Mum who is almost 94 needed me. She has become extremely frail and virtually unable to care for herself. So I have spent almost every day until this, my last day of holidays before I go back to work, with her. Precious time. It is hard to be seeing this once vital, energetic and extremely sharp little woman unable to do the basics for herself, even little simple things that we all take for granted, like getting up out of bed in the morning. I feel so sad for her. She is tired, so very tired. She still worries about me and my siblings, all middle aged (or more) adults who are able to take care of themselves.

Mum has a small part in my book, ‘Stone of Heaven and Earth’. She is just a little girl in it, but in writing the book, I can see where she got her strength of character from. She had a very difficult and sad childhood, not from abuse or anything like that, but from circumstances that most would think could only happen in a book. She often talks about her father, Oliver, although she doesn’t remember him as he died when she was a tad under two years old.

Mum and her Dad, Oliver, just weeks before he died

When my Mum says to me, “I’m so tired”, I know that she means she is ready to go. Ready to go and meet her Dad, sit on his knee and hug him. Tell him how much she has missed him. She will also get to see her beloved mother, Darl, and her brother and sister. They are all up there. She will have a ball when she is finally taken up there to join the party.

I will miss her terribly. She has been the one constant in my whole life. My friend, my mentor, my Mum. She hasn’t gone yet and perhaps I am being premature in thinking along these lines, but I don’t think so. But for now, I just want to make her life as happy, pain free, and peaceful as I can. That’s why I have treasured the days and nights I have spent with my Mum over my annual holiday break. They have been good.

Mum and Karob

So, what am I going to do on this one, last, precious day of my annual leave? Paperwork, housework, preparation for a busy year ahead. But I will also pop over and visit my Mum, make her a cup of tea, and chat. It will end up being one perfect day.

Writing Retreat - Mt Tamborine

2012-01-04T17:13:00.007+10:00

Imagine a blissfully quiet and peaceful location, perched on the very edge of a deep, deep valley. Imagine being surrounded by rainforest, birds and clear, crisp mountain air and only one hour from hot and humid Brisbane in the middle of summer.

Well, imagine no more. The reality is that Woodleigh Retreat is a comfortable and therapeutic getaway for anyone wanting to get stuck into their writing.
Fellow Brisbane author, Matt T. Dillon, and I spent three days at Woodleigh Retreat atop beautiful Mount Tamborine. The views from Woodleigh Retreat are magnificent and very inspirational. They call this area in the Gold Coast hinterland the ‘green behind the gold'. Looking east, we could see directly down to Surfers Paradise on the Gold Coast, then south to Mt Warning and the border ranges, then west up the valley to Springbrook. The views were breathtaking.

We catered for ourselves, although a bacon, eggs and toast breakfast is provided (cook yourself in the well-equipped kitchenette). If you get sick of writing, go for a short drive and visit the many wineries, antique stores, art galleries, artisan shops, plant nurseries, chocolatier, and coffee farm. For the active writers out there, go for some of the many rainforest walks to get your head around the plots and characters of your book.

Locals will know that it can get quite cold up in the mountains in winter, and Woodleigh has a log fire in each cabin, plus a spa bath big enough for two. In the summer months, there is a lovely swimming pool, barbecue area and acres of lovely lush green lawn and gorgeous gums to relax under.
Matt and I each achieved the writing goals we set ourselves, plus got to look around at the many interesting shops and galleries.

I can recommend this type of therapy for any writers who are short of time and unable to find the tranquillity and inspiration at home. Check it out at http://www.woodleigh.com/ or see what kind of a good deal you can get at Wotif.com.

A new year of positivity

2012-01-01T13:15:00.002+10:00

Today is the first day of 2012. When I was a child in the 1960s, only far fetched science fiction talked about such a number. I never, ever, thought I would be alive and kicking in the year 2012.

So, here I am. What shape am I in? Unfortunately I still harbour some of the immature insecurities that I had as a little girl in the 60s. I sometimes still seek the approval of others, and I still grapple with making decisions. However, I DO make decisions, and they often turn out to be the right ones; I DO accomplish things - big things - am i am always amazed when I do; and I do find myself going against the wishes of family and friends sometimes, occasionally having to wear the consequences, but at least being true to myself. It irks me that I still crave the approval of others so much and this causes me to live my life with a sense of turmoil and guilt, not fully realising true happiness without any cares, misgivings or worries. But that is me.
Or is it?

I read a wonderful article in today's newspaper The Sunday Mail. Titled 'Revel in the positive', the article written by Kylie Lang talks about how every year at this time we all make New Year Resolutions, and then unmercifully flagellate ourselves when we don't accomplish those goals
- you know, lose weight, give up smoking and/or drinking etc etc ad nauseum.

Kylie says that New Year Resolutions are not about behavioural change but are about hope. She says we NEED to have these little retrospective thoughts about how we can improve as human beings, whether it be our health or our relationships. She says that these desires, wishes, whatever, are good for us because they provide instant gratification, immediate 'feel good' vibes course through us, and whether or not we go on through the course of the year to make the changes, the fact that we have looked back on our lives and seen that there are some changes, some tidying up, to be done, is a good thing and makes us love ourselves more. She says we 'feel more hopeful and in control'.

Well, reading Kylie's article this morning, on this first, beautiful, day of 2012, has given me hope, a positive outlook for the new year, and a guilt free trip of making a list of things I would like to change about me, to make me a nice person in MY eyes, to make me a more loving mother and grandmother, to make me healthier, and to make the world a better place.

Thanks Kylie, for a wonderful shrink session on a beautiful Sunday morning. You can read the article
at http://www.couriermail.com.au/spike/columnists/kylie-lang or go to @couriermail on Twitter.

Mangoes for breakfast

2011-12-28T08:03:00.001+10:00

Christmas in Brisbane, Queensland. The sub-tropical city which once slumbered as an easygoing, slow paced city, derided by her larger and more brash southern relations, Sydney and Melbourne, is now a bright, bold and bustling city herself, full of rushing people, constant traffic jams, and cafes.
But on one day of the year, Brisbanites are able to take a step back in time to an earlier era. Christmas day in Brisbane is almost always a hot, sunny, summer day. Locals almost always spend their day at the beach, having a picnic or barbecue lunch, or at home around the swimming pool if they have one. It is a busy day, trying to fit in all the in-laws and sundry family groups, but on the whole, it is a relaxing and chilled out day. People gorge on too much cold chicken, turkey, ham and prawns. Salads that wilt in the heat have to be eaten quickly and then put back into the refrigerator to keep them fresh. Heady aromas from barbecue marinades can be smelt in every suburb as sausages, steak, lamb and prawns, are all cooked to perfection by the man of the house in five minutes, the praise lavished on him for a wonderful meal while the woman of the house has been slaving for hours, even days, to prepare the feast.

But there is one thing about Christmas in Brisbane which never fails to get

the attention of all and sundry. That one thing involves eating mangoes for breakfast. These days, eating a mango is relatively sophisticated, as they are now cut so that the eater can smother a square of the delicious, sweet, juicy, golden fruit with one bite, delving back into the wetness time and again, to take another bite, enveloped in the gorgeous smell.

When I was a child, we would sit on the wooden back steps of our house, and suck on mangoes for hours, eating through a bucket of the fruit in a very short time. The stringy fruit would leave long threads of fibre in the gaps between our teeth that were sometimes impossible to remove. Sometimes we would get a 'mango rash' around our mouths from eating too many mangoes. Mum would always be at us to make sure we washed our mouths properly after eating them.

There was a mango tree in every suburban back yard in Brisbane when I was a kid. Massive trees that invariably had rope swings hanging from their substantial branches. But in the months leading up to Christmas, small, hard green fruit would appear all over the tree. The trick was to try and retain as many fruit as possible, knowing that the fruit bats, or flying foxes as we called them, would come and decimate the crop if we weren't vigilant. Some people put white mosquito nets over their trees to protect them.

Then there were the Brisbane thunder storms that would come creeping in from the south-west, blackening the skies and blotting out the sun, huffing and puffing with frighteningly loud thunder and jagged lightning that would scare the pants off everyone. The storm would drop a tropical downpour of inches of rain in a few minutes, causing flash flooding. Often times it would be accompanied by cyclonic wind and hail as big as tennis balls. The storm would wreak its havoc across the suburbs and back yards of Brisbane, knocking the young mangoes from the trees.

Alas, some Christmases, mangoes were light on. It was those years that Brisbanites found out about Bowen mangoes. Those huge bullock-heart sized fruit from the far north Queensland town of Bowen, whose flesh was soft and creamy and stringless. No threads stuck in the teeth, just sweet, soft, ripe and meaty flesh that, when eaten, brought moans from people akin to erotic moans of pre-orgasmic proportion.

These days, in modern Brisbane, no more sitting in the bath tub to eat a mango. In fact, we don't even bend over the kitchen sink to eat them. These days, we devour our mangoes in a most sophisticated way, eating each dice from the skin and remaining relatively clean. Except for me. One little hangover from my childhood is that I simply cannot bear to throw away any skin which has flesh left on it. I suck at the skin and remove every portion of the sweetness, my face gets smothered in it, the smells makes me feel heady, rivulets of juice run up my arms as I hold the mango, reaching my elbows before I know it.

Christmas in Brisbane. Mangoes for breakfast. Now, THAT is sheer bliss!

Life after NaNoWriMo

2011-12-11T10:25:00.004+10:00

After my devout dedication to the task, my '30 days of Literary Abandon' - which is NaNoWriMo,I seem to have lapsed into one of those people who just can't seem to find the time to write. What happened to that person who would say, hey, if I REALLY want to write, I will find the time?

Well, I can tell you what has happened. I let real life get in the way. But I can say that I now know the bliss of actually putting my writing before anything else - except the necessity of working full time with a two and a half hour daily commute - before my writing.

So much has happened in the past week and a half since I finished NaNoWrimo:

Two work Christmas parties
Anderson and Danielle
Day to day living with my two grandchildren, for one of whom, it is his very first Christmas
Going to the airport at midnight to pick up our adopted 'Prodigal Daughter' who has been on walkabout around the world for nearly five years
Catching up with friends - an annual Christmas time flurry of coffees and lunches, talk fests, and promises to not just do it once a year
Digging through the old shed for the Christmas tree and decoration
Christmas shopping (albeit online this year), wrapping gifts

Spending quality time at a sleepover with my 93 year old mother and my two dogs
Attending the Queensland Writers Centre Christmas party and rubbing shoulders with many of the best authors and writers in the country, enjoying their company, and making new writing acquaintances
Planning a holiday for early next year to Cambodia and Thailand, accompanied by fellow author Matt T. Dillon
and, last night, watching the moon as it turned red for the lunar eclipse.

My 93 yo Mum, Olive Dillon (nee Clark) and Karob

My life seems to be back in the 'normal' zone, whatever that is. But NaNoWriMo, whilst challenging, allowed me to see that 'normal' is chaotic, noisy, expensive, stressful, and emotionally draining. I think that, if I could, I would live in the wonderful, peaceful, self-realising world of NaNoWriMo all year long.

Hmm, maybe that should be my New Year's resolution this year?

Little Santa - Anderson 8 months old

Karob, my little Moodle

Day 30 - NaNoWriMo - It's over!

2011-11-30T21:20:00.002+10:00

I am too tired to write anything just now, but I have a lot to say about my first NaNoWriMo experience.

Just now, I want to share with you my sense of elation.

Day 29 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-30T21:13:00.000+10:00

The penultimate day of the NaNoWriMo journey. I kinda feel a little deflated, I guess. Deflated but elated at the same time. Is that possible? I am over the moon that I achieved the goal I set myself, but at the same time, am disappointed it is over.

I am also a bit exhausted. I worked very hard to achieve my 55,000 words. I work full time, commute nearly 3 hours a day, I babysit my grandchildren who live with me, look after my five pets and spend time each day with them. No wonder I am tired.

So, the book is nearly finished, thanks to NaNoWriMo. Another two chapters to go, which I will write before Christmas, then edit in my Christmas holidays.

Thanks to the Office of Letters and Light for the wonderful, exciting, supportive and motivating entity that NaNoWriMo is. I am very proud to have been involved.

I hold out hopes of writing more on the night of 30th November, but you know what? I am just too tired. Time for a little rest, then back into it to finishe the book.

Day 28 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-29T11:45:00.000+10:00

"The act of putting pen to paper encourages pause for thought, this in turn makes us think more deeply about life, which helps us regain our equilibrium." ~ Norbet Platt

Day 28 of Wrimo. When I first signed up for this challenge, I thought that I would be in total panic mode at this stage of it, unable to see the end, unable to find a way to get 50,000 words written. Instead, here I am, way ahead of my goal, and well on my way to finishing the story that I have wanted to write all my life.

I have to say that the act of writing has been very therapeutic for me. I am living in a bit of domestic torment at present, and had I not signed up for Nanowrimo, and if I did not retreat into my private world of writing every day, I would go mad. I don’t think that going mad is actually what Norbet Platt meant by ‘equilibrium’, but it’s the best I can do at the moment.

I wrote another 4600 words today, giving me a total of 55883.

Day 27 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-28T06:56:00.000+10:00

"Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart." ~ William Wordsworth

I had a 'rest day' today and went Christmas shopping. I had to endure 34 degree heat, search for over half an hour for a car park, and then spent more money than I wanted to. My head was still up there in my book, where it had been immersed yesterday, totally oblivious to everything as I wrote the most heartfelt musings of the book so far. I went through tissue after tissue, trying to clear my eyes so that I could see my computer screen.

I asked the question of my YON writing group during our weekly online write-fest, 'Does anyone else bawl like a baby when writing a sad bit in their book?' I didn't get any answer. The thing is, when I read a Maeve Binchy book, I bawl and bawl at the sad bits. So, I wonder, does Maeve herself cry when she shows the reader a sad scene?

Personally, I think the sign of a good book is when it involves ALL the reader's senses, emotions and feelings. I love to laugh in books, like laugh out loud on the morning commute train, so that everyone turns to look at the book you are reading, making a mental note that they too must buy that one. I love to cry in a book - it clears out my tear ducts and, well I am just a big sook so it feels good. I have cried on the train too. It is embarrassing, let me tell you.

So, I think that it might be a good thing if the author cries. Hopefully it will bring a tear or two to my readers' eyes when they too grow to love my characters and are sad when shit happens to them.

Day 26 - NaNoWriMo - I'm a WINNER!

2011-11-26T23:52:00.003+10:00

"Winning is not everything, but the effort to win is." Zig Ziglar

I did it! I won the NaNoWriMo challenge of writing 50,000 words in 30 days. Well actually, I did it in just 25 days.

Today, had I not had to stop writing to go to see Dolly Parton in concert, I reckon I could have written twice what I did, but at 4202, it was a true sprint to the finish line.

At about lunch time, I validated my words and am now a WINNER, with a total of 50,491 posted against my name. I will keep on writing though, as I have enjoyed this Wrimo journey immensely.

Here's my badge to prove I won!

Day 24 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-25T08:56:00.000+10:00

Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass. ~ Anton Chekhov

Author, Matt T. Dillon, keeps saying to me, "Don't tell me, show me!". I have heard that a hundred times. I know it already. It is ingrained in me. But, I found myself in a really boring patch of my NaNoWriMo book, it seemed flat, colourless, and I was seriously losing my way.

When I went back to it the next day, I decided to have a little read of it those troublesome paragraphs, because it was worrying me, keeping me awake. For some reason, a light bulb moment occurred and it just became so clear to me what I had neglected to do. I was TELLING the story in an intricate and complicated narrative that was confusing even me!

After a half hour or so, I had transformed that long and colourless piece of narrative, that was, I should add, vital to the story line, into an exciting action piece, with dialogue, colour, smells, explosions going off in a shower of white sparks. It came alive! I realised that I was now SHOWING my reader. I was showing them like a movie reel was running in front of their eyes.

I am now nearing the end of my NaNoWriMo challenge, with a total of 46282 words. I have been a bit lost lately, but during a night of not being able to sleep, I have woken up with a clear pathway, with one last hurrah of a climax that hopefully will allow me to end my book on a bang.

Thanks to all those authors out there who kept telling me to 'show, don't tell", and especially my friend Matt T. Dillon. http://www.matttdillon.com/

Day 23 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-24T11:39:00.000+10:00

"Being a real writer means being able to do the work on a bad day." Norman Mailer

I am finding that I am up one day, and down the next with my writing. Last night I could not write a thing. I worried about it for a while, but then decided to stop flogging a dead horse, and I did something else instead.

I wonder if that makes me not a 'real writer'? Possibly, but I also wonder if Mr Mailer also had a full time job, two and a half hours commuting in city traffic per day, a full house with two babies and three adults, two dogs and three cats, all vying for my attention as soon as I walk in the door after a hard day at the office. I think not.

When I am a 'full time writer', then surely I will have the ability to plough on even when the muse is not looking my way.

Day 22 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-23T11:51:00.000+10:00

"When characters are really alive, before their author, the latter does nothing but follow them in their action." Luigi Pirandello

I am amazed at how the human brain works. On Monday night, I could write nothing. I tried to find a way through my insecurities about how my book was progressing, but I couldn't. Then, yesterday morning at about 4am, I lay in bed thinking about my Nana and wondered how she coped when her husband died. She had three little children, the youngest was only six weeks old, and she was in a foreign, civil war torn country.

When I sat down to write last night after a pretty full on day at work, I found that I was hearing her talk, feeling her sadness, and picturing her sitting by the fire on Christmas night in 1926, looking into the flames and missing her dear Oliver. I cried as I wrote what she told me to write. I cry even now as I write this, knowing now how very sad she was and how much she missed him.

Thanks Nana. I do hope you are happy with my treatment of your story. Love you.

Day 21 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-22T10:09:00.000+10:00

"This morning I took out a comma, and this afternoon I put it back again." Oscar Wilde

Today, Day 21 of NaNoWriMo, I broke the cardinal law that says you MUST NOT edit, revise, indeed even re-read what you have written so far for the challenge. Today, I did not write one word, but I enjoyed, instead, reading the 8000 odd words I wrote last weekend. I was uneasy with some of it and I just could not move forward with my story until I checked it.

So, I did some minor changes and found some big blunders, such as in one long paragraph where I talk about some of the political turmoil in China, and I found I say the same thing THREE TIMES! Can you believe that?

So anyway, I had a day off writing and a day of fiddling with the story. Was fun.

My total word count for the month is 42,768. Not bad eh?

Day 20 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-21T09:52:00.000+10:00

"Often I'll find clues to where the story might go by figuring out where the characters would rather not go." Doug Lawson

I had a bumper of a weekend again, volume wise. But I am seriously uneasy about where I am going at the moment. I thought I knew, but doubts are creeping in. I fear that what I am writing now is dead boring. However, I will push through and see how it looks when I get to the end of it.

Day 19 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-20T06:35:00.001+10:00

"No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader." Robert Frost

My writing for Day 19 marked my most challenging scene yet. The death of my hero. Ever since I thought of writing this story, I was secretly dreading writing this scene. It came the time, though, on Day 19 of NaNoWriMo, and so I did it with as much skill as I could.

It was hard to see through the tears I shed as this wonderful man died. I had already killed off several other people, and one of those was also a very main character. I cried when Annie died too. And the baby. So, for day 20, I must help Oliver's wife pick up the pieces and live a life without her dear husband. I do hope I can help her.

I wrote a personal best of 4620 words on Day 19, that gives me a total of 38973. Not bad for a first timer. It's just a shame that my dear grandfather Oliver's death was the catalyst for such a writing total. But my four main characters, Darl and Oliver, Jack and Annie, are my own personal muses, sitting her on my shoulder, helping me to write their story.

Day 18 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-20T06:34:00.000+10:00

"My biggest excuse to others and myself was that I had writer's block, as if it was some kind of illness". - Mary Garden

What can I say. I took this day off work specifically so that I could write, undisturbed, all day. Not only did I have some rather insistent distractions, such as my 8 month old grandson, Anderson, crawling at my feet and wanting Nana to play with him, but I got the worst case of writer's block. I only managed 800 words all day. Oh well, there are two more days left of this weekend!

Ciao

Day 17 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-18T08:09:00.001+10:00

"They say great themes make great novels.. but what these young writers don't understand is that there is no greater theme than men and women.” John O'Hara

Looking at all the notes and plans I had prepared for my month of literary abandon, it would seem that I had plenty of meat there, plenty of joggers and stimuli to keep me writing feverishly for one whole month. But it seems that the reality has not quite been the expectation.

Oh, I have been writing lots, and most of it - not all of it - is of reasonable quality. But I need to sit and plan again, on how I am going to move the story forward. It is on a sustained peak a the moment, with many climaxes all coming at once. When I do get a quiet time, it seems really flat. But I guess that is what real life is like too isn't it?

