Christmas Morning when I was young

It's almost 9.30 pm here on Christmas Eve, and when I was a small boy I would have been asleep by now.

Christmas in the Sidebotham household always followed the same pattern.  Early in the evening we sang Carols round our Christmas Tree.  The baubles and paper decorations, bought in the local Woolworths, or made at school, were all in place.  Dad would be drinking a whisky, Mum would have a gin and tonic, Gran would have her port and lemon. Uncle John would have a bottle of Cheltenham Ale.  I would be allowed something fizzy but not alcoholic, and DEFINITELY not beer.  I hated the odd sip of beer.  How could people enjoy such a bitter drink?

I'd get into bed, and I didn't have a Christmas stocking.  I had a pillowcase!!

In the morning, Santa had been, and my pillowcase was full, including the presents that had had to be "posted to Santa" so that they could be put on Santa's sleigh.  How gullible was I!  There were always one or two annual favourites, a chocolate orange, something for my train set, a book.

I was brought up in a temporary house just after the war, called a "prefab".  This was a house, a bit like a caravan without wheels, only bigger.  It had all sots of modern things, like hot water on tap, a bathroom, an indoor toilet, a refrigerator, things we take for granted today.  Unfortunately our prefab was not very cosy.  They were "hot in summer and cold in winter".  In the cold depths of a December winter I used to get up and find that the inside of the windows had fern like patterns of ice which had formed there during the night.  I used to keep myself warm in bed by putting my clothes on top of my bedclothes, and in the morning, some of my clothes would be warm enough to put on and warm me up.  Normally I would be warmed up more with a large bowl of porridge.

But not on Christmas Day.  The first thing that was different, and which made me feel as though it were Christmas, was or unvarying breakfast of Pork Pie.  This was no ordinary pie.  This was a large pie made with cold water pastry, chopped pork, lovely clear meat jelly.  Australian pies just aren't the same.  Even most British pies are not the same.  It has to be a home-made pie, or a Melton Mowbray Pork Pie will do if you can't get anything better.

A generous slice of pie would be cut, and some tomato sauce or chutney put on the same plate.  It was delicious - more Christmassy than holly, and easier to eat.

Every Christmas morning we had pork pie, until I was almost thirty.

Then, one Christmas, my lovely father, explained why we ate pork pie for Christmas, and opened up a huge generation gap, which revealed a world he had grown up in where the men went to work and the women raised the family.

He said that they had had pork pie when he was young (the mid to late twenties) because it was a simple meal served cold.  This was to help out the women who would be busy cooking the Christmas Dinner.

I'm sure the wives and older daughters appreciated the thought!!!

Important, please read this.

Ecoute tous les gens,s'il vous plait, particulier mes amis en France. Je vous remercies vos comments gentils, mais je suis tres embarasse. JE N'AI PAS le MND! J'ai plusieurs des symptomes, mais a ce moment, je n'ai pas cette maladie tres horrifique. Qu-est ci que passe est j'ai mise mon nom au petition MND et un comment aussi, et tout ca a ete distribuer a touts mes amis qui lise l'Internet. Je suis tres heureux que j'ai plusieurs amis qui ont mis leur comments, mais je dois repeter. Heureusement, je n'ai pas le MND, trois ou quatre symptomes seulement To all my friends, please listen, particularly my English friends. Thank you for your kind comments, but I am very embarrassed. I DO NOT HAVE MND: I have several of the symptoms, but for now, I don't have this horrific disease. What happened was I put my name to a MND petition as well as a comment, and all this has been transmitted to all my friends on Facebook. I am very happy that I have so many friends who have commented, but I must repeat. Happily I do not have MND, only three or four symptoms of it. A tutti mi Italiane, voglio dicere NON O MND. Grazie per vostri buoni penseri. Fur meine Freunden in Deutschland, Ich bin sehr lustig sagen Ich habe nicht MND haben. Es ist gut haben mein Freunden, aber Ich sag, Ich habe nicht MND. I am still very embarrassed but thank you for your kind wishes and understanding.

And lastly, Part Trois!

Je voudrais ecrire cette accompte en francais, mais je regrette je n'ai aucun acutes, graves ou circumflexes.  Et cedilas!  Oubliez cedilas!  Ils sont trop difficile trouver, comme huitres numero trois en juin.

No, I'm sorry, but my keyboard just is not up to it, helas.

I hope, Gabriel and Florianne, that you are reading this, otherwise my bilingual account sera in vain! :)

Alors, Gabriel poured me a glass of a noble dry white wine with a stony visage.  Or perhaps it was a stony dry white wine with a noble visage.  Either way, it was a beautiful gesture which was much appreciated.  Merci beaucoup, mes amis!  For those who maybe are not as familiar with an assiette des fruits de mer, it is literally a plate of the fruits (the bounty) of the sea.  No two assiettes served on different nights are the same, because the shellfish must be extremely fresh, and usually, the ingredients are only lightly boiled or steamed, either in pure water, or more rarely in barely flavoured stock.  The ingredients are served cold.  At La Procope, as one would expect, with l'Ancienne Comedie Francaise on l'autre side of la street, the presentation is pure theatre.

First, a metal stand is placed on the table by the waiter with a flourish.  Then he approaches with the "Assiette" itself.  This metal plate was elliptical, and about 40 or 50 cm long at its widest dimension.  On the plate was heaped a pile of ice about 10 cm deep, with the sea food arranged around it.  Around the edge were six of the largest oysters I have ever seen.  They were huitres no.3.  (The French Fisheries size their oysters).  At the top of the ice, there were a few prawns, and one or two cooked clams.  Around and on the ice were scallop shells, each of which was heaped with seafood of different species.

