Back up

Penrath: the night was bitterly cold, so cold it woke me up and I searched for extra blankets. The wakefulness at sunrise continues, which will be handy tomorrow. This morning, I have to hunt for a laundrette, fortunately, there is one. I haven't seen any second hand bookstores on my travels which is disappointing, so is the lack of Youth Hostels. But I went off after breakfast and duly did my washing. Cost: six pounds. The dryer didn't quite do my socks, or a t-shirt, so I laid the socks out on the dashboard of the car and the t-shirt on the back shelf.

I also had a brain freeze. I followed a van with a trailer down one of the streets. The van pulled in next to a truck parked on the verge, so I passed it, thinking the driver was going to the construction site. Mistake. He was actually pulling in behind the rest of the traffic lined up at the traffic light and there I was, on the wrong side of the road facing the oncoming traffic. I'm sure I was red in the face as I backed up into the space the car behind me left – yeah, I could see the smirk on the guy's face. I gave him a wave and he laughed. I did, too.

So having finished the wash, and embarrassed myself, I went off to the Cosmeston Medieval Village. It's an interesting reconstruction of a village from 1350.
A house and a barn, with an area for animals at Cosmeston, Wales.

What's of interest, is that at Cosmeston, efforts are underway to revive rare breeds of livestock that were farmed here originally. Chickens - haven't changed much - but run around all over the place, black sheep with long tails run around in a nearby, lush paddock, weathered grey and hand-woven bee hives sit on a wooden shelf behind the priest's house in the garden that grows old varieties of plants and behind this wall are two orange pigs. Yes, orange:

They're so cu-ute!

These little hamhocks were so friendly it was as if they expected to be touched. Nup. I've nothing against bacon on the hoof, but for quarantine purposes, I left them alone. I didn't want to get pinged by customs when I returned to Australia. I figured they were plenty fondled by others and they could do without my attention. Still, the temptation...

You can take the guided tour - complete with the guide in costume - but, like other places I've visited, the guide was with a group of school children; English this time and remarkable by their attentiveness. As I waited outside particular buildings, I could hear them asking questions and the guide's considered answers.

I'm glad I wasn't around during the medieval age. Apart from the lack of proper medicine, invasions, the hard farm life... no television or internet, the sanitary facilities would put me off for life. I can think of no other reason for this:

Outside amenities... without a door... and no paper... in a shared space. I'm wondering if those really are nettles...

Of course, I took lots of photos – and finally, the batteries died in the camera. Since I was done with the village, that was okay. Better yet, back at the car, my socks were dry.

At the hotel, I set the batteries into the recharger and went across the road t'pub for lunch. I love pub food. Today it was the steak and ale pie with curly fries; absolutely delish. Although the half-Guinness with the pie nigh put me to sleep. In fact, I went back to my room and had an hour cat nap. I have been sleep deprived on this trip, so the nap did me the world of good. When I got up, the batteries were recharged. I reloaded them into the camera and went for a walk in the forest to Alexandra's Park. Picked off shots of a squirrel, who manically tried not to be caught, some birds and the trees in the gentle, soft, afternoon light. I did think I was going a little mad with the camera, I've taken hundreds of photos, but... I can sort it all out when I get home.
See those two open windows set into the roof? Yep. Lugging a full backpack up those narrow stairs was a job and a half.

And I swear, the closer you got to the top, the higher each step was. But, I had a hell of a view and the hotel itself is pretty grand. I had to consider what I needed for the day very carefully. If I forgot, well it was up those stairs again to retrieve whatever it was. I'm beginning to think people take one look at how much luggage I have and think 'hey, we'll give her the highest room in the highest tower, she needs the exercise'. Maybe it was simply 'ah, nice, polite tourist from Down Under; a room with a view I think.'

Tomorrow, I take off for Ireland. I only have the afternoon and Friday to find family. Monday is a public holiday, damn it. Well, it's the last 'official' research I need to do, so from Friday night I can go where I please. Maybe a quick trip to Sligo.

Bath-ing

Bath: the plan is to visit Bisley, Gloucestershire, where my great-grandmother’s family lived for three hundred years or so. If there's time, a trip to the Roman Baths in... Bath. It took less time to get from Burnley to Bisley, than expected, which is typical in this country. Distance isn't really distance compared to Australia – that's not an insult, just fact.

Bisley is... a bugger of a place to find, but gorgeous. (How is it my ancestors lived in these fabulous places and then left them for distant shores?) All right, it's small and tightly snuggled into the crook of a valley. And when I say tight, I mean I did a lot of three point turns to get around corners. Really! It's a precious place with an old pub (I wonder if Nathaniel ran it at one time?) and three storey slate and sandstone houses with Beemers, Volvos and Range Rovers parked out the front. Maybe that's why they left: they couldn't afford to live there any more. I didn't find any Tylers in the cemetery, which makes me think someone has set a date and removed old, unstable headstones. Not one was 19th Century.

The Bear Inn - did ancestor Nathaniel run it?

There weren't many places to park either, so I only took a few photos.
Onward, then, to Bath and driving around in circles for a few hours, including through the centre of Bristol. I got a couple of photos of Bristol Cathedral while I waited at a stop light.

I'd always believed there was a youth hostel here in Bath, but I couldn't find it, not even in the Yellow pages. I went from one hotel to the next but they were full. Fortunately, one gentleman, Alastair of the Grasmere Hotel, took pity on me and called The Manor House. Yes, they had a couple of rooms available. And off I went with the directions in my head. I took one too many rights-at-the-roundabout and ended up at The Manor Lodge. The proprietor looked at me, puzzled, then set me right.

Ah, the Manor House, comfy, exotic, and me on the top floor.

The Manor House is 16th century, and I was greeted with enthusiasm by two young, effeminate men. One took my credit card; the other showed me around.

My room came with a Henry VIII sleigh bed with a body conforming mattress (tempera, I think, he said it was) and a 'special' plumbing system that's noisy. 'Don't stick anything that doesn't belong down there. One gentleman plugged the whole system up with an ear bud'. I got the message and admired his politeness. The date on the house says 1547, and I'm not going to argue. I even managed not to get down and fondle the original floor tiles. Yes, it was expensive, but staying in something so historic, something that's over 200 yearsolder than white settlement in Australia? I'll suck up the expense.

The Roman Baths are a must to see for anyone who enjoys Roman history. I do and I'm glad I took the time and made the effort to come here. The only downside to these ancient sites is the amount of disinterested school children. History, of course, is mainly wasted on them. Who wants to look at boring old stuff anyway? The offenders this time were French; talking too loud, expressing disdain, mock-pushing their colleagues toward the waters and basically ignoring the value. Some, though, took photographs; quickly, after a check at the sheet of paper pressed against a clipboard. Me, I took a whole lot of photos – even some without the screaming hordes.

This is one of many inscribed stones found.

Translation: This holy spot, wrecked by insolent hands and cleansed afresh, Gaius Severius Emeritus, centurion in charge of the region, has restored to the Virtue and Deity of the Emperor.

Don'tcha love it? It's as if Gaius has to let everyone know who did the good deed - especially the local citizenry. But then, how else are the gods going to know who's loyal? I have lots of photos and no space to put them here, so this is just an example.

Underfloor heating. A floor rested on these piles of tiles; that allowed the heat through to warm the floors. Nothing like warm toes on a cold British morning. Clever people, those Romans - all the comforts of home.

I can't remember what they're called, but I figure a certain German scholar will let me know... eventually.

On my way back to the car, I picked up some genuine Cornish Pasties – Tiddeogs, my mum calls 'em – for on the way; got the coffee to go too. I had planned to stay in Bath for two nights, but the expense was an eek, so I'll stay two nights in Wales, Cardiff, close to the airport for Thursday. About an hour later, I stopped at a byway and chowed down on the tiddeog (yuh, yuh, yum!).

The bridge over the River Severn is awesome, spectacular, but there was nowhere to pull off so I could take a happy snap. When I put all this together, I'm going to purloin a pickie off the 'net. But the toll. Holy Crap! Five pounds thirty! Or about eleven Australian dollars. I'm so put off by the bloody expense of this country; no wonder two million Brits move abroad every year.

Anyway, yet again, I missed the turnoff, by two on the M4. I stopped, had coffee and the second tiddeog, checked the map and spotted what has been ailing me all through the country: I have not been taking notice of the sections of the highways. Here I was, beyond junction 35 and I needed junction 33. Thus settled in my mind, off I went and found Barry, near the airport. This time I got hold of the information lady before the information centre shut. She tried a number of places, and we settled on the Glendale Hotel in Penarth, further down the coast back toward Cardiff.