And the real life that my Grandparents, Darl and Oliver, shared in China, was certainly like that. Full of crises, climaxes, tragedy, and great happiness. But in between there, there were real people living real lives, just men and women getting on with their lives and living it to the full.

Day 16 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-17T13:18:00.001+10:00

"The best time for planning a book is when you're doing the dishes." Agatha Christie

It was a struggle to make 1500 words today. I have suddenly become a little unsure of where the story is taking me. It is all mapped out, but somehow or other, I am suddenly losing confidence.

I got up from my desk and went out to water the vegetable garden. I thought about it for a long while, and suddently, whilst out there with the lettuce, tomatoes and sweet corn, the solution to my dilemma came to me. I have decided to cut my book into two parts. Part One will be the first seven years, and Part Two will be from 1921 until 1929. Yes, I think I will try that.

Au revoir! NaNoWriMo total so far? 32,375

Day 15 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-16T08:47:00.000+10:00

"A writer's job is to imagine everything so personally that the fiction is as vivid as memories." John Irving

I had a wonderful night of writing last night. Because I am doing the NaNoWriMo challenge this month, naturally I am very pleased that I wrote 3363 words, but I dug deep last night and I think I wrote a passage that I would never have thought I could write.

I am up to a point in my book where things are very grim, very sad. People are dying everywhere, and one of my main characters does some inward thinking. She is a very religious person, and for a moment there, she lost her faith. I am happy because I think I really got inside my character's head. I think I really felt the desolation and sadness that she would have felt.

This revelation to myself is all the more stunning because it is pretty much what I would have felt had it been me, instead of her, going through this. In my own life, I too have lost a faith that I thought all my life was totally unshakeable.

I have not yet re-read what I wrote last night, but I am hoping that it does not come over as cheesy or 'religious' in anyway, because it's not supposed to be. It is supposed to be the honest and open thoughts of one of my characters and that was how I wrote it.

I am loving writing my book. I am loving doing NaNoWriMo and would recommend it to any person who wants to really get stuck into writing a story that deserves to be told.

Day 14 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-15T08:50:00.005+10:00

"A professional writer is an amateur who didn't quit." Richard Bach

Well, I had the day off. Monday-itis? Possibly. But I am ahead of schedule which is great, but far from being complacent, I actually had a day off writing (after doing my normal full day job, of course), and went to the Queensland Theatre Company's production of a play called 'Fractions'. It was very good, and was a re-imagining of the destruction of the first library in Alexandria.

It was nice to have a break from the writing, but come tonight - day 15 and the half-way point - , I will be at it hard as soon as I get home. The break has done me good. I hope.

ciao for now

Day 13 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-13T20:15:00.004+10:00

"A writer lives, at best, in a state of astonishment. Beneath any feeling he has of the good or evil of the world lies a deeper one of wonder at it all." William Sansom

Had a wonderful day writing at the State Library of Queensland with fellow YON Writers Group members Sharon Woolich @sharonwoolich, Matt T. Dillon @matttdillon, Annette Kendall and Anthea.

Unfortunately was not able to stay for the NaNoWriMo write out but did manage to get 1500 words done, giving me a total of 27,430.

Sunday, even a NaNoWriMo Sunday, is a time for family, so visited my 93 year old Mum, who just happens to be a character in my book. Funnily enough, we were talking about birthdays and she asked me to get her birthday book. I opened it and, lo and behold, there was an inscription "To dear Olive from Uncle Jack and Mary" - well today at the writing session, I happened to kill off my dear Uncle Jack's beloved wife Annie. Now, is that a coincidence or what? The inscription, by the way, was dated August 1938. I live in a state of astonishment, that is for sure.

;-/

Day 12 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-13T07:30:00.003+10:00

"When you know what you want,and you want it badly enough,you'll find a way to get it." Jim Rohn
A productive day, working alongside fellow NaNoWriMo-er and awesome author, Matt T. Dillon http://www.matttdillon.com/ . He is writing another blockbuster historical fantasy following on from his book from last year, Gorgonieon.

I managed 2296 words, not wonderful, but not bad, giving me a total of 25,929 for my Nano effort.

ciao for now

Day 11 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-12T07:51:00.003+10:00

"Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite: "Fool!" said my muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write." ~ Sir Philip Sidney

My Nano journey increased by a modest, yet okay, 2260 words today. That gives me a total since 1st November, of 23633 ! Of that total, I am very pleased.

Up until the last two days, I have been quite happy with the quality of my writing, but there is something not quite right with the last few scenes so I anticipate some heavy editing after NaNoWriMo finishes. I think it has something to do with me writing lovey dovey stuff and I have not written it before.

Anyway, that's all for now, my vast legion of blog fans *wink*, I'm heading back to the manuscript.

Oh and by the way, on Sunday I am spending two hours writing with my monthly YON Writing Group members at the State Library of Queensland, and then afterwards, am joining the Brisbane Region NaNoWriMo-ers at a 'Write-Out" on the lawns of the State Library, on the banks of the beautiful Brisbane River, basking in 30 degree spring heat.

Ciao, and good luck to all. See you tomorrow!

Day 10 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-11T14:50:00.001+10:00

"All characters are based on elements of a writer's personal experience." Robert Holdstock

It was a hard night of writing, only reaching a total of 1385 words. I found it really hard going as I had to write a love scene - my first ever. The fact that the two characters were my grandparents, made it even harder. ;-)

Day 9 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-09T20:48:00.002+10:00

"Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go." E. L. Doctorow

Well, the writing gods smiled benevolently on me today. I have written 3607 words, but I worked hard for each one of those words. For some reason, the flow was not quick. I had to deviate and do research which held me up, but it was just very necessary to make the story flow.

I know the rules state that you should forget quality and go with quantity, but sorry, I just can't do it. Not saying that my writing has to be quality, but my research has to be spot on.

I am writng historial fiction. If I have the light bulb being turned on before it was invented, well, you can imagine the reviews that the New York Times will give me. ;-)

Something exciting happened today. During my research, I came across a Professor from Cambridge Uni in England. He is currently writing a book about the Chinese Maritime Customs Service. So, I emailed him, and he emailed me back straight away. Such a nice man. He is keen to see my primary research documents, ie, my mother and aunt's memoirs, plus letters I have. He also shared with me some info about his work in progress. Cool.

So, my total for Day 9 is, wait for it.... drum roll please... 20034 :-)

Day 8 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-08T21:29:00.002+10:00

"For a long time now I have tried simply to write the best I can. Sometimes I have good luck and write better than I can." Ernest Hemingway

Hi guys. Struggled tonight to get the story rolling. I wrote 2017 tonight but it feels to me a little disjointed. Will most likely need some heavy editing.

Anyway, total so far for NaNoWriMo is ... wait for it ... 16336 !!

How exciting!

Day 7 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-08T10:53:00.002+10:00

"The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair." Mary Heaton Vorse

On the Seventh day of Wrimo
My computer gave to me
Two thousand three hundred and eighty-five words

Day 6 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-06T18:59:00.007+10:00

"I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions." James Michener

Day six, but so not a full week. I missed two full days due to work commitments, but did find satisfaction in making those days up over the weekend. I wrote 3240 words today, killed off a character which made me cry, and had some domestic issues which have drained me emotinally. Home life is a bit sad at the moment. Not helping with my Wrimo goals. Oh well. :-(
But, I find it so, so amazing that I can write about my wonderful characters, who are, after all my grandparents in reality, and I am wriping away tears. I do so hope that the words that I choose will also engage the emotions of my readers. I know that I have not one muse, but four, and I know they will help me to choose the right words to describe their wonderful lives.

Day 5 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-05T21:06:00.002+10:00

"I write for the same reason I breathe- because if I didn't, I would die." Isaac Asimov

I am ecstatic. 3995 words today. Nuff said.

Day 4 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-05T07:25:00.002+10:00

"Being a real writer means being able to do the work on a bad day." Norman Mailer

I am both frustrated and disappointed that my considerable work commitments gave me no time to write even one word for two days in a row. I arrived back home from the conference late last night, too exhausted to write.

So, on Saturday, day 5, I must, repeat MUST write a minimum of 5000 words to catch up.

Over and out for now.

Day 3 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-04T11:44:00.001+10:00

"We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is, knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out." Ray Bradbury

Oh dear, not one single word got written on Day 3. I am at the 'Teaching and Learnign with Vision' Conference on the Gold Coast, Queensland. Very early start, full day, very late night. HOWEVER... I just went to a key note address with George and Alec Couros from Canada and they put up the NaNoWriMo web site on the presentation screen, citing it as one example of excellent collaborative networking. These guys are both Professors of very high esteem. So, NaNoWriMo...take a bow.

ciao for now

By the way, the you can find George and Alec on Twitter @gcouros and @courosa

Day 2 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-03T13:35:00.003+10:00

"Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence . . . Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent" ~ Calvin Coolidge

I struggled a bit with day 2. Seemed to run into a few brick walls and had to duck off to the internet to do a bit of quick research. I know that all the NaNoWriMo advice is to forget the research and just leave gaps to fill in later, but honestly, I just can't write like that. Anyway, I wrote 1734 words yesterday. That's a total of 4699 for the first two days.
As I write this, it is lunch time on day 3 and I am away from home, staying at the Gold Coast for a work conference. I may have a zero word count for day 3. :-/
Over and out for now.

Day 1 - NaNoWriMo

2011-11-01T20:05:00.002+10:00

"Unless you're willing to have a go, fail miserably, and have another go, success won't happen."Phillip Adams

First day, and all going well!

As promised, I aim to do a very short blog each day of November, to document my massive challenge which is NaNoWriMo - to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days.

I was going to get up at midnight last night, as soon as the 1st November clicked over, but was too tired. A big day at work did not let me do anything, despite my wishes to at least get started in my lunch break.

However, I have been writing solidly for about three hours and have written 2965 words so far tonight. Not bad for day 1.

Well, I aim to do some more writing as I am about to go online to chat and work with my wonderful YON Writing group. We meet every Tuesday night for two hours and, well, help each other I guess.

That's all from me. A very happy Wrimo Virgin on day 1. Hope I can keep it up. :-)

Bye all!

Five days until my first NaNoWriMo

2011-10-27T11:21:00.000+10:00

I am excited and a little nervous. I am as prepared as I can be for my marathon 50,000 word write-fest which is what NaNoWriMo is – the National Novel Writing Month. This is an international competition with no prize except a sense of achievement and a book that has been fast-tracked by an enforced (self-imposed of course) period of intense writing.

My work in progress is my first book called ‘the Stone of Heaven and Earth’. I have done a lot of research and have planned to the enth degree. My outline will hopefully keep me powering on through 30 days and 30 nights of NaNoWriMo.

I have lots of ‘buddies’ to help me through this adventure, both local buddies who will join me for joint writing sessions, and virtual, most of whom I have met through Twitter.

Here is a list of what I have done to prepare for my NaNoWriMo journey:

• Told my large household (including 7 month old and 4 year old) that I am UNAVAILABLE during the month of November

• Booked no social activities in that month

• Organised to have two days off work to give me two extra full days of writing

• Worked hard on a fairly detailed outline

• Done as much research as I think I will need

• ‘Buddied up’ for support

• Prepared my writing space – my desk space, room, comfort

• Bought lots of lollies and other little treats

• Worked out a daily timetable to give me extra writing time by getting up earlier, streamlining my daily chores, working out how I can use train commuting time to write, and removing any barriers that I can use as an excuse NOT to write.

So, now as the clock ticks down, I am keen to get going. Follow my first Wrimo journey here on my blog. If you are a NaNoWriMo-er, please buddy up with me under the name ‘Karob’, and I will do the same. Leave a comment here and an email address and I will get back to you.

Bye and see you all on 1st November!

Wine not!

2011-10-19T20:38:00.002+10:00

Some fun wine drinking signs I found in the Margaret River wine district, Western Australia

These are some South Australian vinaigrette salad dressings. The best is the blood orange chardonnay one.

Capel Vale winery, Margaret River, WA

Look what I found!

2011-10-19T20:16:00.002+10:00

A map of Shanghai in 1912! Awesome!

I also found a fantastic website to help me with my research for NaNoWriMo and it is http://www.onwar.com/aced/nation/cat/china/

This website listed all the wars and conflicts in China in the period I am writing about. Nice and simple, easy to understand, unbiased. Just factual... on this date, this person did this to this other person. Nice.

My NaNoWriMo journey is moving forward but am anxious to start writing. But once 1st November comes, I know I won't have the luxury of time to do all this research.

Anyway, back to it eh?

Vale Sara Douglass 1957 - 2011

2011-10-17T14:05:00.003+10:00

It has taken me a couple of weeks to finally mention the death of best selling Australian author, Sara Douglass, in my blog. I have been busy reading other people's blogs, people who knew her longer and a lot better than me, people who have read every book that the prolific author published.

But I came to know Sara Douglass through my son who has been an avid fan for a long time. For years he begged me to read the trilogy, Troy Games, and for years I resisted. Eventually I tackled the page heavy first book and found that I actually DID love historical fantasy, that Greek mythology was exciting, interesting, fun and I found that I could not put the book down.

However, it was on Sara Douglass's (real name Sara Warneke) blog called Non Such Kitchen Gardens that I found the Sara that I knew. She lived in a stone cottage in Hobart, Tasmania. She had totally renovated the cottage to make it beautiful; she had simply the best kitchen garden growing in a climate that is so foreign to my sunny little vege patch in Brisbane has; she had two cats, and she was a solo pilot in life, much like me. Her wit, sometimes sharp, her humour, and her wonderful weaving of words, endeared her to me, no matter that I had never read one of her books until only a year or so ago.

I am putting a link here to Sara's most poignant piece of writing ever so that others who may unfortunately find themselves in the same predicament that Sara found herself, can be comforted. It is called 'The Silence of Dying'. Please take the time to read it. http://nonsuchkitchengardens.com/wordpress/?p=606

Goodbye Sara Douglass. Thanks for the books that will live on as classics. Thanks also for your blog called NonSuch. I loved it and will miss it.

http://warneke.id.au/wp/?p=6188 a nice eulogy from Sara's brother

Our Nation's Capital - Canberra

2011-10-17T13:25:00.001+10:00

I am champing at the bit, waiting for 1st November until NaNoWriMo starts. I have been plotting, preparing, researching and dreaming. I just can’t wait to start. And guess what my darling daughter and her husband did for me! Take a look at this photo and you will see what I came home to after a three day visit to Canberra, the nation’s Capital. They set me up with a brand new office desk, so comfortable, so spacious, so professional. I don’t know about others, but I can definitely write better when in an uncluttered and inspirational environment. As you can see from the walls, I have all the maps, photos and research about China in 1914 pasted to my wall to inspire me and keep me moving forward with my story.

Canberra, Australian Capital Territory

Visiting Canberra after my last visit about forty years ago was fun. I went to a formal presentation in Parliament House, had dinner at the National Press Club, and got to visit the War Memorial. Canberra is a fairly sterile city with no discernable CBD, yet is meticulously laid out around a manmade lake called Burley Griffin. Very picturesque.

The War Memorial in Canberra is a very thought provoking and sacred place. Every Australian who has been killed in all the wars and conflicts, is remembered here. There is also a very good, but sometimes harrowing, museum with dioramas and displays. I even got to see the memorial plaque for Kenny Gant, a friend of ours who lost his life in the Battle of Long Tan in Vietnam. I was about 10 at the time, but I still remember Kenny. RIP Private Kenneth H. Gant.

Here are a few snaps from my visit.

Marble interior of Parliament House

The Australian Coat of Arms outside Parliament House

Pte Kenneth Gant

Bronze statue outside National War Memorial of Simpson and his donkey, ANZAC Cove 1915

The research journey

2011-10-05T10:04:00.001+10:00

I am presently immersed in China in the years 1914 to 1920. It is an immense job and very time consuming. But oh so much fun! And I am able to place my characters, my grandparents, in the place and see them laughing together, holding hands, walking along. It is so nice. Aw.

Yichang, China. In 1915 it was called Ichang and, as it is today, a major port on the Yangtze River. Today it is the last port before the massive Three Gorges Dam complex. When I was there in 2009, I felt such a strong presence of my grandparents, Oliver and Darl. They were married there in late 1915. We arrived in Yichang late one evening, went to a restaurant in the red light district for dinner (go figure??), and then later headed down an ancient road, the ONLY road from the city centre to the wharves. This road, cobblestoned and rough, so narrow that our bus could barely make its way through, passed at snail pace through an urban ancient area. I said to Robyn, this would not have changed since they came through here. It is the ONLY road from the city to the wharf. As our bus was sometimes stationary for ages, we could see inside people’s homes. They were cooking, sitting around, some were watching TV, some were outside smoking, just watching the one lane of traffic. How they must hate living on this busy road. This was an OLD area. Oliver and Darl would have passed on this very road to board the river boat to take them back to Shanghai. I cannot describe how close I felt to them that night.

Okay... an excerpt from my work in progess...

Singapore wharf was noisy, hectic, exotic. Darl and Annie were leaning on the ship railing looking down at the chaotic scene below them. Oriental men carried heavy luggage and trunks by a stick across their shoulders and the loads dangling from either end. Barefoot and wearing strangely shaped round straw hats, they ran sure-footed up and down the gangways with their heavy loads. The girls saw large baskets of exotic and strange fruits and foodstuffs being brought onboard. There was no band, just a cacophony of sounds emanating from the busy wharf. People shouting, the creak and squeak of pulleys and chains, metal clanging, hawkers calling out to sell their wares. The air was thick and heavy with humidity, dark clouds hung threateningly above the ramshackle shacks and buildings on the wharf. Annie and Darl reeled from the strong smells that wafted up to their vantage point. They could not identify what the smells were, but the ladies were fanning themselves to keep some air circulating about their faces, and this helped to dispel some of the unpleasant odours. Dressed in their normal shipboard attire, they looked longingly at the colourful, sleeveless frocks and broad brimmed straw hats that the handful of European ladies on the wharf were wearing. They would have gone into the salon to await the departure from hot and smelly Singapore, but it was far too hot in there. No breeze at all to blow away the thick air. They were better off watching with interest all that was happening in this strange place.

After a whole day of unloading and loading, of farewelling passengers that they had become friendly with, the Tasman was finally ready to depart. The hausers were dropped, and a tug slowly pulled the ship out from the wharf into the harbour, and then left them when the Tasman reached the South China Sea. Next stop, Hong Kong.

On the first night at sea, the Tasman rocked and rolled alarmingly. The wind was so strong it was screeching through the rigging on the fore and aft mastheads. The acrid smoke from the single funnel was being pushed back down into the ship making it most unpleasant. The cabin boys were hurriedly running up and down the hallways of the passenger accommodation carrying china bowls. The smell of vomit was becoming worse as passengers succumbed to sea sickness.

Okay, that's all for now. You will have to fork out money to read the rest of it. :-)

A busy month behind me

2011-10-02T05:54:00.001+10:00

All my good intentions of writing at least one blog a week in the lead up to my first ever NaNoWriMo went down the gurgler when my work commitments took over in a very drastic fashion. A server upgrade to our system led to two weeks of crisis meetings at a very high level, long days, sleepless nights, and a fairly chaotic home life on top of all that, meant that I just couldn't either find time to write anything, or my muse had left me temporarily for more peaceful places.

So, here I am on the 2nd October. A new month, well into spring now, and the weather is temperamental. We had 33 and 37 degree days in the first weeks of September, and now I sit here with a jumper on because it is a chilly 10 degrees at 5am on Sunday morning.

I went to bed early last night so that I could get up and start planning my next chapter. I need to have clear direction for when Wrimo starts. Here are my thoughts from this morning:

- the meeting
- the wedding plans, the wedding
- Oliver and Darl after the wedding taking a walk along the Bund
- the political climate
- transfers
- another wedding

that will do for now. Off to get researching and planning now.

Ciao

On Writing

2011-09-19T12:39:00.007+10:00

“Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for love, and then for a few close friends, and then for money.” Moliere 1622 – 1673

I met up with my fellow writing group members yesterday. What an inspirational meeting it was. We each chatted about what we were working on, and then it was heads down for two very productive hours. The time flew like it was just a few minutes. Each of us travel in to the State Library to do this, knowing full well that we could just as easily stay at home and save two hours commuting. But something magical happens when people of like minds gather together, encourage each other, and the synergy of that meeting lets the muse of each respective person merge together to create the most surprising and awesome creativity.

Annette and Jo from our group both had short stories published in the current quarterly edition of Fast Fiction. How wonderful to sit in a room with such talent. We all want to be published and success has touched our group already. Several in the group have publishers looking closely at their novels, several have finished novels, some are editing.

