Ahoy to the green and pleasant land

Despite the Rail Workers Union’s stoush threatening to stop the French trains, we made all our connections and saved our no-claim bonus from another near miss. Next day our uncrowded Brittany Ferries’ catamaran sailed us 3 hours from Normandy’s bare cliffs, fabulous French chateaus, and the luxury-yacht-bobbing bays of Le Havre to Portsmouth and the promise of conversation. Yes, what we have missed the most. It’s all very well to stumble around hoping the greetings etc, we try to use are appropriate, but that’s not chatting.

...into dark deep greens

…into dark deep greens

We picked up a hire car, headed for Cornwall, and for the next week drove in and out of the dark deep greens of an endless, unmarked English country laneliness, lined with late Spring wildflowers strobed in early summer sunstreams….exclaiming “Aaah!” And “Oooooh!” and again “Aaah!” as the deep greens darkened, the hedgerows thickened, the road narrowed, daylight dimmed and the sounds of hares outrunning badgers in bedtime stories to sleepy children all tumbled, grinning and delighted, and we knew at any moment we could be lost forever if not for Google Maps – and if the signal would only be a little less capricious!

Ports Wenn and Isaacs

Ports Wenn and Isaacs

Cornwall is wonderful! Of course it is, or Doc Martin would never have set up practice in Port Wenn aka, Port Isaacs; the Pirates of Penzance would not have occurred to Gilbert or Sullivan; Hagrid would’ve missed the castle on St Michael’s Mount, leaving Harry Potter to his Dementor-driven terror;

Youth Refuge that way...

Youth Refuge that way…

Virginia Woolf would have described a different Lighthouse and different Waves; Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca could never have dreamt of Manderley; Barbara Hepworth would have reached the height of her powers somewhere else; Marconi would’ve had to find somewhere else from whence to transmit the first wireless signal across the Atlantic to Newfoundland; no TV audiences anywhere need ever have known of

In Barbara Hepworth's garden

In Barbara Hepworth’s garden

John Nettles’ rugged stamina in sleuthing the obsessive compulsive murderers of Midsommer; and Sandra Clyne might have found Celia Otley’s accent less appealing! Cornwall gave way to Hampshire – lodged in a chocolate box Tudor village where we fully expected to see Beatrix Potter chastising Peter Rabbit, or Big Ears driving Noddy wild around every next bend,

Lodged in the chocolate box at Micheldever, Hampshire

Lodged in the chocolate box at Micheldever, Hampshire

or all Famous Five sharing scones with clotted cream and raspberry jam at their picnic by the river. Stonehenge, which, as the Great Wit says, “Rocks”! Winchester Cathedral, the longest church in the world, forerunner to Westminster Abbey, where commemorative plaques on the north side aisle and the floor honour local late resident, Jane Austen’s work and life, and where we were lucky to hear the choir’s daily evensong. Oxford. Preserving the essence of scenes that make a place variously quaint or beautiful etc demands certain concessions. Our advice was to “take the Park and Ride to Oxford”. Yes, these are cheap carparks serviced by cheap busses, set on the edge of places too busy to drive through or with streets too narrow for heavy traffic. Park the car; ride the bus return fare to the heart of the city. Very practical, very popular. And in Oxford the bicycle rules.

View of Oxford from the tower of The university  Church of St Mary's The Virgin

View of Oxford’s Dreaming Spires from the tower of The University Church of St Mary’s The Virgin

I was not prepared for my emotional response as I entered the quadrangle of Balliol College, I was so overwhelmed with nostalgia that tears trickled down my cheeks. Thank god for sunglasses! I suspect it was just the accumulation of years of vicariously visiting English culture and lifestyle through books, TV, film etc. The imagination can stir up the possibility of some past life experience. If I have had such an experience, I was probably a boy! The first women entered Oxford in 1878 as part-time students, not accepted for degree completion until 1920. In 1973 Balliol was the first of the traditional all-male colleges to elect a woman as a Fellow and Tutor. Yes let’s hear it for Will Shakespeare in London and Anne Hathaway stoking the home fires at Stratford-on-Avon. We visited Anne’s house, and while we weren’t happy about the £16.00 entry fee, we were more disappointed to discover the shop sold no likenesses of her, only him.