And I only got lost once. The hotel room is lovely with two dormer windows – one looking toward a park, the other toward the sea, a corner suite if you will, plenty of coffee, tea, sugar and milk - it's been sadly lacking in other rooms – and plenty of space.

I sat outside in the evening Summer air, drinking Guinness and writing postcards, very relaxing. I'm hoping to take in a Medieval Village tomorrow.

Home town?

Burnley and Padiham: It didn't take long to get to Padiham, where my great grandfather and great grandmother came from. I found a church and cruised through the graveyard; nothing. I walked to another, but couldn't access the yard. I did find a memorial and took a photo – maybe the McLaney is a relative.

I walked back down the hill and got the car thinking this might be another Lincoln. But. I drove to another part and happened to glance at the street sign. Bingo! I parked and took photos of the street and the house where GG Michael lived – I think; I'll have to check with the parent as to whether he lived before or after the railway bridge since the early part of the street didn't have numbers on the houses. There was also a RC Church so I cruised around the yard. Nothing, but that's not a big thing (the yard was, though). I also saw an assault. Some pinhead stopped his car in the middle of the road, got out and started punching some woman in a car across the street. Then, he jumped back in the car and took off. The woman and her mates slowly drove off in the other direction.

It being a Sunday, there was no one around to ask about the graves - too busy. I drove up and around the street. Lo, there was another sign: Stonemoorbottom. And there can't be many names like that! Out of the car and more photos; this is where GG Rosannah lived. I always thought it was a place, not the name of the house.

Both worked in the cotton mills at the bottom of the hill. Michael died in mysterious circumstances, and I'm going to try to find out how by visiting the Public Records Office. I'm rather chuffed that I found these houses. It is these addresses that are listed on the 1887 marriage certificate, and may give me extra information to locate Michael's father, Edward and his unknown mother.

For lunch, I finally had the Sunday Roast, a mainstay of English culture. And I had it up at the Hapton Arms, a place I could easily imagine the McLaney and Lennon boys visiting for a quiet ale after a hard day's graft. It's only up the hill a bit from the houses. I duly took more photos.

I figured I had all the stuff I was going to get and headed to Burnley. It's tough to find accommodation without a map or guide book, but I finally found the Keirby Hotel. It's going to be redeveloped and no wonder. The lift squeaked and shuddered, as if it would stop or fall at any moment, but it's nice enough. The room has the first bath I've seen. I might have a nice long soak to ease the aches from walking so much and carrying the luggage.

So here I am, in Burnley, where my mother was born. It's an odd feeling. This part of the country is beautiful and I wonder what made them leave. I'm glad they did, but it must have been some reason for the family to shift to a new country on the other side of the world.

Oh, the bath? No hot water, so I had to use the kettle... a lot.

The low and the high

Blackpool: for all the jokes about the place, it's very pretty and suitably cheap. My room overlooks the ocean and I cannot credit how quickly the tide comes in or goes out. I wandered down to the pier. This weekend is the FA cup final and there are footballers in town – I'm guessing on holiday, but also to fill the pubs and cheer. It's also Gay Pride weekend and there were a number of obviously gay people. Why do they have to try so hard? They wore outlandish clothes in a variety of colours that hurt the eyes; I didn't dare take photos - and I didn't see anyone else snapping away either.

I brought along the cheese I bought in Lincolnshire. I had no idea it was going to smell. Anyway, I did a bit of a shop – bought some Blackpool Rock for the nieces and nephews, just like my great aunt did for us way back in the seventies. I was looking at the various flavours when a group of youngsters walked in. One checked her feet, as if she'd stepped in something nasty. I had to cringe a little; I knew exactly what the smell was and after I got the Rock, dumped the cheese.

I also sat and replied to text messages from home. Didn't help the homesickness. After that, I walked along the promenade snapping photos of whatever took my fancy. In January, a cargo ship beached, and being an intrepid walker, off I went to take more photos.

The beached Riverdance, still fully loaded with cargo.

I think there's something... odd... about my genetic makeup. It was miles to the ship, the tide ever receding and my feet were beginning to hurt around the heels. These Brooks have soldiered on, but I think I finally did for them. I thought I'd catch the tram back to the hotel, since I'd walked miles, but as I approached the tram stop, one went by. Another one wouldn't come for another twenty minutes and so I started walking back. Every time I heard the zzt-zzt of a tram, I was between stations. As you can guess, I walked all the way back to the hotel, in the rain, which began when I was less than halfway back.

So here I am, absolutely knackered. And I was right: the runners are done for, the sole has split. Not badly, but enough to consider buying new ones before I depart these verdant shores. I have got to stop these marathon hikes; they're bad for my feet and my shoes. A dose of good sense is a terrific alternative. Still, I went out and found some Tandoori Chicken. Usually my favourite, but pretty ordinary here. In fact, the food has been ordinary all round. On the positive side, I got back in time to check out another episode of the new Dr Who.

This new morning, the sun is shining and the tide is coming in. Natch, I took a photo or two. Some lads arrived yesterday and last night attempted Karioke before heading out. Awful is an appropriate word, but it didn't last long and I had a good night sleep. This morning, they were waxing lyrical about how 'wasted' Fabio was, but when the lad in question turned up, it was hail fellow, well met. I left them to it after a breakfast of cereal and toast. Yesterday's full English – with fried bread – was a little too much.

On my way out of town, I saw two plods… er, police officers looking up into the sky. When I had a look, a World War II DC-10 flew by followed by a Spitfire! Cor! This was one photograph I had to get:

I think it was to do with a WWII memorial or celebration of the Battle of Britain. The day before, groups of helicopters flew over, but too high for me to see any markings. Anyway, I'm chuffed I snapped these planes - we don't see them in Aus. A piece of history. Maybe I'll find more at the next stop: Burnley, Lancashire.

Roaming the countryside

I feel like crap today. It's Winter here and I think I have a chill; you know, aching bones, sniffles, can't quite get warm... anyway more on the travelling:

Lincoln: The rain was light and the Londoners ignored it. Me, I'm chuffed. For too long has the sun shined. At home, I can ignore it, but here? Where it supposed to be rainy? I left the luggage at the hotel and took off for Marble Arch and the car I'd hired back in Aus. Feltham to Waterloo, change for Bond Street and then Marble Arch. The problem with London is that the street signs are plastered to the sides of buildings. I went one way out of the station, then turned around and went the other – just in case Murphy was messing with me again. Hah! I found the Hertz place, but the car wasn't ready; interesting since I was supposed to pick it up at 9.00 and it was now 10.30 (more signalling problems). But delays can often be opportunities and I went to take some photos of the Arch and to check out Speaker's Corner. Not a weekend, so no speakers.

Finally, the car was ready and with maps in hand, off I went. I only got geographically embarrassed twice... okay, three times... (London is a mongrel to drive in) and headed north at about 1.00 pm.

Sometimes, fate let's you know you're wasting your time by… wasting your time. I searched high and low for somewhere to stay in Lincoln and found myself on my way out of the city headed for Horncastle – where I'd planned to go the next day. Nothing there and then I saw the turn off to Hagworthingham where my forebears came from.

The cemetery was easy to find and, since the sun was still up, I checked it out. Unfortunately, I think where my ancestors were buried was in the nettles that overgrew the bottom half of the graveyard. I took a lovely photo of a big horse in the next field and headed back to Lincoln. See? Isn't he nice?

This time I found the Lourder Hotel. A lovely little B&B on my proposed route to Lancashire. The proprietor was friendly and very helpful. A chatty sort of bloke. Exhausted by the drive I headed to bed.

The next morning, he gave me directions to the Public Records office which, of course, I couldn't find. Frustrated, annoyed I couldn't find anywhere I could get pounds for parking, I left Lincoln. I should also note that doing the laundry proved just as expensive as in London except it was five pounds for the wash and twenty pence for five minutes in the dryer. But you can't argue with fresh clothes, in particular, underwear and socks.

I drove through the Peak District; a staggeringly beautiful area of England and duly took more photos of hills and valleys. I stopped at a lovely pub for coffee and a break. Interestingly, the manager said that the English Pub might soon be a thing of the past. "The government," he said "wants to turn them into continental pubs." I'm guessing that means stricter rules, a more cafe kind of atmosphere. It's shame how many for sale signs I've seen on pubs. The traffic was miserable. It's Friday in summer so the English are out and about on long weekends and off on holidays. There's also the FA cup this weekend and a number of other things.
The Bridge Inn, Peak District

I didn't want to spend three days in Burnley, so I thought I'd head to Blackpool. My great aunt was here in the seventies and brought us all Blackpool Rock, a hard sweet in a long tube. I don't know if they still make it, but I thought if they did, my nieces and nephews would enjoy some.