Me? I’m just starting my novel. But the story is one I have wanted to tell all of my life. I am so happy to finally know that it will happen. But for the session with my writerly friends yesterday, I chose to do a quick fast fiction short story. In two hours I wrote an ok story of two thousand words. It is probably not going to be the best story ever written, but I might polish it up and send it away somewhere. Maybe I too can join the ranks of the published!

I feel a buzz inside me from yesterday’s session. Our group only meets once a month, but now we will meet up weekly online, to share and encourage each other. I can’t wait. And the bonus is, it is still six weeks to NaNoWriMo!

Happy writing everyone!

On Writing

2011-09-07T10:36:00.004+10:00

The lead up to NaNoWriMo

Work commitments are playing havoc with my writing and preparation time. I have started jotting notes to myself whilst commuting on the train in the mornings. (Too tired in the afternoons). I am using an app in my iPhone called The Writing Spot and it allows me to brainstorm some ideas and then I can synch them with the web version plus email them to myself. Very handy. I find I am able to get about 500 words of notes in a single trip. This is exciting me, because it means I can then use the same app to do actual writing on my novel from 1st November, when NaNoWriMo starts.

From my dot points, I am doing research and organising all my details ready for writing. The only trouble with this is that I get so caught up in the research that I might be going into too much detail. I love research. You wouldn’t believe how much I have found out about the era I am going to write about (1914).

But the best part of research is that I am really, REALLY getting to know my characters well. I am lucky in that I am basing them on real people, but when I think about going inside their heads, I feel I really know them.

Anyway, let’s hope all this translates into a great book!!

Here is a map of the route that the two main characters, Darl and Annie, took on the steam ship Tasman. They left Brisbane on 20th June 1914 and stopped at Singapore, Hong Kong and then arrived in Shanghai. I just don’t know how long the voyage took. Can’t seem to find out. I am surmising about 4 weeks. If anyone out there can help me, please leave a comment below or email me at noelleclark@hotmail.com. Thanks.

I am also posting a picture of one of the KPM Line ships which is either the Tasman itself, or very similar. The Tasman had one funnel, buff in colour with a black stripe (the KPM Line colours). I had it in my mind that the Tasman was white, but it could have been black, just like the one in the picture below. But it looks about the right size, compared to the Niew Hollande which was white and three times the size (see picture in previous blog).

That’s all for now. Back to my research. Ciao.

These images courtesy Bjorn Larssen http://www.timetableimages.com/maritime/index.htm

Look out November - NaNoWriMo will own me

2011-08-28T09:46:00.004+10:00

I've signed up to NaNoWriMo!!

For those of you who know me well, you will realise that I will need to be given a wide berth in the month of November, as I have signed up for the world-wide National Novel Writing Month competition.

It means that I have to write 50,000 words from 1st November until 30th November! That is a LOT of writing, considering I still have to fit in a full time, full on job, and also participate in my family life consisting of three generations in one small home - three adults, a four year old, a five month old, two cats and a dog.

So, fair warning to everyone, give me some SPACE in November! And I will reward you with a fantastic novel full of adventure, laughter, heartache. A damn good read!

Wish me luck! I will post my progress and thoughts - dark and light - on this blog during the month of November.

Oh, and if you want to go through this rather unusual form of masochism yourself, visit the NaNoWriMo website at http://nanowrimo.org/ and good luck.

On Writing

2011-08-24T09:02:00.011+10:00

"A great source of calamity lies in regret and anticipation; therefore a person is wise who thinks of the present alone, regardless of the past or future." - Oliver Goldsmith

I am finding myself living dual lives at the moment. One is the workaday world of the present, where I commute to work, where I live within a family group of three generations, and am happy to be travelling this path through life at the moment.

My other life is immersed in the past. My China story is taking shape, and my characters have all of a sudden sprung to life. I can hear my Nana's voice, see her smile, feel her papery thin skin that used to dangle from her arms. I remember touching this soft, soft skin and loving it's warmth and silkiness, and remember being surprised when my Nana got slightly annoyed by the attention I gave it. I am infatuated, once again, by my Nana, more than forty years since she died. She was a big part of my childhood, living with us, playing with us, telling us about her life in China and how she lost the love of her life in such a tragic way.

I did not intend to start writing yet, as I still have so much research to do, but I just cannot help myself. When I am at work, my mind keeps pulling me away from my tasks to hear my Nana's voice and urging me to write down everything she is saying. I reluctantly have to resist and set my mind once again to what I have to do. So pleasurable does it feel to be so close to Nana that I would gladly give up sleep to keep writing her story.

Whilst I am enjoying the anticipation of writing, my Nana, in my book, is currently dealing with anticipation (and no doubt a little trepidation), as she is about to board a five thousand ton steamship and travel for many, many weeks to an exotic and foreign land. My Nana is made of stern stuff, she is a much stronger woman than I am, so she is determined to put the sadness of leaving her past happy life behind her, to not fret too much about what the future may hold, but to enjoy to the utmost, the present. I can just hear my Nana shouting to the wind and waves - "Bring it on!!". Her wide smile would be plastered across her lovely warm face. Bon Voyage, Nana.

About their voyage from Brisbane to China:
The Brisbane Courier Shipping Lists told me that on Saturday 20th June 1914, my Grandmother, Gladys Houston, and my Aunty Anne (Anne Houston), left the Port of Brisbane on the KPM Line ship Tasman, bound for Batavia (now Jakarta), and from thence on to Hong Kong. I am yet to track down whether or not they stayed on the Tasman from Hong Kong to Shanghai. The newspaper shows that the ship had travelled from Sydney to Brisbane and was steered by Captain Lucardie.

The Tasman was 5023 tons - relatively small when compared with the likes of the Orient Line ships which were three or four times the size and were luxury liners. My research shows that the Tasman that my ladies sailed on was version number 2 and built in 1913 by Earle's Shipbuilding Engineering Company Ltd., Hull, England. In 1918 it was confiscated by the British Government, torpedoed and sunk by German submarine U46 in the Atlantic Ocean.

So, it was a brand new steam ship with a buff funnel with a black stripe around the top. I am still searching for a photo of it but have managed to find some interior photos of a very glamourous sister ship, the Niew Holland which was about 12,000 tons and luxury in the extreme (and more than twice the size of the Tasman. I also discovered that any passenger ships leaving ports (particularly in Sydney) were sent off in gala style, with brass and pipe bands and masses of coloured paper streamers linked between ship and shore. Remember, there were no aeroplanes yet, only sea travel.

On Writing

2011-08-19T11:10:00.002+10:00

"By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail" - Benjamin Franklin

After some years of thinking about this project, mulling it over, researching, planning various attack routes, I have finally come up with a chapter outline for my based-on-fact fictional story of several generations of strong women who soar to unimaginable happiness, who overcome serious adversity, who live lives in exotic, wild and turbulent places, coping with all that fate throws at them.

This story has metamorphosed from what was originally going to be a family memoir cum travel story, to a historical fiction novel, and now, in its present guise, will be a family saga full of adventure, romance, excitement, violence, sex, angst, loss, happiness and sadness, all set against an exotic eastern backdrop that still holds, even in this world of fast and cheap transport to anywhere, a lot of mystery and inscrutability.

It will be a roller coaster ride of emotions. It will be uplifting and empowering, with heroines who will inspire other women to take a leap of faith.

Stay tuned as this story evolves.

Below is a picture of the Tivoli Theatre in Brisbane, circa 1918, on the site of the current King George Square, opposite the Brisbane City Hall. In the background, you can see the Albert Street Uniting Church. My Nana and Aunty Anne had an employment agency office inside one of the buildings adjacent to theTivoli Theatre building, which began construction in 1914 (the year the girls left for China), and finished in 1918. It was built on the site of the old Turkish Baths.

Countries I have visited

2011-08-19T09:31:00.000+10:00

Visited Countries Map from TravelBlog

Fremantle, Western Australia

2011-08-17T21:05:00.014+10:00

Freo. “Rio?” – “Not Rio dummy, Freo, Freo de Jennero”
It was a lovely sunny, winters day in Perth so I decided to catch the train from Perth Central down to Fremantle for the day. The locals call it “Freo”. I love that quality in all Aussies to shorten names, making them sound more like mates than cities or towns. For instance, Brisbane is Brissy; Alice Springs is ‘the Alice’; Kaimkillenbun is ‘the Bun’, Toowoomba is ‘T-Bar’, and hence, Fremantle is ‘Freo’. Not Rio, as in Mike Nesmith’s sensational sixties hit ‘Rio’, but ‘Freo’ dummy - Freo de Jennero. Ha ha.

For a mere $3.80 I was able to buy a one way ticket on the suburban train and arrived in the port city of Fremantle about a half hour later. I strolled through the streets of the city centre, admiring the colonial architecture of this maritime town which dates back to the early 1800s. Narrow lanes cross the major streets and the town has a major campus of Notre Dame University, mostly catering to maritime studies and arts. I enjoyed browsing through the bookstores (some good quality second hand bookshops too), and picked up a couple of bargains.

At the end of High Street is the Round House, once the first prison in Western Australia. It has a curious tunnel carved right through the rock and out to the beach. This was carved through the yellow sandstone to allow the whalers to haul their hideous victims up to the street for eventual flensing and carving up. An upside to this place is that the tunnel opens out onto Bathers Beach, a small crescent of white sandy beach lapped by soft and gentle waves creeping in from the Indian Ocean.

From here I could see Rottnest Island, a rugged and windswept isle about an hour's launch trip from Fremantle docks. I have been told that Rottnest Island is now the number one destination for ‘Schoolies’, that horrid group of school leavers who descend upon places where they can be obnoxious and drink without their parents for the first time. So I decided not to go there but instead to invest my time into another wine trip which I would take the next day, to the Swan Valley.

I strolled down towards the Maritime Museum, a fine looking sandstone colonial style building which charts the history of this important port, as well as the numerous shipwrecks that have occurred on this coast. It is also home to the first Australian yacht to win the America's Cup, the 'Australia II'. I remember that day back in1982 when skipper John Bertrand triumphantly beat the opposition and sent the entire nation into a long, exuberant party the likes of which have never been seen since. I also remember our then Prime Minister, Bob Hawk, declaring that any employer who docked pay from an employee who didn’t turn up to work on this auspicious day was indeed ‘a bum’. I bet he lived to regret that one! Ha ha.

I found myself at the lovely fishing marina, a complex of big, family style restaurants, that specialise in fresh, sumptuous seafood meals at a reasonable cost. The tables out on the boardwalk were the best, overlooking the fishing boats at anchor in the deep harbour. I ordered the barbecued lobster with salad. Very nice, low calorie, and tasty. Naturally, I had to wash it down with a cold Corona. Aaah. The harbour area is lovely, with lots of boardwalks to stroll along and lovely views of harbour life to be had from every angle.

After lunch, I went to the Cat bus stop, a free, commuter bus service that primarily caters for locals but is a total boon to day trippers like myself who wish to gain a look at the real city of Fremantle, and to get their bearings on the layout of the city. There is no commentary, but there is really no necessity to have one.

After doing a few loops of the different Cat bus routes, I walked out to the O’Connor Jetty and bought a ticket for a boat trip with Captain Cook boat tours back to Perth. Unfortunately I mistimed my boat and had to wait over an hour for my trip back. There are some basic amenities at the wharf such as a café and toilet facilities, but not much else, but as it is a reasonable walk back to town, I spent the time waiting for my boat by watching the incredibly busy shipping traffic on the river.

The shipping activity in the river is awesome. The harbour has recently been dredged to a depth of 80m and caters to ships of awesome size. I saw massive container carriers being guided by tugs both upstream and downstream. Quite an impressive sight.

At last my boat arrived and I boarded a lovely cruiser to take me back to Barrack Street Jetty in the heart of Perth CBD. It was a lovely, comfortable craft, with free wine tasting aboard – so who was I to argue with that?? The trip cost $25 but was, I thought, good value for a one and a quarter hour, relaxing cruise with stunning scenery and commentary (but not too much commentary which was good).

Until now, I had thought that Sydney Harbour had the best inner city harbour or waterside situation of any place I had seen in the world. Seeing the lovely, voluptuous Swan River, as she snaked her way seductively upstream towards Perth, I have now changed my mind. This river swells out into magnificent, um, I don’t know what to call them, but shall I say ‘significantly large areas’, so that it seems like you are on Sydney Harbour, complete with sail boats, and every other conceivable type of craft.

The free wine tasting (amounts not monitored), the gorgeous sunny, winter afternoon, calm conditions, all contributed to my sense of wellbeing and happiness. I loved my cruise back to Perth, and was transfixed by the mansions and expensive river-side homes that lavishly lapped the edge where water met land.

It was a beautiful cruise, which ended at the Barrack Street Jetty, home to the Perth Bell Tower which is a stunning piece of modern architecture in an otherwise pretty conservative Aussie city.

After disembarking the boat, I walked along the river embankment taking in the view, the peace, and taking numerous photos of the sunset on the Bell Tower behind me.

A lovely day in Freo. No, not Rio, dummy!! Freo! Freo de JENNero!

Cape to Cape - exploring south-west WA

2011-08-16T12:36:00.005+10:00

Cape Leeuwin to Cape Naturaliste

Visiting the southwest corner of Western Australia is like having, as Forrest Gump would say, a veritable box of chocolates. So many choices, all delicious, all beautiful, all enchanting.

From the famous wineries (with over one hundred cellar doors to visit for free tastings), to chocolate factories, boutique breweries, small family owned cheese makers, olive farms, berry farms and jam, relish and sauce makers, to the sumptuous feast of the magnificent scenery.

White sandy beaches with rolling surf, unspoilt ocean foreshores without buildings and only the windswept bushes and grasses as decoration, to haunting stands of giant karri trees reaching majestically up into the sky. From the underground labyrinth of dozens of caves displaying real gems of amethyst, of limestone stalactites and stalagmites that rival any cave system in the world for beauty and awe, to the inspiring twin lighthouses on each cape, Cape Leeuwin and Cape Naturaliste.

Phew, that all sounds over the top, but believe me, this small area of this massive continent has it all, plus some. And the funny thing is, it is all do-able in just a few days, or even a weekend if you pushed it.

We started our self-drive journey at the seaside town of Busselton, famous for its two kilometre long wooden piled jetty, the longest of its type in the world. Its quaint little buildings, pretty little beach, and 1950s feel, makes Busselton a very pleasant stop for an ice cream or lunch, and a walk or miniature train ride out to the end of the jetty.

Weather permitting, there is also an underwater observatory under the jetty which apparently allows visitors to view sharks, fish and anything else that might be lurking in the waters of the Indian Ocean at Busselton. Unfortunately although a fine day when we visited, the observatory was closed because of the choppy swell and high wind.

Back on the road south and we soon found ourselves smack in the wine area, with dozens of wineries and cellars tempting us to stop and sample, but we chose to keep going. We passed through the little hamlets of Carbunup River and Cowaramup and after about forty-five minutes, we entered the township of Margaret River, the central hub of this region that produces only 4% of Australia’s wines, yet supplies over 20% of the award winning wines.

We could see straight away that the town was quaint, cute, pretty, and had no traffic lights or McDonalds. We decided that this would be a great place to stay for a week and chill out from the hustle and bustle of city life, and write or paint. Or taste wines.

Further south from Margaret River township is the little village of Witchcliffe, which is surrounded by more wineries. The lush greenness of the surrounding bushland was most enjoyable and we were driving through the Leeuwin-Naturaliste National Park so it was comforting to know that this lovely area will remain unspoilt for many generations to come.

Karridale was a tiny little village which once was the most important town in the area and the first area settled. As the logging of the giant Karri trees was phased out to allow the area to remain a National Park, most residents moved and formed the other towns in the area where more sustainable work could be found.

We were now heading to the southern-most town of Augusta, a fishing port which marks the spot where the Indian Ocean and the Southern Ocean meet, providing a little cove of protection in a blustery and windswept landscape. Augusta has always had a seafaring life, with little beach shacks, nets laid out to dry, boats pulled up from the water’s edge, and little shopfronts offering the freshest seafood one could ever hope to buy.

Augusta overlooks isolated Flinders Bay, a totally unspoilt crescent of white beach with some little rocky headlands jutting out and being pelted by the big green waves which rolled in and smashed themselves on the rock in a plume of white froth and spray. The sea smelt oh so salty here, much more salty that I had ever encountered anywhere else. But the best chocolate in the box was called Flinders Bay, because just out in front of us we were gob smacked to see a pod of big whales breaching, their big, dark, cumbersome torsos rolling and ducking up out of the water, then diving back down again. Up again, a squirt of water as they exhaled through their nose holes, then a glimpse of a giant tail flying up into the air, then smacking down into the water with a big splash.

We had pulled over at Flinders Bay to admire the view. We stood on that bitterly cold, windswept beach for ages just watching in awe as nature provided us with a very precious gift. This moment surpassed even the best chardonnay and viognier we had tried at all the wineries! Seriously, it was a wonderful sight and we knew that we were truly blessed to have witnessed this.

Reluctantly we climbed back into the car to continue the short drive up to Cape Leeuwin Lighthouse, the saviour of many a ship which has come too close to the treacherous coastline on this, the most south-westerly point of Australia. Built in 1895, this lighthouse protects one of Australia’s busiest seaways, is Australia’s tallest lighthouse, and its beam can be seen up to 47 kilometres away.

We retraced the road back into Augusta, then took the Cave Road tourist route which hugs the beautiful coastline as we headed north, although with the dunes and the lovely bush, we could not see the coast. There are, however, numerous signposts signalling the turn off to beaches such as Hamelin Bay, Prevelly Park and Gracetown.

At one point, we stopped the car to breath in the majesty of a giant karri forest which was obviously hundreds of years old. So quiet, so peaceful here. A great photo opportunity of the handsome eucalypts which are unique to this part of Australia, and whose trunks grow straight and tall up to 90 metres in height. The wood of the karri is very sought after for building, particularly for roofs, as the long, straight, knot-free timber is ideal.

The Caves Road wound its way north through lovely pockets of bushland, dairy, goat and sheep farms, wine estates, and meadows. A lovely drive indeed and a good road too. Just after we passed through the town of Yallingup, we turned into another seaside town called Dunsborough which marks the end of the Caves Road and brought us to the top part of the south-west corner, near another famous lighthouse at Cape Naturaliste.

We drove the fifteen minutes or so out to the lighthouse and enjoyed some of the many walking tracks that are wheelchair friendly and which wind their way up the cape to the lighthouse itself. The view from the top is magnificent as it looks southwards along the beaches and down to Cape Leeuwin in the far distance.

There is a walking track called the Cape to Cape Walking Track and it takes five days to traverse the often rugged coastline from Cape Naturaliste to Cape Leeuwin. It is one of the most popular walking tracks in the world and devotees undertake this hike with great relish.

We finished our Cape to Cape drive of this lovely area by heading back to Busselton. We felt extremely satisfied that we had enjoyed one of the country’s most beautiful areas, almost a microcosm of natural and man-made jewels, just like luscious chocolates in a satin box. The trouble was, what to stop at and what to bypass. This area could well do with a longer holiday so that all its wonders can be explored properly.

Map courtesy www.margaretriver.com
Whale pic courtesy www.westernaustralia.com

Margaret River Wine Region

2011-08-11T13:11:00.009+10:00

Day tour of Margaret River wineries

Mandy from http://www.margaretrivertours.com/ picked us up from our motel and so began a wonderful day of wine, cheese and chocolate tasting in the famous Margaret River wine region in the south west corner of Western Australia.

Margaret River wine region only produces 4% of Australia’s wine, however wins over 20% of the gold medals, so the local vintners say that they go for quality, not quantity. The first vines were planted in the region in 1974 and so this is still a young wine growing region, producing excellent Chardonnays and Cabernet Sauvignon and Sauvignon blends. They also make great blends incorporating Semillon, Viognier and Sangiovese grapes, which we tasted for the first time and discovered a whole new taste experience from these blends.

We picked up one more passenger, Julian, a cop from Perth, and our first winery was Stella Bella, a modern, sassy, young winery with very nice wines. We liked Skuttlebut and bought some of their Savvy Sauvignon Blanc 2010 to take home. The Savvy Sauvignon Blanc is a sweet, half fermented Moscato style wine (Moscato being the process, sauvignon blanc being the grape varieties used). These wines are only available at the cellar door. We really loved the 2008 Stella Bella Sangiovese Cabernet, and their other sauvignon blanc and Semillon blends were lovely too.