Settling for High Tea

Settling for High Tea

And so to London… Just London, poor rich London. The place names; the postcodes…it all counts you know – towards your identity in the Who’s Who and which names you may drop; where you might shop and what you might buy that’s a fair enough cop. Personally I find Harrods suits more than the local Co-op, ‘tho it is frightfully dear there. Still, you get what you pay for everywhere, and they do take such good care. If they relax their prices, blimey, ‘ood shop there then, eh? We’d be left with Fortnum and Mason’s and that’d leave a rather large hole in the basin. Of course we sang and danced the Book of Mormon in the West End. Harassed each other in Harrods, not to mention FORTnam and MASONing nor all the nostalgic rest…like:

Hyde Park, Marble Arch, Notting Hill, Kew, Westminster, Kensington, Chelsea – take the Tube. Brick Lane, Park Lane, Portobello Road Covent Garden, Old Vic, The Globe, Soho, ho,ho. Tate Modern, Albert Hall, Change the Guard to there. Piccadilly Circus, St Paul’s Dome, not far from Leicester Square. Beefeaters, Buckingham, Oxford, Regent, Downing Streets Crown Jewels, Hampton Court tried for hunting Hampstead Heath, Old Bailey, Big Ben, Traitor’s Gate, The London Eye spies high tides on the Thames we all should see before we die…

Kew Gardens . We took a memorable boat ride from Westminster Bridge to the gardens. Being in his last week of service after 50 years on the Thames, our boat Captain needed little encouragement to regale us with tales of the river and folk who have lived along it over the years, an hour of pure gold. The heat of the day stole our enthusiasm for the gardens, so, since the Temperate House is closed until 2018, we found a giant water lily to have a rest in – just kidding.

at the Waterlily House, Kew Gardens

at the Waterlily House, Kew Gardens

Then Annie took off …….while I lingered in the cool cafe. And Annie’s reward for labouring through the mostly unshaded, humid, 33-degree day, was the discovery of two wonderful women – Shirley Sherwood, a dedicated collector of mouth-watering botanical art from over 200 artists world-wide that she’s been amassing since 1990; and Marianne North, a pioneering botanical artist from Victorian England whose body of work, numbering 833 small but intricately-detailed oils, is housed/exhibited in her own purpose-built gallery, upstairs from the Sherwood. A fabulous air-conditioned dalliance with two remarkable women, thoroughly recommended.

Baguette by Bath Waters

Baguetting by Bath Waters

Kathryn Jenkins how great! We bought an extra ticket and invited our host of the moment, Chonette.

Into the rainbow at Chonette's

Into the rainbow at Chonette’s

Chonette is a lovely Spanish-born woman who lived her early years in Mexico until marrying and moving into an English life. During our stay in her very colourful self-catering apartment, she fussed over us and made us feel very special. We chose Chippenham because it was the closest affordable town to Kathryn Jenkins’ Concert at the National Arboretum in Westonbirt.

Kathryn Jenkins with the National Symphony Orchestra, at the National Arboretum, Westonbirt, tetbury, Gloucestershire

Kathryn Jenkins with the National Symphony Orchestra, at the National Arboretum, Westonbirt, Tetbury, Gloucestershire

There we were in the queue with the thousands of others waiting for the gates to open, modestly-equipped with small picnic hamper and bottle of wine – no esky, no chairs. Everyone else had chairs. How would we see anything surrounded by chairs? However, we found a great spot, with a clear view and while all the Brits banqueted royally around us, we sat on Chonette’s blankets and enjoyed Kathryn with our sushi and chicken wraps.

Iconic Bath

Iconic Bath

Hostels. It’s 40 years since either of us did the youth hostel thing, but we found the Snowdon Ranger, YHA, in the Snowdonia National Park, surprisingly quiet and comfortable. Hearty meal, warm, slow lazy evening, early night into easy dream…..then Bang! the famous Grosse German DOOR-BANGER Percussion Gruppe arrived late (nearly 11pm). Giggling Gertrudas’ cymbals pitched high in leading soprano to gaggling Geese stepping up und stepping down the three long-suffering flights of wooden stairs. We cussed and all the doors percussed! But did we climb Mt Snowdon?

