Hola Hola

Some few thousand miles away from the urban bump and grind of London lies a quiet little Spanish town called Hijate. Most maps will pretend it doesn’t exist and one suspects that the Hijateans probably like it that way. More on this later…

Our journey here turns out to be less fun than any of our adventures to date. It begins with a five-hour wait at Gatwick airport for our flight. On our list of Favourite Ways To Spend Five Precious Hours Of Our Lives, this ranks well below listening to the collected works of Kenny G and eating glass.



Upon arrival at 3 am, we are instantly confronted by our total lack of knowledge of the Spanish language as our cigar-chewing taxi driver takes us towards Cordoba…when in fact our intended destination is Torremolinos. It begins to feel like we’re in some reverse episode of Fawlty Towers where we’re the dim-witted Manuel to everyone else’s irate Basil Fawlty.

Our next day brings welcome relief at the seaside town of Torrox with cousin Angie, Jonas and Mirei.



The afternoon is spent watching German tourists tan themselves to lobster-red and enjoying the local vino tinto and tapas. Thanks to Jackie Chan, our mastery of the Spanish language now extends to “uno mas”.

To get to Hijate requires some four hours on a bus from a place called Malaga, which we now believe to be the Spanish word for “lousy stinking town with credit-card eating ATM machines”. Our first real crisis on our trip so far leads to further struggles with the local tongue and several phone calls to Visa who have promised us an emergency replacement card.

Finally, we reach Hijate where we are met by our old pal, Thom. The good news for his friends back home is that he is well fed and watered* and looks happier than ever.



Again, we are the grateful beneficiaries of a friend’s generous offer to house and feed us for the duration of our stay. This sees us occupying the top floor of a virtual palace that Thom and family call “Casa Nueva”. This is the view that greets them every morning:



We go "Wow!" - they go "Not bad, innit?"

The kinfolk here is comprised of Thom’s Mum and Dad, sister Sandra and her husband Ron. A few hours spent with them goes a long way towards accounting for much of what we know and love about Thom. I only partially kid when I say it’s like meeting a family of Thoms.

The lifestyle in the village is slow-paced, quiet and peaceful, which suits everyone just fine. For the best part of half an hour, Sandra takes us on a tour of the town. There are two shops, a bank and four pubs. Did we mention how happy Thom is?



Later in the day, we pile into a van, which requires a sofa to be loaded in the back to accommodate the seven of us. This time it’s Ron’s turn to play tour guide as he drives us to some enormous lakes near Zujar.



Like much of what we've seen of Spain so far, mainly through bus windows, the view is spectacular. Again, the camera can’t possibly do the real thing any justice.



The next day, Thom takes us around the nearest big town Baza (say it with a lisp). As it is market day, we spend some time browsing through stalls of mostly clothing and t-shirts with peculiar slogans like, “NEVADA SEXY HOUR” and “CRUISE ACTION PLAYER”.



As many would know, the Spanish regard their siesta time with some reverence. So from 2pm until 5pm, the town shuts down for a nap, leaving us little else to do so it’s more vino tinto and tapas at the pub.



With our sightseeing obligations out of the way, the next day is spent relaxing in the sun, letting the hours slip by and waiting for the UPS van with my shiny new replacement card.



During the day we meet some other English migrants, none of whom have a single kind word to say about Tony Blair. No one really knows much about the mendacious weasel we’re stuck with back home but they kind of understand our predicament when we describe it as recycled Thatcherism.

Out here, in Hijate, however – it’s quite easy to leave all that behind. Most of the locals here are as skilled in English as we are in their tongue. Frequent use of sign language and mime skills help us to get by. Nevertheless, there’s a phrase that Thom’s brought over with him that they can quite easily relate to – “no worries”.

Buenos Dias!!



PS. We've noticed that the blog page looks really ugly when viewed with Internet Explorer. Solution: stick two fat fingers to Bill Gates and switch to Mozilla Firefox

*Not literally water, of course – we said Thom is in Spain, not insane.