To eat this feast was Florianne who borrowed an oyster permanently.  As an English gentleman I could not refuse her, not even one of my molluscs.

The waiter, dressed in black with a very long white apron, placed my cutlery on the table.  There was a spoon, a four pronged fork; a three pronged fork; une fourchette avec deux tines and a pin for the most efficient extraction of the meat from the shells.

The table looked impressive.  Florianne asked if we had in English a saying that our eyes are bigger than our stomachs.  Yes, I replied, but I had missed my chance.  As a suave gentilhomme anglais qui a soixante-onze ans, I should have said that nothing was bigger than my stomach, and therefore I must have very large eyes, and complimented her for saying that.  Instead, I weakly said, "Yes".

She mentioned that La Fontaine had popped in for lunch about two hundred years earlier.  I thought she was going to ask whether he had been at the next table eating oysters.  No, I said, but this gave me a chance to recite the Fox and the Grapes (sounds like an English pub!)

"Certain reynard gascon, d'autres disent normands" and so on.  They looked surprised.  I must have looked surprised, too, as it was sixty years since I had last recited it.  Florianne also recited a fable, but she could continue for longer, as she had last recited it in school only a very few years previously.

Florianne and Gabriel made that evening an evening to remember.  It was possibly my last evening in Paris, and they sprinkled it with gold.  They were both such marvellous company.

And yes, Florianne was correct.  My eyes ARE bigger than my stomach.

A Tale of Two Cafes - Part Deux

As I drank my pastis I reflected that I had found a good place to eat; that I only had 65 euros in my pocket; that I had already spent some of that sum on pastis; that I was about to spend 39 euros on their signature seafood shellfish dish; and that I had better put down the wine list with as much faded grandeur as possible - "but don't you find that white wine overpowers the delicacy of sea food?  I prefer sparkling water - Perrier from choice.  I believe it allows the whelks to BREATHE"

What I didn't know was that I was eating in the oldest cafe in Paris which has its own Wikipedia page ; that I would recite a fable by La Fontaine off by heart; that I would gain some wine, lose an oyster, and listen to La Fontaine as it should be listened to; and wear out my semi colon key.  In the process I would make two friends, one on Facebook, one not, who were from Toulouse and who were celebrating their Fourth Anniversaire.

And so to Gabriel and Florianne, mes felicitations on your Anniversaire; mes condolences for joining in son Anniversaire, (it wasn't me to blame but Florianne and her passion for large oysters.

I was only the catalyst.

The waiter led me to my table.  There was a hard seat, and opposite, a soft banquette, a sofa that continued past several tables.  Florianne was sitting next to me, and opposite, on a hard chair, was Gabriel, who had obviously spent much thought and time on the planning of the evening's proceedings, alas, without taking my possible presence into account.

Fortunately pour moi, both Florianne and Gabriel were from Toulouse, a town known for its love of Concorde.

Fin de Part Deux
End of Part Two

A Tale of Two Cafes

If you like good food, where do you get it?  I'm often asked this, and I can only reply that sometimes I eat well, and sometimes I eat fairly well, but seldom in the last few weeks have I got food poisoning, and looking back on that unhappy evening, I should have known better and played by my own rules.
If you are in a tourist spot like Prague, for instance, I head for the side streets.  There you are more likely to see a good authentic menu.  A narrow street not accessible by tourists on a bus is a good start.  Next I look for a simple menu, preferably without steak on it, or pictures of the dishes.  I found such a place near St Charles Bridge.  The menu was simple, and at the back of the cafe was a television showing an ice hockey game between Canada and the Czech Republic.  At the next table was a Canuck and three Czechs.  After my meal, they invited me to join them. We drank and cheered and booed and drank and a good time was had.  At the end of the evening, they gave me their business cards (they were work colleagues).  How lovely people are.

Two weeks later, I was in the Quartier Latin in Paris.  I wanted an evening meal, but as I walked along the Odeon, I was beset by spruikers wanting me to eat in cafes with pictorial menus and mange biftecks, which was fortunately not what I had in mind.  I set off down a side street as I do if I want to be alone with a good meal and without a bus of tourists, and the world is my oyster (or in France, mon huitre no.3).

I came across this understated place called La Procope.  It looked a bit posh, the diners were glamoreux, but heck, I had 65 euros in my pocket and the world was mon huitre.  Talking of oysters I noticed that they served a very nice "signature" dish of sea food, the famous assiette des fruits des mer.for only 39 euros.  I went in.  "Table for one, please" I asked insouciantly.  I received a veritable torrent of French.

"So you can't fit me in tonight"
"Oh yes sir" said the Maitre d', "but not for a quarter of an hour,  Find a seat and have a drink," so I sat down next to the hatch where the waiters were fetching the drinks from, and had a glass of pastis.

To be continued . . . .

Even Masons have their Vaults

Even Masons have their Vaults

This is the story of two masons and their experiments.  I am quite sure they were friends, certainly collaborators.  One was Head Mason of Tewkesbury Abbey, and the other of Gloucester Abbey, now the Cathedral.  They are only twelve miles apart, well within a day's walk, and they were both built at about the same time.  Both churches were originally built in the Romanesque style, and in the 14th Century the ceilings were vaulted,  Both churches retain lierne vaults, where ribs called liernes sprang from the columns, and the liernes were reinforced by secondary ribs called tiercerons.  This example is in the choir of Tewkesbury Abbey.