Atop Wales

Atop Wales

 

39 years, but wasn't it just yesterday? Janet and Carolyn catch up

39 years, but wasn’t it just yesterday? Janet and Carolyn catch up

Manchester reunion, Janet had not seen Carolyn for 39 years and now she was a wife, mother and grandmother! Hooker Creek NT now known as Lajamanu was the last contact so lots of tales to tell. Carolyn and husband Richard warmly welcomed us at Stockport station and we enjoyed a divine roast (with Yorkshire puddings) the following two days of splendid catering was punctuated with meeting the family, reworking luggage requirements, relaxing and eating berries from Richards garden.

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…stretching the French connection….

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early June, 2013. Three months ex-Oz…. Coustouge It is a precious thing, when you are a stranger in a strange land, to be given the opportunity to stay with people who live there. Coustouge, a small community in south-eastern France, … Continue reading

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Adios Espanya – hasta la vista…

Our Spanish adventure is over.

...hasta la vista Maria...

…hasta la vista Maria…

I must say we enjoyed the northern half better than the southern. Remember when the south of Spain was the place to be? But even 40 years ago I liked the north much more than the south. Cordoba was the exception, it sparkled for us: the old city, the exquisite mesquite, the Roman bridge across the mighty Guadalquivir River; Royal Andalusian horses dancing on tip-toe, the full-footed, staccato stamp, strum and clap and whirl of Flamenco; and not forgetting the tender touch of rabo de toro (tail of the bull….or, as some may better know: osso buco), all clamouring for our attention…

Mezquita de Cordoba -  first a Mosque; now a Cathedral

Mezquita de Cordoba – first a Mosque; now a Cathedral

Strong emotions make lasting memories, so they say…6 weeks on from Cudillero and the memory of Señora and Señor refusing to relax their heating rations to our apartment still rankles, I’m afraid. Turned on between 5-11pm, despite the meagre 10 degrees of your average early-May Cudillero day, and we shivering two, confined within 3-foot thick Roman stone walls,

...lovely thick stone walls - great in summer...

…lovely thick stone walls – great in summer…

due to constant grey drizzle and wind, and Annie’s bronchioles filled for a 2nd time with muck. We had booked a week there, Cudillero reputedly being one of the finest examples of sleepy fishing villagery left in northern coastal Spain.

Cudillero on a clear day

Cudillero on a clear day

So we felt trapped and defrauded both by the weather and by the people. And no that’s fair to neither the people nor the place, but do we forgive Cudillero? Mmmm… Would you? Of course you would! Just look at the place! Beautiful! You can just feel all those otherwise warm, friendly fishing-connected folk living there. But our on-line review of that accommodation for the booking site certainly lacked no critical detail – nor emotion!

Signposting the Camino for the Pilgrims' progress

Signposting the Camino for the Pilgrims’ progress

From there to the peaceful otherworldliness of very, very famous place of religious sanctuary, Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, the NW corner of Spain. Santiago de Compostela, is the end of all the Caminos across Spain and we positioned ourselves perfectly to spot our ardent amiga peregrinas, Alison and Monica arrive from their 200km walk from Portugal. It was a joyous reunion.

Where land ends in Spain: Finisterre, (from left Annie, Alison, Monica, Janet)

Where land ends in Spain: Finisterre, (from left Annie, Alison, Monica, Janet)

They were in good spirits and totally enthralled with the whole experience. We felt so good about it we went to the pilgrims’ blessing MASS – twice! The cathedral mass has beautiful singing and the BIG attraction is the Bota Fumeiro (thurible magnum). The incense burner weighs 53kg, but when loaded with charcoal and incense, it’s about 100 kg, and takes 8 monks to swing on the end of a rope. And they swing it high the length of the church. With that and the music it even made this unbeliever tear up. Annie caught it moving beautifully on her mobile.

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The food and the wine were just fine, but the Cherry liqueur! And I mean real cherry liqueur chocolates, Spain has the best, beautifully wrapped, dark chocolate, great cherry brandy, so affordable and Delicious!!! I can enjoy 2 in a row after a tasty dinner and 2 glasses of red wine.

A most appealing public sculpture of two women in Alameda Park, a major point of entry to the city, provides some ‘welcome stranger’ warmth and cheer for many a weary pilgrim.

Las Dos Marias welcome the weary to their holy city...