More please...

By now, it is obvious that London is too big to swallow in one giant gulp, so here we are for a second helping.

Much of our first day back in town is spent at the museum curated by the lady with surplus candles and very clean ears - Madame Tussaud. This is where, for a princely sum of 25 quid each, the Great Unwashed get to pose alongside the Great Waxed. Naturally, we are tourists and as such, we are well and truly trapped:

Of course nothing washes away the stink of fake celebs like a glass of red at a cheap resto in the West End.

The following day sees us taking on the historical behemoth that is the British Museum.

Just as Rome wasn’t built in one day, it’s clear that there is no way we will conquer the entire scope of human history in one afternoon. Besides, much like the Crown Jewels, most of the artefacts housed within this grand building appear to be more Royal Swag looted and grave robbed from subjugated colonies far and wide.

The coolest thing we see here is the African Tree of Life, which is made entirely out of old and busted weaponry – the most attractive display of ancient ordinance we’ve seen thus far.

From here we head home on top of one of London’s famed double-decker buses.

At this point, for no other reason than because we can, we figure it’d be a good idea to set our watches. And what better spot to do so than Greenwich where the time is mean but accurate.

Nearby lives the old trading ship Cutty Sark whose hood ornament (I know not the precise nautical term) bears an ominous warning to those who refuse its trade.

We also find a tunnel that allows us to cross the Thames at 33 feet below its surface.

At the heart of Greenwich, however is a cool antiques market where we spend hours sifting through piles of exquisite junk.

Having conquered London by air, rail, road and double-decker bus, all that remained was water. So to take us home in a roundabout fashion, we board a city cruise for a Red-Hot Chilli Pepper’s view of town.

Just in case anyone was wondering – yes, we are aware that there is more to Europe than the English-speaking bits and we will be venturing forth to Spain in a couple of days’ time.

Valderie and indeed, valdera.

PS. To anyone who might have noticed, the photies have indeed gotten smaller. We’ve decided to apply the Tesco principle of quantity over quality so while the pictures may lack detail, they take a lot less time to up and download.

An auld acquaintance unforgot

And so another week passes without so much as a how’s yer father…In short, we’ve been to Scotland where though mighty rivers like the Clyde, the Forth and the Tay flow freely, nary a dribble of our sweet Internet can be found.

Our trip oop north sees another mission accomplished – a reunion with my old school chum Gary whom I last saw some 20 years ago.

For my part, it’s a little weird at first; we’re like boys trying to make our grown-up suits look right. But soon his accent and exuberant hand waving assume their familiarity and the two decades just seem to disappear.

The first couple of days see us taking in the two major cities of Edinburgh and Glasgow. We spend a lot of time travelling on trains,

watching the rolling green hills whiz by, counting the sheep

and um, maybe we shouldn’t count so many sheep.

Edinburgh is the proud owner of a mighty castle that appears quite formidable from the outside.

However, upon finding that the inside holds much the same sort of weaponry and tin suits as we’d seen at the Tower of London, we decide to move on. Besides, there’s enough of that stuff in the scores of souvenir stores outside.

We spend the rest of our day at galleries where, as usual, photography is prohibited so here we are loitering outside.

In Glasgow, things are a little less formal...

and the Gallery of Modern Art has a giant room upstairs which is all of one piece by Barbara Kruger.

We also visit the Glasgow School of Art, which is one of several buildings around town designed by one of this town’s favourite sons, Charles Rennie MacKintosh. Once again, we’re not allowed to take photos, but it’s worth a Google if you love the Art Nouveau look of things. In the meantime here’s what some other bits of town look like:

The next few days are spent exploring Dundee, which amongst many other claims to fame, is the home of Beano and Dandy comics. That would explain the giant statue of Desperate Dan in the middle of town.

George, however, has some trouble with the locals.

Along the way, we meet Tracey, Gary’s prettier half, and soon enough we find ourselves on what is known throughout most parts of the Commonwealth as a “pub crawl”.