The Suns were added at the command of Edward IV after his Yorkist army had won the Battle of Tewkesbury in  1471.  Shakespeare probably saw them (Stratford is only a short distance up the river) and wrote about "These suns of York" in Richard III.  When Isabella, Countess of Warwick died, she had a chantry chapel built.  Time for an experiment.

The ceiling wasn't particularly heavy, and so radial liernes were used in the upper storey.

You can see how the liernes radiated without any need for tiercerons, giving a flatter ceiling.  In this case the liernes would have been fitted with hanging bosses, since broken off.  Downstairs there is a most interesting vault, completely new in design.  Not a lierne vault, but a decorative transition.  Again, there would have been hanging bosses, but the vault itself is unique to this chapel.

The ceiling of this vault is still flatter, but the two masons found that it was still capable of load bearing. In the next chantry chapel to be built, that of Edward Despenser, the "classic" design of an English fan vault is achieved.

These eight tiny vaults, I contend, are the very first English Perpendicular style fan vaults.  They carried the weight of the ceiling.  The Gloucester mason still built his main church with lierne vaulting, but the lighter weight of the cloisters allowed him to use fan vaults.  Sadly, the Tewkesbury cloisters were destroyed, but they may have been fan vaulted, too.  Fan vaulting became the norm in St Georges Chapel Windsor, Eton College, Wells Cathedral and Kings College Cambridge, but I maintain that those eight tiny vaults in Tewkesbury were the first to be built.

It Looks like Rain.

It looks like rain.  Ask any Londoners and they'll tell you it's going to be a lousy summer.with a rotten winter not far behind.  And let's not even mention the English Test cricketers.  They are angry, as I am, of the fuss caused by terrorism: the media droning on and on with the same film clips, the total lack of perspective.  This event at London Bridge is not even a subject of conversation amongst Londoners, but the inconvenience is.

 "Can't get my train from London Bridge?  That's two buses I'll have to catch to get home and it looks like rain."  Most Londoners (and I include myself here) are angry, not scared, and are already sick and tired of the London Bridge Incident.  Buckingham Palace most unusually has a flag at half mast.  Most of the stores in Piccadilly don't.

I was woken at 2 am this morning by my Australian insurance company wondering how I was.  I felt like telling them that I was OK sleeping off a  hangover until they phoned me.  That's how I was.  Angry.  Not trembling with my head under the pillow.  I'm angry, too, about the price of the Underground.   4 pounds 90 for a single journey of five stations!

Several years ago, now, I woke up with a shock to find that I was only four miles from Baghdad.  Four miles up, that is!  As we flew on down towards the Arabian Gulf at sunset, I looked at the Euphrates, with the little towns and villages on its banks, full of honest people with steady jobs and bringing up young families just like ours.  They were Muslims because their ancestors, their families, were Muslims, in the same way most of us became Christians..  The Muslim faith is a moral faith, just as Christianity is a moral faith, and Christianity has spread the same way.  I have the greatest respect for those who live by a moral code, but the particular faith is a choice.  It is not factual, but is an opinion.  The Euphrates reminded me so much of the Severn Vale, with its good and bad families.  The helpers and the helped.  The old people and the children.  Virtually what happened on the Euphrates happened on the Severn.  It is the intolerance of the thoughts of other people that causes the trouble.

It is the extremity of faith: the sureness that you are right and all others are wrong causes the problems.  Some of the biggest jihads, holy wars, were the Crusades, when thousands of Muslims died in the name of religion at the hands of Christians.

Me, I'm a scientist, and I like absolute truth.  I'm suspicious of "I believe that:"  That's only an opinion.

And in the words of Forrest Gump "That's all I have to say about that . . . "

Handsome Hamburg

Hamburg Hauptbahnhof  (specially for Tom)

I'm writing this in Paris, or Disneyland, as I am coming to call it.  I know it sounds snobbish, but trippers are on the increase thanks to cheap European flights, and they fly out for the weekend for a lot of football chanting, drinking, and for some weird reason, hen parties in Amsterdam.  To our countries' shame, the later in the evening it gets, the more the language becomes English.  It's not a good look, or maybe I should say it's not a good sound.   Of course, it is not just the English speakers who have taken over this alcotourism.  I'm sure that it's the same in London. (Buckingham Palace (tick) Trafalgar Square (tick)) Paris (Eiffel Tower (tick)  Arc de Triomphe (tick)). and so on, until it is now impossible to view any art gallery of note.  I paid my 17 euros and waited for half an hour to go round the van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam.  I couldn't manage it.  I walked out of the place without seeing a single van Gogh.  I never even attempted the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam.  There were just too many people.  I doubt if I shall even try to go to the Musee d'Orsay while I'm in Paris, let alone the Louvre.  Sometimes I wonder if I'm looking at the Eiffel Tower or Blackpool Tower, such is the huge increase in trippers that I have noticed over the last five years.  Many people suggested that I would see vast changes with increases in refugees.  In fact, I didn't see any of that, and there appeared to be no increase in down and outs, who have always been pests; and cheap con men that you'd like to swat. 

