Hamburg
Berlin
Helsinki
there are some more Helsinkis to come.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
So the thing is...
we're very busy men... here are photos taken. No photos of france until you hear from Andy, as my camera charger was in Australia until we left that continent... Andy and kate back on the 7th, Sam and May on the 10th... Love to all.
The Yorkshire Countryside
York
Oxford
Bath
Brugge, Belgium
Brussels
Amsterdam
The Yorkshire Countryside
York
Oxford
Bath
Brugge, Belgium
Brussels
Amsterdam
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Edinburgh, January 30th, 2008
It was good to see Andy and Kate again. Although we did get the meeting-up time wrong, so that an initially innocent foray by may and i into the pub was turned into a Black Booksensian masterpiece of comic timing (and drinking). Andy and Kate have been visiting San Francisco and Chicago (plus Champaign, Illinois, to see our friend Ciaran). They enjoyed their visit, but have been left with a slightly bewildered look on their faces from a number of things, mostly food related.
Half of the Friday in Edinburgh was spent finding an internet cafe and being frustrated. The National Express website is, officially, the worst website in the history of mankind, especially since it has aspirations of lovely pop-up screens a la facebook. After denying a payment from my credit card several times it still tried to go through my bank account, charging it six times for a total of zero train tickets. Part four thousand and twenty six of Sam's adventures in bureaucracy had me standing in a phone box, dialling one number, to be told that i'd dialled the wrong department, to be given a whole new number, to be told again that i'd rung the wrong department. This was after I physically went to the National Express office in the train station to be told that not only could they not help me and I'd have to call the help line, but that they were unable to give me the number i'd have to call. We eat expensive sandwiches, drink terrible terrible coffee, again.
We then go to Edinburgh castle. We are introduced, or rather re-introduced to the fact that a lot of museums, or in fact exhibitions of any kind are shit. Going into a castle, with eight hundred year old origins, then stepping through one of its doorways to be confronted by a piece of plasterboard with crappy renditions of all the kings painted on is not in fact a life-changing experience. Neither is a plaster tableau of the coronation of a king that lights up in certain places, as voice-overs 're-create' the 'experience'. The same as going past 'authentic' 'recreations' of the Prisoners of Napoleanic Wars' experience by hanging up some hammocks and making plastic models of bread and apples.
It is only the physicality of actual objects that adds any weight to these sorts of exhibitions, especially those whose context outweigh the banality of their original purpose. One example was at the end of the 'Prisons of War' exhibit, where they put up and highlighted the graffiti carved into the castle's original prison doors. Placards emphasised certain interesting parts, since a lot of them had the 18th and 19th century equivalents of "Shazza Waz 'Ere". One prisoner had carved a rudimentary picture of their ship, the prototype stars and stripes hanging off the back. They lost their rights during the war of independance, because they were not seen as prisoners of war. Instead they were seen as pirates, not legitimate combatants, but terrorists. can i emphasise the point any more clearly, because I know that the museum curators did.
Walking through the museum of military history I blanche. Not at anything in particular, more the reminder that most of the time war is seen in the exact opposite way that i do. The glorious perpetuation of death. Of making war romantic in order to make it functional. What can you expect from museum entirely made from the donations of ex-servicemen? I'm standing in front of a mood-lit cabinet, the third memorial I've seen to the glorious memory of General Haig, not a critical word said in the little plaques of information about his medals, his uniform, the picture he had taken in this year, in this place. From the statue in front of the castle, to the war memorial, where his name is cast in gold leaf, even though he didn't die in battle, next to the one hundred and forty thousand Scottish soldiers who died under his fodder-war until 1918. On the explainatory note that comes with his memorabilia, there is half a sentence that states some contemporary 'people' (not historians) have criticised the way he ran the war. My arse.