We also try haggis for the first time – it’s not bad at all, if one tries not to think about the lung and stomach bits.

On our last day before leaving, Gary’s Mum and Dad, or Jim and Annette to us, take us out to St Andrew’s, best known as the birthplace of golf, the sport of kings, celebrities and anyone else with a grudge against small white dimpled balls.

We spend our day walking through old crumbly castles that might turn up on today’s property market as, um, “having great potential”.

Later that day, we go up* Dundee Law, which is the highest point in town where one might enjoy a 360 degree view of Dundee.

Jim points out the important bits like Dunsinane, where MacBeth famously saw Birnam Wood closing in on him (possibly the last time the old “sneak up on your enemy dressed as trees” ruse worked.)

On our last evening, we have a quiet one at home watching Billy Connolly take us through the bits of Scotland we missed – especially the cold, blizzardy bits.

Over the past week, not only has Gary most graciously allowed us the use of his apartment in Dundee, he has also been our tour guide, translator, expert chef and has looked after us every step of the way up til the moment we depart. It’s been one HUMONGOUS act of love on his part for which we are ever so grateful.

We love you, Gary.

Thanks.

* In this instance, “go up” is our euphemism for “get driven up”. We don’t have to climb every bloomen hill we come across, right?

That's Entertainment*

Many apple orgies to our regular visitors as our updates have been less frequent of late. We thought we’d get off the computer and actually do some stuff worth writing home about. Natch, we now have four extremely packed days to reflect upon. However, we’re still trying to keep to our “less screen – more seein” imperative so here are some of the highlights:

Going to the theatre – Not an actual West End show, mind, because we’re cheap bastards and also most of the shows smelt funny. We ended up watching Romance by David Mamet, which had Frasier’s dad in it. Good old-fashioned farce with the slamming doors and all that Mametty swearing.

Camden Town – Home to a giant never-ending market selling mostly clothes and craft. This is where Gemma decides to stop being a cheap bastard, which means its freezer food from Tesco’s for tea tonight.

The great thing about this place is its sub-culturally-centric stores that will have you sorted for the right gear be you raver, goth, punk, hippie or our favourite, mod.

Stonehenge – A big day out which began with an adventure that really merits its own section as we manage to go one louder than all our insane adventures so far and…

Drive through Central London – Take that, you so-called "extreeem" thrillseekers, you hang-gliding, Base-junping Sissy McKnickers!! Even on a Saturday, the traffic here is its own level of Dante’s Inferno. None of our guides, Angie, Jonas nor Mirei, drive here and after two minutes in this lugubrious auto-soup, it’s easy to see why. But our guides are expert navigators and once we’re out on the open road out of London with no visible speed limit, we’re off on our way to…

….Stonehenge - (thought I’d forgot, huh?). Ok, look, it’s a big old pile of rocks. Yes the rocks are huge…how huge are they, George?

Thanks..... but they don’t really do much other than be a huge pile.

Sure one can faff on (as that speaker thingy you see Gem holding did) about the sun coming through certain points at solstice and the whole thing being some giant solar calendar but for the once off visitors who choose a day with no sun to speak of… it’s a big old pile of rocks.

The surrounding plain is quite pretty, though – but with only two hours before the rental car is due to be returned, it’s soon back to the white-knuckle, throbbing-vein anxiety of London traffic with only the promise of a visit to the pub afterwards to inspire us.

Brick Lane Festival – We’ve been here before but compared to today, we must have been elsewhere. The lane today is host to an International Curry Festival and therefore someone or something (mostly food) being sold occupies every nook and sidewalk crack.

The security is omnipresent but the mood is suitably festive and everyone’s quite happy to leave the usual large-crowd worries aside and tuck into some yummy curries and sweet treats. I wonder if they follow this with an International Loo Roll festival the next day.

Petticoat Lane Market – During the festival, Angie takes us for a walk around a few corners to another market.

As the name suggests, mostly ladies’ garments are on offer. The charming thing about this place is listening to the stall-keepers yelling out their wares with that loud “twofrah pahn, avalook!!” patter that they manage to keep up even during transactions.