But there are towns, even cities, that have escaped the trippers.  One such place is Hamburg in Northern Germany.  (But why am I telling you this?)  For complicated reasons, I had an informal exchange with a German student and stayed for four weeks.  Happy times!  Although it was 54 years ago, as soon as I got off the train from Berlin, I knew I was home.  I could live in that beautiful city in a heartbeat.  It is still a working city, a colossal trading giant, (who hasn't seen Hapag Lloyd shipping containers?) but cultural in the Arts and Music as well, the home of Brahms, Telemann, and even Bach for a short time, and it should not be forgotten that the Beatles first made it in Hamburg and it is situated amongst smaller picturesque towns in the area like Kiel and Lubeck.

If you can, go to Hamburg before the trippers do their worst.  I think you'll like it!

One of the canals in the old Commercial District, now a World Heritage Site

 

The Golden Hour on a May Evening in the City Centre

Dutch Road Etiquette

There is none.

First of all, let's get Amsterdam traffic in perspective.  It makes Sydney's Pennant Hills Road look like a country lane.  Let's take the basics and work up, and I warn you there will be a practical as well  as a theory test at the end of this entry 

Let's imagine a zebra crossing going east west across a northbound southbound road.  You set off in Australia, and the northbound traffic stops.  After two or even three lanes crossed, you do the same for the other three southbound lanes of traffic until you reach the sanctuary of the far footpath.  If the crossing is controlled by lights, everything stops while pedestrians hurry across the tarmac.  Once the road has been crossed, the motor vehicles start once more, but not until after the lights have changed.

Not in Amsterdam.  Ignoring the fact that the sun goes clockwise and they (in theory) drive on the right, a much more interesting scenario develops.  This is what happens on the Amsterdam Pennanthillsstraat.

Looking north, next to the buildings, is a footpath of variable width (Omni directional)  It is usually (but not always), paved with 15 cm  concrete tiles.  Next, separated by either a white line or a low kerb is the southbound cycleway.  This is often made of the same 15 cm tiles, but set diagonally.  This is about 3 metres wide.  THERE DOES NOT APPEAR TO BE A SPEED LIMIT here and all sorts of two wheel traffic from motor scooters to tandems use this narrow way.  A larger kerb (or a white line) separates the cycle path from the two lanes of southbound traffic.  Then come the south and northbound tram tracks (sometimes with tram stop platforms).  This space is usually used by trams travelling in opposite directions, but sometimes buses and taxis use them too!  It's a bit disconcerting to be in a taxi with trams front and back, with another tram travelling in the opposite direction, boxing you in.

Then there's more of the same in the opposite direction.  Two lanes of cars and trucks travelling north, and the northbound cycleway, then the pavement and safety.

If you want to cross the road you can use a zebra, but you should know that these are really pedestrian avoidance zones.  While you are crossing, other vehicles up to and including 4 car trams, will cross the crossing in front and behind you.  If you use crossings with lights, it is unusual for all four sets of lights to be green at once, and again they seem to be advisory, with traffic going round pedestrians.  Sometimes the cycle ways and/or the tramways, go across to one side of the highway, for no apparent reason.

The overall result is that of a sinuous ballet, and somehow, somehow, nobody gets scathed.

Now you are all dying to know what you have to do if you are a cyclist turning left in front of a tram turning right.  It's actually quite easy, and that is your practical for today . . .                                               

Test

An efficiency study

My ordeal with Fisch

Not going into any detail save to say that I spent a turbulent night.  I got up early went to the lobby,and waited for Stephanie, our blonde Teutonic receptionist (with orange shoes, but I digress.

I told her I ought to get checked over by a doctor, as food poisoning can be nasty.

Himmeltag! she said.  There are no doctors.  This didn't seem to be the German Way.

You will have to go to the Krankenhaus (Hospital).

Which is the nearest?  

Altona.  I will call you a taxi, it will be one minute.  And it was.

17 euros later we reached the Hospital.  A young female doctor said:

Your Englisch Dokuments!

I looked mystified. EU passport and NHS number (YB 042812A)

I need card.

Nummer

Karte

Nummer

Karte

How much?  160 euros ($200) 

No way!

I waited by the hospital gates.  There were no taxis, only a young girl called Sibylla, who knows Australia better than I do.  "From Cooktown in the North we go, but we cannot get across Kimberley without 4 wheel drive!"  Sibylla guided me onto the correct bus and then the S Bahn railway to Landungbrucken near where I was staying.  Stephanie had had a difficult time with a couple of visitors.  I went to the cakeshop where I had a latte and one or two other small things.

Then I had an idea which cost me only 3 euros.  I got a box, wrote on it "Glucklicke Himmel Tag!" had a strawberry slice put into it and gave it to Stephanie. She was delighted.

One never knows when one might need another palazzo for the night! :) 

Slovakian Sunshine

What a lot I've missed out!

This is my bar fridge in Vienna (Wien) taken on the morning I left to go to Prague.  No I hadn't drun k it dry.  The total contents was one bottle of water.  "Did you have anything from the minibar, sir?"  "No I left the water where it was."

I had so much fun in Bratislava and Praha, that I left my blog on hold.  (That sounds deliberate, actually I was lazy)

I crossed the road to Vienna's main station and looked for a booking office.  Eventually, underneath a sign that said "International Trains" I found a ticket machine where for about 11 Aussie dollars return, I could go from the capital of Austria to the capital of Slovakia, Bratislava.  They are so close, they share the same international airport, Schwechat.a

I'm not going to bore you with chapter and verse, but merely show you some pictures of this small capital.  You will notice it doesn't have . . . a lot of tourists shoving each other around.  It is a lovely unspoiled walled Central European city.  If ever I get back to Europe, Bratislava will probably be on the itinerary.

the railway station

This is only 40 km from one of the major European capitals, and ancient royal city of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Wien (Vienna).  Bratislava has to be one of the quietest places under the sun.  Absolutely lovely.  And they use the Euro, not the pesky Ceski Krona.