Half of the Friday in Edinburgh was spent finding an internet cafe and being frustrated. The National Express website is, officially, the worst website in the history of mankind, especially since it has aspirations of lovely pop-up screens a la facebook. After denying a payment from my credit card several times it still tried to go through my bank account, charging it six times for a total of zero train tickets. Part four thousand and twenty six of Sam's adventures in bureaucracy had me standing in a phone box, dialling one number, to be told that i'd dialled the wrong department, to be given a whole new number, to be told again that i'd rung the wrong department. This was after I physically went to the National Express office in the train station to be told that not only could they not help me and I'd have to call the help line, but that they were unable to give me the number i'd have to call. We eat expensive sandwiches, drink terrible terrible coffee, again.
We then go to Edinburgh castle. We are introduced, or rather re-introduced to the fact that a lot of museums, or in fact exhibitions of any kind are shit. Going into a castle, with eight hundred year old origins, then stepping through one of its doorways to be confronted by a piece of plasterboard with crappy renditions of all the kings painted on is not in fact a life-changing experience. Neither is a plaster tableau of the coronation of a king that lights up in certain places, as voice-overs 're-create' the 'experience'. The same as going past 'authentic' 'recreations' of the Prisoners of Napoleanic Wars' experience by hanging up some hammocks and making plastic models of bread and apples.
It is only the physicality of actual objects that adds any weight to these sorts of exhibitions, especially those whose context outweigh the banality of their original purpose. One example was at the end of the 'Prisons of War' exhibit, where they put up and highlighted the graffiti carved into the castle's original prison doors. Placards emphasised certain interesting parts, since a lot of them had the 18th and 19th century equivalents of "Shazza Waz 'Ere". One prisoner had carved a rudimentary picture of their ship, the prototype stars and stripes hanging off the back. They lost their rights during the war of independance, because they were not seen as prisoners of war. Instead they were seen as pirates, not legitimate combatants, but terrorists. can i emphasise the point any more clearly, because I know that the museum curators did.
Walking through the museum of military history I blanche. Not at anything in particular, more the reminder that most of the time war is seen in the exact opposite way that i do. The glorious perpetuation of death. Of making war romantic in order to make it functional. What can you expect from museum entirely made from the donations of ex-servicemen? I'm standing in front of a mood-lit cabinet, the third memorial I've seen to the glorious memory of General Haig, not a critical word said in the little plaques of information about his medals, his uniform, the picture he had taken in this year, in this place. From the statue in front of the castle, to the war memorial, where his name is cast in gold leaf, even though he didn't die in battle, next to the one hundred and forty thousand Scottish soldiers who died under his fodder-war until 1918. On the explainatory note that comes with his memorabilia, there is half a sentence that states some contemporary 'people' (not historians) have criticised the way he ran the war. My arse.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Train to Edinburgh, January 30th
I'm sitting in the quiet coach on the way to Edinburgh, drinking a Stella and listening to Kate Bush. May is drinking an Irn Bru, which is apparently the hangover cure of choice in Scottish Literature. I think about what I have read, endless Chrisopher Brookmyre and one Irvine Welsh. I didn't know anything about the orangey can of sugary crack. I do know a few things though. The first thing I know is that I love trains. The second thing I know is that at one pm every day a cannon is let off in Edinburgh. I know that this is the first time in over a week that I've looked in the sky and haven't seen tracers of the jumbo jets making their way to the USA. Just as I write that one appears, the first one, when usually the sky is crossed with them. In a few days time my godfather will tell me that whilst from where we stand the tracers are fluffy and white, in reality they are the blackest of exhaust fumes. We came here on one of those. Another addition to the list of the destructiveness you are willing to participate in.
*small side note*
I don't know if people know this or not, but SNAFU's play this year is going to be about the Second World War. I know stuff about it that I'm surprised others don't, I think about it more than others do. I don't know why this is. I'm an existential atheist feminist, not a godly chauvinist warmonger. Because we are in Europe-land, and most of these entries are transcribed after the fact, I am going to try and remain faithful to my thoughts while drinking beer on a train. You can make fun of it if you want.