Hyde Park – We return to catch the bits that we were too knackered to see the last time we were here – that is, most of it.

The giant statue of Achilles welcomes us to a vast and beautiful bit of scenery, quite at odds with the hustle and bustle that spins around its perimeter.

There’s a “Proms in the Park” concert on, so curiously, as we venture in, we hear the sound of “Waterloo” sung by presumably some very blonde people backed by the BBC orchestra. It’s strange how a song written in Swedish, from a French point of view, sung in American accents still manages to sound so very English.

So very English,too is the rest of our day as it slides into the evening – feeding birds in the park,

looking up Peter Pan’s skirt,

riding the tube,

window shopping at Harrod’s

and looking for a bunch of grapes that never turns up. (Ask Gem's dad)

Whew! And to think we were going to keep things brief…. Well, that should keep our virtual travel companions up to date for now. Tomorrow, we fly off to Edinburgh to have a look at the land of men who look like Groundskeeper Willie and meet up with an old, old friend.

Toodle-pip!!

*Not the Hollywood song, but the one by the Jam. I finally get to live this song!

Hip Hip!! (Hooray!!)

Tonight we take a break from our recreational indulgence to pay special tribute to the lady without whom we wouldn't be here in London having our own little party.







Happy Birthday, Mom - hope this makes up for an actual present/presence.

PS. The hats are Gemma's creations and can be ordered online for a reasonable price (plus postage and handling).

Don't know much about History....

Today’s mission was to fulfil some of our “you gotta go” duties. One of these is to visit one of London’s several monumental tributes to England’s long-standing monarchy. We chose the Tower of London.



The name is a bit of a misnomer as it refers not to the sort of Tall Pointy Thing that we’ve grown accustomed to of late, but to a vast fortress of several Tall Castley Things.

Included in the price of admission was a guided tour around the Tower with a beefeater named Kev. For the record, a beefeater is that guy on the gin bottle and the carnivorous name may not mean anything other than being derived from some Cockney rhyming slang.

For an hour, Kev walked us through some of the Tower’s main buildings with a neat line of informative patter and a few jokes as old as the Tower itself.

(By the way, I must correct myself on an earlier post which alluded to beheadings that took place in Hampton Court. In fact, most of England’s beloved decapitations took place here at this very site.)

The Tower is well known for housing the massive collection of shiny things known as the Crown Jewels (or otherwise, Royal Swag of Loot Pillaged from Far and Wide.)

None of it was photographable but suffice to say, quite a few of the world’s poorer nations could be fed several times over if the Royal Family had anything remotely resembling a heart. A most laughable sight is a collection box near the exit asking the public for donations to help with the Jewels’ upkeep.

The exhibit that did allow indoor photography* was the Armoury.

A celebration of England’s once-mighty ability to pummel the living shit out of everyone else, we found ourselves amongst some very old ordinance, including Henry VIII’s armour.

The photo doesn’t show it very well, but his suit was one of the few that afforded extra protection for his more personal set of crown jewels.

The rest of our time was spent taking photos of Mr Raven….

Mr Beefeater….

Mr Guardsman with Furry Titfer….

And the obligatory visit to Ye Olde Gifte Shoppe where rather than support the Royal love-fest, we took only photographs and left only bemused shop assistants.

Lunch was at our next gotta-go, Trafalgar Square with its stick-it-to-the-French Nelson’s column, more statues of dead warriors and the National gallery nearby.

Gemma worked her lunch off by attempting to mount one of the four giant lions.

After some heave-hoing, she found the front of the beast an easier proposition.

I would attempt to do the same but I'm not sure I could open my mouth wide enough.

Afterwards we took a walk down to our final gotta-go for the day, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament.

Right across the road was London’s most dedicated war protestor who, as Angie tells us, has been at this spot since the start of the Iraq invasion.