Las Dos Marias welcome the weary to their holy city…

It is the tribute to Coralia and Maruxa Fandino Ricart, known as Las Dos Marias (The Two Marias), by Cesar Lombero, 1994. They were two of eleven children born around the turn of the century within a family local to Santiago de Compostela. Three of their brothers, being anarchist trade unioinists, politically antagonised the fascist Franco regime which wanted to arrest and imprison them. Convinced the brothers were being hidden by their family during the Civil War, Franco’s thuggish forces subjected the family to extensive, violent harassment. In the early hours of any random morning, police troops would force entry, demanding the brothers’ whereabouts. Their treatment reportedly included stripping the women and parading them naked through the streets. Reports of the sisters’ rape and torture abound, but have not been officially confirmed. Why Coralia and Maruxa then implemented their strict routine of parading themselves through the city, every day at 14.00hrs precisely, come rain; come shine, dressed in the avant garde high fashion of their own creation, and which persisted for the rest of their 80 odd year-lives, is an enduring mystery.

Jose Ledesma Criado, lawyer, poet, Salamanca who would have liked to know more of Las Dos Marias

Jose Ledesma Criado, lawyer, poet of Salamanca who would have liked to know more of Las Dos Marias, but Annie couldn’t tell him.

Was it wild immodesty? Was it the ritualistic compulsion of the obsessive? The harmless antics of an eccentric pair of spinsters? A credible response to their former bastardisation by a powerful totalitarian regime? Were they just mad and therefore a wholly tragic phenomenon. Should the questions even be posed? The sisters died in the early 1980s and it seems no one is left now who can answer these questions with any confidence.

Perhaps this reflects the historically low public profile of women generally in Spain. Apart of course from the ubiquitous one and only Maria herself, we saw very few public references honouring achievements by women: no monuments, no dedications, and certainly no women artists in the fine arts galleries we visited.

...my apologies for being unable to identify the artist or his subject artist

…my apologies for being unable to identify the artist or his subject artist

So this one painting from the Oviedo gallery is here placed to note an oversight, one captured in the defiant gaze of the peaches and cream sitter who dearly loves her Fran….

“La Torera” – her nickname has roots in the bull-ring, where a matador arrogantly breaks the rules and hang the consequences.

Although, to be fair to Oviedo, they did have some fabulous statuary that was most respectful of local women heroes. For example, La Torero,”born in the late 1800s”, pioneered Spanish photography through her invention of a breakthrough exposure/timing technique and perfecting some unique portraiture practises.

The last word of our Spanish sojourn must go to Señor Gaudi. Since we had to return to Barcelona to collect our oversize wheelie bags, we finally took the opportunity to visit his biggest life project which proves Janet’s theory that I’m sure is correct: “When Gaudi was a child he was abducted by aliens. They took him for a ride into the Cosmos, showed him all its wonders and delivered him home to Earth.

Central corridor, Sagrada Familiar Central corridor, Sagrada Familiar

The Sagrada Famiglia is designed from his imagination (he thinks) but it is a pretty close resemblance to the interstellar vehicle that carried him on this wondrous journey especially the inside. Just look at the photo, in the spaceship the pods moved up and down the pillars like pistons. How do I know all this? I’ve been in that ship!!”

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Molesagoza to Zaragosa

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Barcelona por favor….

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The Senyera, the flag of Barcelona

Barcelona. We rented a little apartment from Federico for 9 days in the inner suburb of Villa Gracia. It proved very handy to the beautiful old city of Barcelona, the fiercely proud capital of Catalonia, eternally opposed to all forms of government domination by foreign power, including Madrid! Gracia is downtown, easy, Metro-connected, inner suburban lifestyle, middle-class, super stylish, and complete with Gaudi credentials, Casa Vicens being just around the corner from our street. We even caught a couple of arthouse movies – in English….during…

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The procession begins…

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Santa Semana

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…and continued for the true believers….

…with not a single Easter egg in sight.

Santa Samana (Easter) was a little underwhelming. On Good Friday Janet was looking forward to observing some local penance for her sins and the sins of the world. Some latitude had to be given because it was her birthday! Ho Hum the life-size crucifix, the priests, the bishops, the candles, and the silently reverent street crowd, just raised her incredulous-ness to new heights.

Speaking of which the birthday girl celebrated with a beautiful symphony concert at the Palau de la Musica Catalanya. So grand…..so befitting for the grand old dame!

The sun shines through the ceiling of the Palau de la Musica Catalanya...