*end small side not*
I'm not used to all these tracings of aeroplanes in the sky. Even in the vast Derbyshire countryside they were all-pervasive. You wonder if during the war there was a constant presence like this, a constant low murmur of machinery, with so much needed in such a confined space. This play will be difficult, because what you're aiming for, or what inevitably happens in the discussion of war is the need for a grand narrative or lesson to emerge from it. Even though at the time, and even now we all know it's impossible to put even the most significant events into a simple narrative structure. All you get are inadequete impressions.
There are more people in Britain in greater concentration than in Australia. You get the same trends raised to the surface because they are unable to hide. The difference between a self-sufficient, poverty stricken and resourceful wartime Britain, and the grand consumerism of it now is obvious as nostalgia has long overtaken reality. Every family had a vegetable garden, everyone learnt self-defense, everyone forfeited themselves or part thereof. Today the pre requisite for engagement in conflict is that it not happen anywhere near your own turf. The sun never sets on the Western Empire. The only necessary thing for home is creating the proper face of evil to spread over every media outlet.
Playing Trivial Pursuit in the hostel at Edinburgh was a little less heavy from that previous rant. The game, which I won by the way, beating Andy, and that's the important thing, mostly consisted of us replacing as many words as possible with 'Gay', as well as this interesting question:
Q: What do monotremes, such as Mrs. Platypus, produce that marsupials, such as Mrs. Wombat, don't?
I tell you, the state of inane trivia is going down the toilet.
*small side note*
I don't know if people know this or not, but SNAFU's play this year is going to be about the Second World War. I know stuff about it that I'm surprised others don't, I think about it more than others do. I don't know why this is. I'm an existential atheist feminist, not a godly chauvinist warmonger. Because we are in Europe-land, and most of these entries are transcribed after the fact, I am going to try and remain faithful to my thoughts while drinking beer on a train. You can make fun of it if you want.
*end small side not*
I'm not used to all these tracings of aeroplanes in the sky. Even in the vast Derbyshire countryside they were all-pervasive. You wonder if during the war there was a constant presence like this, a constant low murmur of machinery, with so much needed in such a confined space. This play will be difficult, because what you're aiming for, or what inevitably happens in the discussion of war is the need for a grand narrative or lesson to emerge from it. Even though at the time, and even now we all know it's impossible to put even the most significant events into a simple narrative structure. All you get are inadequete impressions.
There are more people in Britain in greater concentration than in Australia. You get the same trends raised to the surface because they are unable to hide. The difference between a self-sufficient, poverty stricken and resourceful wartime Britain, and the grand consumerism of it now is obvious as nostalgia has long overtaken reality. Every family had a vegetable garden, everyone learnt self-defense, everyone forfeited themselves or part thereof. Today the pre requisite for engagement in conflict is that it not happen anywhere near your own turf. The sun never sets on the Western Empire. The only necessary thing for home is creating the proper face of evil to spread over every media outlet.
Playing Trivial Pursuit in the hostel at Edinburgh was a little less heavy from that previous rant. The game, which I won by the way, beating Andy, and that's the important thing, mostly consisted of us replacing as many words as possible with 'Gay', as well as this interesting question:
Q: What do monotremes, such as Mrs. Platypus, produce that marsupials, such as Mrs. Wombat, don't?
I tell you, the state of inane trivia is going down the toilet.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
No time to post, am in Oxford being freaked out by the high academic standards... so here are the photos from Derbyshire, more to come...
Clickety-Clack
Clickety-Clack
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
The Weekend, or How it Nearly Became a Depressing Holiday, but Didn't.