There are many jokes made about Blackpool, but wow! What a place. I found a nice hotel overlooking the promenade and the sea.
Blackpool's famous tower

I have never seen any tide move in that fast! I also feel better about being here for two days. I think the constant movement and plans and search for somewhere to sleep wears me down; or it's the cost. The last time I was here, B&Bs were about 15-20 pounds a night. Now, it's over 40 and a pinch on the budget. And don't get me started on petrol!

From here, it will be back towards Burnley. I'm hoping to go to the public records office there. I've decided that my lack of progress is because perhaps the records aren't there to be found, which means Burnley may prove problematic as well. I'll give it my best shot. Tomorrow, I'll decide whether to head up the coast or simply wander around Blackpool. The promenade has to be a few miles long, and I think I'll head to the tower, see what interesting things are down there. There is still the lingering need to go home. I'm tired. Up with the sun and down with the sun. The constant watching for traffic on excruciatingly narrow roads and streets is also a burden. How more people don't ding their vehicles, I don't know.

The feeling of homesickness hasn't faded. I thought once I was out in the countryside, it would, but this country is as busy as ever. It is so crowded. Maybe writing more postcards will ease the feeling.

Big city blues

London: the trip up to the capital didn't take long at all. Dover to Canterbury took twenty minutes. Which meant driving to Lincoln probably wouldn't take as long as I think it will. It's disturbing to see the beige smudge on the horizon of pollution over London. I know it's a large city, hell, it's huge, but that smudge... had consequences. I'm here to do family research and I'm here for three days. Day one, I arrive at Victoria Station, fortunately the right junction to get to my hotel. But asking the passenger assistance officer if I had the right of it in getting out to Hounslow, was an exercise in abuse. The guy needs to take a chill pill.

Hefting the luggage, off I went. What I didn't know and the passenger assistance officer didn't tell me was that I needed to go to Richmond, not Hounslow, and I ended up forking over ten pounds ($AUS20) - not an auspicious start – on a taxi.

Channins is comfortable with an en-suite. This is a good thing given I had a separate toilet at Dover and sitting on the lav, the door was one postcard length away from my knees. Tiny by anyone's standard. I also had to do laundry and the fellow at the counter happily directed me to a laundromat. Again, it cost more than I ever imagined. All up, about six pounds or about thirteen dollars, but I have clean clothes. Nice, since I was down to my last pair of clean socks.

The next morning, I felt all stuffed up, as if I had an allergy or was nurturing a cold. It was not going to affect my day; I wasn't going to let it. After a hearty breakfast, I headed off to the National Archives and spent the day chasing my tail. No new information, not really, just alphanumeric codes to get certificates. Tired from the concentration, I went back to Feltham and headed to the pub for a well-earned Leffe, the Belgium beer me and the outlaws discovered in Ghent. Tragically, and it is tragic, a case in Australia costs $100, a beer to have on special occasions only. When I started out, it was a gorgeous day and I wore a t-shirt; by day's end it became overcast and a cool breeze blew, chilling me. Before I went to bed, I took some painkillers, just to ward off the snots.

My final foray to the National Archives started off badly: Feltham to Richmond was stuffed full of passengers. At Richmond, there was a problem with the electricity down the line and we all had to wait. Change platforms, and wait. Change platforms again, and wait. I was only going one further stop down the line! So a fifteen minute train journey took three-quarters of an hour. Finally, I got to the Archives and chatted with one of the attendants. After a satisfactory discussion, I headed onto the computers. And had some success. Not as much as I would like, but anything is good given how far I've researched the tree. From here on, I'll have to go to the sources, to the churches, the Public Record offices and the graveyards. Shame that!
I left the National Archives at 3.30 and wandered to Kew Gardens. Not wanting to pay the fourteen pound entry fee, I wandered back to the train station, a couple of minutes walk. The way back to Feltham was worse. Not only were the electricity lines still not working properly but there was a fatal accident in the Feltham area. After changing a number of platforms – on the advice of the intercom – the announcer finally said the trains from Richmond to further down the track were cancelled and to take a bus.

Now see, here's where I always get into trouble and obviously, I'd learned nothing from Belgium. Yep, missed the stop I needed, but was paying enough attention to get off at the next stop. I didn't actually get back to Feltham until after five o'clock. But that was fine. Time to head to the pub for some dinner and a couple of Leffe's. The roast lamb shank was excellent and the Leffe, always good. I'm going to have some of that at every opportunity, since I won't be able to afford it back home. I'm also a little homesick. I think it was waving bye-bye to the family, but it hasn't faded.
I haven't developed a full-blown snot attack, but it feels as if I might. I think it's the pollution and need to get out into the countryside. Fortunately, that's next on the agenda. The weather is finally changing to what I expect spring in England to be: showery cool, with lengthy sunny periods. Maybe I'll get to use the rain jacket I've been carting around!

Land of hope and...

England/Dover: Another sunny day that threatens to be really hot by mid-morning. Walking to a train station without luggage is too easy; with a couple of heavy bags, it's a chore. Worse, the train to Calais was packed and I had the fortune to stand all the way, guarding my bits and pieces. I wasn't the only one with baggage and it made for grumpy travellers.

At Calais, the bus to the ferry terminal had been delayed nearly two hours because of a cycle race! Not in the least bit happy about that. Fate stepped in again with the help of a couple of Filipino Americans, we walked – yes, again – down towards the harbour and where we could see the ferries. Nup, wrong way. So we went around the harbour to the other side. Nope, that wasn't it either and bugger me if we could find anyone who would speak English! Yep, carting luggage unnecessarily does make you tired and emotional. We went back to the junction and found an English trucker and his mate. Their advice? Go over to the nice people at the Holiday Inn. They will order you a taxi. So we went over to the hotel and those nice people ordered us a taxi. Good thing too, because where we were supposed to be, was wa-ay too far to walk even sans luggage.

The girls left me once aboard. I couldn't leave my luggage and they had none. So I made the trip alone, but happily took photos of the French beach, the ships, the water and then... the White Cliffs of Dover! Spectacular!

Off the ship and I loitered about wondering what to do. I didn't have anywhere to stay and most of the people on board were in cars. A mere handful walked onto the ferry and they were expecting a tour bus.

Hmm... again, fate has a hand. I slung the big backpack and picked up the other bag, walked around the corner and lo, a taxi! I asked him if he knew of any reasonably priced places to stay. He said 'yep' tossed my bags in and said: "I don't usually hang about here, but I thought I'd just give it another couple of minutes before heading back into town." And he proceeded to take me to a lovely B&B on Castle Hill Street called St Martin's Guest House, just below the famed Dover Castle.

Noice, except the proprietress put me on the third floor, a hike and a half on narrow steps with a large backpack and a smaller one. Two trips, then. The proprietress recommended a few places to look at, since Dover is older than the Roman fortifications would suggest.

But I'm not ready to do the Castle, it is, after all up the hill. Instead, I wandered down to look at some antiquities. St James' Church where I found a name like my ancestor – something to look up – and further down into the market square. More photos, of course, but of Dover Castle overlooking the town. I wandered up a street and found... the Roman Painted House! Now this was a real treat. The painted plaster walls survived because the Romans filled in the rooms to construct a ramp, and the colours are still vibrant.

Unfortunately, no photography is allowed. I canoodled around for while, on my own, and noticed... the same scent as Tyne Cot Memorial. Was it, I wondered, indicative of buried sites, or burials or both?

Anyway, I bought some tourist loot, thanked the ladies and wandered down to the sea. Now... I spent a year living in Norfolk, I spent a month touring way back in 19mumble, mumble but I didn't go to any beaches. This time I did. Even bought myself an ice cream to have while strolling the promenade. Stones and pebbles. How can anyone call that a beach? And the teenagers? Have I ever heard such wholesale, indiscriminate, loud swearing? No, I don't think so. And that was the girls. Nor did they care who overheard them. Eventually, they left, and so did I. I made my way to a pub and had a Guinness, then on to a small shop selling fabulous fish and chips. Gotta have that in Britain, don'tcha?

The morning dawned warm and bright. I stuck my Belgium hat on my head, packed the camera into my daypack and took off around the hill. The proprietess suggested the walk to the National Park, that I'd enjoy it. For the first part, I did, but the hill grew increasingly steep. I could not see a way to the castle up this way and, by the time I reached the top, I knew there wasn't one. There's only so much a body can stand and the trip down reminded my of the hike I did down into the Grand Canyon in Arizona. You can feel your thigh muscles tense, then burn with every step. When I finished that hike, I felt like I'd never walk properly again. But after a long, long soak in a hot bath, everything was better.