Next winery was Leeuwin Estate, a magnificent place with a restaurant and tasting room at their cellar. Their roaring log fire was welcome as it was a cold day of only 13 degrees and windy with intermittent showers. I personally love to do wine tasting when it is cold. Leeuwin Estate’s Chardonnay was the best wine I tasted all day. Absolutely the most lovely chardy ever, but at $89 a bottle, I was unable to take one with me.

A visit to Watershed wines estate showed us a modern complex with a nice variety of wines. The lovely view over the vineyards and lake was a great photo opportunity. Matt particularly liked their 2010 Shades Rosé and their Viognier was very nice too.

Our lunch stop was at Voyager Estate, a simply magnificent place with manicured gardens and wonderful architecture in the old French style. This place is owned by Michael Wright, son of Peter Wright who, along with Lang Hancock and Tom Price, were pioneers in the development of Western Australia mainly in the fields of mining and industy. Voyager Estate produces many internationally award winning wines and can be found in five star restaurants around the world. We had lunch here in their restaurant. The three of us had, respectively, spatchcock, pan fried salmon steak, and venison osso bucco for our meals, and I can say that all three of us were extremely happy with our meals. They also gave us freshly baked bread with olive oil and dukkha for dipping. We also drank complimentary wine of a very high standard. A lovely place, and we had plenty of time to explore the gardens, bracing ourselves against the cold wind, but enjoying it all.

Mandy, our driver, had picked up five more passengers for the afternoon part of the tour. We visited the famous Vasse Felix estate, site of the first grapes planted in the Margaret River region and currently owned by the Homes à Court family. Sir Robert Homes à Court’s son Peter is now the hands on owner and director of the estate, and his mother, Janet Homes à Court, indulges her love of art here by having massive works placed throughout the stunning lawns and gardens.

The story of Vasse Felix is interesting. A surgeon from Perth, Doctor Tom Cullity, had some soil tests done in the region and they matched with the soils of the Bordeaux region in France. He then became a weekend farmer, planting grapes on his property (Vasse Felix), and a Monday to Friday surgeon. Although it is now owned by the Homes à Court family, Tom Cullity’s brother still lives on the property although well in his eighties.

The wines here were lovely, very expensive, but lovely. We bought some very nice dessert wine called Cane Cut, so called because of the way they cut the grapes from the canes before they are fully ripe, then the bunches are left to dry thus concentrating the flavour and sugar. The pressed juice is fermented in oak and results in a truly lovely, silky dessert wine.

Next winery was Moss Brothers, a great example of a small, family owned winery and along with Stella Bella, a nice contrast to the vast and wealthy estates of Vasse Felix, Voyager and Leeuwin. They had a stunning fortified drop in an oak barrel on the bar called Snake Wine. Can I just say, sensational on a cold, wet and blustery day.

I never thought I would ever find myself all wine-tasted out, but we had tasted so many, mostly lovely wines that by the end of the day we were ready for a break. Mandy provided us with a big basket of goodies to snack on in the tour bus – local cheeses, grapes, cold meats. Very nice.

We stopped at the Margaret River Chocolate Factory and entered the largest, most stunning chocolate store I have ever seen. Generous amounts of free tastings were provided and I admit to buying some really nice liqueur chocolates.

Our last stop was at the Margaret River Cheese Factory. I can recommend their Garlic and Herb Fetta, but their range is quite large and all were very nice. They even make their own yoghurts which were also very nice.

Mandy dropped us back at our accommodation, and for $125 including a sumptuous lunch at Voyagers Estate, was a good value, enjoyable tour, and really is the only way to enjoy wine tasting in a region with over one hundred cellar doors. A great day.

Journey to a place I've never been - Perth

2011-08-07T08:51:00.001+10:00

Perth, Western Australia

Perth, the capital city of Western Australia, is beckoning. It is always an exciting feeling to travel to somewhere that you have never been. I travel a lot with work, and am looking forward to trips to Mt Isa, Canberra and the Gold Coast in the next couple of months, courtesy of work. But I have been to those cities before and whilst I always find something new to enjoy in every place, it’s not quite the same as breaking new ground.

My son Matt is currently working in Perth, so the irresistible pull to see my first born (not to mention the free inner city accommodation) is too much and so I find myself aboard flight QF651 winging my way 4000 kilometres across this vast continent of Australia, swinging down low from Brisbane, flying just south of Adelaide, and across the vast and treacherous seas of the Great Australian Bight, to swing up near Esperance, and then to Perth.

It is a long flight, five and a half hours, and reminds me of long haul overseas flights. As I approach Perth, I think of our plans for the next week – visiting the famous wine districts of Margaret River and the Swan Valley, of visiting Rottnest Island, cruising up the Swan River, and exploring the beaches and nearby towns of this remote city.

Perth lays claim to being the most geographically remote capital city in the world. The waters of the Indian Ocean lap upon the suburban city beaches, a little further south is the great Southern Ocean, and further south beyond the horizon is Antarctica. Nothing in between. If I look hard enough across the horizon from Perth, I might see the amazing continent of Africa. Looking north east, I might see Asia and India. But the most amazing site would be if I peered not so hard eastward and northward, as I would definitely see the amazing deserts and ironstone mountain ranges of the great Australian outback, West Aussie style.

This state is rich in natural minerals, and iron ore, gold, and diamonds are mined here to great effect. The southwest corner, where Perth is situated, is fertile and apart from wines, is famous for producing wonderful cheeses. During the next week, I am sure I will discover what other delights this region produces.

But for now, I arrive at Matt’s apartment and guess what? He has a lovely bottle of Evans & Tate Margaret River chardonnay chilled for us to drink, and Robyn has supplied some lovely Lindt chocolates.

So, welcome to Perth, Western Australia!! Welcome to a place I’ve never been!!

A walk through the ancient city of Pompeii

2011-07-17T14:10:00.003+10:00

Pompeii

I was in Primary school when I first heard about the city of Pompeii. I was ghoulishly enthralled with the thought of people going about their ordinary daily chores, and suddenly being turned to stone from the eruption of the nearby volcano, Mt. Vesuvius. Somehow, I thought that this was recent news. That it had just happened in a country a long way from the safety of Australia. I was both horrified and curious, and as I listened to the teacher telling us about it, my mind conjured up all sorts of images of people standing in front of the open fridge, looking for something to eat, and then – whoosh - all of a sudden they were stone statues.

Well, fast forward many, MANY years, and I was on my way to visit Pompeii, in the Campania region of Italy, not far from Naples.

We were leaving the enchanting town of Sorrento, heading back to Rome by train, and decided to stop off at Pompeii on the way. The Circumvesuviana train runs between Naples and Sorrento every half hour and stops at Pompeii, Herculaneium, Mt Vesuvius and the Ercalano archaeological site.

We alighted the Circumvesuviana at Pompeii Scavi station, which is about a half an hour from Naples, and is midway between Sorrento and Naples. It was quite late in the afternoon to be visiting such a mammoth place as Pompeii, but we wanted to squeeze it in before continuing our journey on towards Naples, then boarding the Trenitalia train north to Rome later that night.

We were burdened down with our luggage, so managed to find a locker room where, for a small fee, we were able to leave our bulkier luggage. The three of us decided to split up and go our separate ways as it is such a large city that it was best to try and cover it at our own speed. We agreed to meet back at the locker room at 7pm, thus giving us about 2 hours to explore. Not enough time, but better than nothing.

We entered Pompeii through the Porta Marina gate. The ticket price included a pocket guide and map and all places are numbered so that you can guide yourself around. There are also numbered street signs to help tourists. I must say that I got hopelessly lost at several stages and wasted valuable time in trying to find exactly where I was. I eventually ran into Matt, who also admitted to being a bit lost. Because it was so late, there were very few other tourists there, and it was quite eerie walking around this deserted ancient city on my own. Our other companion, Deemie, also got lost – even worse than us – and she did not make our arranged meeting time and place, meaning that we in fact missed our train to Naples and therefore our connection train back to Rome. Anyway, I digress.

August 24th 79 AD changed the lives of the residents of Pompeii forever. Despite what we now recognize as early-warning signs for an impending eruption of Mount Vesuvius, the 20,000 people who lived in Pompeii had long ago stopped thinking of the mountain as a volcano and so continued about their daily business. There had been a severe earthquake in the region only a month or two prior to the cataclysmic eruption of nearby Mt Vesuvius, but their complacency lost them their lives. Pompeii wasn’t the only city to be destroyed during the eruption of August 24 79AD. Nearby Herculaneium was also inundated and in fact many say it is actually a better place to visit because, unlike Pompeii, it wasn’t ransacked by looters over the early centuries.

So, what actually happened? Matt and I could see Mt Vesuvius rising above the landscape, but it looked so far away, we were scratching our heads trying to work out how lava flowed this far to smother the people of Pompeii. Well, in fact, it wasn’t the lava that did it. It was ash and pumice (a light, porous stone), and poisonous gasses that did it. The relentlessness of the downpour of ash and pumice lasted for about 24 hours and dropped 60 feet of detritus on the city and its people. However, the volcanologists now say that those who did in fact run when the eruption started, were able to get away, but because the initial stages of the raining down was not lethal, most residents thought that, provided they sheltered indoors in a secure place, they would be safe until it stopped, when they could emerge and commence the cleanup.

But, well into the night, a series of pyroclastic surges and flows occurred. According to the BBC History site*, a pyroclastic flow is a ground-hugging avalanche of hot ash, pumice, rock fragments and volcanic gas, which rushes down the side of a volcano as fast as 100 km/hour or more. Imagine wave upon wave of intense heat and liquefied rock fragments, sweeping through the town, asphyxiating everyone in their path. The nearby town of Herculaneium copped it first, then it came to Pompeii. So strong and relentless was the onslaught, that it actually changed the whole geography of the Sorrentine peninsular. Pompeii once was a coastal town. It is now well inland.

In the early centuries after the eruption of 79AD, looters tunnelled in under and took all the valuables. The city remained hidden until it was discovered by archaeologists in the 17th century.

The city of Pompeii today is still an active archaeological dig. There are many plaster casts of the mummified bodies of people who were overcome in the 79AD devastation. The poses of the bodies are quite poignant, as they are in fact, just as I was told back in Primary school, ordinary people doing ordinary things, turned to stone. Some poses show the futility of their demise, obviously trying to shelter but resigned to a certain death.

But apart from the looting which took place many centuries ago, some of the artwork is surprisingly well preserved and is a wonderful look at how this thriving and wealthy city and its inhabitants lived.

The most striking thing for me was seeing the ingenuity of the Romans whose skills at construction and road building is legendary. Their well laid out streets were made of big blocks of stone. Really hard to walk on, so imagine how rough to be in a chariot driving down one of these. The chariots’ wheels have worn deep ruts in the rock. There are massive stepping stones across the roads for pedestrians, and narrow blocks down each side for footpaths.

The city of Pompeii had every modern convenience imaginable. We saw kitchens, bathrooms with running water (the Romans ability to provide clean, running water is just amazing), communal pumps, lavish meeting rooms, nice suburban homes, and brothels. Yes, brothels! Apparently the Pompeians of 79AD were a fairly randy lot! The walls are adorned with erotic images. Exquisite artwork depicting family life and the stories of their revered gods and goddesses, such as this one of Perseus holding aloft the head of Medusa.

All too soon our time was up and we had to meet up to catch the train back to Rome. In a perfect world, I would prefer to take a whole day out to explore Pompeii, Herculaneium and the Ercalano archaeological site and will do that next time I visit. If you go in summer, take water and a hat, and wear very stout shoes. It is hard going, but very well worth it.

* http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/ancient/romans/pompeii_portents_01.shtml

A Day Trip from London to Brighton

2011-07-11T15:08:00.001+10:00

Brighton - by the Sea

Located a mere hour from London by train, Brighton is the Seaside place to be!! I met my friend, Joy, at Victoria Station at about 12noon, (late starters), and we caught the train down to Brighton. I must say, the train system here is very good, fast, clean, and comfortable. Not cheap, but very efficient. The trip cost us 14 English pounds return but we had an absolutely fabulous day. The sun was even trying to break through the gloomy grey clouds.

We arrived at Brighton station at about 1pm and walked 10 minutes or so down Queens Road, which then becomes West Street, to the main Brighton beach on the Esplanade. It was a cold, bleak and blustery day, one of those days where the wind goes right through you. The beach was quite a surprise to an Aussie girl, because it is covered with egg size, rounded gravel. It is still quite picturesque, even without soft sand, and is a very popular spot indeed. The sea was a dark green and did not look at all inviting. Indeed there were no swimmers, however we saw two jet skiers who had the wet and cold task of checking the buoys.

Brighton is instantly likeable. It is quaint, old fashioned, VERY English, and I think I found the true England, but sensed that it was set in the 1950s. I loved it.

We braced ourselves against the gale and walked up towards the famous Brighton Pier. Once on the Pier, we found families and couples of all ages enjoying the fun of a fair, with lots of side shows and rides. Lots of indoor pinball and games arcades which give pleasure despite any bad weather . The Pier also has quaint little souvenir shops , a couple of really nice bars and restaurants.

The Pier at Brighton was built in the late 1890s and attracts over 2 million visitors a year. The Pier is 525 metres (or 1,722 feet) long and has the reputation as being one of the finest piers of its type ever built.

Joy and I, seeking somewhere warm out of the chill wind, popped into one of the restaurants and ordered English fish and chips and a glass of wine. We felt that we simply had to have fish and chips on Brighton Pier. Very nice too. Then we wandered to the end where they had carnival rides, scary rides, lots of noise, lots of people. Lots of children and families enjoying a day out.

We walked back and wandered back again towards town which is riddled with “little laines” - sic -. That’s how they spell them and considering that most of the buildings I saw were built in the 1640s and that there are several streets with evidence of dating back to Roman times, I would say that ‘laines’ is an appropriate way to spell the maze of cobblestoned, shop-filled lanes. The little terrace cottages were painted in gay, bright colours, which gave the streets a jaunty, holiday sort of look. We passed lots of cafes, little pubs, designer clothing shops, nightclubs, souvenir shops. Joy and I had a really lovely meander through this maze and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

Joy had last visited Brighton 36 years ago, in much the same way as I had been to England last 30 years ago, on a camping tour of Europe. We share some really good memories. She said she had been to a magnificent building called the Royal Palace which was like the Taj Mahal. Well, we asked locals, and eventually found it. A stunning building which is now a library and museum. This building is white and topped with three large minarets and lots of little ones. Very exotic and Oriental to look at. A nice little park nearby and really a remarkable place.

The Royal Palace has been an exotic landmark of Brighton for 200 years. It was built for King George IV, Prince of Wales, who was born in 1762, by John Nash and it’s plush interior and extraordinary exterior reflect the personality of George IV and Regency reign. The extravagant design suited George and became his pleasure palace.

So, Brighton was full of surprises. It really was. The egg-sized pebble beach was unique (in my experience anyway), and a lovely little place with lots of character, foibles, interesting things to see and do, and a wonderful way to see how the English people spend some of their leisure time.

Joy and I strode around the ‘Laines’ area for some time, stopped for coffee at one point, then caught the 6pm train back to London. It was a great way to spend a sort of sunny, sort of very grey Sunday.

My Little Family - our journey in 2011

2011-06-01T14:03:00.000+10:00

This has been a big year for my little family. We welcomed three new people to the family - Adam, Danielle and Anderson.

Robyn and Adam were married on 8th January 2011. Adam's 4 year old daughter, Danielle, became my new stepgrandaughter. Then, on Sunday 20th March 2011, little Anderson was born.

So, we have gone from a family of three (Matt, Robyn and myself), to a lovely, happy family of six.

Have a look at some of our big milestones in the first half of 2011.

The Amalfi Coast: Positano

2011-05-22T09:03:00.008+10:00

Under the Campania Sun

"Positano bites deep. It is a dream place that isn’t quite real when you are there and becomes beckoningly real after you have gone." John Steinbeck, Harper's Bazaar, May 1953

Ask any of my friends what my favourite chick flick is, and they will tell you: ‘Under the Tuscan Sun’. It’s a wonderful story of courage, adventure, new beginnings, and for a woman of a certain age, it is most uplifting. It is based on the novel by Frances Mayes whose own adventures in Tuscany are well documented in her many books. You should visit her web site or subscribe to her blog. Frances is one of my favourite authors and her books are a sheer delight to read.

However, Positano is a town a long way away from Cortona, Tuscany. It is, in fact, a town stuck like a limpet to the sheer cliffs of the Amalfi Coast in Campania. Apparently the perpendicular town of Positano was founded by Neptune for his beloved nymph, Pasitea, after whom the town was named. It has been inhabited by the Greeks, Romans, Saracens and Normans – plus plenty of others. In the Middle Ages, Positano was an important trading port. It went through hard times, as did all this region, but then in the early 20th Century, it became popular with writers and artists from Germany and Russia. Following on from this, Positano was discussed in a seminal essay by John Steinbeck in Harper’s Bazaar in 1953 which brought about an influx of writers, artists and other bohemian types who extolled the virtues of the town. A tourist boom followed.

For me, Positano is the place where Marcello takes Frances to meet his family. They share a meal and some homemade Limoncello. Later, they walk along the Spiaggia Grande – the main beach of Positano, and here they have their first kiss. They also adopt a little black kitten here. For those who have not watched "Under the Tuscan Sun" this may sound like gibberish. But this wonderful setting, plus a drop dead gorgeous Italian man named Marcello, a beautiful American recently divorced girl named Frances…well, Positano was the most romantic and beautiful place on earth.

On this trip, we were spending a few days in the beautiful town of Sorrento. Using it as our base to explore the Amalfi Coast, we took a bus from Sorrento to Positano. This proved to be an amazing adventure in itself. A scary, exhilarating drive along a road which clings precariously to the sheer cliff, snakes left, then right, then left, and the drop down the cliff to the ocean is breathtaking. Much horn blowing and skilful driving bring us eventually to Positano. No cars, let alone busses, are allowed down into the town. We alight the bus at a spot where the view is priceless. After many photos, we walk down the steep narrow roadway to the town and to the Spiaggia Grande, the main beach. I tell my companions I simply MUST walk on the brown sand beach that Marcello and Frances walked.

The steep road that led from the bus stop down to the township and beach was lined on one side with curious looking antique stores on one side, and a sheer drop down to the beach on the other, with buildings stuck precariously down the rock face at all angles. Only mopeds are allowed here, and their constant buzz was quite noticeable.

We reached the bottom and there were stalls and shops on every square inch. We were really interested in a footpath vendor who was selling bright blue turquoise jewellery, along with bright reddish coral jewellery. My son bought me some carved coral earrings. I loved them. I spotted a black cat looking up at the jewellery and took a great photo. One of my favourite memories.

We walked out onto the Spiaggia Grande. There were boardwalks over the sand to reach the beach. By Australian standards, this beach was nothing to write home about. However in the context of the surrounding scenery of sheer cliffs with pastel coloured houses and villas clinging precariously, the cobalt blue of the Mediterranean Sea, the whole Italian thing….well, this was paradise.

We walked along the beach where Marcello and Frances dallied, found a lovely little bar/restaurant, and ordered a carafe of Italian white wine. Bliss. Or should I say, 'Bellisimo’. A cute beach boy (don’t really know his job role) was at our beck and call on the beach, but we were not really interested in the water sports on the beach, just walking on it. We were also just interested in relaxing and enjoying our wine.

We craned our necks to look above us at the houses that seemed stuck onto the cliff with Blu-tac. Pink, blue, yellow. Some white balustrades on little verandas. Every house in Positano must have a view of the blue Mediterranean sea.

After a time, we wandered through the maze of laneways and narrow streets, exploring the shops, and admiring the range of clothes and tourist wares for sale. We thought Positano was a fairybook town in a wonderful setting.

Time to climb back up the hill to catch the bus from Positano over to the towns of Amalfi and Salerno. We climbed the steep climb easily, as the view is just so stunning that it is a pleasure to take it slowly and enjoy the view.

We reached the bus stop. More and more people came along and the bus shelter was filled to over flowing. No bus. We waited for 3 hours. Eventually a bus came from the other direction, heading back the way we came from Sorrento. Earlier this morning, we had checked out of our accommodation in Sorrento and had train bookings for this evening from Sorrento back to Rome. We had to go.

We were disappointed that we didn’t get to explore more of the Amalfi Coast, and the towns of Salerno and Amalfi. However, we did get to see Positano and it was time to return to Sorrento, collect our luggage, and catch the train to Pompeii where we intended to explore the ruins before continuing our train journey up to Rome where we had accommodation booked.

The time spent at the bus stop at Positano was not wasted. I have yet to see another bus stop in the world with such a view. What a gorgeous town; what a gorgeous view. Arivaderci Positano. Marcello, my phone number is …..

Ciao.