Things weren't looking good on Friday when we arrived at Leeds/Bradford airport and had to walk at a 45 degree angle to the terminal. It took an hour for the airport to concede defeat and cancel our flight to Dublin, and, in a spot of talking shop, it made me realise why hostels not taking credit card details is a good thing, as the lady in the hostel we were going to be staying said she was going to charge us anyway when I called to cancel. I will admit I did a bit of stern talking, mainly because our beds were the last two in all of Dublin for a Friday night, and I was pretty sure they'd be able to find someone else to stay there. We haven't checked our bank accounts yet, but she did concede defeat to our faces. No Ireland then, although we did briefly consider paying triple the original price of our tickets to land the next day at five in the afternoon in a completely booked out Dublin.
Back in Leeds city we went in search of the internet to find somewhere to stay that was not Leeds. Don't get me wrong, seeing my Grandmother has been great, the city's been great, sitting in the Duck and Drake drinking real cask ale has been great, but May and I couldn't get past the thought in the back of our minds that our holiday hadn't really started yet, especially when I found myself blubbing in a phone booth at the British Airways lady asking her why my bag had been in the completely wrong staus for the past five days so nobody had actually been looking for it.
Finally we found ourselves forking out £8 for two hours in a four star hotel's business centre, the only internet available in Leeds that wasn't in the library. We'd sat in Waterstones before that reading all the travel guides, and had narrowed it down to three places. Bath, because it's my aunt's favorite city in the UK, The Lake District because of Jimmy McGovern's The Lakes (me), or The Peak District because Mr D'arcy was from Derbyshire. Or some shit (May). Through the cunning use of 'eenie-meenie', we booked a B&B in Bakewell, a small town in Derbyshire, and booked a bus to Derby. Or rather we booked the bus first, the B&B second and only at that point realised that the two were nowhere near each other. You can't win them all.
Derby was nice, a much sandier coloured city than Leeds, which is very terracotta-like (and tiling-happy). We stopped for lunch in Ye Olde Dolphine Tavern, which first opened in 1530, and was the oldest pub in Derby. It was also the first old-style pub we had been to that didn't have fruit machines, a television and Coldplay on a loop. May and I are all about the cask ale pubs, not only for the use of the old-style pumps, but because of the sheer variety and low price of the beers on offer. Most pints are around £2.60. Some favorites so far have been Absolution Ale from Sheffield, Marston's Pedigree and Timothy Taylor Landlord. The only thing we've first had to get over is the tepidity of the ale, but it's easy to do when it's cold outside.
Bakewell was an hour by local bus from Derby. Our first time in a B&B, the owner pointedly asked us if we wanted a twin or a double room after staring at us for a long time. We don't know if she was disappointed when we said twin.
Sunday we bought a pamphlet of walks and decided to do the 14km walk to Chatsworth House. It took us through the village, across a golf course and through a lot of sheep fields. Jonathan and Dan had told us from their walking adventures that you always greet passing walkers, which makes things even more pleasant when you're walking along in the winter sunshine. Most of the other walkers we passed were of a particular brand of retiree, encased in goretex, systematically day walking their way across England. There could be worse things to do. When Chatsworth was coming into sight in the distance, May told me about Georgiana, the Duchess of Devonshire, who lived a scandalous but politically active life out of the house we saw. Her marriage was unhappy and adulterous, and apparently she had her illegitimate children live in the house with her, which either her husband didn't mind, or did mind, but rather than confront slapped a newspaper against his thigh and grunted a bit.
Before you get to the house you walk through the tiny village of Edensor, which is many peoples' launching pad for looking a the House. Meaning they use the picturesque streets and laneways as a carpark so they don't have to pay at the house. Chatsworth House was gorgeous but closed. While resting on a bench we were accosted by one of the goretex army who's two main quotes were: "Oh that walk, a nice easy one," (he was four million years old) and (to May returning from the loo) "I've just been talking to your partner or friend or whatever you call them now," (he was four million years old).
Some of the way back was along the swollen Derwent river. May and I talked about the play, and including an omnipresent big stately home that contained a Remains of the Day-esque Duke or Duchess. We passed some more houses at the top of a valley that we decided to buy (to stay in when we weren't staying in Chatsworth), and walked through more sheep. The sheep looked like they wanted to kill us, but ended up just looking at us while weeing.