The sun shines through the ceiling of the Palau de la Musica Catalanya…

...and all the flowers bloom...

…and all the flowers bloom…

We wore out our Metro passes and spent oodles of euros visiting as many Gaudi buildings as we could. If all our not-quite uncomplaining queueing and strategic/defensive jostling with our 5,000-plus, daily fellow-travellers for glimpses of this or that other exquisite aspect, or this or that better photographic vantage point, is anything to reckon with, then Barcelona’s economy is well on track to a Gaudi-led recovery!

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Keeping company on the roof of La Pederera

...almost alone..

…almost alone..

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Lunching at Barcelona’s oldest building site

On a hot Gaudi roof...

On a hot Gaudi roof…

In our less Aussie-inclined, laid back, “go Barcelona!” moments, we agreed the term ‘Gaud(g)ing’ may suit the common garden Barcelona variety tourist experience quite well, but then again – what price this ineffable magnificence? Gaudi’s legacy to his native land and thereby to the world is massive; his breathtaking brilliance just dazzles and how could anyone get enough? Moreover, according to our very own ex-pat Barcelona (as well as NY) tragic, Robert Hughes, in his impoverished, old man years, Gaudi unashamedly accosted those with ample means, demanding a certain financial sacrifice of them as appropriate tribute, not to his personal glory, but to the work he believed The Creator directly rendered through him, for the greater glory both of humankind and of Catalonia – and in particular as his sole means to complete his most passionate expression of religious devotion, the Sagrada Familiar – ironically still unfinished despite the daily hordes making top dollar sacrifices for the bountiful pleasure he endlessly provides.

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A new take on ready-mades.

Adjourning to the terrace, Casa Battlo with guide

Adjourned to the terrace at Casa Battlo with guide

Where to after Gaudi? Why to Dali of course! Mmmmm…that man was his own religion and his coffers were never wanting, thanks apparently due to his wife/bookkeeper/Muse, Gala.

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One of his several hundred portraits of Gala

Is that enough said? Not likely, but much has already been written and is there for the record…it was a fantastic excursion. And while we are no great fans of Dali, we fully appreciated that opportunity to be further vexed and overawed by his vast and splendid body of work.

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Dali Museum, Figueres

I think this portrait he did of his father when he was only 14 years old very moving.

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Salvatore Dali Senior, the tree the apple fell from, painted 1919

We have 2 more days back in Barcelona before we move next door to France so no doubt we will do Park Guell, the one Gaudi icon we missed due to the very poor timing of the rain in Spain.

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Night Train To Konya….

Imagine you have just been chased along the railway platform by an angry toilet attendant because you missed seeing his little window saying “WC one lira”. The one lira does not guarantee cleanliness, toilet paper or paper towel but you usually score at least one out of the three. After this wee drama the only other waiting-for-the-train entertainment was a pair of frantically copulating sparrows. Not once, not twice, but fourteen times. Without a single missed wing-beat. (Are Australian sparrows so determined?)

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Night Train to Konya

We were a bit excited, this being our first night train in Turkey. Night trains anywhere promise to be a reward in themselves. So with a dining car, a 2-berth sleeper and a carriage steward, we were naturally all set for some curiosity, some adventure – not exactly your Agatha’s lavish Orient Express, but something a bit refined – we’d’ve even settled for some modest attention to basic niceties – like an early morning wake-up cuppa, maybe….?No deal. Our carriage steward greeted us when we boarded, then not a sign of him again until we’d arrived in Konya – when he returned our tickets. We even had to convert our seats into bunks ourselves. What a great job he has!

Now, to confess: we were not very well* in Konya. I had caught a dose of gastro in Izmir the previous week but had been recovering in Pammukale when Annie succumbed. We had some excellent assistance in Kas from a lovely doctor called Munise who spoke perfect English and had all the right creds. Annie needed an IV rehydration infusion.

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…drip…drip…drip

No sooner were we over the tummy bug than Annie’s persisting sore throat became a serious cough, so we booked 3 days at the Konya Hilton (for a health treat) and found ourselves at the University Hospital on Saturday afternoon when Annie spotted blood coughed into the tissue ……..6 hours later, following Ventolin therapy and thorough testing for every known respiratory illness and chest complaint, we emerged. Some of the differential diagnoses had alarmed us – including pneumonia and pulmonary embolism – until they were discounted, so all things considered we were mightily relieved when she was discharged with medication for influenza. Before leaving the hospital the medical team insisted on some photos with us!!

