Englishness

It was a thoroughly English day. The weather was great by English standards – 23 degrees and light cloud, but the sun was peeping though every so often. Some friends and I were booked onto the 11:30 tour of the Houses of Parliament. This was one London landmark I had never managed to get inside. I pass it pretty much every day on my way to work and after almost 2 years the sight of the overly fussy neo-gothic monstrosity with the unnecessary Victoria Tower at one end and oddly proportioned Clock Tower (Big Ben is the bell dammit!) at the other, still makes me smile.

Like all great democracies the British Parliament takes a summer holiday - an 82 day recess according to the tabloids, aghast (as they are every year) at the fact the MPs should be able to take time off (it does give them time to clean their moats I guess).

It also means Parliament is open to visitors. For the princely sum of £11.70 you can book yourself a place with the hoards and take a tour.

Lets get the details out of the way first. It is just as fussy inside as out and the whole time I was there I was expecting to see Penelope Keith sitting on a green bench in a corridor debating 90s post Thatcher, Labour ambitions with the party Whip …and the building is small. It was much more intimate than I expected! But I am skipping ahead…

We joined the queue (there is always a queue) at the Visitor’s Entrance at Cromwell Green and waited patiently to proceed through the security checkpoint under the stern gaze or Oliver himself. Standing on his plinth with a solitary Lion, he cuts a bit of a strange figure considering the way things turned out, but I guess if there is to be a statue of the man it should be outside Parliament.

Past security and we were into New Palace Yard and looking up at the Clock Tower sparkling in the momentary sunshine above a framework of bright steel scaffolding covering the Common façade facing the Yard. An English historic monument isn’t complete unless it has a bit of scaffold on it somewhere – generally a nice prominent place that gets in the way of a good photograph.

From the bright Yard we were ushered into the dark, gloomy depths of Westminster Hall. The 11th Century Hall is vast and has been at the heart of Parliament since it was first called in the 13th Century.

We queued again to await our tour guide and were eventually joined by a bubbly and remarkably loud woman who declared that she had the honour of showing us around and to stay close so we didn’t get lost in the building which has 1000 odd rooms.

The tour proper commenced in the Norman porch adjacent to the Sovereign’s entrance under Victoria Tower and for the first part followed the route taken by the Queen when Parliament is opened.

We stopped for a while in the Robing Room, strolled through the Royal Gallery with its enormous paintings of Waterloo and Trafalgar, into the Prince’s Chamber (the anteroom to the House of Lords) and then into the House of Lords. The House of Lords is not a big space and could never seat the more than 700 peer who are entitled to be present there and has no chance with the MPs from the Commons who try to cram in for the Queen’s Speech. It is a quirky space too, with its 3 sacks of wool from all over the Commonwealth representing the wealth of the Empire sitting directly below the gilt splendour of the Sovereign’s Throne.

The tour continued out of the House of Lords, into the Peer’s Lobby, the Central Lobby - overlooked by the patron Saints of England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland – the member’s Lobby and into the House of Commons.
Destroyed by a bomb during the second world war the Commons was rebuilt as a gift of the Commonwealth nations, the back of the Speaker’s Chair showing it was a gift of the people of Australia. The Commons, like the Lords is a narrow and relatively intimate space. Churchill, tasked with rebuilding the room after the war had the chance to enlarge it, but chose not to, so as to keep the atmosphere exciting and at close quarters. He also chose to leave the arched stone portal at the entrance ragged and broken from the damage cause by bombing, as a reminder to future MPs who entered.

Had we not stopped often the walk from Lords to Commons would have taken about 30 second. Not a great distance. The corridors of power in Britain are not overly grand. The building, despite its ornate finish – especially on the Lords side – has a human scale. It does not have huge impressive spaces like the US Capitol or the vast entrance of Australia’s Parliament House. It is a place for people to meet and to work. It has a comfortable, well worn feel - nothing too fancy – rather British really.

The tour finished back in Westminster Hall where it had begun and we clambered out of the medieval darkness into the English summer.