So I reached the bottom of the hill and wandered around to Castle Street. Up, up and still up on a 13 degree incline that seemed more, and further up a flight of stairs. By the time I got up that hill, I was wondering if the walk was worth it. I bought the entrance ticket and moved further into the grounds. As I walked, I got a text message from Australia reminding me that it was Mother's Day. Great. Time was slipping away to call home – it's nine hours ahead. I tried to call, but got nowhere and the final call for the World War II trip into the secret world of Admiral Ramsay came. I went on the tour and found it interesting. The tour has voice-overs and sound effects, so you get a feel for what it was like during an air raid with lights flickering and sirens going off in the dim interior.

Once out, I managed to call home and it was comforting to hear my mother’s voice. It also reminded me of how I alone I am, even though I've spent a year without friends and family in this country. As a cure, I went around the castle without a tour guide. I followed a group of American tourists into the medieval tunnels. So caught up in my own thoughts of what life would have been like, that it wasn't until I went down a darkened corridor that I realised I was actually on my own. As a way to freak yourself out, it's pretty effective. You can feel the history, touch the history, and nearly hear it – at least, I hope I didn't hear it. Those noises, they were the Americans, weren’t they?

With a deep breath – again, that… smell – I made my way back, staring intently at the pitch black end of the tunnel as I walked; just in case, you know. Outside, the sun and air felt warm and fresh. I bought more touristy stuff, including a Tudor cookbook... well, I make Hypocras, Henry VIII's favourite drink, so why not try some other recipes?

The long day began to take its toll. My feet hurt, my calves felt like I'd torn something and my thighs ached. Off I went down the hill and to the Market Square. Desperate for coffee, I found Beano's cafe. As a child I read Beano comics so I had to get coffee here. A mistake, a really big one. The coffee – a supposed latte – was made with boiling water with a layer of foam and thick cream on the top. The foam formed a barrier so the cream didn't melt and cool the coffee down. End result, one badly scalded tongue. There was only one thing to do: head for a bar and cool my burned mouth. A pint of Guinness did the job, but next morning my tongue was numb. So much for enjoying breakfast.

It was time to go to London. Work on the family tree awaited. I called a taxi and boarded the train. What secrets would the National Archives give up?

Meme

Bri, over at Have Goggles, Will Fly tagged me for a meme, so here it is...

1. The rules of the game get posted at the beginning.
2. Each player answers the questions about themselves.
3. At the end of the post, the player then tags 5-6 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read the player’s blog.
4. Let the person who tagged you know when you’ve posted your answer.

A Meme about Various Things

What were you doing ten years ago?
Gah... I think I was at technical college, learning how to programme computers.

What are five things on your to-do list for today (not in any particular order)?
Book the car in for a service, pick up some Cabernet Merlot, blog, look at my niece's English essay, watch the Redwings play the Penguins.

What are some snacks you enjoy?
Camembert cheese, celery pieces, peanuts.

What would you do if you were a billionaire?
Buy a rooly noice house, with a housekeeper! Invest in alternative energy sources. Set up an educational trust fund for my nieces and nephews. Buy my own publishing company and write.

What are five places where you have lived?
Dartmouth, England; Sydney, NSW; Canberra, ACT; Shipdham, England; Vincentia, NSW.

What are five jobs you have had?
Editor, for a country newspaper; Government Public Affairs officer; Waitress; Agricultural worker; Admin clerk.

What were the last five books you read?
The Taste of Night - Vicki Pettersson;
Another One Bites the Dust - Jennifer Rardin;
Command Decision - Elizabeth Moon;
Engaging the Enemy - Elizabeth Moon;
Moving Target - Elizabeth Moon.

What are five web sites you visit daily (in no particular order)?
Paperback Writer
Spirits of the Damned
Jennifer Government Nation States
Weatherzone
Jill Shalvis

As for tagging, anyone who wants to join in, just leave a note in comments.

Mysterious land

Life's an adventure and the unexpected always happens when you're away from home. Continuing from the journal I kept while travelling...

France: After a fortifying continental breakfast, we piled back into the car and headed into France and Lille. Here, we made for the Youth Hostel to drop my gear off. Just one peculiar note: When I got out of the car and waited for everyone else, I was seized by a coughing fit, so bad it doubled me over. C. got me some water and while the choking eased, it didn't leave until we walked towards the entrance of the Hostel. Once I checked in – second floor again - we wandered around, each of my family members pointing out which shops I needed to remember.

I finally managed to get some money out of the machine – I'm not going to tell you why I couldn't do it in Belgium, it would only embarrass me, but had to do with using the wrong currency pin code. I shouted everyone to morning coffee and hot chocolate which the French do exceptionally well.

A band struck up and we looked out the window. Coffee and chocolate done, we scurried down stairs and out onto the street. Our French speaker, S., translated that the Germans were apologising for all the grief and harm they'd caused during the wars! Photos were taken of this too. More wandering around checking out expensive, label shops they wouldn't let me in the door of, then off to lunch. Me, I had the salmon – some of it smoked (yum!) and some of it deep fried (extra yum!), my sister had the cheese with a similar set up to mine, and D., the daring in-law, had the roasted duck breast with duck gizzards... erm. Right. He didn't offer any around. I guess he knew what the reaction would be. I also suspect he's taken Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall to heart.

Following lunch, it was time for them to head off towards Paris and home. I waved them bye, bye and suddenly, I'm alone in a country where I don't speak the language.

Well hell, what was I going to do now? More wandering, of course. This is, after all, France and off I went with camera in backpack. But down on the Rue Jean-Baptiste Lebas, the damn choking started up again! When I moved away from the tree-lined street it eased. I found water eventually, and I determined to stay away from foliaged boulevards. I'm too botanically-challenged to know what the bloody trees were but I couldn't hack up a lung if I didn't go near them.

I stayed in a dorm. Sometimes you get good fellow sleepers and sometimes you get snorers and people who talk in their sleep. Lucky me, I got both. For the third day in a row, I'd walked my feet to throbbing messes. Lunch had done for me, so I hit the sack, hoping to be asleep before everyone else. No such luck. It was the first of two nights tossing and turning, trying to tune out snores and Slavic chatting.

The next morning, I had a quick continental breakfast and headed out to the train station. The reason I chose to be dropped off in Lille is its close proximity to the World War I battlefields. I'd tried to get accommodation in Ypres, but a lot of other people had the same plan. I caught the train up to Ypres (or Iepers), then a bus.

Sometimes, life just wants to test your metal, I'm sure of it. I said to the bus driver I'd like to go to the Tyne Cot Memorial; he nodded and I sat down at the front. Yes, I had the bus timetable, yes I kept looking out the window and yes I checked each bus stop.

An old lady across from me rattled off some French and I said, 'Tyne Cot'. She nodded, shrugged in that Gallic way and got off the bus. Shoulda listened more carefully. It wasn't until I was five stops away that I realised I'd been reading the wrong side of the timetable and the old lady was basically saying: "Get off here, this is Tyne Cot."

The walk back was long, arduous and thirsty work. I got off at Moorslede, on the other side of Passendale and walked back – I got some nice photographs of the countryside where both grandfathers fought though and one of the Canadian memorials that overlooks the valley – through Passendale and down the long, long road. I'm kind of wondering if the fates aren't helping me feel what it was like to walk to the battlefield in the heat, without water, and with a backpack on... but that's too spooky, isn't it? You can almost hear the thunder of artillery, the gunfire, the shouts and cries of men... almost.

This land is beautiful; green, quiet and dotted with farms and disinterested cows. Over an hour and half later, I found the turn off to the Tyne Cot memorial and the tiredness slipped away. It's a big cemetery and the first thing you think is "geez, what a waste!" (Of men, not farmland.) But I'm here for a purpose: to find my great uncle's name. To be respectful, I visited the museum first. I know the history of the battles that took so many lives, but these memorials – and they are scattered across the landscape – bring it closer to home. In that, I loathe and despise Haig that much more for his asinine, archaic and murderous battle plans, and admire and respect those who carried out their orders, knowing what would happen but doing it anyway.

I found the great uncle's name and took photos; one name amongst so many; too few identified. Here, it is peaceful, with the white headstones, the green grass, the sectioned farmland and moo-ing of grazing cows. It's impossible to imagine the destruction once wrought on this bucolic scene, and yet we know it happened; we've seen the photos, the jerky, black and white film. But there is one thing guide books don't mention: the smell. It's neither good, nor bad, just there; as if sadness, anger, fear and relief are all distilled into that one, musty, muddy, almost moss-like scent.

Once out of the memorial, I walked down a small road junction. I turned to look across the countryside and the steeples in the distance. One is Ypres. To my left, there was a farmer 'fertilising' his fields with liquid... manure, two cows in the field in front of me, watched me watch them from the shade of a tree. The sweat on my skin has long since dried and I can feel the sunburn. Behind me, a lady comes out and expresses her disgust at the... aromatic liquid fertiliser.