More horrible ghosts

This is the last blog entry from Berlin from me, as I move to happier places.

My lovely hotel is situated in the old Jewish Quarter on Friedrichstrasse.  The very large breakfast room has lovely old buildings on one side, but 1960s stuff on the other three sides.  With the Manchester Arena Outrage fresh in my mind (15 killed as I write this), it made me wonder how many people had died where I was eating my muesli.

First, the children were "taken on holiday" to be followed shortly afterwards by their parents.  Then came the Berlin bombings which caused firestorms so great that people died because all the oxygen had been used up.  Then the Russians arrived, who raped and pillaged everyone and everything in their way.

How many people had died where I was eating my muesli?

All of them.

Today I'm off to the station to reserve my seat on the Berlin to Hamburg ICE, the German high speed train, that will take less than two hours to complete the journey.

Back in 1963, when I fell in love with Hamburg, a train journey to Berlin would have taken seven hours, if you were lucky, and held a passport, a visa, and a change of currency.  Now it's 250 to 300 km/h all the way.

Some things change for the better.

Berlin and its ghosts

Berlin, a disquieting city, or is it just me?

Like many war damaged cities, Berlin wears its scars with pride. In the last century it has probably been fought over more than most.  It has the most wonderful modern architecture in large spaces (not all of them pre-planned), and the Berliners, the residents of the City of the Bear, have fashioned a most remarkable renaissance.  At the base of this ruined church at the end of the Kurfuerstendamm are modern sculptures of peace and defiance.

But I still feel the ghosts, not least on the U-Bahn.  For many years it was the only "international" underground railway in the world, and the background to numbers of films noirs.

I was travelling down the old U6 to Friedrichstrasse on my way back to the hotel and I noticed the woman opposite me with a bag of greenery in her hands.  "Rocket! I said, "Lovely with tomaten und basilica!) "

" They are dandelions which my dead rabbit liked"

"Oh, I am sorry" I replied. "What did you call him"

"Tot" (Dead) was the answer.

Friedrichstrasse was the next stop.  Why are all pedestrian lights little boys?  They are not, says Melbourne.  Some of ours are little girls.  In Berlin, some of the lights are little bears!

And then you turn the corner and you see a statue, a monument, to six young children.  One has a suitcase; the litle girl is carrying her teddy bear, one of the older ones has a banjo.  At one end of the statue is a saying "Zuge gutes, zuge schlects" which translates to "good trains, bad trains"  These six fictional children are off for the holidays (although we know different).  The real punch in the stomach comes at the other end of the monument.  There are six names, each with different dates of birth, but the same date of death, and there is a small wreath. They were not fictional. They were local kids from local schools.

Berlin still has its ghosts.

Who should I see in Vienna, but!!

I have to say, Vienna is a very strange town.  It is very large and busy city with no less than six hop on hop off routes.  They all meet at the Opera House.

So off I went from the Hauptbahnhof (literally, the toprailwayhouse).  Vienna is a city of palaces and beautiful architecture.  Its trees are magificent.  The horse chestnuts are out in bloom again, and the whole city looks a treat.  There is only one thing slightly amiss.  From the top deck of a sighseeing bus, the horse chestnut trees block the views of the magnificent architecture which rather defeats the point.  But I did get to the Belvedere Museum (Oh bother! As I write this I realise I haven't bought the catalogue of Klimt), but I have managed to send a few postcards, which will probably arrive in December and will double up as Christmas cards.  Then I went back to the Opera, because these honest Austrians expect you to pay there.

Anyway we trundled along, having all the potential sites described to us.  I decided to get off at the Hbf.  The Hbf never arrived.  Every other scene opened up its scenic beauty, like the sewer used in the Third Man.  Round we went, and we were told that this sewer was used again in the Third Man,  I assumed that I had dropped off with so much excitement as we passed the toprailwayhouse, so I paid particular attention, and there, after all the problems, we arrived.  At Harry Lime's bloody sewers!  I called the guide (quite a lot of things under my breath) but on top of my breath, I asked when we would reach the Hauptbahnhof and found that I was on the number five tour which didn't go anywhere near it.  "You want the number two tour" she said.  As I heaved a sigh of relief, she added that the last one had departed about twenty minutes earlier.

So, after I had had a sunny period amongst the scattered showers, I took several Metro lines to get back to the hotel.  As I entered the lobby, I noticed a man with a familiar face, pinkish skin and a white beard.  He appeared to be arty, and wore the most tasteful clothes, even though cavalry twills are slightly out of fashion.  The musicians came in, late as usual (that's a musical joke) and the organist sat next to me on the banquette.  They were doing Mozart's Ave Verum and a couple of other things.  I hummed a small part, and said "is it that one?" "We'll have you in the back row", said the organist, "what are you doing tomorrow evening?"  
@Going to Prague, I replied.  (I was already miffed that I would miss Placido Flamingo by a day!)

Somehow, the talk got round to how difficult it was to autograph very dark paper, and I happened to mention that I had gone to a performance of "Five Mad Kings"by Peter Maxwell Davies and had a poster on brown paper signed by the composer.  By this time, the organist had a little group of the conductor, the leader, a couple of soloists, and myself, with the pink and white man still on the door.  "The organist suggested that Peter Maxwell-Davies had gone to Cheltenham Grammar School where I was educated.