We were all a tad hungry, so on a recommendation from my parents some weeks before, headed to a restaurant in St James Park – Inn the Park. The food has a distinct organic tendency (as do the drinks) and is quite excellent. The view over the lake and park was lovely as we ate drank and chatted. After lunch we plonked ourselves down in front of a brass band, had a ice-cream and decided this was what the English summer should be like all the time.

342 Miles

The day started early and typically Scottish - overcast grey skies and a light, but cool breeze blowing. Just before 7:30am we drove out of the drive of the quaint little cottage we are staying at near the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town of Saline somewhere across the Forth, and slightly North-west of Edinburgh.

We knew the day we had planned was an ambitious one but being a family which has enjoyed more than a few driving holidays we didn’t think it beyond us.

The first leg of the journey was the cross country haul to Alexandria. We slipped through Stirling and set out across the lowland plains toward Loch Lomond. The closer we got to the Loch Lomond the prettier things became (in fact we seemed to be driving in the right direction all day as the scenery just got better and better and so did the weather).

Our first stop for the day was in a park in the tiny town of Tarbet on the edge of the Loch commanding what would have been a fine view of Ben Lomond had it not been shrouded in cloud. Tarbet boasts a fine view of the mountain (apparently), a charming green park falling away down to the water’s edge and a rather grand, stone turreted Victorian Hotel. If there was anything else we didn’t see it. So, a cup of tea and a biscuit later we were back on the road. Next Stop, Fort William.

Well, not quite the next stop. We pulled off the road at one stage to admire a truly spectacular view (along with several coach-loads of Spanish tourists). The outlook was supplemented with the serenading of a lone Piper. The open hillside offering a cooling breeze for any man daring to wear a kilt… but then, that’s what the Scots do isn’t it?

Having pretty much crossed Scotland we turned north and started our long drive up the Great Glen heading for our next stop. Fort William is perched on the edge of Loch Eil (or was it Loch Linnhe? It can be a tad hard to figure out where one starts and another finishes!). Apparently the town offers a nice view of Ben Nevis. But alas we were again beaten by the clouds. We spent 15 minutes wandering along the High Street and, having seen pretty much everything the town had to offer, climbed back in the car and headed for our next stop… and lunch!

So, we drove ever northward, along the edge of Loch Lochy and Loch Oich and on to the southern most point of Loch Ness…not a monster in sight. Lunch was on a terrace overlooking Urquart Castle. That makes it sound rather more grand than it actually was. The terrace was somewhat sparse and lunch consisted of a roast beef roll. But the view over the ruined castle to the dark waters of Loch Ness was worth savouring for few minutes. We spent a little while after lunch clambering over the castle (me being particularly pleased with Grant Tower) before settling back into our venerable Ford Focus and making a break for Inverness.

If you are travelling in Scotland and happen to be in the area of Inverness and have the opportunity of visiting the town… don’t. With the possible exception of Limerick, Inverness is the most charmless place I have been in Western Europe. We tried to find a high street to stop for a few minutes, but the streets of Inverness funnelled us into the underground car park of a shopping mall. We stood for 5 minutes in the soulless expanse of chain stores before paying our £1.60 to escape from the car park and return to more scenic places. Maybe we missed the nicer parts of town, but we didn’t stay to explore further.

Thankfully more scenic places are not hard to find in the Scottish Highlands. 15 minutes out of Inverness we stopped at the Culloden Battle fields. The site of the demise of Jacobean army at the hands of the Government in 1746. The battle field has been preserved with flags and markers showing the lines of the approaching forces and an excellent interpretive centre to guide you through the events of the day and the politics that caused it all to happen. We could have spent a lot more time wandering about but we had a few more miles to cover and couple more sites to see.

A friend, and self proclaimed Scotland fanatic, had told us that Pitlochry was a delightful little town and should be visited. Margaret’s advice is generally pretty spot on when it comes to travel in the UK, so rolling down the A9 through some truly spectacular scenery we headed that way. We took a brief detour on the way to see Blair Castle (apparently the most visited historic house in Scotland). Unfortunately the Castle was closed by the time we arrived, but we had the pleasure of a short walk in the grounds to take some photos and of watching a wedding party arrive the evenings reception.