"Which way is Ypres?" I asked.

"Ten kilometres. That way." She lifts her chin in the direction of one of the steeples. "Too far. You take bus."

"I'll take the bus." I agreed and she pointed me in the right direction. When I get back to Ypres, the first thing I did was buy a hat, then water, ice cream and... Belgian chocolates to take home. I feel wrecked; by both the long walk and the memorial itself. It's time I left France.

On the road

Now that I'm back and with reliable internet access, I thought I'd drop in some posts of my trip. Photographs might be added, too. So, the first entry of the journal I wrote:

Vordingborg, Denmark: The day before we all headed off, the in-laws dragged us off into Copenhagen. The last time I was here – for their wedding – I didn't get to see much. The in-law was determined this visit would be different. And it was. We took a tourist boat ride around the city. I took photo after photo after photo. That's the problem with digital cameras these days – you don't have to stop and consider if that shot is a waste of film. It was an entertaining day that ended with beers all round and a couple o' bottles of red. The next morning was another gorgeous if cool day. I didn't think we'd all fit into the Citroen with luggage, but we did. And so, car stuffed to the rafters, my sister, her husband, two kids and me took off for the ferry from Denmark to Germany. All went remarkable well. We thought we'd missed the 7.00 am boat, that the boarding closed a scant ten minutes before we turned up. But a few minutes later we were guided on board. Woo hoo! Duty free! The ferry crossed on smooth, glass-like water, though the distant smudge of beige on the horizon reminded me of just how populated Europe is.

Germany: We drove straight off the boat and eventually found the autobahn. S., niece number one got on with her French homework, but little A, niece number two, at seven is a handful. Fortunately, the car had a sunroof and we watched the contrails of planes criss-cross the sky; it's scary how close they fly and how many are up there zipping around. I'm sure it's all a matter of perspective. Germany is beautiful – but I didn't expect anything else. Rolling hills, farmland, verdant forests, BMWs speeding by doing 200kph only to be overtaken by Mercedes...

Holland: It's tough being in a car with people. I spent some time chatting to my brother-in-law about what I hoped to find out about the family tree in London, Lincoln, Burnley and Ireland. What my research has so far found kept the kids occupied for some time and kids ask questions. Outside, the fields were yellow or green with new crops. Flat land and dykes for irrigation. Flying over it is magical; driving through it, not so much.

Belgium/Ghent: finally, our day's destination, Ghent. A medieval city with cobblestone streets, a magnificent castle and canals. Only one significant problem: all the one way signs. I'm guessing they don't want casual tourists, otherwise they wouldn't make it so difficult to get around. But once there, oh, boy, it's definitely worth it. I have to say the cobblestones are wicked on the feet. We only stayed overnight, on the second floor of the Ghent youth hostel, but I spent a lot of time taking, oh, a few photographs. Worse thing was I couldn't get my cash card to work! Bummer... I had to rely on the money I already had in my wallet. My sister kept casting worried glances at me, and no wonder...

Tomorrow, I'll post more; and I have to continue the story over at the other blog, and a ton of other stuff I have to catch up on.

That's the thing about travelling, you feel a little out of touch when you return because stuff has happened in your absence. Old news, is new news to you, but... I'm slowly catching up.

Crash landed

Yeah, I'm back, but my faculties are still trying to organise themselves.

And... since we have visitors who arrived a few hours before I did, and who have made themselves comfortable for the next few days, blogging will be a quick luxury. I'll just have to resist the jet lag. I'm expecting the crash, but can't afford it with peeps in de house.

I kept a journal while I was away, so I'll be posting what I was up to as I wandered around the countryside, occasionally geographically embarrassed (ie, lost). Now, I have to stop yawning. A nap would ruin me.

Away from Korea

As the plane took off, the map came up and showed us heading toward Pyongyang. I figured I'd get my first and only look at North Korea. No such luck. The plane lifted and surged to the left, away from the Peninsula. Still, I had my forehead pressed to the window to look; shame everything was soon obscured by smog.

The flight attendants came around with orange juice, then an hour later, lunch. Gee, rice. It wasn't until after lunch that ominous gurgling began. Yeah, spicy food redux. And that's all I'm saying!

During the afternoon, we were asked if we wanted a snack. The green triangle thing looked nice. Oh... boy... a triangle of rice with a smear of something that smelled like tuna gizzards, all wrapped in seaweed. Good thing I had more orange juice. The Kimichi Origiri tasted fine with a gulp of juice, but the smell...

Okay, I have to say flying over Russia was a real buzz. The landscape from 30,000 feet is breathtaking. We skirted around Ulaan Bataar, Mongolia, over the Southern Syberian Plains and the Ural Mountains. The Earth shows off her colours in spectacular fashion when you're high in the sky staring down. It has an element of alienness that sparked some interesting world building ideas.

And still there's that wretched gurgling...

We flew over Copenhagen at two in the afternoon and landed at Amsterdam. Of course, I had to go from one end of the terminal to the other to catch the flight back to Copenhagen. Finally landed at seven in the evening, the sun in full glory. For me, it was 2 am Korean time.

Family reunions take time so I didn't actually get to bed until after ten at night. The last time I did an allnighter, I had a short story to write for the next morning's class at University. I had a real case of the staggers, like I was drunk without the benefit of the alcohol.

May in Denmark is stunning and so green. I took myself off for a walk down to the sea via a lovely forest. We got bush in Australia; Europe has forests. The scents, the sound of the birds, the light coming through verdant foliage, all so different and relaxing.

And it was a good thing I felt all loose and easygoing, for that night and last night, we had important parties - the main reason for this trip - and food to eat and... well, you know the rest. Tonight is leftover night and tomorrow? We shop! Um... if I can remember what currency I'm supposed to use. So far I've spent Aussie dollars, American dollars, Korean Won and Euros. Next up are Kroner. Guess I have to remember to keep it all separate.

Korea

Here I am, in Denmark. Vordingborg, actually.

The trip over was long and arduous but interesting too. I love that you can look down on the world and marvel at it's beauty. Flying over Queensland, with it's lush forests, then Papua New Guinea - a pause to watch Juno - then cloud for the rest of the way to Korea.

I arrived at Incheon and caught a taxi into Seoul. Such a caring, attentive taxi driver who skinned me for $80 US dollars for the trip. Seoul is a city of bridges. Big bridges. Red bridges, ornate bridges... Everywhere over the river Han. And apartment blocks. Twenty, twenty-five story apartment blocks. The only house I saw was on the outskirts of the city next to rice paddies. Just the one.

Of course, the camera was in the luggage, in the back of the car, which was a shame because the sunset was glorious. We don't get that slow sinking of a red ball through a misty haze in the land of Oz. There, it's one minute the sun is up, then bam, it's gone and it's night.

The hotel wasn't as close to the markets as I'd wished, but that was okay, I was tired after the nine/ten hour flight. I figured I'd just head out, get something to eat and hit the sack for some sleep. (I can't sleep on planes if there's someone sitting next me.)

Typical of me, I like to wander the streets - yes, in a foreign city, on my lonesome, where I don't know the language. None of the eateries appealed to me, so I headed across the busy street to Pizza Hut. Surely I couldn't go wrong there. Ha, ha. The concierge didn't speak English and it was about this time that I realized I was the only Westerner. And I mean from the moment I got into the taxi at the airport, I saw no other Westerners. Anyway, after much finger pointing at the pictures in the menu, he nodded and spoke into a microphone. He pointed to an empty bench seat and signaled 10, as in minutes.

The familiar little box came with a red ribbon wrapped around it. I thought it sweet and gave him a smile. He bobbed his head and turned his attention to his Korean customers.

One thing I should have known: Koreans love their spices. I ate three-quarters of the beef risotto before I decided it was enough. Another thing I should have remembered: do not eat spicy food the night before a long, long flight.

The next day....

Up bright and early. By six-thirty, I repacked everything, hoisted the backpack (next time I travel, I'm getting wheels on my luggage), picked up the other two baggies and hiked down the block to the bus station. No getting skinned this time. The bus trip cost me $13 US dollars. Toldja I got skinned.

Back at the airport, I want my breakfast. And coffee. I really, really need coffee. All my bags are on a trolley and I wander around looking for food. I found a restaurant and figured I'd have the number 2. Behind me, to my left is the first Westerner I've seen since arriving. He's probably in his twenties, though I don't know his nationality. We share a sympathetic smile with each other.

"Number two, please." I found it helps to keep any talk to a bare minimum. The cashier gives me a receipt and I start to push my trolley towards a table.