"No he didn't", I interjected.  "He was music master at Cirencester Grammar, but we used to combine choirs with them, and he used to conduct, so I first met him in his very early days."

The organist shouted across the lobby.  "Derek, John knew P M-D in his youth"

Derek.  The penny dropped.  The well scrubbed man was Sir Derek Jacobi.

This trip gets weirder and weirder.  Shame the Flamingo wasn't there, though. 

I'm never going to add anything to my prosecco again!

In my youth I was more of an Asti Spumante man, but it seems to have disappeared off the shelves and been replaced by said Prosecco.  I boarded the Nightjet sleeping car train just after 8pm for a departure at 2104.  This is an Austrian train which winds round the top of the Adriatic Sea before following Alpine Valleys to Salzburg, Linz, and eventually Wien.  I was lucky, and was the only person in my cabin.  The OBB (Austrian Railways) had drinks in a little net (2 bottles of water and a half bottle of prosecco) by the side of the bed, and a goody bag which contained fluffy white slippers.

As the train left Venice, and crossed the causeway, I toasted the many friends whom I had met in Italy.  Monica in Rome, and Eleanora in Firenze; Maarten who came to my rescue in Venezia, and finally Francesca and Philippo in Padova.  All in their own ways had gone the extra step to make my holiday in Italy the best ever.  If they are reading this,  "Grazie, grazie, mille grazie per tutti!"

I tried the prosecco.  It was dry.  Also in the net, was a "Squeezer" which when squeezed, exuded a sort of apple sauce which you ingested.  I put a little in the prosecco and it seemed to improve it a little.  I did up the screwtop bottle tightly, put it in the net, and fell asleep.  I was half awakened at Salzburg where the rain was sheeting down.  I thought the prosecco was still a bit dry, so I added more apple sauce, swirled it around a bit, and tightened the screw top before putting it in the net.

I must have dropped off as soon as the station lights disappeared, but I was suddenly awakened by the feeling of damp between the net and my left ribs.  I realised that the bottle had leaked, because the top was off.  I drank the rest, and moved the slightly wet bedclothes to one side, and had a glorious sleep.  I woke with the dawn at about St Polten to see that my jacket, on a hanger two metres away, had apple sauce on its shoulder.  At least prosecco dries quickly, and there was just a whitish powder left when I arrived in Wien.  When I found the bottle top, the thread was partly stripped.

The hotel was just across the road from the main Vienna station.

"Do you have a clothes brush?", I ventured.
"I'm sorry, we put out all our cleaning to a special service"

The wonders of modern hotels!  I eventually brushed it clean using a hairbrush!.

That's it for tonight.  Tomorrow is my last day in Wien, but first I must tell you all about Bratislava in Slovakia.

All things bright and beautiful

Those people who know me well, know that I tend to steer clear of advertising, but I think you should know something about the kind people who rescued me,

Francesca and Philippo and the amazing Palazzo that they own right in the middle of the old part of Padova (Padua)  You've seen the inside in my previous blog posting and they also have a website http://palazzoaltinatenotedipiano.it, or something like it.  Google Palazzo Altinate di Piano, Padova.  The reason I mention it in such selling terms is because I've discovered some of Padova.  Just round the corner is the place to see Giottos.  They are amazing!  But they are not crowded!  The town is about the size of Hornsby, and Venice if you should want to see it (and it's vastly overrated) is shoulder to shoulder, and about 40km away  A bit like the difference between beautiful Berowra and Circular Quay. Also round the corner is by far the best gelataria I've ever been to, and tried Calendula, Licorice, and Butter and Rosemary, three fantastic flavours.  If anyone fancies a stay near Venice for up to seven with one able to play a grand piano, count the Sidebothams in.  It could be one hell of a party!  Enough of the ads.  You can read their website.

On the last evening I was invited to a family evening meal.  Five of us had the local Veneto wine (2 bottles), some brandy, and some port, and to go with that a magnificent Chicken Caesar Salad (thanks Philippo!) with home made dressing and cherry tomatoes, and a bowl of olives.  The tomatoes were differently coloured.  I found a black one, but it turned out to be an olive.  These were all handled digitally.  For afters, there were fresh strawberries with a vinaigrette of good pure virgin olive oil, and a SWEET balsamic vinegar.  It was amazing!

I have to say, after all my years of globe trotting, the best two places of accommodation were the Hotel Morandi alla Crocetta in Florence, and the Palazzo Altinate which was a self catering giant apartment, both originally built in the Sixteenth Century.

I left earlier than expected because it was a Sunday, and I was worried about railway works, and in the end I sat at Santa Lucia station for about five hours amongst the horrible Venetian crowds.  But I hate goodbyes, so I hope Francesca's family will forgive me for leaving quickly. I hope that one day we will be able to meet up again.

Then came the railway journey, which turned out to be eventful.  See next blog entry)

Now I've got to Veroeffentlichen, so here goes.  Thanks Google!  I'm dreading Prague!

From Police to Palazzo in Padova, and why I don't care.it isn't Venice.

A long time ago I was rescued by an 18 year old young lady who believed in Paying it Forward.  Do good things before you yourself need assistance.

Our Tour Guide had her handbag stolen when we returned to Firenze.  Everything was in it, address, house keys, money, cards, and all the irreplaceable little things that mean much to themselves.  We went to the railway police (apparently females get treated more seriously if they have a man with them!).  We were told that at 9 pm there was no-one of sufficient rank to take a statement.  So I took her for a taxi home, (I paid), a small meal (I paid).  A relative arrived with a key.  She had some spare money in her flat, and together we went to the Questera of the Firenze Police where an animated statement was taken.  She then sent the taxi to my hotel before going home herself at 2 in the morning.