Pitlochry really is a charming little town. Thankfully the A9 now diverts around the town leaving the town centre for people. We strolled along the high street, bought some post cards and stocked up on provisions (mostly beer and wine) at the little supermarket.

The day was running out at this stage and with an hours drive still ahead of us we decided it was time for home. All in all we were almost 12 hours on the road and, as you might have guessed, covered 342 miles and a fair portion of Scotland. We slept well.

In Brugge

It has been far to long I know since I updated... and I have to admit the memory has grown a tad faint already when I think back to my weekend in Belgium.

Life in the mean time has been rather busy and conspired to keep me from updating sooner.

I had no real agenda with Belgium. I have an old mate in Brussels and thought it was time I popped over and acquainted myself with the bars of Belgium under the guidance of PJ... a drinker of some repute whom I have known from the days when I was but a teenager. So, on Monday morning I decided to book and go. 15 minutes later I was booked onto the Eurostar for a Friday evening departure and into what turned out to be a rather nice hotel on Avenue Louise. It was at this point that I decided it might be wise to actually have something to do in Brussels than drink.

Lunchtime saw me at Stanford's (the bestest little travel bookshop in London, and conveniently located about 100 yards from my office) buying a travel guide for Brussels. Surprisingly it was not easy to find and when I did find it my selection included Berlitz or Berlitz. I chose Berlitz. If you have the opportunity to choose a Berlitz travel guide, don't. It gave me interesting, but vague, tidbits about the various sights of Brussels, but absolutely no guidance on how to get there, how much they might be, or what hours they were open. From here on I will stick to Lonely Planet or Time-out.

Thankfully Brussels is an easy city to navigate. But, I didn't start there. Well, my train delivered me there, and my hotel was there, but I arrive late in the evening, went straight to my hotel and first thing next morning I went straight back to the train station and climbed aboard a train to Brugge. Brugge hadn't even been on my horizon when I booked, 6 days prior, but having mentioned my weekend plans to all and sundry I was inundated with testimonials as to its charm and beauty, including "it's the Venice of Western Europe" (which perhaps elevates it a tad above its station) and general insistence that I must go if I had the time. So, I did. 50 minutes from Brussels I was outside the monolithic, post-war Brugge Station and wandering across the park toward the town centre. Thanks to a long spell of no-one noticing it was there, from about 1650 until about 1850, Brugge has managed to retain a remarkable collection of buildings, and a canal system, pretty much unchanged for 400 years. There are no tacky '60s or '70s office buildings to blight the views along the narrow cobbled streets or in the squares and plazas. The canals are fringed with overhanging trees and criss-crossed with ancient stone bridges.

I took the required tour of the town by canal boat (it's either that or a tour by horse and buggy) along the waterways that snake their way through the brick and timber houses and stores, followed it up with a very pleasant lunch at a cafe overlooking the water and then climbed the steps of the town hall bell tower. The view was splendid, and the carillon is expansive, but the thing that impressed me most was that the carillon is actually played by a organ type keyboard (and was being played while I was up there). No ropes to be pulled in Brugge! I am not really sure what else happens in Brugge other than tourism... the town did not seem to have any other visible means of support, but it probably doesn't need it.

Brussels, on the other hand, has a lot more happening, and it is still a charming town. The Grand Place, in the heart of the city, is something of an architectural gem and of course the Atomium (a Relic of a 1950s world exposition) is worth a visit for its kitsch value alone. Avenue Louise is lined with good shopping, unless you are wandering along its length on a Sunday as I was, when everything is closed.