"No! No!" The cashier dashes out from behind her counter, grabs my trolley and pushes it just outside the restaurant. She grabs a fishing net and tosses it over my luggage, gives me a chastising glance.

Not sure what to do now, I head towards a Korean woman who looks like she knows what she's about.

"I have this." I offer her the receipt. She points above her head to the digital display. It reads '16', my ticket is '18'. As I return to my seat, she says something to one of the chefs and giggles.

I really want coffee, but I wait for my food and set that on the table before I return to the woman. "Coffee?" I ask with a quiet desperation. She points behind me to the coffee machine at the other end of the cafe. I've taken five steps before she makes a remark to the chef... and giggles.

Back in my seat, I look at the tray: one small bowl with a yellow fruit, one small bowl with carrots, green stuff and CHILLI seeds, one small bowl with... um... a white vegetable and spices, one large bowl with vegetables artfully arranged, one covered silver bowl with rice, one bowl with a clear broth and green vegetables floating in it and one small container of dark red sauce.

Yep, looks interesting and the yellow fruit was tasty. I'm not a fan of mushrooms so I set aside what looked like mushrooms with my chop sticks. I'm having a fine time picking out individual items when of a sudden...

"No! No!" The woman rushes up to me, gives me a gimlet eye and picks up the spoon. She pours the red sauce onto the vegetables, then dumps the rice on top and stirs the whole lot together. To the left of me are a number of Koreans, watching. The woman pauses and I smile at her. She slightly returns the smile before looking over my shoulder in horror.

"No! No!" And dashes off to the young man behind me with his own breakfast to repeat the mixing. I had to suppress the impending chuckles, after all, she took this breakfast thing, real serious. Personally, all I wanted was Vegemite on toast, or some marmalade on toast, bit of porridge maybe?

While my visit to Korea didn't go as planned or expected, travel is what you make of it - the good and the bad all make for adventure, always keep your sense of humour. And it was a thought I hung onto on the flight towards Europe. For good reason...

Mr Squishy

I thought I could fit everything into two bags: one 80Ltr backpack and 'school' backpack. Nup. I had to add another day pack stuffed with... well, stuff.

Half of the big pack is filled with pressos for the rellos; guest gifts, confirmation gifts and birthday gifts. But, I'm not complaining. Once they're offloaded, I'll have that much more space for buying stuff to bring back.

All up, the luggage weighs in at 30 kilos. I'm rather pleased about that. When I came back from a year in England, the luggage I carried down the street from the Youth Hostel, onto the bus and into the airport terminal was a massive 70 kilos!

If you asked me what weighed so much, I couldn't tell you. Of course, I'm older now and while I can still carry that much weight, I'm wise enough not to. Thirty kilos is fine, thank you.

So, everything is squished in. Sadly, I had to dump the two Kylie Chans I wanted to read; not for weight, but space. The books are just too damned big. Which kind of begs the question: how am I going to fit the books in I intend to buy at the Galaxy in Sydney? F'Ino, is my answer. There is the possibility - though I don't want to entertain it - that I'll have to forgo the Galaxy until I return.

The two books I am taking are: Jennifer Rardin's Biting the Bullet and Lilith Saintcrow's The Devil's Right Hand. I'm hoping the in-flight movies will be good, because I don't see these two books lasting the 25 hours it's gonna take to get to Copenhagen.

So. I didn't have time to write after all, but I'm planning on blogging while I'm away. I'll probably write a travelogue with photos when I return.

Wish me luck.

Three more sleeps until I'm off and I'm driving myself crazy!

There's always something minor I have to do that turns into a major drama. I think it's because I'll be what's called 'an independent' traveller; ie, I'm on my own and I have to get it right.

And I'm disgusted with myself. I've not written a word of fiction, nor read a word of fiction in... okay, a week for writing, but weeks for reading. My mind has convinced me that I'll have plenty of time on the plane - Australia is a long way from everywhere. I'm even suspicious of people who've said 'have a great time'. Someone needs to slap me really hard, I think.

Hell, I'm more organized than the last time I went OT (Over There). I've laid everything out, adding stuff, removing extra, balancing luggage, checking documents, organising the dog and the aged parent. And yet, the anxiety levels are up to the disturbed sleep levels.

Like I said: someone needs to slap me. It will be fun, dammit!

I think I'll go back to obsessing: if I remember my toothbrush, I've forgotten something else; and if I've forgotten my toothbrush, then that's what I've forgotten.

Aussie Spirit

Today commemorates all those Australians who fell during the conflicts this world has seen.

It is: ANZAC Day, born out of the landing of Aussie soldiers on the inhospitable shores of Gallipoli on this day, 1914.

Once, young people saw it as a day off school, as a day where old people marched down the street wearing shiney medals and holding flags designating their armed forces unit, as a day when those marchers went to the pub, played two-up (illegal except for this one day), shed a tear or two in remembrance and got absolutely trashed.

But a new generation of Australians are determined to remember those fallen. Today, tens of thousands of Aussies - young and old - travel to those distant shores to remember and pay homage to the courage and indomitable spirit of the young men who fought and died there.

For the first time in ninety years, a similar memorial service is being held at Villiers-Bretonneaux in France. Here, Australian troops turned back the advance of German soldiers. Every year since, the French have held a memorial service, and yet this year is the first, official commemoration ceremony by Australia.

I now have a personal interest in World War I. I always knew my grandfather fought in Europe, but it was a vague kind of thought. Having researched the tree, his courage and determination is ever more real. He was one of two surviving brothers - four brothers and three sisters having died in early childhood - and his parents must have been alternatively proud and scared silly at his enlistment.

On my mother's side, her father and six of his brothers returned wounded; my grandfather, without a leg at the age of 19.

In two weeks, I'll be searching the WWI memorials for two names: a great uncle and his cousin; one at Thievpal, the other on the Menin Gate.

And when I step onto those long past battlefields, walk where my grandfather once marched, I shall step lightly and respectfully, for here lie the brave and the unforgotten of both sides who fought and died for their country.

Shifts

Eye: Black
Temper: Simmering
Anxiety: Rising
Sleeps: Seven!

Given that upgrading the laptop to wireless broadband is an expense I'm not willing to indulge in, I'll be relying on Internet Cafes during my travels. This, of course, means limited posts and I have no idea if they allow uploads. If they don't, no more stories for a month; if they do, I'll be posting other stories, I think, since they're already written.

I'm also feeling like I'm in mourning at missing the Forward Motion story-a-day marathon. May and November are my big months for writing-under-pressure and I love doing them. Since I can't do May, I've decided to do the marathon in June. I want those short stories.

I also keep wondering whether I have everything. Lists are no good if you've left something... important... off. I'm sure the anxiety levels will drop off, oh, somewhere over Indonesia...

Anyway, I've finally post the next episode of Bounty Hunter over at the Takeaway. I'll try to post one more before I leave, but if I can't... I'll post a short story when I get to Copenhagen. I'm sure D. will loan me his computer.

Eyeful

Lots of things happened today to get in the way of my story.

Real life, when it happens, can be a bitch.

I went off to the Skin Cancer Clinic for a check up - given last year's troubles, it was an excellent idea - and had a little bit done - right on my eyelid, so my eye's swelled up some.

I won't go into the dribbles of warm, red blood, the scent of cauterized flesh and the like, I'll just say the next episode of Bounty Hunter will be up tomorrow morning and I'm going to take a painkiller.

Earth Day

Today is Earth Day.

I suppose that means we should consider what we are doing to the planet and how to ameliorate the damage.

It's hard to be absolutely sure in this day and age. The great hope for a better fuel source, bio-fuel, has some originally unexpected side effects; like bio-fuel crops being planted to replace food crops. The consequences we've all seen: food riots in Haiti, India, Sri Lanka, Kenya and so on.

My suggestion would be to plant the food crops, like wheat, and use the stubble, the parts that we don't use for food as bio-fuel. Just an idea...

Anyway, there's a lot to be said for being conscious of how our daily lives affect the planet. Some might think "I am one person, how much difference can it make?" A lot, actually. If you think of your single impact and multiply it by how many live in your state or country, the figures expand rather frighteningly.

Recycle those plastics bottles - if PET, they can be made into polar fleece - tins, papers, whatever. Revitalise old furniture: bookcases into cupboards, cupboards into bookcases.

Check out the various environmental friendly websites like: Environment Magazine, for current information; Planet Ark and campaigns that you can become involved with; The Conservation Foundation have branches all over world you can check out.

I haven't mentioned Greenpeace because I disapprove of some of their practices. But if you feel the need here's the link.