Recipe for Limoncello from Zia Maria’s authentic Italian recipe http://www.squidoo.com/homemade-limoncello-recipe#module147777976

The Ingredients

• 8 organic (yellow) lemons.
• A 750 ml bottle of Vodka
• 3 1/2 cups of white Sugar (about 25 oz or 800 grams).
• 750 ml of Water.

The first thing we have to do is take the lemons, wash them with a lot of water and peel the zest off.
The lemons must be yellow and not green
Stay away from the pith (the white part); we will just use the coloured part, because the pith will give a bitter flavour to our Limoncello.
I usually use a vegetable peeler for that, but you can use anything you want.
Now we need to put the lemon zest inside the alcohol, and let it macerate for about 48 to 72 hours. You may probably want to separate the alcohol in two bottles, otherwise the zests will not fit.
Put a cap on those bottles, they have to be closed hermetically, and keep them away from sunlight. And now, we wait...

Zia Maria's Italian Limoncello recipe continues like this: Put the 750 ml of water to boil on a pot, turn the flame off and then add the sugar.
We just want the water and the sugar to mix together, we are not making any caramel here.
Let it cool for about 5 to 10 minutes and then add the alcohol from our macerated lemon zests to the pot. You can use a strainer, since we do not want the zests here.
Combine everything, put it in bottles and wait for it to cool off.
Once is cool, put those bottles in the freezer. Limoncello is best served chilled after a meal as a digestive liqueur.

Buon Limoncello!

The Amalfi Coast - Capri

2011-05-21T14:18:00.004+10:00

An Italian Love Affair

I have had a love affair with the Island of Capri since I was about 10 years old. It started with a book that I borrowed time and time again from my local library called “Secret of the Blue Grotto” by Kelman Dalgety Frost. This book fired my imagination and probably was the catalyst for a lifelong love of adventure, travel, and wonderful places.

I did not own a copy of “Secret of the Blue Grotto” until nearly 50 years later, when I was able to find it on Amazon. I cannot describe the excitement I felt when I received the email from Amazon telling me that a copy had eventually become available. The weeks I waited for that parcel to arrive were akin to a child waiting for their birthday, counting down the days, even hours.

When I got the parcel, I was touched deeply by an inscription written inside the hardcover in a childish hand. “Will the new owner of this book please phone Lisa at 825354. Date: 2nd September 1986”. My eyes misted over. To think that there was another young girl out there somewhere who, 24 years ago, was sad to part with this book.

Lisa read this book 20 years after I did. I read the book that very night. It was so familiar, yet there were bits I didn’t remember. As I finished reading and was about to turn out the light, I hugged the book to my chest, much as I would have, I imagine, back in 1965 when I first read it. To Lisa, wherever you are, thank you for this book and I will treasure it for as long as I live.

In 1977 I first visited the Isle of Capri. I discovered that the Italians call it Capri – with the emphasis on the CAP only sounds like CUP. So romantic the way they say it. I was 22 and I loved it. The whole time I was there, Kelman Frost’s book was at the forefront of my mind. All I wanted to do was to see the famous Blue Grotto, or La Grotta Azzurra.

Visiting the Grotto is dependent on the weather and sea conditions on the day. The entrance is so low that if there is any swell at all, no boats can enter. Luckily for me, that day back in 1977, the seas dropped by lunch time, enabling me to visit this special place for the first time.

Fast forward now until 2007. Thirty years since my first visit to the Blue Grotto, I visited again, this time with my son Matt. I regaled him with my love of Kelman Frost’s novel (at this stage I had not yet become an owner of the book). We lined up on the Marina Grande, Capri’s main harbour, and waited for over an hour for tickets to see the Blue Grotto.

The launch, holding about 12 passengers, motored around the island’s rugged high cliffs until it reached the low hole in the cliff face which was the entrance to the Grotto.

We transferred here, two to a boat, into a small, low dingy. The oarsman skilfully manoeuvred the boat outside the entrance, waiting for our turn to enter. Many little boats were jostling in the choppy swell to maintain their position in the queue.

At last it was our turn. We were told to lie down in the boat. He propelled us forward with a skilful thrust of his oar, then he quickly lay down kind of on top of us as the right wave came and swept us through the low entrance on its swell, and into the most surreal, most beautiful and wondrous sight that you could imagine. The pristine, iridescent blue waters of the Grotto Azzurra. This place was once visited by the Romans way back in 79 AD and was a favourite resort for several Roman Emperors, including Octavia, Augustus II, and of course, Tiberius.

Our oarsman told us to sit up. It took a moment or two for our eyes to adjust. There were several boats like ours in there. The magnificent cavern echoed with the voices of our Italian oarsmen, singing Italian opera, each trying to out sing the next in volume. I stuck my hand over the gunwale and saw how the water made my hand look white, really white, glowing.

The light from outside squeezes in through the low cave opening that the boats come through. There is also, apparently, a lower opening down under the water. The refraction of the sunlight coming through this little opening causes it to glow upwards through the water, thus giving it the eerie but beautiful blue glow.

All too soon, we were out in the bright sunlight again and being ferried back to the Marina Grande. We walked around the little port and eventually decided to stop for lunch at one of the restaurants. We had a lovely meal with an unbelievably wonderful view of the harbour.

Time to head up to the main town, Capri, which sits perched atop the high cliffs behind the Marina Grande. There is a funicular (cable railway) which climbs steeply up the 250 metre high cliffs to Capri. There is also a very steep, very narrow road, which zigzags its way up there. Only a local would attempt to drive up. The queue for the funicular was long, as the perfect hot, sunny day had drawn more than the usual large crowds of day trippers to the island. We opted for a taxi. We climbed into an open top Volvo with a jaunty coloured stripe canvas awning over the top and tassels hanging from its edges in a fringe of colour and jauntiness.

The drive up the steep, narrow road was an experience. It was like being on a roller coaster ride at Dreamworld. Occasionally we would pass a pedestrian who obviously did not value their life. Hairpin bends, horns blaring, a sudden stop as we would encounter another taxi wanting to come down the one lane roadway. It was fun. It was soooooooooo Italian!!

The taxi dropped us at the busy town square of Capri. The view down to Marina Grande, to the blue Mediterranean and across to Naples was magnificent. We could see Mt Vesuvius standing majestically out from the hazy shadow of the mainland.

Capri town is a thriving, bustling place made of white washed buildings, cobblestones, narrow alleyways, and designer shops. No cars are allowed in the town, and the cobblestones are well worn by the feet of millions

of visitors. It is crowded and expensive; designer shops are not for us. We see the well heeled rich people shopping, and indeed many celebrities make this their summer vacation town, including the likes of Elton John who is a regular visitor. We wanted to see beyond the tourist things, and hopefully get a taste of the history of this place.

Way back in 29 BC, Caesar Augustus visited this island. He loved it so much that he bought it. Well, actually he traded it for the island of Ischia which he owned. His successor, Tiberius lived on Capri and was responsible for building many villas between the years 27 and 37 AD, the ruins of which are still standing.

So, instead of following the glitterati, we followed a steep and winding cobblestone path upwards through the town, passing villas and homes, stopping to look at breathtakingly beautiful scenery overlooking the island and the Bay of Naples. We had no map, we just wanted to explore. It was one of the most exciting days of our trip. It was hot and sunny, making us feel homesick, as the weather was reminiscent of our gorgeous Queensland.

We bought bottles of water and walked for hours. Bougainvillea, majestic in its purple, draped everywhere, over high white walls, over wrought iron gates. Flowering oleanders in pink and white added to the colour. Combined with the blue of the sky and the intense cobalt of the sea beyond, our walk was an intense photo shoot to try and capture the beauty of the day and the place.

We found a sign saying Arco Naturale. Hmm, Natural Arch. That sounded good. So we set off to find it. We walked for a couple of hours, every now and then seeing a sign post. We passed no one. It was quiet, firstly in the outer ring of homes and then into the bush. We passed many little devotional grottoes with statues of the Virgin Mary. The Italians are very devoted to her and they leave flowers at these little memorials along the roadsides.

A peaceful walk, no traffic, the hot sun beating down. How wonderful to be in this place. Out of the blue, we came upon a café carved into a rock cliff along our track. It had little tables with white cloths. I stopped a waiter. “Si si, Arco Naturale” and he pointed for us to keep on walking. Eventually we found it. A magnificent arch of rock, suspended over a drop of several hundred metres, right down to the blue water below. We spotted some tourist boats bobbing way, way down, so tiny they were mere dots. We stayed in this place for an hour. We took photos and soaked in the view and the peace. A little kitten came to talk to us. Other than that, we were alone.

Time to head back. We were tired now from our long walk, but the walk back was easier as it was more downhill than up. We arrived back in the town of Capri and bought a gelato before catching the bus back down to the Marina Grande. Time to board the hydrofoil back to Sorrento. I was sad to leave this place that has been so fascinating to me all my life.

It had been a long day, but Mother Nature was to leave us with one last parting gift. As we stood on the back deck of the hydrofoil as it sped across the Bay of Naples to Sorrento, she put on the most spectacular golden sunset that we had ever seen.

A fitting, regal end to a wonderful day of beauty, adventure and a trip down memory lane. I imagine that Kelman Dalgety Frost also stood on the back of a boat, staring back at the monolithic shape of Capri as she rises up out of the sea with her sheer rock cliffs. I imagine him also being blessed by the sunset of Capri, and standing out on deck until it could no longer be seen.

Ciao Capri. Ciao Kelman. Ciao little Lisa, who has bequeathed her book to me.

Map courtesy of www.planetware.com

Toowoomba

2011-05-14T11:46:00.001+10:00

Four months ago, to the day, the beautiful city of Toowoomba was devastated when a so-called inland tsunami – a massive wall of extremely fast moving water, swept all in its path and inundated the Central Business District.

Toowoomba, which has a population of 90,000 people, and which sits majestically high on the edge of the Great Dividing Range about 700 metres, or 2300 feet above sea level, is about 120 kilometers inland from Brisbane.

People scratch their heads, wondering how on earth such a flash flood could occur so far inland, and so high up on a sharp precipice which is only reachable by a very steep, winding road from the plains of the Lockyer Valley below.

Yesterday, whilst looking out of my 4th floor hotel window in Ruthven Street, Toowoomba’s main street, I could see why. All around me, just out of the CBD, is a ring of hills. Toowoomba, apparently, is situated in an ancient volcanic crater. And the Central Business District of this thriving, bustling city, is smack in the middle.

Several creeks meander through Toowoomba – Gowrie Creek, East Creek, West Creek – and they all lead to a very obvious depression in the landscape. This depression is filled with beautiful parkland, and car parks for the many businesses.

On 10th January 2011, the rainfall was so heavy. The weeks preceding had also had heavy rains. The ground was saturated. The rain that day just bucketed down. It was too much for the normally little creeks. They burst their banks and inundated the city streets, businesses, homes.

Furniture from a major furniture store was floating down streets that were now a 2 metre deep muddy brown, raging and deadly torrent. Within seconds, the city centre was effectively split in two by the swollen and raging creeks that were sweeping cars and four-wheel-drives before it at an amazingly fast speed.

The video footage of this horrendous event was shown on all the TV news shows. Who could ever forget seeing the family of three sitting atop their small hatchback as it hurtled at a great pace down the main street, rocking and bucking, desperately waiting to be rescued. The footage was replayed over and over. People clinging to trees as vans and cars standing on their ends swept past them at who knows what speed. Hands reaching out to hands, people being plucked to safety. And the inevitability of hands slipping away, never to be seen again.

The main western train line that runs into Toowoomba from Brisbane, and then out the other side to service all the towns of the Queensland outback, was cut off because of the track footings being washed out from under the rails, and because of cars that had been smashed hard up against the rail until their brand and make were unrecognisable.

Of course, as we know, this devastating flash flood, or inland tsunami as it was called, was not the end of the road for this massive, angry, rushing wall of water that was hell bent on wrecking lives and homes, of wiping out towns that got in its way, and of eventually contributing to the flooding of the third largest city in Australia, Brisbane. So many lives lost

As I travelled up the Warrego Highway from Brisbane towards Toowoomba, I passed through all the towns and crossed all the waterways that, back in January, had me transfixed to the television. The news broadcasts showed places I knew so well, suddenly non-existent.

I passed through the black fertile plains of the Lockyer Valley whose crops, farms, homes had all been destroyed. Once I got to Helidon, another town that lost many of its homes, and saw the turnoff to Ground Zero – the little township of Grantham – I was surprisingly reminded of a drive I did through the north-west of France and through Belgium, passing town after town with names such as Ardennes, Amiens, Villers-Bretonneux, Ypres.

I remember wondering, as I was driving along the highways of that faraway land, at the marvellous resilience of humankind. To rise from the worst, to rebuild, and to once again live peacefully, even after enduring such horror and losing so many loved ones.

Between Helidon and the foot of the range, is the little town of Withcott, until now famous for the fact that there was always a copper sitting just inside the 60 kph zone as you passed through, waiting to zap you. Everybody, absolutely everybody, makes sure they reduce their speed to 60 kph as they enter Withcott. Well, now Withcott is famous for being one of the towns that was hit with the raging wall of water that spilled mysteriously over the lip of the Great Dividing Range at Toowoomba, and flew down the mountain, wiping out little hamlets such as Postman’s Ridge and Murphy’s Creek. It also tried to wipe out Withcott. As I was crawling through the town – the main highway is the one and only main street of this little farming town – I could see wrecked buildings, all unrecognisable except for a wrecked petrol station which was no longer open for business.

I climbed the range. A lovely dual carriageway of black that winds very steeply to the top that always has large semi-trailers crawling up at snail pace in the left lane, and cars cautiously making their way past them in the right lane, this piece of highway is famous for the fact that the large semi’s often cannot make it to the bottom of the range without losing their brakes and flying over the side of the cliff and into the gullies below. It is also famous for its bellbirds. I remember as a child, we would climb the range in our very old, burnt out VW Kombi Van that barely made it up, and would go so slow that we could easily hear the beautiful call of the bellbirds, our windows wound right down, letting in the glorious sound. But this day, it was also famous for being the carriageway that carried some of the massive wall of water that flew down and through Withcott, then kept going, flattening all that stood in its path, particularly the town of Grantham.

For anyone who has ever climbed the Toowoomba Range, as it is called, you will know the sense of surprise when, all of a sudden, you pop out of the steep climb and into the verdant green, beautiful city of Toowoomba, the Garden City. This part of the trip never fails to make me happy.

As I stand at the window of my hotel room, I see the volcanic crater rim, I look down into the streets that were shown on television, and I shake my head with a total lack of comprehension at the fearful might of Mother Nature. Mother Nature - one minute so generous, the next meting out punishment to innocent people with rage and fury so violent, so unstoppable, that one wonders why.

I doubt anyone will forget that day. To the memory of those who died in the terrible tragedy that hit this beautiful city on 10th January, may you all rest in peace, and may your families eventually find comfort. To those who risked their own lives saving others, thank you.

ABC news footage of the minutes when the inland tsunami hit: http://www.abc.net.au/news/video/2011/01/10/3109884.htm

These photos courtesy http://www.couriermail.com.au/

Journey with a friend

2011-04-08T09:48:00.003+10:00

This is my good friend Patricia Sailor, singing her heart out. The plump acoustic guitarist is me, Rani Ratani on electric lead, Teresa Radburn on bass, and Barry Phillips on pedal steel. Pat won the comp that weekend. What a girl. Click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cnvOJNbXArU&feature=email

Big love

2011-03-23T15:03:00.008+10:00

I cannot let this momentous occasion in my life, and that of my family, pass without acknowledging it. Anderson Thomas Dabrowny came into this world on Sunday 20th March 2011. My first grandson. A beautiful, perfect, innocent, human being.

My grandson, Anderson, has made my heart skip a beat. I cannot believe the depth of love that I feel for him...in such a short space of time. He is still only 2 1/2 days old.

To my little man Anderson: Welcome! I promise to love you and care for you forever.

Nana.

Road map for journey through life

2011-02-10T11:19:00.004+10:00

I stumbled upon this. I can't think of a better way of finding my way through life's journey than these directions. See what you think.

Written by Regina Brett, 90 years old, of the Plain Dealer, Cleveland , Ohio . "To celebrate growing older, I once wrote the 45 lessons life taught me. It is the most requested column I've ever written.My odometer rolled over to 90 in August, so here is the column once more:

1. Life isn't fair, but it's still good.

2. When in doubt, just take the next small step.

3. Life is too short to waste time hating anyone.

4. Your job won't take care of you when you are sick. Your friends and parents will. Stay in touch.

5. Pay off your credit cards every month.

6. You don't have to win every argument. Agree to disagree.

7. Cry with someone. It's more healing than crying alone.

8. It's OK to get angry with God. He can take it.

9. Save for retirement starting with your first paycheck.

10. When it comes to chocolate, resistance is futile.

11. Make peace with your past so it won't screw up the present.

12. It's OK to let your children see you cry.

13. Don't compare your life to others. You have no idea what their journey is all about.

14. If a relationship has to be a secret, you shouldn't be in it.

15. Everything can change in the blink of an eye. But don't worry; God never blinks.

16. Take a deep breath. It calms the mind.

17. Get rid of anything that isn't useful, beautiful or joyful.

18. Whatever doesn't kill you really does make you stronger.

19. It's never too late to have a happy childhood. But the second one is up to you and no one else.

20. When it comes to going after what you love in life, don't take no for an answer.

21. Burn the candles, use the nice sheets, wear the fancy lingerie. Don'ts save it for a special occasion. Today is special.

22. Over prepare, then go with the flow.

23. Be eccentric now. Don't wait for old age to wear purple.

24. The most important sex organ is the brain.

25. No one is in charge of your happiness but you.

26. Frame every so-called disaster with these words 'In five years, will this matter?'

27. Always choose life.

28. Forgive everyone everything.

29. What other people think of you is none of your business.

30. Time heals almost everything. Give time time.

31. However good or bad a situation is, it will change.

32. Don't take yourself so seriously. No one else does.

33. Believe in miracles.

34. God loves you because of who God is, not because of anything you did or didn't do.

35. Don't audit life. Show up and make the most of it now.

36. Growing old beats the alternative -- dying young.

37. Your children get only one childhood.

38. All that truly matters in the end is that you loved.

39. Get outside every day. Miracles are waiting everywhere.

40. If we all threw our problems in a pile and saw everyone else's, we'd grab ours back.

41. Envy is a waste of time. You already have all you need.

42. The best is yet to come...

43. No matter how you feel, get up, dress up and show up.

44. Yield.

45. Life isn't tied with a bow, but it's still a gift."

Magical Mystery Tour

2011-01-29T11:22:00.010+10:00

Magical Mystery Tour

A day trip from London to Liverpool in search of the Beatles

I set my alarm for 5.15am and ventured into a very cold, dark London to catch the tube from Pimlico to Euston Station. I felt very brave setting out into the gloom, but as I had decided to do a Beatles tour of Liverpool, I was keen to get going on my adventure.

On arrival at Euston Station, I had arranged to meet up with the travel bureau representative (I was told to look for the man in the turban) to get my maps, tickets and instructions. I found him in the busy hall of the station and he handed me a brown envelope, and told me I was on my own. This was to be a self-guided tour, but the tour company had organized all my train bookings and I had a pre-paid bus tour in the afternoon to look forward to.

I waited on the right platform to catch the fast train to Liverpool which is about 250 miles from London. The journey from London to Liverpool takes three hours and the train was very comfortable. I took some breakfast bars and a small drink to have on the train and settled back to enjoy the glorious view from my window as I looked out over the gorgeous English countryside bathed in very early sunlight. I enjoyed the train trip very much.

There is a great system of canals in Britain and the train line followed it for miles through towns like Milton Keynes, Crewe, Stafford, Nuneaton. I could see scores of barges and riverboats, locks that village people would open to let boats through, little villages with the canal right in town, houses whose front yards were the canal, I could see old men sitting on the canal bank in the middle of nowhere fishing, farms, cows lined up to be milked, funny little black-faced sheep. I also saw the strange banded cows that I saw in Ireland which are apparently called Belted (or Banded) Galways. They are black with a broad white band right around their tummies. But most were just normal black and white cows (are they Friesians?). The English countryside is very beautiful and interesting. Bathed in the greens and golds of autumn, with quaint, steep-roofed houses, mostly white or stone, lots of hedges and rock walls for fences, and colourful flowers everywhere, I felt truly blessed to be enjoying such pretty English countryside.

When I arrived in the large transit centre in Liverpool, it was as chilly as London with a stiff cold wind blowing. With trusty map in hand I wandered down to Mathew Street which is only 10 or 15 minutes from Liverpool Lime Street Station and entered what they call the "Cavern Quarter" - in other words, the "Beatles" quarter.