Next day, I travelled to Venezia.  I did not know it, but it was the first week of Biennale, and all hotels were full.  My hotel had double booked and I had nowhere to go.  They wouldn't even open the door to me!  So, what to do?  There was a student next to me, and he offered me a corner of his very small room.  There wasn't even room to lay my suitcase flat.  He suggested getting out of Venice, and after many phone calls including to the lady in Florence whom I had helped.  Between them, they found a country hotel, and a Palazzo in the town.  When they told me the rates, almost the same as my Venice Hotel.  I chose the palazzo with some trepidation.  my heavy bag was carried by the student and we caught the train to Padua, where the owner of the Palazzo was waiting to take us to where we were to stay (It was for me, but I let him stay for the first night)  I include some photos of the Nobleman's floor, where I stay in solitude, in one of four bedrooms, two  bathrooms, a music room with a grand piano, the largest drawing room I have ever seen. (It has three three seat couches, other chairs and furniture, and a dining table for eight. In the same room!

 Did I mention the two twin basin ensuites?) and the vast kitchen.  Most of the paintings are genuine, including geuine including a Mantegna.  I've included photos.  They don't do it Justice.  All just 200 metres away from the greatest collection of Giottos in the World!

Roland

The pics are two of the many which show how the Duomo, Florence's Cathedral is so cool it's almost awesome.  It must have taken even the Borgias a few spondoolies to finance the building of  that.  I wonder if they had heard about rich men and needles.  If so, they must have had a heck of an engineering drawing for needles.
Talking of engineering (what a segue) the Baptistery was designed by Berlusconi and the Bell Tower by Vespucci (or was that Brunelleschi and Giotto?)  They could afford to pay top rates.

Anyway, talking about engineers, do you remember the amiable, cheery engineer in "Galaxy Quest" with absolutely no sense of humour (in a nice way)

Roland the receptionist is one of these lovely individuals.  After he had booked me onto a trip taking in travel in Tuscany, he asked me if I was about to go out for dinner, which I was.

"I can recommend some very good places for dinner.  Do you have your map?"

I replied that I did, and he carefully told me (almost verbatim):

The best places are over here.  You turn left, go down the street, and turn right, they are all down that way.

Roland, you have the map upside down.

So I do sir, I beg your pardon.  

As I was saying, you turn right down the street and then left, they are all up there.

It wasn't until I had walked up the street that I realised that he hadn't actually recommended any cafe or restaurant at all!

Rant on Rail

Today I travelled from Rome to Florence on a new high speed train, the Frecciarossa 1000 .  It was so smooth I didn't think it WAS going so fast, until I noticed that traffic on the autostrada was going backwards even though it was going in our direction    .  The speedometer in the carriage was reading 250 km/h.  I had a glass of blood orange juice, a bottle of water, biscuits, a lolly all in a sealed bag, and included in the fare.  The service was impeccable and sort of multilingual.  As I munched and drank, Tuscany beckoned.  In the distance you could see the walled hill city of San Giminiano with its mediaeval towers.  We arrived in Firenze almost to the second.

What are our politicians doing?  I know that Italy has a bigger population than Oz, but it has less planes in the sky. People move around because they CAN move around very easily.

They've been careful with  their expenditure.  The fast tracks are given smoother curves.  The new track can climb quite steep hills.  The old track is still used by freight trains as it weaves its way over and under the fast tracks.  The real expenditure is in the High Speed Rail technology.  Our Treasurer is keen on "good debt".  I wonder if our money is where his mouth is?

Having arrived at Firenze Santa Maria Novella, I went by taxi to the Via Laura to the Hotel Morandi al Crocetta.  The hotel business has been going continuously since 1905.  The building which I imagine was a secondary palazzo was built in 1511, That's 506 years ago - over half a millennium. I'll try and put some photos in.

That's it for now!

John!

Night and Day. Did Sinatra stay here?

Those people at Google and Co have got a lot to answer for.  Ever since I reached the Eternal City (or as I  call it, the Infernal City), they've changed all the headings to ITALIAN!!!  So they ask me to Scrivi uno Titolo del Post which they want me to Pubblica.  Draft becomes Anteprima, et cetera (now I'm doing it!)

Night and Day, where I am staying in Roma, is an absolute gem.  This is no advert, but an absolutely genuine recommendation.

I arrived (in the late shuttle from the airport) to find a large green double door firmly locked and with no-one around.  The owner, Monica, (see pic above) rushed up.  She had been in the supermarket at the end of the street.  She had not known whether I was definitely arriving as I hadn't received her email (I was flying over someone's house at the time).  We ascended three flights of stairs, along the hall and into the kitchen.

Night and Day runs to its own rules.  It isn't a five star hotel, but neither is it a backpackers' hostel.  It is a home from home run by Monica, who is kindness itself.  There are only three bedrooms and you can buy your own breakfasts from the shops around.  Monica doesn't stay on the premises, she just provides a house in the centre of Rome for the discerning.

Monica had been buying some Mortadella (made from freshly killed Mortadellans) and some brown breadsticks (a bit like grissini, but not quite) which we ate with an espresso and water while she helped me with the best cafes for tiramisu, the best churches (I know you would like this one, John!)  She also told me about the number 85 route which goes to all the most important places (and it does for only 1 euro 50).  She is a guitarist, blues singer with her husband and seems to like maps.  She had prepared a map for me with apples, pears and hearts post=it notes plastered all over it.  (You will LOVE this little restaurant in Trastevere!).