I recycle what can be recycled. I turn off lights when not in a room. I use long-life light bulbs. I turn off appliances when not in use - and I mean at the switch, not the standby button. I think before I use the car and I compost organic material for the garden. I especially pick up litter dropped by the multitude of tourists to our fair village.

Earth Day is just one day, so what are you doing on a long term basis to help the planet?

Resear... oooh, shiney!

For me, research is easy and hard: easy, because I find everything interesting; hard, because... I find everything interesting. I keep telling myself to stay on topic, but it rarely happens because there is so much stuff out there to distract.

Today's example: I'm looking into suppressing electrical fires and find CO2 works fine and water is a really big no-no. But CO2 is also toxic and not quite what I need, so there must be another way and I look up the shuttle accidents and find a list including all space-faring accidents. Ooo, German rockets in World War II - my mother as a child experienced the terror of the V2 - and Max Valier, an Austrian pioneer of rocketry. Of course, then I had to follow the link to the rocket car and the JATO rocket car and then entirely off subject to The Darwin Awards where I happily spent an hour or so smirking at those trying to leave the gene pool.

I'm sure a lot of them thought 'it was a good idea at the time', but you could see disaster from a long way off. So, moving on. One had a link to Mythbusters. I love that show, though sometimes, the science doesn't seem logical to me. But I like 'things that go boom' as much as Adam and Jamie, especially the episode where they blew up the cement truck... and on I went to the Discovery's Science Channel checking out the kids games and interesting articles on Black Holes, singing icebergs, Saturn's moons and ten quick questions with theoretical physicist Micho Kaku, who I find fascinating.

It's about this time I realise I've kind of deviated from my original task: electrical fires and how to put them out if you're in space.

I really should try and settle down to find what I need, learn discipline. But there's always something new to learn and the advent of the internet is a blessing and curse. Knowledge is never wasted, merely stored away for future use. Anyway, back to electrical fires... oh, there's just that one item on supervolcanoes...

Sark-y

Hands up all those who know where Sark (fr. Sercq) is?

Nope, I didn't know either until an interesting story on Wikipedia came up.

Sark is one of the Channel Islands and just off France. Until this month, it was also considered the last Feudal state. How about that?

The Seigneur of Sark was, prior to the constitutional reforms of 2008, the head of the feudal government of the Isle of Sark (in the case of a woman, the title was Dame). Many of the laws, particularly those related to inheritance and the rule of the Seigneur, changed little since they were enacted in 1565 under Queen Elizabeth I. Wikipedia

Feudalism in the 21st Century. Not that I'm criticising, I find it fascinating and I'm curious as to how the citizens, historically, related to it. This history is interesting, too, but go and read the article. I'm sure the socio-political status could provoke a number of stories.

The island also has some wonderfully named executive officers like, Seneschal, Prevot, Greffier and Vingtenier.

It's the little things, the unexpected things and the out-of-the-way places that inspire me... though I still haven't found a solution to my do-or-die ending...

Lookie, lookie

Oh, boy. Ya make a little comment - okay, rant - and suddenly (and temporarily) you're popular, everyone wants to look.

I don't mind, I think it's a curious part of society, especially in Blogland. But what I want to know is: How does a blog piece attract the attention of people with no contact with that blog?

I wrote a piece on comment sense (see below), about the fashion industry using under-developed girls for catwalks and as clothes horses. No big, just me having a little vent.

A couple of days later, I checked my counter statistics and thought, "hmm, not many people came to my blog this week, it's almost a flat line except for... Holy Smoke!" A spike of a hundred visitors on Tuesday. What? Where? Who?

Where did this legion, this crowd come from? Answer: here. Colour me gobsmacked. A site I have never heard of and never thought existed. Oh, that's me, currently - at this particular juncture in time - at number eight on the list. Yesterday it was higher, above the Keira Knightly link (take that Domino!)

It's what I love about the world-wide web: you never know who's gonna come a'visitin'. But being curious by nature, I can't help but wonder how I got linked. No, I don't want any confessions (the title was changed on the site), I just think it's cool and surprising. I'll leave it to Secret Squirrel.

Now I have to go off and find a solution to my ongoing story. Nothing has occurred to me yet...

Scribd and Rhianna

I now have a Scribd site, much to my annoyance.

Why am I annoyed? Because I thought to wait until I returned from OT (Over There) before tossing my metaphoric hat into the ring.

However. Lynn Viehl has a new book of free short stories up. Near Dawn is about the Darkyn and has excerpts to Twilight Fall and Stay The Night. Unfortunately, I couldn't download the book - to read at my leisure - without signing up; so I did.

I have every intention of posting free stuff on my new Scribd site but not until June when I'm back.

In the meantime, Hard Ground is up over at The Takeaway. I'm off to read Lynn's book now...

Fair and Balanced...

Five things that have pissed me off this week:

1. The man who wears Prada shoes, Cartier sunglasses and hand-tailored clothes - otherwise known as God's Rottweiler, the Grand Inquisitor and... the Pope - while millions of Catholics live in poverty.

2. Robert Mugabe, the man who doesn't know when to quit even when his country's people suffer.

3. All those green groups who forced and otherwise manipulated countries into drastic cuts in carbon emissions without considering the consequences, like food crops being sold for biofuels. And we've still to hear from them.

4. Tibet. 'nuff said.

5. The greed of OPEC for the price of oil and the idiots who forced the 'credit crunch' by loaning money to those who couldn't pay it back.

Five things that have made me happy this week:

1. The 'accidental' rescue by Iraqi forces of kidnapped CBS journalist, Richard Butler. The Iraqi forces needed the morale lift.

2. Australia's appointment of the first woman Governor General, Ms Quentin Bryce, current Governor of Queensland.

3. JK Rowling's lawsuit against Steven Vander Ark's Harry Potter lexicon. No matter that JK is worth buckets of money, Vander Ark is trying to profit from JK's work.

4. The lack of protests as the Olympic Torch made it's way through South America, Africa and the Middle East. The Human Rights Advocates have made their point, enough already. Oh, the torch had it's genesis in the Nazi regime; maybe we should drop it altogether.

5. Sixteen days until I fly out for Europe. Who wouldn't be happy with that?

Yay, for common sense

Australian Fashion Week has axed under-age Polish model, Monika Jagaciak from the cat walk.

Better yet, Vogue magazine has decided not to show the 14-year-old on the cover and fashion magazine Marie Claire has called for a minimum age of 16 for all models.

The Editor of Vogue, Kirsty Clements said that Jagaciak's case is symptomatic of a sick fashion system. "I mean there's the obvious sexualisation of very young girls ... but also the reason that they are using them so young because they haven't actually developed women's bodies yet. And that is a whole other part of the business that's a problem," Clements said.

As Ms Clements pointed out, the fashion industry is built around selling clothes to women and to use a girl who's yet to develop curves is ridiculous.

I agree. For too long the fashion industry has promoted the ultimate woman as flat-chested and stick thin when the truth is a long way from that. The average woman has a lot more curves than ruler and to suggest otherwise is a lie.

Worse, it encourages young girls to try to conform to such a image resulting in chronic eating disorders. That's not to say that all models contribute to the problem, but look how popular (from an Australian point of view) Elle McPherson and Megan Gale have been. And I understand that some models are just genetically built to be skinny as a piece of gum. But for the industry to tell the rest of the world they are ideal is wrong on so many levels.

I hope the industry days of wanting women with the shape of adolescent boys is over. I also hope that a pretty girl like Monika Jagaciak has a long and successful career, but not before she's ready, and not before she develops some womanly curves.

* * *

And in another cheer for common sense, giant confectionery company, Cadbury-Schweppes, has lost a court case it brought against confectioners Darrell Lea to stop them from using the colour purple.

Justice Peter Heerey ruled Cadbury was not the only company that used the colour purple to market its chocolate.

Buying chocolate would be a drab affair indeed if all chocolatiers were banned from using purple, I think.

Zodiacs

I've just finished reading Vicki Pettersson's The Taste of Night. This is the second in the Zodiac series (the first is The Scent of Shadows) and set in Las Vegas. The series revolves around balance, the bad guys - Shadows - and the good guys - Lights. All represent the signs of Zodiac.

The Shadow Zodiac is typically cruel to mortals as they try to defeat the Light. The good guys follow the rules, protect the innocents while trying to maintain the balance. Enter the chief bad guy whose powers are... scary.

Our protagonist, Joanna Archer, is a woman of both Shadow and Light. For that reason, the Light don't always trust her and the Shadows just want her on their side. Why? Because she is the daughter of the chief Shadow, a creature made flesh from thought, and the most powerful of all.

And so we have the clash between super villains and super heroes, though Joanna wants to be neither. Oh, no. She wants to settle down with Ben Traina, love of her life. But since her 'accidental' death she has to keep those she loves out of the line of fire or her Shadow side might just consume her.