As those of you who are old enough would know, the Cavern Club is where the Beatles first played as teenagers, firstly as the Quarrymen, then as the Beatles. The area is shamelessly cashing in on the "Four Lads" as they call them, with Lennon's Bar, The Revolution Club, Coffee @ Lennon’s, Hard Days Night Hotel, Quarry Quarter, Cavern Pub (not to be confused with Cavern Club), and, to thaw out from the biting stiff, cold wind, I had a nice hot coffee in the Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds Cafe!!

There was also a Beatles Shop here, so I ventured in and it was full of the usual types of souvenirs, but they also had some very old memorabilia. I bought a couple of little things thinking it was the only shop in town for me to get some Beatles merchandise. However, further down the lane in a newish shopping complex, I found a much nicer shop with a friendly man and his stuff was very good. Do you remember those awful old brown Beatles Wigs that were all the rage in the early 60s? Well, believe it or not they are a collector's item now (wonder why) and fetch at least 50 pounds.

The lanes of the Cavern Quarter are filled with statues of the Beatles - some good, one dead set ugly - and the main things are the wall of fame showing all the talent that Liverpool has produced who have had number one hits. One I did not realise was a Liverpudlian was the great Freddy Mercury. I later saw the building where they (the band Queen) got their name and logo from. On top of one of the buildings is the word Queen and the logo that they used on their records of the unicorn and crown. Cilla Black, Gerry and the Pacemakers, those Gallagher fellers,Rick Astley, Elvis Costello, Billy Fury and lots of others. Liverpool certainly has produced some great singers.

After a good look around this area (the Cavern and Pub were not open yet and they are filled with memorabilia too so I made a mental note to visit them later), I wandered down to Albert Dock. Walking through Liverpool was interesting. As in all places I visited, there are major construction works. They are on a bit of a high economically speaking and there are lots of roadworks and building going on. A real pain for tourists but good for the area. Liverpool itself is a little hilly, not steep, but enough to give it a bit of character. The architecture is quite attractive with a good mix of old and new. It was founded in 1207 so when I was there (2007) it was celebrating its 800th birthday. It has some nice little grassy squares with statues, some really lovely old buildings and the new ones don't jar the eye like they do in some places. I rather liked Liverpool.

I finally got down to the Merseyside Docklands and the Albert Dock area is just lovely. I kept humming "Ferry cross the Mersey" to myself. The whole area is a series of Docks but this one is a square of water surrounded on all sides by massive old Dock buildings which now house several important museums such as the Maritime Museum. It has restaurants, cafes, nice shops and a big Holiday Inn hotel in the complex. But I was headed for the Beatles Museum (called the Beatles Story Exhibition). I must say it was very good. I spent a couple of hours in there with an audio guide but they also had vision and sound on each exhibit. It traced the story of the Beatles from their birth until the end but did it very tastefully and with genuine items and real things such as their clothes, John's glasses, gold records etc that have been donated by the Beatles themselves and their families. They also had their guitars, rare photos and the exhibition culminated in a reproduction of the Cavern Club complete with a set of Ringo's drums. I liked it.

I emerged into the brisk windy freezing day and had a sandwich in a cafe, after which I went to the bus stop to catch the yellow bus which would take me on the "Magical Mystery Tour". How exciting. The bus was full and they played Beatles music on it and the guide was very knowledgeable and apparently is himself a bit of a celeb in Liverpool as he appears in a movie about them and knows Paul McCartney and his brother Mike. (I later found out that the guide played the character, Phil, in the movie ‘Across the Universe’ which, at the time, had not been released in Australia.)

Our Magical Mystery Tour yellow bus took us to absolutely everywhere, with a very good commentary from our guide. We visited Penny Lane, Strawberry Fields, the birthplaces and houses of George, Paul, John and Ringo, saw their schools, their churches. Our guide explained how the words of ‘Penny Lane’ were really just Paul and John describing the scene they knew so well of this area, a little shopping village in one of the suburbs of Liverpool near their home. ‘Strawberry Fields’ is a large common and the line ‘nothing to get hung about’ in the song referred to John once getting into big trouble for once wagging school and spending the day in the bushy and overgrown park. “Nothing to get hung about, Strawberry Fields forever”.
The bus tour was really great and I loved it. After two and a half hours or more, the bus dropped us back at the Cavern Club in Mathew Street. By now it was open and so I went in and they have the actual stage from the early Beatles days which they rescued from the original (now demolished Cavern Club) and rebuilt it. I sat there on a bar stool, drinking a Bulmer’s Cider, listened to Beatles music playing loudly, and let my mind conjure up the sights and sounds that were so familiar to me from the early sixties.

I was tired now and slowly walked back up the hill from the Beatles Quarter towards Liverpool Lime Street station. My feet hurt from the hours of walking I had done. My train back to Euston departed Lime Street at 6.15 and arrived at about 9pm. I then tubed it back to Pimlico Station and crossed the road up to Matt’s flat. It was a very interesting and fun Magical Mystery Tour day! A great day trip from London that is a little different from the usual Cotswolds or Stonehenge tour. Highly recommended.
Photos coming shortly for all you Beatles tragics like myself.

"Words are flying out like
endless rain into a paper cup
They slither while they pass
They slip away across the universe
Pools of sorrow waves of joy
are drifting through my open mind
Possessing and caressing me

Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world

Images of broken light which
dance before me like a million eyes
That call me on and on across the universe
Thoughts meander like a
restless wind inside a letter box
they tumble blindly as
they make their way across the universe

Sounds of laughter shades of life
are ringing through my open ears
exciting and inviting me
Limitless undying love which
shines around me like a million suns
It calls me on and on across the universe

Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world"

c. Beatles

A Week in Paris - Day 7

2011-01-15T14:35:00.004+10:00

I awake to my last day in Paris. How sad. As I lay in bed enjoying a lazy morning, a rare treat, I allow myself to think back over the last week. I have just loved it and being here for a week has allowed me to get to see not only all the famous monuments and typical tourist things, but I have also become very adept at using the Metro (much easier, cleaner and cooler than the London tube), at meeting and talking to locals, using the supermarkets they use. I feel like I have Parisian blood flowing through my veins.

Paris is a simply magical place. The French people are just great; the food, wine and coffee superb; my French has been most adequate; our Hotel just great, its location could not be better, rooms small but clean and staff most helpful - above and beyond really. I have been getting around on the Metro as if I am a local and hoofing it everywhere. I am sad to be leaving, but as I lay here, I at last get the chance to reflect on just how good my week in Paris really was.

I was able to fulfill another wish, which was to be out there walking early enough to observe Paris coming awake. The very early pre-dawn walk with Matt last Saturday was a special memory. Parisians are not early risers so it was a good chance to see the city yawning and stretching and awakening without the rush and bustle of the crowds. We saw the garbage men emptying bins and people hosing down footpaths. We were spoiled with the wonderful aromas emanating from the bakers and patisserie shops, early workers making nice things - bagels, buttery croissants, tarts, sweet cakes and the first round of long French bagels for early sale to the locals for their breakfast. We saw cats, we saw homeless people asleep on benches. We pounded the footpaths, delighting in the quirky white hands that someone had painted coming out of the sewer manholes. We really experienced Paris from a level that is not superficial, but allowed us to absorb the hum of the city, the day to day awakenings, lunch times, and the bight and lively evenings. Paris in all her moods.

Eventually I wander downstairs for breakfast in the little cavern in the basement of the Cabourg. As I enjoy my meal of croissants and bagels, butter and jam, OJ and yummy coffee, I muse that this continental brekky may not sound terribly healthy to overweight Aussies like me, but I saw few fat French people.

Before heading back up to pack, I stop at the desk for a brief chat with the friendly staff, jump on their internet briefly, and then say goodbye to Nina, the lovely old cat who befriends anyone who uses the internet. Very old but very friendly, he (or perhaps she), during the course of my stay here, got into the habit of sitting on the keyboard as I typed my emails to everyone at home. I used to speak to him in my basic French, but am convinced he understood Aussie too! Au revoir Nina.

I pack my bags, leave the Hotel du Cabourg, and head up the road to the Place de Clichy Metro station, catch the train to Pere Lachaise where I have to change lines to reach Galleni which is where the Bus Station is. Hmmmm, nowhere to stash my suitcase so am destined to idle away three hours here before my bus leaves at 2pm. As all travellers know, it is important to be patient and to get used to waiting. I have books, my iPod, I can buy a sandwich and a coffee. But when it comes time to go to the bathroom, it is VERY awkward with the suitcase. For a start, you need coins to use the toilet. I don’t have any. I eventually ask a leaving user to let me in the cubicle before the door locks again. Then I have the awful realisation that my suitcase just won’t fit in the toilet. I do what all travellers are urged not to do. I leave my suitcase outside the cubicle for a minute or two. What else can I do?

Eventually the National Bus is loaded with luggage and passengers, all set for the journey back to London via the train under the channel. It is another glorious warm, sunny summer day in France and so I get to really see and enjoy the French countryside as we leave the suburbs behind and wend our way onto the highways. On the trip in last week, it was raining heavily and I could not see nor enjoy it. The farms remind me strongly of the Darling Downs after good rain (when was that?), but every few minutes, it seems, we pass gorgeous little villages with steeply roofed houses made of dark brick. There is a cemetery for each little village and each one is dominated by a tall, elegant spire of the village church. Beautiful. Crops seem to be mostly beans, potatoes and big rolls of hay. My mind wanders here as I try to imagine what it was like during the war, for we are in the Amiens area and there are several monuments to the war along the roadsides, mostly as thanks to the Americans and Canadians (alas I don’t see one to Australians but I’m sure there is one somewhere).

The road from Paris to Calais passes through Amiens, Chantilly, Arques, and heads up towards Lille and Dunkerque – right in the top left hand corner of France, near Belgium. As I enjoy watching in the peaceful farmland that glides by, I cannot help but think back to the wars and the horror that overtook these peaceful fields. Trying to imagine the trenches of the First World War in these verdant, picturesque landscape is difficult, and I imagine that this is what it was like prior to the war too. Even in Paris – where the Germans occupied the city and moved into its main buildings – one can see signs which point to a certain resilience in the French psyche that enables them to retain their own sense of identity even after the indignity of being invaded and having endured war in their own back yard. The French people seem fiercely Republican and everywhere (even in our hotel lobby) they unashamedly display their flag en masse.

The coach carries us along the smooth French motorway and a little more than three hours later we arrive at the Tunnel Port at Calais. Coming over from England last week, it was simply a matter of holding up our passports for the Police to glance at. Not here. Firstly several passengers are frog marched off the bus and the rest of us have to sit for a considerable time, wondering when we will be allowed to continue our journey. After about an hour we are told that we all have to disembark, take ALL our luggage (my suitcase, backpack and handbag), line up and suffer the embarrassment of having our suitcases opened, rummaged through and inspected in full view of everyone else from the bus in our line up. I had packed some little piccolo champagnes that Matt and I had bought but not yet drunk. The three people in front of me all undergo major inspections, with everything opened and searched thoroughly. The lady in front of me has all her personal stuff ripped out in front of everyone. I feel so sorry for her as it is embarrassing. The French Customs seem very aggressive to her, making her show her paperwork over and over. They find one small champagne bottle in her suitcase, but also search through her makeup purse, toiletries…everything. I begin to feel a rising anxiety as my first thoughts are that it is champagne bottle which has the Customs interested. My turn, and my suitcase is scanned in the x-ray machine and clearly shows my bottles. In French, the Customs officer asks me about them. I tell him I have three small piccolos, then he surprises me by saying “right you may leave Madame”….YIPPEE. I am relieved, I can tell you. I mean, I knew travellers are allowed to take small amounts of alcohol so I knew I was doing no wrong, but… well, I am glad that is over.

We all eventually file back on the bus. But that’s where we stay for another two and a half hours!! We are told that several passports do not check out. It is hot. There is no toilet (I have become good at holding off for 8 hours or more), and the poor bus driver was becoming agitated as our bus is by now way behind schedule. We miss firstly one train, then another….

Eventually we are allowed to leave – we move literally 100 yards to the BRITISH Immigration – and then are told to alight once more. This time it is just passport checks but, honestly, the manner of the British Customs is really quite abrupt and makes us all quite anxious. I am asked questions such as: Travelling alone are you? Ohhhhh. Where have you been? Just a holiday Madam? How long were you there? Where will you be staying in the UK?

Being an Australian I am allowed through the border gate but not before being thoroughly scrutinised. I once again climb back on the bus, but the same three passengers are detained again. Another hour passes and we wait. It is useless to complain or even to ask questions. I am beginning to worry as at this rate, I will be arriving in London quite late and must make my way down to Pimlico with all my luggage, in the dark. Eventually, our bus is ushered onto the Euro Train a whopping three and a half hours later than it should have.

I finally arrive at Victoria bus station in London at 10.30pm. I sms Matt to tell him I have arrived and then I walk up to Victoria Tube station (2 blocks), to catch the tube to Pimlico and back to Matt’s place where he has a lovely dinner waiting that he had cooked for me.

And so, even though my week in Paris ended in a not so magical way, the memories of this week in the City of Light will live with me forever, or until dementia sets in, whichever comes first.

Au revoir from Paris.

More blogs coming soon.....

2010-11-28T08:33:00.002+10:00

Hello to my vast legion of fans. *wink*. I know you have all been waiting for Day 7 of 'A Week in Paris', but truth is I am in the midst of fairly major renovations of my house in preparation of selling it and having a tree change...moving to the country. I will post again as soon as I can.

Talk to you all soon.
Noelle

A Week in Paris - Day 6

2010-09-21T14:45:00.012+10:00

I wake later than usual. It is hard work being a tourist, and the very full week that Matt and I have had here in Paris is finally catching up with me. But I wander down for breakfast and I feel a little ball of excitement within me as I realise that I am on my own in Paris now. As I eat my croissant, I plan my day.

Ever since reading an article about Pére Lachaise cemetery a while ago, I have wanted to go there. Today, Tuesday, is the perfect day to do that. I also plan to visit the Musee D’Orsay to view the wonderful impressionist art. Other than that, I am not sure what I will see today.

I catch the Metro from Place de Clichy to Pére Lachaise station and find the cemetery without much difficulty. I buy a guide map from a man at the entrance to the cemetery as I’ve been told the place is very large – several acres – and I want to make sure I don’t miss anything that is on my list. The entrance is marked by large gates and as soon as I enter, it is like leaving the hustle and bustle of the big city behind. It is quiet, leafy with lots of large, old and gnarled trees – and lots of headstones and crypts (they call them sepulchres).

Père Lachaise is one of the most famous cemeteries in the world and is reputed to be the world's most-visited cemetery, attracting hundreds of thousands of visitors annually to the graves of those who have enhanced French life over the past 200 years. It is also the site of three World War I memorials. It is named after a Jesuit priest who lived in a house on the site. Over time, it has become the cemetery of choice for the rich and famous.

My mission today is to see the graves of Jim Morrison (legendary lead singer of The Doors who died back in 1971); and to see the grave of Edith Piaf. I recently saw the movie called “La Vie En Rose” (over here it is called La Môme which was the nick name they called her meaning “little one” – she started busking as a child and singing with her father in the streets), and although not an easily likeable character, one has to admire her talent and her ability to overcome the adversities of life to become the icon that she was. She is highly revered here in France. Anyway, these are the two main things I want to do here in this famous cemetery, and I hope to stumble upon some surprises as well. It may sound odd that in this city of so many wonderful sights, I am drawn here. But it is truly peaceful and lovely.

Pére Lachaise Cemetery is hilly, with narrow rough cobblestone paths winding every which way very steeply. It seems to be set on one of the few hills in Paris. The 2 Euros I paid for my map brings some unexpected rewards, as other pilgrims in this place notice me holding it and I am several times stopped by people to let them look. It is easy to get lost in the maze of pathways and each turn looks so much like the last, even with a map. I mean, it’s not like you can knock on a crypt and ask directions. Ha ha. Most people who stop me – all are French – are looking for “Piaf”. That’s all they say – “Piaf”. They must know I am not a local.

I do not realize that there are two entrances so I am finding it hard to navigate my way. I head off for Jim Morrison’s grave first. After quite a while I round a bend and see a small cluster of people gathered round a very nondescript grave (compared to some of the very elaborate and rich looking crypts in the place). Here lies Jim Morrison. His grave is covered with masses of flowers. Not daggy dried, old ones. Fresh ones. Big bouquets, small posies, some obviously from a home garden. I had read that people do pilgrimages to the graves in here. Jim Morrison lived for many years here in Paris (and died here). He was only 28 years old when he died of a drug overdose in 197

"Riders on the storm
Into this house we're born
Into this world we're thrown
Like a dog without a bone
An actor out alone
Riders on the storm"

After a while I set off up the hill to find the resting place of the famous Polish composer, Frederick Chopin. He died in Paris in 1849 at only 39 years of age. Chopin lived and worked (composed and taught piano) in Paris for many years and called it home. Again, wreaths from pilgrims surround the famous man’s grave.

This beautiful, sunny morning spent in Pére Lachaise is like being in a park. I set off again and about 20 minutes later I spot another cluster of people gathered around a small, plain grave with masses of fresh flowers….Edith Piaf. People are crying and obviously moved. One lady is quite overcome as she kneels to lay a bunch of flowers. Edith Piaf was an icon to the French and they are very patriotic, passionate people. She died in 1963 at the age of 48. Piaf had a tragic childhood, being abandoned by her mother and raised by her paternal grandmother. As a little girl she sang on street corners while her father did acrobatic tricks. He noticed more money was thrown in the hat when his daughter sang than when he did his tricks. When Edith was 15, whilst singing in the streets, she was discovered by a nightclub owner, and, because she was tiny and very shy, was given the name by her growing fans of La Môme Piaf (The Little Sparrow). Her popularity came at a time when France was going through a horrendous time in the Second World War, and the poignant songs she wrote, coupled with her nostalgic voice, endeared her to the French people. Non Je Ne Regrette Rien!

There are many other famous writers, artists, composers and actors that I visit (or rather their graves): the Irish writer Oscar Wilde, actors Sarah Bernhardt and Yves Montand, opera singer Maria Callas, writers Colette, Gertrude Stein and the famous dramatist Molière. Certainly a ‘Who’s Who’ of dead people.

I have been in the cemetery for several hours by now so decide to leave and head into town to visit the Musee d’Orsay. I leave the cemetery by the rear gate and find myself in a little square of which I know not the name, but found a Metro station called Gambetta, so caught a train into town. I have enjoyed my walk through Pére Lachaise Cemetery on yet another glorious morning walking in Paris – warm and sunny.

I alight from the Metro into the Quatre Setembre station (would have gone to Opera station but it is closed today). Sometimes I get just a little disorientated when I come up from the Metro and this time I walk for a block in the wrong direction before discovering it. These little excursions are not an annoyance, as I often discover beautiful parts of Paris that I would otherwise not have. Once I come to Rue d’Italienne I realize I have been heading North, not south, so I backtrack and head down towards the Seine.

By now it is about 1.30, and I am hot and thirsty from my walking so drop into our favourite little café on the footpath opposite the Joan of Arc statue and diagonally opposite the Louvre. Matt and I ate here several times and it is such a lovely view, and a nice restaurant. I order a crepe with ham, cheese and mushrooms. Delicious.

Refreshed, I cross one of the nine bridges in Paris and walk the twenty minutes or so to the Musee d’Orsay. This museum is housed in what used to be a major railway station (Gare d’Orsay) which is plain to see from the two very large clocks on its exterior. Story is that it fell into disuse and for many years was not used for anything. In the 1970s, President Pompidou decided to do something and the result is simply stunning. It is a very large building (as all seem to be in Paris) right on the banks of the Seine. A gorgeous spot.

When I arrive at the entrance, I see the long queue but still want to go in. I line up for an hour in the hot sun, pay my 9 Euros and eventually (after bag searches etc) am allowed in. Took my breath away. The long, hot wait has been worth it. The Musee D’Orsay has a large open chamber with a glass ceiling which is five stories high. Therefore, all works (except the pastels) are in natural light. I read that it has been described as the most beautiful museum in the world and I can believe it. The central hall on ground level is all sculptures, with the side wings containing all sorts of works in all sorts of media. The Musee d’Orsay is dedicated solely to the Impressionist works (say from 1850 to 1914), which forms the perfect link between the Louvre which displays Ancient art and the Pompidou Gallery of Modern Art.