Three maps later, she happened to mention that she loved cats.  She has one of her own, but this is a picture of TeeTee, a male of some  regard who lives downstairs.

TeeTee in the Entrance Hall (ll e uno gatto bravo e grande, o qua?)

Then I was given the keys to my room - actually FOUR keys in order to get out.  One was for my room, one for the apartment, one for the security gate and one for the front door.  It took me half an hour (probably not an exaggeration) to reach the street.  There are many ways in theory to operate a key and the accumulated odds of getting it right must be close to winning Lotto!

The frontage of Night and Day

That's my room over the front door!

Tomorrow I move on to Florence, or Flower ence.  In Italian, a flower is fior, so Florence is Fiorenze or, Firenze.  The town of the flowers.

So it will be Arrivederci Roma.  I shall miss the changes for the good which have happened in the last five years.  I saw no more migrants, perhaps fewer than five years ago.  And all was safe in the hands of the Roma Police (together with their semi-automatics).

Mustn't bore you anymore tonight, so I shall salva this before I pubblica it.  After all, I am the Autore del post. It says so.  Dreading Prague if this keeps on.  Will Google have a czechlist and a spellczecher lurking in the undergrowth?

Ciao Roma! The start of the Tour.

Not best viewed on a mobile phone

John Sidebotham – The Final Tour?

Or, Cattargh in Qatar

A lot of people have asked that question. Particularly those on the receiving end!

But sorry, my holiday blog is here again, even if I am typing this at 5 am! So much has happened (all good) that I'm going to have to keep this to a minimum.

Qantas747 at Sydney while I was waiting for my plane

The A380 seating was divided into five zones for seating. The aircraft is so big they could be time zones. But it makes every cabin a reasonable size. The flight was good_I had three seats to myself – 14 hours in the air in the dark just to Doha, or DOH as it said on the baggage label. The exclamation mark was missing. As we were descending to land we were treated to a double sunrise. The sun started to rise, we descended until it just set in the east, and then when we were about to land it rose again to greet the day to reveal the Doha as a place of industry and sand. A cross between Manchester and Margate.

All transfer passengers (ie everyone) had to have a second security screening. Three Arab families attempted to go on the down escalator taking strollers and kids with them!. The escalator stopped, we used another escalator and headed for the bus stop called gate 24. It was in a different part of the UAE. To get there we had to travel by monorail and walk a lot, in order to catch a bus past a whole flock of Boeing 787s. Ours, though interesting, was not very comfortable. We flew over Iraq, Iran and Turkey to avoid Syria which added almost an hour to flight time to Rome. The straight line would have been over Saudi Arabia and Cairo. Why didn't we go that way?

We were late getting to FCO, as Rome is known in baggage labelling circles, to find that others in our shuttle bus group were even later. Off we went to our big black van. The driver had forgotten where he'd parked it. We tried FOUR little BVs before we found the right one! And off we went to Via Rasella to the Night and Day accommodation, which will be the next entry in the blog, because it is FABULOUS!

I'm posting extreme letterboxes (or, four nice photos for you to look at)

Having too much time on my hands

As you know, I'm a rotten photographer, and for a number of reasons, the technical side is not going to improve any time soon.  I'm therefore, going through my last twelve years of digital photography, and I'm finding out that photos which on the face of it were rejected, very ordinary snaps, can often be transformed into something quite beautiful, and sometimes very strange.  My abstracts that I recently displayed at the last display night received one of my highest number of awards.

Normal televisions have a screen ratio of 4 : 3, in other words the screen is four units wide and 3 units high.  Wide screen televisions are generally 16 : 9.

I have been experimenting with photos which I have cropped to 36 : 8, which by any standards is extreme letterbox format.  Unfortunately this blog appears to be limited to portrait and no landscape, which makes the photos smaller than they need be.

The first photograph is taken at Cockfosters.  It is in London, and everyone knows it as the northern terminus of the Piccadilly Line.  Everyone has heard of Cockfosters, but few have seen it!

The second photo is a complete contrast.  It is the furthest north that you can get on the Isle of Man, the Point of Ayre.  Possibly not in this picture, but certainly in the original, you can just see the southernmost Scottish Mountains near the Mull of Kintyre.  It's a bleak spot, the wind always seems to be blowing, and two currents meet here, making the sea extremely rough at all times.  Only seabirds really feel at home here.

This format, besides giving a wonderfully spacious feeling, almost as though you were there, is great if you are into cloudscapes

Cornwall is a beautiful English county.  In early spring the sun bounces off the fresh green leaves and the light in the narrow lanes becomes green.  Add to that, bluebells and other wild flowers and picturesque cottages, it is difficult NOT to take good pictures.

This is the Clapper Bridge near Pillaton near Saltash, which is joined to Devon near Plymouth by Brunel's giant railway bridge over the River Tamar.

Finally, part of Salisbury Plain near Avebury, between Winterbourne Monkton and Berwick Bassett.  It's one of the areas where early civilisations formed.  Places like Stonehenge and Avebury are nearby.  The farming land has traditionally been sheep, who eat almost anything plant-based, but modern agricultural methods are making the area more arable.  A popular crop is rape seed, forming yellow fields all over the Plain.

Deadman's Hill, near Marlborough