After both having hour long baths and lying on our beds, in our B&B bathrobes, drinking gin and tonics we decided that this holiday was working out alright really. By the time we went to find dinner it was too late, apparently. It's true though, 8pm is an ungodly hour to eat. So instead we sat in a pub with a pint watching Top Gear, one of the fifteen repeats showing that day. Not that I'm complaining.
The next day we only had time for a 10km walk that took a lot of the Monsal trail in, which used to be a railway line. This made the walk a bit more boring, but still the countryside and fresh air was lovely, and dare I say, picturesque. As was the cheese we bought at a market (lovely, not picturesque).
My bag may be returned today.. Maybe, they say. We're off to Edinburgh tomorrow, and are trying to swing going to the Robots in Disguise gig in Sheffield on Saturday night. Photos will come when I get the cord. from. my. fucking. bag.
Back in Leeds city we went in search of the internet to find somewhere to stay that was not Leeds. Don't get me wrong, seeing my Grandmother has been great, the city's been great, sitting in the Duck and Drake drinking real cask ale has been great, but May and I couldn't get past the thought in the back of our minds that our holiday hadn't really started yet, especially when I found myself blubbing in a phone booth at the British Airways lady asking her why my bag had been in the completely wrong staus for the past five days so nobody had actually been looking for it.
Finally we found ourselves forking out £8 for two hours in a four star hotel's business centre, the only internet available in Leeds that wasn't in the library. We'd sat in Waterstones before that reading all the travel guides, and had narrowed it down to three places. Bath, because it's my aunt's favorite city in the UK, The Lake District because of Jimmy McGovern's The Lakes (me), or The Peak District because Mr D'arcy was from Derbyshire. Or some shit (May). Through the cunning use of 'eenie-meenie', we booked a B&B in Bakewell, a small town in Derbyshire, and booked a bus to Derby. Or rather we booked the bus first, the B&B second and only at that point realised that the two were nowhere near each other. You can't win them all.
Derby was nice, a much sandier coloured city than Leeds, which is very terracotta-like (and tiling-happy). We stopped for lunch in Ye Olde Dolphine Tavern, which first opened in 1530, and was the oldest pub in Derby. It was also the first old-style pub we had been to that didn't have fruit machines, a television and Coldplay on a loop. May and I are all about the cask ale pubs, not only for the use of the old-style pumps, but because of the sheer variety and low price of the beers on offer. Most pints are around £2.60. Some favorites so far have been Absolution Ale from Sheffield, Marston's Pedigree and Timothy Taylor Landlord. The only thing we've first had to get over is the tepidity of the ale, but it's easy to do when it's cold outside.
Bakewell was an hour by local bus from Derby. Our first time in a B&B, the owner pointedly asked us if we wanted a twin or a double room after staring at us for a long time. We don't know if she was disappointed when we said twin.
Sunday we bought a pamphlet of walks and decided to do the 14km walk to Chatsworth House. It took us through the village, across a golf course and through a lot of sheep fields. Jonathan and Dan had told us from their walking adventures that you always greet passing walkers, which makes things even more pleasant when you're walking along in the winter sunshine. Most of the other walkers we passed were of a particular brand of retiree, encased in goretex, systematically day walking their way across England. There could be worse things to do. When Chatsworth was coming into sight in the distance, May told me about Georgiana, the Duchess of Devonshire, who lived a scandalous but politically active life out of the house we saw. Her marriage was unhappy and adulterous, and apparently she had her illegitimate children live in the house with her, which either her husband didn't mind, or did mind, but rather than confront slapped a newspaper against his thigh and grunted a bit.