I am very lucky as currently there is a visiting exhibition called the “Cezanne/Picasso – Chefs-d’oevre de la galerie Vollard”.I begin my exploration on the ground floor in the sculptures, then wind my way up and through and around and in and out. I am able to take photos except of works in the visiting Vollard exhibition (which is a shame as I saw the original of Rembrandt’s ‘La Nuit etoilee’ - ‘the Night Star’ – a print of which I happen to have hanging in my house and I love it). But I simply drool over my favourite Monet works, am stunned by the colour of the Van Gogh’s, see works by Degas, Gaugin, Picasso, Matisse, Cezanne, Renoir, Rousseau….a very impressive list of artists as anyone would agree… discover that I like the paintings of Pierre Bonnard. I take HEAPS of photos. I love the place and recommend it to anyone. The Musee d’Orsay is large enough to be impressive, but small enough to do properly whereas I found the Louvre is just too immense unless you have plenty of time.

I am amazed that the museum lets us take photos. So long as there is no flash, they were happy with us all taking photos and movie, just not in the visiting exhibition.

When I eventually leave the Orsay, my feet are killing me and my blisters are making squelching noises so I decide to head back to the Hotel Cabourg and rest for a while before going out again for dinner later on. I leave the Orsay at about 6pm and walk back over the Seine and along the Right Bank for about twenty minutes until I get to the Louvre, walk up the Tuileries Jardin and catch the Metro train from Tuileries to Champs Elysee Clemenceau where I change lines, and then get my train up to Place de Clichy.

I rest for a while, then wearily walk up the road at about 8.30pm and find something to eat. Weary but happy is how I end my solo day in Paris – which in reality is my last day even though I don’t leave until 2pm tomorrow. Once you are dragging a suitcase around, you just want to get where you are going.

Another wonderful day. Au revoir.

A Week in Paris - Day 5

2010-09-15T11:20:00.006+10:00

Weariness is setting in. Yesterday was an unbelievably long day. But so much to see and do and so little time. Sadly, Matt has to leave Paris on an afternoon flight as he is due back at his office in London tomorrow, so we need to rise early again.

Our plan is to catch the train out to the Palace of Versailles, see as much as we can, then back into Paris to see the colourful area of Montmartre, and especially the magical looking Sacre Coeur cathedral.

The 20 klm train trip out to Versailles allows us to see the suburbs of Paris. I guess like any city, train lines allow travellers to see into the most unattractive areas of a city, peering into people’s back yards, then blocked in by high walls covered with colourful but ugly graffiti, and a view that only a mother (or daughter?) could love. Now in the glorious sunshine and rattling through the outer suburbs, I find it intriguing being a voyeur, spying into the lives of every day Parisians through their back doors. Mostly apartment buildings at first, then houses with back gardens, then trees that are getting taller with each mile we travel.

About 40 minutes south-west of Paris, the train stops at Versailles-Rive Gauche station where we get off. Matt needs a coffee and so our first port of call is a small café in the town before we walk the 15 or 20 minutes along the treed avenue that leads to the spectacular gilded gates outside Versailles, one of France’s most well-known palaces.

Versailles is famous for many things – for it’s imposing architecture, for it’s unbelievable, highly manicured espaliered and sculptured gardens, for being the place where the papers were signed to signal peace after World War I – the Treaty of Versailles - and for being the home of the ill-fated King Louis XVI and his Austrian wife, Marie Antoinette.

I had visited Versailles on my previous visit to Paris 30 years ago, but this was Matt’s first visit. We are both a bit overwhelmed with the size of the building and the whole estate. Time is our enemy today and we are torn between doing the tour inside the building, or taking a mini-train ride around the estate and visiting Marie Antoinette’s retreat where she spent increasingly more time, relishing in her time away from her husband, and becoming more and more eccentric and odd in her quest to stave off the feelings of loneliness and rejection from the French people.

It is a tough decision – but we decide to do the outside tour. Matt decides that, as he is living a mere stone’s throw across the creek in London, this will not be his last visit to Paris and he will come back here to Versailles and spend a whole day exploring the lavish and rich interior of the palace, trying to absorb the opulence and meet up with the ghost of Marie Antoinette.

We buy our tickets for the little kiddie’s train that is pulled by a tractor and head off on a very bumpy ride along the dirt and gravel roads around the huge estate. We pass groves of beautiful trees, lots of parks with families out in the sunshine, walking, kicking soccer balls, riding bicycles. Our first stop (it is a hop on hop off train and you can get off at many points along the trip, explore, then catch the next train that comes along), is Le Petit Trianon - the summer retreat of Marie Antoinette. Marie – the tragic queen who was brought from her home, her family, to be married to Louis. She was made to reject her language, her family, her heritage, and embrace everything French. She was only 14 years old when she was forced to marry Louis XVI, and in 1774, when her husband ascended the throne, she became Dauphine de France, the Queen, at only 19. She was a square peg in a round hole right from the start and the pressure on her to conceive a child for France was enormous. For anyone reading this who has seen the movie with Kirsten Dunst in the role of Marie, they will be able to envisage the girl who came here to Versailles and the rough time she had. But she apparently hardened up over the years, retreating into a world of eccentricity. As the political climate in France hotted up, the royal family were increasingly seen as useless and irrelevant, and Marie’s infamous throwaway line – “Let them eat cake” – when told of her constituents who were starving because they had run out of bread, will live forever as the epitome of carelessness and irresponsibility.

As everyone knows, poor old Marie and Louis were beheaded in Paris during the French Revolution in 1793. She was 38 and had given birth to four children.

But, on this glorious, sunny, warm, Monday morning, my vision of Marie Antoinette is that of a pretty, blonde Kirsten Dunst, who deserves my sympathy. Probably a very rosy view of her, but it suits me whilst in this peaceful and beautiful place.

Le Petit Trianon was Marie’s retreat. Here she played with her ladies in waiting, partied, and had a good old time.

It is not a big, opulent place, but rather looks to me like a very nice country house. It is surrounded by beautiful fields as far as the eye can see, groves of trees, a very pastoral place. The Petit Trianon was Marie Antoinette's treasured hideaway where she could escape stifling court protocol and her royal responsibilities. No-one, not even, it was said, the king himself, was allowed to enter without the queen's permission. A serious girl zone.

Back on the little train and the next stop is the lake where, looking to the left, we can see the huge palace up on the hill, whilst around us are little hire boats, flowers, gardens, and a lovely little café called ‘la Flottille’ with an outdoor pergola covered in flowering vines and wisteria, where we cannot resist stopping for lunch.

But the clock is ticking, so we reluctantly move from this idyllic and old fashioned lakeside heaven and once again board the train back up to the main palace. We hurry back to the train station so that we can catch the next train back to Paris where we are heading for the bohemian area of Montmartre.

The Metro station at Montmartre has the old fashioned signage which is so, well, Frrrrench!

On the way, we cannot resist stopping to touch and feel the wonderful 19th century Pont Alexandre III , the most beautiful and most decorated bridge over the River Seine in Paris. Part of the construction effort for the 1900 Expo when the Eiffel Tower was created, the Pont Alexandre III has beautifully constructed lamp posts, granite and gilded cherubs and nymphs displayed on it. As the name suggests, the bridge was a joint project between the French and the Russians and was a symbol of the friendship between the two nations.

The basilica of Sacre Coeur is a most imposing, snow white building reminiscent of the Taj Mahal at Agra. It has smooth walls and minarets, and sits atop a very steep and high hill overlooking Paris. It does not look at all French, it is so exotic, yet it is one of the most well known icons of Paris. From the alleys and lanes in the artistic and ‘hippy’ areas of Montmartre, the hill rises sharply, with a very wide, very high staircase leading up to Sacre Coeur. There is also a funicular (cable railway) to take people to the top, but the queue snakes through the milling crowds and Matt and I both know that there is no way Matt will get to visit Sacre Coeur today and still get out to Charles de Gaulle Airport and his flight back to London.

It is hard, but Matt decides to go back to the Cabourg, get his bag, and head out to the airport. It is the most sensible idea, but I suddenly feel sad that this magic time with him in Paris is over. Matt is a wonderful travel companion and we have a synergy which means we are very compatible and like to do the same things, mostly.

Matt is getting harassed by some African men. Paris is full of beggars and pedlars, but these men are scary. They seem to react badly to our normal responses to beggars and street people who can be very full on, and so I agree with Matt that it is best that he goes now. There is also nothing worse than having the pressure of wondering if you will make your plane in time. He has to walk at least half and hour back to the Cabourg Hotel, then back to the Metro, catch trains to the airport with at least 3 line changes along the way. Matt’s French is non-existent and neither of us have any idea how long it will take to actually get right out to the airport which is a long way out of Paris. We say goodbye (me being a sook as usual), and wish each other bon voyage.

I suddenly feel very alone. I am not scared nor nervous. I just suddenly feel alone. I decide to join the queue for the funicular. Once at the top, I am absolutely stunned by the spectre of the snow white building. I have to go and actually touch it, so surreal is it. I spend a long time exploring it from every angle, including inside, but the view from outside is something I just don’t expect. The view over Paris is – well – I am lost for words. I find myself looking for and finding the major landmarks – the Eiffel Tower, les Invalides, Notre Dame…and more. The Seine river, snaking through the city, looks like a silver serpent in the late afternoon sunlight. What a place.

I look downwards, and at my feet is the start of the huge white stair case. Hundreds of people are sitting on the steps, just taking in the view and enjoying the warm sunshine. A young man is playing the guitar and singing a Cat Stevens song. I too sit down and just enjoy the atmosphere and the view. After about half an hour (I don’t really know how long), I start descending the stairs, dodging the people relaxing on the stairs. I have this quirk where I count stairs (think of The Count in Sesame Street). So, as I descend, I silently count the stairs. Who wants to know how many? Okay, I counted 225 steps.

Once at the bottom I turn around and look back up the steep stairs to the stunning Sacre Coeur, unbelievably bright against the deep azure blue sky. My camera is almost on melt down, so important is it to capture the sights of this place. How am I ever going to leave Paris?

It is hard to leave this area, and I begin wandering through the lanes and narrow streets filled with alternative shops, selling everything from tourist kitsch to original art work to cute, skimpy clothing that would be good for my daughter Robyn. It is vibrant and noisy, with lots of little hole-in-the-wall cafes, each with a table or two outside where you can get a coffee and sit and just watch. The sun is setting more quickly now, and I am very, very tired. I begin the long walk back to Place de Clichy, feeling like I know the streets quite well now and I eventually arrive at the Cabourg Hotel where I throw myself on the bed and turn on the TV, not really to watch it, but just for some company. A very familiar tune draws my attention, and I am amazed to see ‘McLeod’s Daughters’. But wait! The vocals have been over-dubbed in Spanish. I laugh out loud at the absurdity. I need a little rest before I venture out to get a bite to eat from the supermarket.

Eventually I walk across the Boulevard Batignolles to the little supermarket, buy some cheese, grapes, crackers, strawberries, and have an early night. It is quiet now without Matt but I have grand plans for tomorrow – visiting Pere Lachaise Cemetery, and I want to go and see the Impressionists at Musee D’Orsay. Bring it on!! Bon Nuit all!

A Week in Paris ... Day 4 - the evening

2010-08-24T20:21:00.010+10:00

Filled with pleasure at seeing the treasures of the beautiful rose windows and from hearing the haunting organ trumpeting forth and echoing through the vaulted ceilings within Notre Dame cathedral, Matt and I venture back outside into the bright, late afternoon sunshine.

The next item on our agenda for this wonderful and epic day is to board a bateau (boat) at Pont Neuf (one of the most beautiful bridges in Paris), for a relaxing cruise up and down the Seine River, right through the heart of the city. The sun still holds a pack of heat – it is hard to get used to the days being so long compared to ours at home – and we are wishing for a cold drink, a bit of shade, and somewhere to sit and rest. Matt spies some others on the boat drinking beers and bottles of wine. Within minutes, he miraculously returns to me with two flutes and a bottle of chilled champagne (French, of course). Ahhhh. Trés bon!

The bateau fills up, making our deck seem like a party boat, full of talking, laughing people all with different accents, enjoying this wonderful Sunday afternoon alongside the mother and son from Brisbane. We eventually pull away from the jetty underneath Pont Neuf and head upstream. The commentary, whilst informative, is a little distracting as it is broadcast loudly in four languages…by the time the English version comes on, we are not listening and miss it. The champagne goes down extremely well, and in combination with the hot sun, the stinging of our sunburnt arms and face, we begin to feel as though we are in a semi-dreamlike state, so relaxed that there is a danger we might fall asleep and miss some of the wonderful sights.

The cruise is soporific, calming, relaxing. We let it take us upstream whilst we enjoy the views. We pass the stunning ex-railway station which is now the Musee d’Orsay, then the Assemblee Nationale. We round a bend and there, very close to the river, is the Eiffel Tower. It is only about 10 hours since we were standing underneath her this morning, but we are feeling so intimate with Paris now, after our walking tour, that it is like visiting an old friend. The river cruise is a wonderful way to get another perspective on the tower, and also a great way to get different photo angles.

The boat does a u-turn just past the Eiffel Tower, giving us a great view of the Trocadero. The grassy banks of the river between the Trocadero and Place de la Concorde are dotted with people relaxing, soaking up the suns rays, talking, hugging, kissing, sharing a bottle of wine. I am reminded of all the romantic songs about Paris as I spy couples lying together on the grassy banks of the Seine, lost in their own conversations and gazing into each others eyes. So, this is how Parisians spend a summer Sunday afternoon. Not so different from home, I think to myself, as our parks and riverbanks also are a magnet for couples who want to just hang out together and enjoy their cities.

We pass underneath the Pont Neuf again, this time down stream, and travel firstly along the narrow left hand channel between the river bank and Ile de la Cité again gaping at the wonderful architecture of Notre Dame cathedral. We pass the massive edifice of Gare de Lyon, then Bercy, Grande Bibliotheque – a unique view of the major monuments and sights of Paris, and then back downstream, this time navigating through the right hand channel past Ile de la Cité .

Two hours pass by languidly, so relaxing, so wonderful. Sadly all good things must come to an end, and so we pull in once again to the jetty under the Pont Neuf and we all disembark. A photographer on board had taken some snaps of all on board. Our photos are waiting for us to collect when we disembark. Lovely reminders of a lovely cruise.

The glorious, sunny, satisfying day turns into a golden, twilight evening. Footsore, tired, but with a glow happening somewhere deep inside us, Matt and I continue our long day in the City of Light. Paris – such a beautiful, enchanting and bewitching city. I feel so at home here. So comfortable using the Metro system, so comfortable finding my way around. Maybe I was a Parisian in a former life. Or at least French.

Where to now? The Louvre beckons and so we slowly walk along the river bank until we get to the massive structure that is the Louvre. It is so, so huge. It must stretch for three city blocks. Thirty years ago, on my first visit to Paris, I went inside to see the treasures it holds. The Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo. Today, especially today, when we are now so tired, and it is too late to go in anyway, we just want to go and see the glass pyramids in the square. The ones that featured in the movie ‘The da Vinci Code’. Stunning. They are so, so beautiful in the flesh. Crisp, clean, modern. A total contrast to the solidity of the massive stone buildings surrounding it that make up the Louvre Museum. I am told that the locals, especially the traditionalists, were aghast at the monstrosities and that they believed that the pyramids took away from the history and grandeur of the buildings. But I think they complement them. They are unique and, in my opinion, are now yet another draw card for tourists and worthy icons of this beautiful city. The photo opportunities are wonderful, with the low, low sun showering the glass walls of the pyramids with a golden glow.

It is now about 8pm. We start to cross the road from the Louvre heading towards our regular hangout, the restaurant/café in the square underneath statue of Joan of Arc. We are stunned to see some gorgeous gendarmes on roller blades booking cars as they weave through the traffic. The drivers look stunned too. We gratefully take our regular seat out on the pavement where we can keep a good eye on Jean d’Arc, and order a lovely French meal, some gorgeous crisp white French wine, and relax before we join yet another tour – a bus tour through Paris to see the lights. They call it the “Illuminations Tour”. Matt and I look at each other over our meal, agreeing that this day certainly has more than 24 hours in it. How else could we possibly have covered so much, by foot, and seen so many wonderful places and experienced so many things that will live with us for life.

It is now nine o’clock and time to join our ‘Illuminations’ bus tour. There are only about seven people on the tour. I am all geared up to take both still and movie pictures, awkwardly juggling the two cameras. We are looking forward to seeing the spectacular laser lights on the Eiffel Tower that sparkle and spangle for 15 minutes every half hour. Off we set, excited in our expectations of seeing the ‘City of Light’ all dressed up. We are not disappointed. Our cameras click away in time to our companions on the coach. One thing I had not factored in is that the streets of Paris are cobbled. Really big, rough cobbles, and so all my photos are turning out shaky. I think perhaps a good quality SLR with a fast shutter speed might be better, but as I review my photos I see that I have some fairly stunning shots with red and white ribbons of light blurring across the photo. Still good. I end up with a series of photos which are a kaleidoscope of colour, of patterns, all reminiscent of the vibrancy, colour and life of Paris by night.

We drive around the rough cobbles surrounding the Arc de Triomphe, conservatively flood-lit as befits the sombre and proud monument that it is. The bus is unable to stop so we must capture this moment with our eyes, minds and cameras as best we can. Next thing, we gasp with delight as we near the Eiffel Tower and she bursts into a spectacular show of white laser lighting shooting up into the sky and flickering on and off. She is SUCH a showoff. But a beautiful, graceful and fun-loving showoff.

We can’t get enough of watching her do this dance for us, twirling and coquettishly flirting with all who are watching. But just as a flirt does, she suddenly turns off her charms and retreats back into the shy and fetching young lady, just waiting until some more unsuspecting tourists come by when she will once again burst into life and sparkle and shine and lure them in to her charms. Such a wonderful, wonderful sight.

The mood changes as we drive now to see Les Invalides lit up in her regal and graceful lights, showing off her pride and strength and conveying a sense of safety and protection for her inhabitants who have seen the worst the world has to offer and who now are enveloped in this calm and peaceful place where they live with other ex-soldiers of France.

Our Illumination Tour ends all too soon, except we are glad to stop the vibrations caused from driving over the cobble stones. Surely the bus had no suspension. We drag ourselves off to the Metro station and eventually find ourselves back at Place de Clichy. It is past midnight. We have walked and walked for at least 16 hours today. We have seen some wonderful, memorable sights, and we have experienced Paris from the footpath. We are both happy, delightfully happy, but very tired. But a good nights sleep is all that separates us from bouncing out of bed again tomorrow morning, bright and early, and doing it all again. Tomorrow we plan to visit Versailles.

Bon nuit.

A Week in Paris - Day 4

2010-08-01T12:49:00.011+10:00

A Week in Paris - Day 4

Sunday.

We arise surprisingly early considering our big day yesterday. Downstairs we go to the little cavern-like breakfast room for our petit dejeuner, and then head off on another day of excitement and discovery in Paris. Over breakfast, we decide to visit le Tour Eiffel first, and then to see where our map and our feet take us.

It is a splendid morning. Bright blue sky, sun shining warmly. A great day indeed. We catch the Metro from Clichy to Montparnasse Bienvenue – the closest station to the Eiffel Tower. The trip on the Metro is an absolute delight. It seems everyone, on this gorgeous Sunday morning, is in holiday mood and all seem to be going to the Eiffel Tower. A merry band of buskers is in our carriage, singing and playing a variety of instruments. One catches my eye because I am filming them. A wink from this handsome Frenchman and I am hooked. At the next Metro station, they move up closer to where Matt and I are sitting in the crowded carriage. I drop some Euros (Matt thinks I am far too generous) into the violin case. I am rewarded by another wink and my handsome Frenchman looks deep into my eyes as he sings. Swoon. They keep on playing, wearing broad smiles and seemingly enjoying this experience every bit as much as all the passengers.

Eventually our gorgeous buskers alight from our carriage and move down to another carriage, trying to milk the passengers there for as much as they can. I could happily have followed them from carriage to carriage all day, such was the joy and fun they exuded with their lovely music.

We arrive at Champs de Mars Metro station and everyone alights, all bent on getting to the Eiffel Tower as quickly as they can. It reminds me of childhood memories of catching the train in Brisbane to the Ekka, the air of excitement and expectation, everyone knowing what they will see ahead of time, yet impatient to be there and to be experiencing it first hand. I remember how difficult it was alighting the Ekka train, squashed into the crowd all trying to push forward at the same time to the inadequate number of turnstiles, forming a bottle neck and taking simply forever to get through for that first Dagwood Dog.

Matt and I, because we had studiously pored over our map and anticipated large crowds, seem to be the first through. “Quick”, says Matt, “let’s go this way”. Matt’s way veers off from the major throng threatening to overtake us. We hurry off via a side street, stumbling upon the Australian Consulate building on our way, and we enter a gorgeous park full of children’s playground equipment and rose beds. I look up through the dappled leafy canopy of trees and there above me, towering like a metal mother welcoming her favourite child home, is le Tour Eiffel.