It was nice, at the end of the day, to wash out the ugly aftertaste of all that glorification of England’s blood-soaked history with a good old-fashioned plea for sanity and peace.

Be right back.

*Unfortunately most of the photos turned out really blurred and in any case, we’d like to keep the blog as gun-free as possible.

Carry on then...

So what do we do the next few days? We go walking even greater distances. Yes we do have the Holiday Nuttiness in our heads!!

First we plunge ourselves into the heart of the West End, starting off at Piccadilly Circus.

As any Monopoly player would know, this usually means one is dangerously close to a swift yanking by the ankles straight to jail, without passing Go and certainly without collecting 200 pounds. The good news is, Parker Brothers lied. The bad news is, they also lied about the neat orderly arrangement of the streetscape which in truth bears a closer resemblance to the kind of tangled knotted mess one might find (or in my case, used to find) on an old hairbrush.

With a rash confidence bolstered by a handy London A-Z, we head in the direction of Regent St and are immediately distracted by Hamley’s, quite possibly the world’s biggest toy shop. Once again thoughts of cancelling Europe spring to mind.

Next was Carnaby St, based on the recommendation of my old Uni professor on a postcard I received 18 years ago. “You would be in your element here”, he’d written back then. Maybe it’s me or the times that have changed, but while it’s nice to finally put a place to the name, it’s hard to conjure up any of that Austin Powers opening-number magic here on a Monday morning.

So we move on to Leceister Square where at lunchtime, a crowd is beginning to gather for the premier of yet another film version of Pride & Prejudice (honestly, it’s not like they’re adding new CGI characters or anything).

Moving around, reading street signs – it’s like finally getting to meet old pen-pals face to face, not unlike the novel (and film) 84 Charing Cross Road. Sadly, the actual 84 Charing Cross Rd is no longer a purveyor of dusty old books, but of greasy new pizzas.

Arriving at Covent Garden somehow compels us to start talking in fake Cockney accents – perhaps in the hope of being adopted by a well-meaning Perfessor ‘Iggins for immediate speech therapy, singing and dancing all night.

We are careful to drop the accent to a whisper when the locals are nearby lest we find ourselves locked in stocks, being pelted with fresh produce.

At journey’s end, we find some respite on some deckchairs scattered around Hyde Park. This proves to be rather brief when a young man tells us quite poetically that if we stay, we must pay.

Worse yet, George is quite upset to find that he’s missed Live 8 by almost a month to the day. He really wanted to see Coldplay.

The next day, Angie points us in the direction of Whitechapel where most of the local East Asian community resides. All along the street, wares are plied and hands are waved in chatter. Even the graffiti here has a colourful Bollywood twist to it.

Lunch is had in a little alleyway that we were drawn to by the sweet smell of barbecued corn which Gemma is unable to resist.

Shortly afterwards, we stumble upon our first spotting of a Banksy piece.

Banksy is, in short, an urban guerrilla artist whose artworks have been seen all across London in the form of stencils, overnight statues and unauthorised hangings in prominent art galleries. Check out some of his other work here

Eventually, not only does the constant walking start to take its toll on Gem, even as she starts to blend in with the scenery.

When it is suggested that we should continue journeying on foot, her response sounds a little like the name of this particular eatery on Old Street.

I think we’re taking the bus tomorrow.

Cheers then, guvnor!

London Calling*

Yes, it’s all here – the river, the palace, the bridge, the tower – everything you ever saw on your nana’s tea towels is here in Big. Fat. Real. Life.

Day 1 was spent trying to wrest back the hours lost to leaping over time zones and negotiating the spaghetti-like maze that Londoners call the Tube. Our host here is our cousin Angie who has, in a reckless fit of grace and charity, given over a substantial portion of her digs to house our mess.

Our London adventure really begins on Day 2 when we tag along with Angie and her friends Jonas and Mirei to Hampton Court. Here, in another reckless fit of grace of charity, Angie, along with hundreds of others, will run 10 kms around the palace grounds for the benefit of cancer research.

The rest of us try to make spectatoring look like hard work.