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…on discharge – yay Team!

As fully engaging and diverting as this small excursion into the bedside manners of Turkey’s training hospitals was however, it in no way compensated us for missing the best Whirling Dervish Sema Spectacle at the Mevlana Cultural Centre just across the road from our Hilton address and which had of course comprised the lion’s share of Konya’s attractiveness.

But the tea service was cok cok guzel -(very, very nice)

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And still the darkness persisted, Dear Readers. No sooner were my instincts for health replenished, than Janet’s succumbed. Confined to bed to sneeze and wheeze and convulsively cough in a dimly lit cave in Goreme with no telly, little interest in tucker beyond bread and panadol washed down with sweet Turkish tea, and a non-stop nose-stream that prompted local flood warnings, the Cappadocia discovery leg of our extended Turkey tour was not the golden crowning finale she had oh so longed for…

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Christian Monastery….subsiding

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Goreme – centre of Cappodocia

but I enjoyed it, and that’s the main thing, between my dedicated duties nursing a very reluctant, wilful – some may say “bossy” patient, and they may well have her measure…

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Cavewoman emerging…

No, seriously – we both did ultimately enjoy it – such is the nature of that intriguing landscape that despite near-death experiences, the soul and sprits soar to just be amongst it.

 

And so to Spain where we are now recovered. We hope never to have to chronicle our out-of-sorts selves to you again, dear blog-watchers. We just wanted you to know that travelling can sometimes make us sick, but we take it in turns and we care well for each other…

* footnote: if feeling unwell in Turkey, avoid describing yourself as feeling “sick”. Such a term, as we discovered some time afterwards, apparently evokes images of humans in flagrant imitation of the aforementioned sparrows…”Husta” is a more acceptable term.

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On the Great Turkey hunt….

Hey Folks, I need to say straight off! (Ross) It was only apple tobacco and the pipe was too long and my lungs too short! Good fun just the same.

Pammukale, the Travertines, image absolutely beautiful. Our lovely host dropped us at the top gate, he suggested we wade through the pristine blue pools down to the bottom of the hill. Much too slippery.

Travertines above Pammukale

Travertines above Pammukale

No twisted ankles or cracked skulls for us! Hundreds of tourists around this site. We were bumped off a bench seat by two small Chinese ladies who obviously thought we were younger than them?
Experienced Dolmus (pr:dolmossh) riders like us sigh with relief when we score a BIG bus. The bigger buses have a steward and serve refreshments. The Dolmus are mini buses that do the village to village transport. They frequently fill up with heavy smokers – not a very pleasant bouquet. At least half the population are smokers. Our punishment for being ex smokers.
Antalya is an Aegean paradise, one day was not enough but will remember that view forever.
Antalya Blues

Antalya Blues


Kas (pr: Karsh) our favourite place in Turkey, other than Istanbul. Blue blue water everywhere, beautiful old fishing boats. Enjoyed a lovely apartment in a quiet lane off the main drag. Had a great day out on a boat visiting all sorts of Lycian and Roman underwater ruins and some historic villages. That night we joined a local election rally, red Turkish flags waving, thumping, stirring patriotic music.
...eat, drink, vote...

…eat, drink, vote…


No mean sausage-sizzle here: free doner kebab on fresh bread roll with water and yoghurt milk. imageYou could feel the excitement especially when the women started ululating. Every party had their candidates on stage together. All made a speech, all got thumping applause. In the days that followed the incumbent govt received a solid endorsement according to the vote count. But funny thing that – nobody seems to like them and the folk around Kas who spoke to us on the subject expressed their considerable disappointment at this lost opportunity for change. Our considerable experience in such disappointments, meant we could commiserate with them all with gusto.

Commiseration demands relief of course so quite naturally we soon found ourselves sunken deeply into a soft sturdy pile of Turkish rug-dreaming..image. those oft-repeated dreams so familiar to we of means too light to know the truly dark heart of luxury beyond brief third-party encounters. … but yes, when in Kas, pay a visit to the best Kas and Carry carpet man

Hayari Naymaci, Kas'nKarry man

Hayari Naymaci, Kas’nKarry man


and you too, may find a simple dream or two or three… image of luxury lasting longer than you’d ever thought possible!

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