You can see the Eiffel Tower from all over Paris, as it’s imposing 300m lacy metal tentacle soars high above most buildings in Paris, but nothing prepares one for being right up close to her. This is not my first encounter with her. I last saw her 30 years ago and she had me under her spell even then, to the point where I can graphically remember exactly what it was like to climb up to the second landing via the hard metal stair case, and the views of Paris I could see from up there.

The crowds mill about under the four huge pylons which are the legs of the Tower. There are colourful stalls selling food, drinks and souvenirs. Already the queue to take the lift up to the top is stretching for several hundred yards and moving very slowly. Matt and I, necks aching from craning upwards, get our fill of photos and walk around the Tower, trying to see it from every possible angle. I buy some souvenirs here, a nice scarf for Mum, and some other trinkets.

We want to get some good views of the Tower and in order to get the whole magnificent structure in one photo, we have to be a little away from it. Built in 1889 for the World Exhibition (or Expo) and held in Paris to commemorate the 100 year anniversary of the French Revolution in 1789, the Eiffel Tower was never meant to remain here permanently. How could it’s creator, Gustave Eiffel, ever have anticipated that his handiwork would become, and remain, one of the most recognisable and iconic structures in the world? Paris would not be Paris without le Tour Eiffel.

Matt and I start to walk down the long strip of park that looks like a table runner leading from the Eiffel Tower to the École Militaire (Military School), the foremost military academy in France. The massive Parc du Champs de Mars covers over 24 acres and is a mile long. The park is huge and it was originally where the locals grew their vegetables, but was eventually used as a training ground for the troops and could accommodate battle training manoeuvres for up to ten thousand troops at a time! That is where the park gets it’s current name as it is named after Mars, the Roman God of War.

By now it is hot and we are wearing T shirts, our jackets a nuisance to carry but necessary as the early mornings and evenings can be cool, especially for Brisbanites. We stop at the many fountains along the park, turning back to look at the Eiffel Tower, and enjoying the relaxed, quiet and beautiful park with it’s border of mature trees and colourful garden beds.

About half way down the park, Matt and I decide to take one of the exit roads and walk in the general direction of the Latin Quarter. We turn into Rue St-Dominique and soon find ourselves walking through quiet Paris streets on a glorious Sunday morning. We both marvel that we seem to be the only tourists within earshot. It is very quiet and we stumble upon many lovely, hidden parts of Paris. We seem to walk for miles and we admit we are a little lost, as we have a habit of taking side streets that look intriguing. Eventually we discover a street that is closed off for the local markets.

Our senses are zinging as we wander through, seeing the lovely fresh produce, colourful vegetables and fruits as fresh as can be. There is music and colour and we feel so privileged to have found this slice of unspoilt Paris where all the locals are going about their usual Sunday morning, socialising with each other, buying their produce for the week, and selling their wares.

I spy a thin little man with a pointy goatie beard and matching black bushy eyebrows and he seems to spy me at the same time. "Bonjour, bonjour madame!" I am immediately taken with this man and his wonderful little clocks that he makes from the cardboard round boxes in which they sell camembert cheese here. He has dozens of clocks all made with different brands of cheese. "Je suis Monsieur Camembert!" he says proudly to me, flashing a friendly grin which shows some gaps in his teeth and takes years from his 60 plus year old face. He soon discovers that our French is limited, so he talks to us in rudimentary English, but we are both able to understand each other using gestures and some odd words. We both happily communicate, as travellers do, because of that indefinable thing that allows humans to interact without need for a common language.

He tells me that he is called Monsieur Camembert because he makes all his clocks from the cheese boxes. He is tres famous! He shows me a magazine article about him, complete with pictures. He shows me more and more newspaper clippings and stories about him. He is indeed very famous! His enthusiasm for his clocks is infectious and he doesn’t have to try very hard to convince me to buy one (I wanted one with a passion as soon as I saw them). I choose one with Notre Dame brand cheese on the box. Matt and I then wait for half an hour while Monsieur Camembert tells us all about how he inserts the clock workings. He enquires where we are from. "Ah, Australie! Trés jolie!" Because I will be flying back home, he ensures that the battery terminals are covered. He goes to great lengths to show me that he is giving me a brand spanking new battery. His charm, enthusiasm, and passion for his little clocks just had me hooked. I tell Monsieur Camembert how proud I am to be taking his little clock all the way home and that every time I look at it, I will think of him. He is thrilled, shy, humbled. Meeting this little man is one of those special serendipitous things that happen in life. He gives me photocopies of the magazine articles, he gives me his card (a little piece of paper hand written), and with a very Gallic flourish, he asks if he can autograph my clock for me. "Mais oui Monsieur!!" Of course, of course! With my precious new possession safely wrapped, battery de-activated, Matt and I reluctantly leave this wonderful market and say au revoir to little Monsieur Camembert.

On and on we walk, stopping only to study our map but to no avail. We really do not know exactly where we are. We meander through the streets, stumbling upon scenes that are just so, well, 'French'. We are glad we have brought some water with us as it is very hot now and we have been walking for several hours. We find some magnificent churches, doors wide open welcoming all to Sunday Mass.

Eventually we find the magnificent gardens surrounding Hôtel des Invalides. The stunning gilded dome of the chapel gleams brightly in the hot Paris sunshine, and standing over 350 feet high, it dominates the view and takes our breath away. A most impressive complex of buildings, the Hôtel des Invalides houses France’s war veterans, but is also home to several important museums, in particular the Military Museum. The imposing edifice is huge. Matt and I walk for over half an hour to get around to the front entrance so that we can take better photos of the golden dome. It is surrounded by a high wrought iron fence and beautiful mature trees line the footpath, shading us from the heat of the day. Originally commissioned as army barracks by King Louis XIV, Les Invalides was completed in 1676 and housed four thousand war veterans.

As we walk the half kilometre up to the main entrance, we notice many floral tributes stuck in gaps in the fence and at plaques. Yesterday was the anniversary of the liberation of Paris after World War II and so the patriotic French people recognise this day much as we Australians recognise Anzac Day. The French are fervent and passionate patriots and flags fly everywhere, but especially so at this time of remembrance.

The massive golden Dôme des Invalides sits atop the Chapel of this huge complex and is now used as the burial place of many French war heroes, most notably Napoleon Bonaparte (his remains were exhumed from St Helena in 1840).

Matt and I spend a pleasant half hour just taking in the huge vista of the front edifice of this massive complex which stretches over a huge area. The sunshine glinting off the huge golden dome is captivating. As we stand there we see across the large roundabout (well, the French version of a roundabout sans lanes), the Rodin Museum with the famous statue of Rodin’s ‘Thinker’ taking pride of place outside. We decide not to visit this museum today as we still have a lot more ground we want to cover on our self-designed walking tour. We are so happy to just be walking everywhere that takes our fancy and not having to worry about time nor direction. We find ourselves a little lost sometimes, but generally our map keeps us going in the direction we want, which is towards St Germain and the Latin Quarter, and eventually to Notre Dame Cathedral. But mostly we put the map in our pocket and just walked, so rich is the variety of wonderful places to see in this part of Paris.

We found ourselves outside the Church of St Sulpice which featured in the movie 'da Vinci Code'. We went inside to escape the tortuous 35 plus degree heat which was beating down on us outside. Moving on from St Sulpice, we wandered up past the Senate, past the Luxembourg Palace, past the Place de St-Thomas d’Aquin, onto the Boulevard St Germain and from there we plan to head towards Boulevard St Michel. My head can not help singing over and over the words from that delightful 1960s song ‘Where do you go to my lovely’:

I hum songs happily to myself as Matt and I walk along. So many songs are about Paris. They keep entering my brain from way back – ‘A country girl in Paris’, ‘The girls of Paris’ – on and on, round and round. The songs make me feel like I have a connection here, kind of like I’m family, like I am home. Hmm, maybe the hot sun, lack of food (it is now well past lunch time) and the fact we have by now run out of water are starting to take their toll. Just as Matt is about to disown me from embarrassment, we come to the gorgeous little square of St Germain des Pres, where the Boulevard St Germain and Rue Bonaparte meet.

This place is just oozing with character. Matt and I are now very footsore with blisters to prove it, thirsty, hungry and very much in need of a rest. We look at the famous cafes that open onto the square – le Deux Magot, Café de Flore, and le Bonaparte. We know they are hideously expensive, but these cafes were the favourite hangouts of the greatest philosophers and intellectuals of the post war period. Jean-Paule Sarte, Simone de Beauvoir, Juliette Greco and Albert Camus famously met here to discuss all things ‘intellectual’ and were said to have ‘existentialised’ at le Deux Magot (or the Two Maggots, as Matt called it). We hope they cleaned up after themselves after they ‘existentialised’.

St Germain des Pres is in the intellectual quarter of Paris, rivalling only Montparnasse, and is widely recognised as the thinking area of Paris and home to the legendary free thinking radicals and philosophers. Even Francois Mitterand (President of France in the 1980s) used to hang out here. I remember learning about this so-called ‘Lost Generation’ of surrealists and existentialists of Paris during my literature studies at University. Even Picasso haunted this place. Scott Fitzgerald, T.S. Eliot and Ernest Hemingway sipped lattés here, possibly plotting and planning their next literary masterpieces. So, what is a few Euros if it means we could be drinking out of the same cups, eating off the same plates, as these luminaries.

Our first choice is the Two Maggots – “Non Madame et Monsieur, vous avez besoin d'une reservation”. Oh, OK, no we don’t have a reservation. Same at Café de Flore. We go to the Café le Bonaparte with it’s gaily striped red, white and blue canvas awning and tables on the footpath overlooking the square, the Two Maggots and the Café Flore, as well as across the square to the church of St Germain des Pres. ‘Mais certainment Madame et Monsieur’. Oh, I am just so glad to sit down for a while. We sit at our table which unfortunately is copping the full force of the now mid-afternoon sun, but we know we are on hallowed ground, so we don’t mind. We order a cold Corona beer each, a fromage platter to share and a bottle of water. Simple enough, but when we finish and get the bill, we are aghast that the bottle of water alone is ten Euros! Mr Hemingway would turn in his grave.

Feeling refreshed and much lighter in the pocket, Matt and I cross the square to visit the oldest church in Paris – St-Germain-des-Pres. The original building was begun in 542 as a Benedictine Abbey to house holy relics, but with one thing and another, it was rebuilt in the 11th century, the 19th century and again in the 1990s. As with many buildings in Paris, it was burned down during the Revolution, however one of the three original Romanesque belfries still remains and is the oldest in France. Descartes, the philosopher/mathematician, is buried here.

‘You live in a fancy apartment off the Boulevard St Michel
Where you keep your Rolling Stones records
And a friend of Sacha Distel
But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do
I've seen all your qualifications
You got from the Sorbonne
And the painting you stole from Picasso
Your loveliness goes on and on, yes it does'

Outside the church, a lively jazz band is playing under some large shady trees on the footpath with instrument cases lying open at their feet, hoping for a few Euros from the crowd that has gathered around them. It feels so French, so chic, to be standing outside a church that is over one and a half thousand years old, listening to New Orleans jazz.

Onward we trudge, very tired but our enthusiasm is high. We still have a lot of places we want to see before our walking tour ends and we head homeward. Our goal is to get to Notre Dame and because it doesn’t get dark until around 9pm, we see no reason why we should not continue as we have been.

We pass the church of St Severin, first built in the 1200s, and as we finally get to walk along the Boulevard St Michel (there goes that Peter Sarstedt song again!!), we finally see the Sorbonne, the famous University of Paris, where legend has it students meet and fall in love over café crème and croissants. The Latin Quarter, or Quartier Latin was named after the students and professors who spoke Latin in the classroom and on the streets.

We find some Roman Ruins sitting in a big dirt hole in the middle of this bustling area so we decide to buy an ice cream and we sit in the little park next to the ruins and read about what we are seeing. These are the remains of Roman Baths. How unusual they look, sitting here in this chic area of Paris. Again, big leafy trees provide us with a cool oasis to rest and recuperate before we move on.

We pass the Palais du Justice or the Law Courts. The huge complex includes the Palace of Justice, the Sainte Chapelle, an exquisite church renowned for it’s acoustics and natural light, and the Conciergerie.

We finally reach the Seine River again. It is late afternoon now and the Left Bank is in shade, thankfully. We stroll along the bank stopping to look at the artists who will paint your portrait for you, or at the many stands that sell prints and reproductions of Paris scenes. It is a lively place, full of fun and colour. Across the river we can see, sitting astride the Île de la Cité, the most famous Cathedral in the world, the gothic masterpiece that is Notre Dame.

Matt and I queue up to enter this magnificent and famous church. To visit such a place is not at all a spiritual experience because there are too many tourists and, although Mass is said in there regularly, we are ushered through like cattle, unable to stop and fully appreciate the spectacle of it. It takes a while for our eyes to adjust to the dim light after the searing sunshine of outside, and there are many security checks and ushers to ensure that all visitors are dressed in an appropriate manner. There are constant cries from the ushers for us to be quiet, which seems odd when they are yelling, but Matt and I soon find that the atmosphere of the place takes over the reality and we enjoy walking around the gloomy interior, taking in it’s beauty. Lo and behold, we both start when a very loud pipe organ somewhere above our heads launches enthusiastically into what sounds to my untrained ears as the stunning da - da da da da from Phantom of the Opera! Obviously that is not what it is, but it sounds just as dramatic. We both peered into the gloom, looking for Victor Hugo’s Quasimodo. We love it in here and the organ adds to the fun. I am allowed to use my movie camera in here and so I capture this sound as well as the vision on my camera.

Last time I was here, I was able to climb up the north bell tower, go across the narrow path that leads to the south tower, and down again. It was scary. It was a very narrow, very steep, and very high stone spiral staircase with no railing. The stairs were higher than a normal step height and the steps were worn in the middle from centuries of footsteps. We looked for poor old Quasimodo then too!

We spend a cool and interesting hour inside Notre Dame, before venturing outside into the late afternoon sunshine before continuing this wonderful day on foot in Paris.

A Day Trip in Cairns - Tropical North Queensland

2010-07-14T13:08:00.008+10:00

Cairns, North Queensland – a day trip

Cairns, Port Douglas, Mossman, Daintree River, Bloomfield Track, Cape Tribulation

Another work trip has found me in gorgeous tropical Cairns in Far North Queensland, roughly a two and a half hour flight from Brisbane. Cairns is the major city for accessing the Great Barrier Reef (one of the Seven Wonders of the World), the World Heritage listed Daintree Rainforest area, and the remote and rugged Cape York Peninsular.

To see everything in one day in and around Cairns is next to impossible. Luckily, in previous trips, I have been on the Kuranda rail trip, spent a day sailing and snorkelling on the Great Barrier Reef, and also exploring the verdant rolling farms of the Atherton Tableland.

This time, I have booked myself on a one day 4 Wheel Drive Eco Accredited safari that will take me north from Cairns up the Cook Highway to idyllic Port Douglas, then to the crocodile infested Daintree River, then an exciting 4WD drive up the Bloomfield Track. Our final destination will be Cape Tribulation, the spot where the World Heritage listed ancient rainforests meet with the Coral Sea and the equally important Great Barrier Reef.

The day starts early and I am picked up at the Pacific International Hotel in Cairns where I have a lovely room overlooking Trinity Bay and the Reef Casino. The 4WD safari bus is a strange looking vehicle but is ideal for both bitumen and sandy 4WD tracks in the jungle. We pick up several other tourists at various hotels along the way and drive the spectacularly beautiful Cook Highway, a road which clings to the coast and offers jaw dropping views of white, sandy beaches caressing aqua blue ocean on one side, and thick, tropical rainforest on the other. I am reminded of the amazing coastal drive along the Amalfi Coast in Italy, between Sorrento and Positano. When driving on these coast-hugging, windy roads it is so much better to be a passenger rather than a driver who needs to keep his or her wits about them, as the scenery is a magnet for the eyes.

The last time I visited Port Douglas, the trendy, exclusive and expensive haven for the rich and famous, was in 1978 and I was a bride of just a few days. My, how it has changed. Back then it was a sleepy little tropical village with coconut trees lining the snow white beach, a corner store which sold everything, and a scattering of a few beach houses. Now it has many large resorts and hotels and many restaurants and shops. I notice, however, that the beach is still lined by slender and elegant coconut palms and there is a definite low key feel about the place.

Back on the road and our first stop is for morning tea at a café in the picturesque little village of Mossman. This little town services the sugar cane industry and has a network of narrow gauge cane train tracks through the main street and allows raw cane to be transported to the mill. The main street (which is also the highway) is lined with massive old trees with peculiar mossy growths along the limbs. No one can tell me exactly what it is, but the unusual trees certainly make for a beautiful photograph or two.

Our next stop is at the Daintree River. We climb out of the 4WD and board a punt-like boat for a one hour cruise. The river, along with the Daintree Rainforest encircling it, was given Wet Tropics World Heritage Listing in 1988, an indication of the fragile nature of this pristine ancient rainforest area. There is no bridge across the Daintree, so all vehicles must pass across the cable ferry downstream.

Our cruise is idyllic, peaceful and spectacular, the only noise above the soft purr of the motor is the sound of the water gently lapping the prow of the boat, the screech of multi coloured parrots and numerous other birds that are unfamilar to me. The boat skipper points out some rare ancient and endangered species of vegetation. We see delicate orchids and ferns. We also see some some spectacular wildlife, mostly birds, but also some large snakes sunning themselves along branches which hang out into the river. As we pass silently down the dark green waters of the Daintree River, everyone is keeping ‘croc-guard’ – we all want to see one of the saltwater crocodiles which sleep in the muddy banks and float silently in the shallow mangrove waters at the edge of the river. Sure enough, there it is – our first croc! Cameras snap and everyone crowds the fore of the punt to get a better view. The numbers of crocodiles has risen over the years due to them now being protected, and also due to the isolation and strict policing of the area. Swimming in the river is forbidden and signs everywhere warn visitors not to enter the river or suffer the consequences. A hungry croc will be waiting.

The cruise ends all too soon and we meet up with our 4WD vehicle on the northern bank of the river where it has crossed at the cable ferry. We then drive up the Alexandra Range and stop to take photos of the spectacular coastline where ancient tropical rainforest meets the azure Coral Sea. The driver points out to us Lowe Isles, the site where Steve Irwin died.

Next stop is at the Jindalba National Park where the rangers have constructed an Eco friendly boardwalk through the rainforest. It is a gorgeous walk. Dark, cool and intensely quiet apart from the distinctive crack of the whip bird. The rainforest is full of amazing things to look at. Giant tree trunks reach up to the canopy, sheltering the floor of the rainforest which is alive with birds, lizards, and the most amazing and unusual ferns and fungi I have ever seen. Unfortunately we don’t get to see the unique Southern Cassowary, an elusive and rare bird, although we do find nests.

Back on the road and then we stop at an out of the way café and wildlife sanctuary. Lunch consists of a barbecue of local prime beef steak and salad, cooked by our driver/tour guide. After lunch, we stroll through a wildlife sanctuary where we can see wallabies, kangaroos, peacocks, scrub turkeys and other local wildlife close up.

After taking a gazillion photos, we once again board the 4WD and drive along the Bloomfield Track, a 4WD vehicle only road through the thick rainforest.

We stop at Emmagen Creek, a gorgeous spot, where some of the passengers have a swim in the cool rock pool. We have billy tea and exotic local fruits such as black sapote (chocolate pudding fruit), breadfruit, durian, mangosteen, red papaya and many others, all freshly prepared by our Eco guide John. The rare tropical fruit industry is flourishing in Far North Queensland, and we even stop at a farm to taste the wonderful ice creams they make with rare tropical fruit that you would never find in most cities.

The final stop on this wonderful day is at the pristine beach of Cape Tribulation. This is literally where the rainforest meets the reef. Quiet, unspoilt paradise.

The 135-million year old rainforest of the Cape Tribulation section of the Daintree is the most ancient and primitive in the world. Many species originated when Australia was part of Gondwana, more than 120 million years ago. Although Australia contains less than one thousandth of the world's tropical rainforests, these forests are some of the most significant ecosystems on the planet. Faced with not only the beauty of this area, but also the importance of it to the whole planet, it is rather awe-inspiring to visit such a place and to see for one-self the steps that are being taken to preserve this area, yet open enough to allow people to enjoy it.

The drive back to Cairns finds most of us sleepy and very satisfied with the trip. Cairns is such a wonderful stepping off point for rainforest, reef, and the Atherton Tableland. A bustling tourist city with a beautiful esplanade along the foreshore of the Central Business District. A great place to spend a day, or longer.