The gardens surrounding the palace where Henry VIII presumably did most of his serial wedding and beheading is today an immaculately groomed estate where every leaf, petal and blade of grass has its place.

Poor George tried his best (footy pun, there, cheers) to maintain said immaculateness but found out that nature-lovin' monkeys get no respect round these parts.

Eventually with the running run and the fun funded, we adjourn for a nosh-up at a local pub before being left to our own devices at Waterloo on the South bank of the Thames.

Here we alight upon London’s Tall Thing that is not so much Pointy but quite Round in fact. Like a giant ferris wheel, the London Eye provides a spectacular view of the city at its most below-us-where-people-are-mere-bugs beauty.

Later on, we stroll along the riverbank, which offers an embarrassment of visual riches in its mix of old and new architecture.

It’s all too much to take in at once so we spend our time mentally book-marking the spots we’d like to return to for further inspection. (eg. The Globe theatre, Tate Modern, those stalls with a squazillion second hand books)

Eventually our stroll turns into a hike that leads back to Angie’s and thus proving two points; firstly, that Angie does indeed live within walking distance to the centre of London and secondly, we are, for the moment, so very over putting the words “walking” and “distance” together into practice.

*Yes, that was predictable, bordering on cliché even – I defy anyone of my vintage to walk along these streets without humming along to Strummer and Jones.

Hi y'all we're currently experiencing broadband access problems so the usual giant post with photies is still forthcoming. Suffice to say, London is bloody huge but we're chipping away at it a bit at a time. In the meantime, here's a pic of us with our generous host, cousin Angie.

Be right back.

Lying back - thinking of England

As monkey Georges everywhere know, it's hard work being on holiday and sometimes you just need to catch a brief nap, wherever possible.

Our last full day in Montreal had us taking on Le Parc du Mont-Royal - with the emphasis on "mont".



With calves of steel and heads full of craziness, we climbed to a point, which while not quite the top, was nevertheless high up enough to catch a stunning mountain goat's eye view of the city.



As opposed to a stunned mountain-goat's eye view.



Getting back down was, of course, much easier with gravity on our side.



Later on, we strolled down to Old Montreal and the Old Port which proudly clings to its oldness because, well, it's good for business.



Based on the frequency of its appearance on souvenir tea towels, we had intended on visiting the Notre-Dame basilica here. However, we arrived about an hour after it had closed but we thought - heck, there's plenty more where they came from in Europe.

So for now, it's au revoir, mon amour to Montreal and wotcher, old chap to London (in England, we should add, as one local informed us of a London much closer in Ontario).



PS Big sloppy kisses to all our visitors at this here blog - Leave a comment if you like - usually our replies are in the same post.

And so we leave Ottawa behind us with a few lessons learnt that we'd like to share:

Lesson #1: Three days in Ottawa is one too many. However, if you do find yourself with a few spare hours to kill, the National Gallery of Canada has the requisite rifle and bullets. We stumped for the extra dime to see an exhibition that was called " Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo and the Renaissance in Florence" which was somewhat misleading as it turned out. Most of the pieces were by artists "influenced" by Mike and Leo which is a bit like paying for a Beatles album and getting the Rutles, or worse yet, Oasis.

At least they let us take a few piccies in the permanent collection.



Lesson #2: If you're close enough to the local Marriott hotel (like, say, the coffee shop across the street), you can leech off their in-house WiFi internet. It's slow but it's free.



Lesson #3: Never EVER stay at the Laurier Guest House (the link is not a plug, it's a caution). The owner seems to think that all you need to run a hostel is a winning smile when you arrive and another when you leave. Anything else such as basic hygiene, cooking facilities and general upkeep is available for an additional fee - or elsewhere.

We could keep kvetching about our time here but right now, our complaints are a grain of sand compared to the planet of grief that's happening further down this continent. And elsewhere.

Anyway, we're back in Montreal (le yay!) for a day or so before we go to see if London still swings as the pendulum do.

Tally-ho!!