I can't remember the last time a read a book where the main character was so wonderfully selfish for what appears the right reasons. Joanna Archer came to the Zodiacs late, and when both sides realise who she is, the head Light agent begins to only teach Joanna what is absolutely necessary for a mission for fear she will use the information for the Shadows. A fact emphasised by the Shadows and used by them to manipulate her.

She's between the rock and the hard place and has to do things her own way because of the lack of trust. This has catastrophic results and while The Taste of Night neatly wraps up plot threads, there are more portents of disaster given for the next book. It seems everything Joanna does leads to more death and destruction, even though she thought, at the time, she was doing the right thing; even doing nothing has consequences.

I kept wanting to skip pages to see what happens; wanted to, but didn't. Ms Pettersson writes with passion and cleverness, she lures the reader in and onwards with the promise of maybe a not-so-happily-ever-after ending, with characters who display both realistic and unrealistic traits.

I recommend these books to anyone who wants to read paranormal, but not vampires, werewolves or other preternatural creatures. These superheroes are flawed, tortured and sometimes desperate; the supervillains are... evil, cruel and enjoy being that way.

I'm hangin' for the next instalment, The Touch of Twilight at the end of May, because this series is already re-readable and has the makings of a classic fantasy series.

Temporary oops

It's so easy to end your WIP by accident.

In my current endeavour, I'm practising conciseness; that is, to write meaningful text, with a beginning, a middle and a cliff-hanger end but when I put it all together will amount to a novel.

They're bite-sized pieces I write on Monday, edit on Tuesday and post on Wednesday (my time), so I'm making it up as I go along. It's also good for scheduling and getting into the habit of writing at a particular time and editing at a particular time.

Marathons like the story-a-day at Forward Motion in May, or the novel writing of Nano in November serve a purpose, but a writer has to sit down and write more than two months of the year.

Being an organic writer, it's tough to write to a schedule, to write on demand rather than 'when I feel like it'. All writers - published or not - go through it; that rebellion, the bottom lip quiver and mental hissy fit because the shopping centre is calling, or the latest, riveting television series is out on DVD, the kids are sick, housework needs doing, or a thousand other reasons why writing is not the sugary lure it was yesterday.

Me, I look outside to the perfect autumnal day and want to go walk on the beach, or go massacre (read: prune) something in the garden, read the book I've been waiting months for or surf sites dealing with my trip in three weeks.

And with that mindset, I wrote a temporary ending to Bounty Hunter, did a left turn where a character did nothing to stop being shanghaied - totally wrong, totally unlike them and totally too soon.

Sure, I might have difficulty with the continuations in May, but I just have to arrange that, work around the problems and stay true to the story while I stay on track.

Obviously an impending trip to other countries is a distraction, but that's no excuse... okay, it is... but the important thing is to maintain continuity. I'm going to try at least.

The next instalment is up at The Takeaway. Now I'll have to give some thought as to where next, and what now and is it all as bad as it seems...

It's all about me me

Over at The Lost Fort, Gabriele has a character meme. I love memes, they hand out interesting bits of information. One day, I might even track one down to its creator.

In the meantime, I'm going to do this 'Four' meme about, well, me me; coz it's all about me!

Four jobs I've had
1. Newspaper editor
2. Beetroot packer
3. Dining Room Manager
4. Waitress

Four movies I could watch over and over
1. Lord of the Rings
2. Terminator
3. Appleseed
4. Aliens

Four TV shows that I watch
1. Torchwood
2. Dr Who
3. Star Trek: Voyager
4. CSI

Four places I'd like to be right now
1. Scotland
2. Pacific Northwest
3. New Zealand
4. Staring at my name at the top of the NYT Best Seller list.

Four favourite foods
1. Chicken parmesan
2. Red Wine casserole with herb dumplings
3. Beef Roulade
4. Lemon cheesecake

Four places I have visited
1. Fiji
2. Copenhagen
3. United Kingdom
4. United States

Four events I'm looking forward to this year
1. Godson's confirmation
2. WWI battlefield tour of Belgium
3. A particular party at the end of the year that's a secret.
4. Niece's graduation from a French language school.

Four people who should post four things
Anyone who has a burning ambition to post them.

Zimbabwe

Like a lot of the world's population, I've been watching Zimbabwe with some interest. Why? Well, I like to keep up to date with world politics. How populations react to their governments or candidates, is a good way to start developing your own socio-political world.

World building isn't just about land, weather and how many suns in the sky. But I digress.

Mugabe was once a hero to his nation, 'free-ing' the land of 'oppressive' British rule. Ha! He has taken a country known as the 'bread-basket of Africa' and bankrupted it in under thirty years.

Inflation is at 100,000 percent; unemployment at 80 percent; the life expectancy for men is 37 years and for women, 34. The central bank has just introduced a $ZIM 50 million note - worth about 50p in pounds, 80 cents US, and about 82 cents Australian. Fifty million!

And who does Mugabe and his 'liberation' war veterans blame for this catastrophe? Why, Britain of course. You'll remember that Mugabe handed over profitable white-owned farms to the veterans. These veterans had no concept, no idea of how to run a farm and those farms are now in disrepair and nothing is produced. Loyal farm workers were either run off or killed, as were the original owners. This group were also used for intimidation and violence against opposition supporters.

In a recent statement, veteran Jabulani Sibanda, said: "It now looks like these elections were a way to open for the re-invasion of this country (by the British)."

I doubt Britain has any plan whatsoever of invading Zimbabwe, but it's a useful scare tactic - or was. Now, the veterans are used as thugs so an 84-year-old can hang on to power of nation with no money, no infrastructure and a declining population.

If it continues, he'll be president of an empty land. Then again, he and his cronies have stripped the wealth, secreted the money in offshore accounts. You can bet they don't want to be arrested and charged with human rights violations, fraud, vote-rigging and any number of charges they deserve.

We all know this, but what startled me was the naive and ineffectual comment from South Africa's President, Thabo Imbeki, who suggested people 'wait for the official results' before taking any action.

Official results? Mugabe stole the last election by rigging the votes and intimidating the voters. In this election, an extra three million ballots were produced. How easy would it be for opposition votes to be replaced should the outside world demand to see them as proof Mugabe won as many as he says? After all the Electoral Commission is headed by his appointees.

In the meantime, he'll delay the 'results' while working behind the scenes to ensure his re-election; either that, or he's working on an escape plan.

His people are starving, they have no jobs and currently no prospects of one, they have no money and nothing to spend it on. And yet, he wears his hand-tailored suits, drinks and eats the best foods while his lackeys join in.

If ever a man needed to be... disposed of, Mugabe is he, if only to save his nation from his own excesses.

Why do I care about a country so far away? I worked with a rather gor-jus young white Zimbabwean some years ago while in England. His parents were farmers and I find myself wondering what happened to them. Did they safely get to South Africa? Or did the worst happen to them? I like to think they made it, but my creative mind can think up some stories revolving around their escape; or not.

Zimbabwe is the perfect lesson on how to take a profitable, viable nation and destroy it. And all we can do is... wait.

Our Rudd-er

Big bad Kev has just finished his tour of the U.S. Our Prime Minister made a number of announcements, all of which should have been made on home soil.

Like… going for a seat on the United Nations Security Council. No mention of the $AUS30-40 million dollars it will cost, nor the greater cost of compromising our stand on certain issues: Japanese whaling, South Pacific government corruption, Chinese human rights violations, and so on.

It’s not as if the U.N. has proven itself worthwhile in recent years. In fact, I’m wondering if it’s a lame duck. It sucks up enormous resources and money, for little visible return. Remember Bosnia? Within a week the U.S. had done what the U.N. failed to do in years of talks. Afghanistan? It did nothing to stop the Taliban execute women for showing ankles or begging on the street or any number of bullshit crimes. Iraq? For ten years Hussein thumbed his nose at U.N. sanctions – of course he had help from U.N. members France, Russia and China. For ten years he rattled his sabre and threatened biological and chemical attacks; did, in fact, kill thousands of Kurds.

Rule by committee does not work and the larger the committee, the less work is done.

Nope. We don’t need to be on the Security Council, we can continue to work behind the scenes. But our PM wants us to be more involved in world affairs – but do we have the international clout for that?

Mr Rudd also had a chat to Presidential candidates Hillary Clinton and John McCain, though Barack Obama was only available for a phone call, coz he was so far away in Pennsylvania.

* * *

It being Wednesday, there’s another instalment of Bounty Hunter up on the Takeaway.

And now, since we have ferocious winds coming up the coast, I’d better go and batten down the hatches (Melbourne and Tasmania have copped a beating today, and I have no doubt… we’re next).