Before you get to the house you walk through the tiny village of Edensor, which is many peoples' launching pad for looking a the House. Meaning they use the picturesque streets and laneways as a carpark so they don't have to pay at the house. Chatsworth House was gorgeous but closed. While resting on a bench we were accosted by one of the goretex army who's two main quotes were: "Oh that walk, a nice easy one," (he was four million years old) and (to May returning from the loo) "I've just been talking to your partner or friend or whatever you call them now," (he was four million years old).
Some of the way back was along the swollen Derwent river. May and I talked about the play, and including an omnipresent big stately home that contained a Remains of the Day-esque Duke or Duchess. We passed some more houses at the top of a valley that we decided to buy (to stay in when we weren't staying in Chatsworth), and walked through more sheep. The sheep looked like they wanted to kill us, but ended up just looking at us while weeing.
After both having hour long baths and lying on our beds, in our B&B bathrobes, drinking gin and tonics we decided that this holiday was working out alright really. By the time we went to find dinner it was too late, apparently. It's true though, 8pm is an ungodly hour to eat. So instead we sat in a pub with a pint watching Top Gear, one of the fifteen repeats showing that day. Not that I'm complaining.
The next day we only had time for a 10km walk that took a lot of the Monsal trail in, which used to be a railway line. This made the walk a bit more boring, but still the countryside and fresh air was lovely, and dare I say, picturesque. As was the cheese we bought at a market (lovely, not picturesque).
My bag may be returned today.. Maybe, they say. We're off to Edinburgh tomorrow, and are trying to swing going to the Robots in Disguise gig in Sheffield on Saturday night. Photos will come when I get the cord. from. my. fucking. bag.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
10pm, Hong Kong Airport, Jan 20th... I think.
Still surprised by ridiculous security screenings (see this article by a US Airline Pilot.) More seasoned travellers are probably scoffing at me, but there I was, for the third time in as many flights, popping my little clear bag on the conveyer belt after walking past the huge pile of abadoned water bottles filled with highly volatile explosives on a bench.
Andy was patted down in Melbourne after his shoes set off the metal detector. As a result, in Sydney, he preemptively took his shoes off and put them through the x ray machine to save on hassle. That's right, in Sydney. An hour after leaving Melbourne, there we were, back in the queue.
It's in Hong Kong airport I notice the something strange about these enormous cavernous spaces, and that's that there are no birds. We are so hermetically sealed in this duty free paradise that no form of wildlife is able to break through. On the other hand, there's Tanqueray for AUS$18 a bottle and Double Happiness cigarette cartons for less. Can't go wrong really.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
although let's begin with a little narcissim....
there are two warm-main-jacket choices that I can't decide between. I need advice.
1) Trusty old duffel coat, with many layers underneath, and if it rains, goretex japara over the top.
2) Big sheepskin jacket (short), not waterproof, japara on top, less layers.
The problem is indoor heating, which i hear is a bitch in europe... apparently they swaddle all interiors in unbearable heat. So a big quickly removed layer is preferable. But the sheepskin is much more cumbersome... what to do what to do.
if you are really bored, please give advice. or large wads of cash.
1) Trusty old duffel coat, with many layers underneath, and if it rains, goretex japara over the top.
2) Big sheepskin jacket (short), not waterproof, japara on top, less layers.
The problem is indoor heating, which i hear is a bitch in europe... apparently they swaddle all interiors in unbearable heat. So a big quickly removed layer is preferable. But the sheepskin is much more cumbersome... what to do what to do.
if you are really bored, please give advice. or large wads of cash.
Monday, January 14, 2008
The Going Away Drinks
We had them... They were good. I was hung over the next day. So we watched Harry Potter.
Here are Photos
Hopefully this will be sporadically updated during our travels.. starting in 6 days. If not, I'm sure there's a million other blogs you could be reading. Or you could be out playing in the sunshine.
Here are Photos
Hopefully this will be sporadically updated during our travels.. starting in 6 days. If not, I'm sure there's a million other blogs you could be reading. Or you could be out playing in the sunshine.
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