I may or may not have had a slight hang-over, and the day is ever so slightly fuzzy. (I had spent the evening previous sampling a new, local beer that the brewer had deigned to give away in a number of pubs as a promotion. Free beer anywhere is a very dangerous thing.) I know I had a Belgian Waffle with cream and fresh strawberries at some point, wandered past Manneken Piss - small, isn't it? PJ joined me about midday nursing a similar ailment to my own, and we had lunch at an Irish Pub (you can't escape them anywhere). I marvelled at the Australian Ice-cream shop selling world famous Australian Ice-cream (please correct me if I am wrong, but I have never thought of Australia as being famous for its ice-cream...apparently only in Belgium), and trundled into the suburbs of Brussels to experience the delights of the aforementioned Atomium.

Basically a giant atom of iron constructed out of polished stainless steel and propped up in the middle of a park. It is a testament to the adage that bright shiny things appeal. It really has no useful purpose beyond giving the visitor (after handing over 8 Euro) a nice view of the park in which it stands and a distant glimpse of the city of Brussels. I thought it was pretty cool. And so, with a shiny little model of the Atomium in hand, I climbed aboard the Eurostar back to London, and sipping a very pleasant champagne, departed Belgium.

When in Rome... Part II

How will the MGC look in 1,920 years? Probably not as good as the Coliseum. Admittedly the MGC seats about 20,000 more people, but it took 20th Century technology to do it.

I have had the pleasure of walking to the MCG on the last Saturday in September when the air is thick with excitement and anticipation. When the colours of the combatants are fluttering in the breeze… the murmur of the crowd slowly builds to a roar… to see my team win... to see my team lose. But the atmosphere in Melbourne is created by the people, the spectacle, the noise, the sport, the teams. We venerate the stadium, but it’s the game that creates the emotion.

The Coliseum should be nothing more than a stadium, there are no games here anymore. It’s an enormous assortment of stones and bricks, arches and columns, piled one atop the other to almost ridiculous height, and yet the minute you step from the Metro station and stare at it, in the twinkling brightness of a sunny Roman day, there is and atmosphere, a feeling of expectation. It is genuinely awe inspiring, it’s wonderful and like so much in Rome, so much bigger than you imagine. Its presence looms over you in a way the MGC or any other modern stadium could never do. It’s not a light weight structure. No soaring beams, canopied roofs or steel cables here, just straight up stone arch on stone arch. It doesn’t seem built on the ground; it looks more like the ground has weathered away around it leaving its crumbling form as a testament to wind and rain.

Entering is like walking into a cave, the stone is dirty black and the vaulted corridors are dark and littered with fallen stones and columns, pushed out of the way to let the tourists pass. It’s almost a pity that you have to face up to the realities the bag check and ticket booth, but thankfully we were through quickly and it took little away from the mood. In typical Italian style there is little in the way of directional signage and so you grope your way through the dim arcades until you find the right stairs to the upper level and the start of the audio guide tour. You climb a flight of stairs that would meet no current regulations and just as dimly lit, but when you reach the top there are views through the outer arches to the Forum and Palatine across the piazza. And then you turn and walk out, into the stadium. Alas there was not roar of the crowd upon my emergence from the arched tunnel… but the spectacle is grand. It must have been an incredible place to enter and find your seat all those years ago – and overwhelmingly frightening if you were unlucky enough to not have a seat, but be part of the events.

We spend an hour or so wandering slowly around the terraces, looking up at the crumbling upper tiers, down into the labyrinth of passages below what would have been the arena floor and all with the most verbose audio guide any of us had ever encountered lecturing away at our ears. We were cast back out into the piazza and ready for our next adventure into antiquity.

The Forum site is handily located right next to the Coliseum – all the old stuff within arms length. Somehow we missed the audio guides, which was somewhat annoying as sites in Rome are not flushed with information. In fact across the entire Forum and Palatine we encountered only about 4 sign boards and these were not particularly enlightening. We did manage to figure out where the Forum actually was and deciphered the negligible signage on a small hut, encompassing a small pile of stone covered in flowers, as the location of Caesar’s famous last moments at the hands of Brutus.

I was surprised though, a tourist attraction in the heart of Rome, visited by millions, and the area was sadly lacking in organisation, care and attention - especially when compared to somewhere as brilliantly presented as Pompei. It appears more a big park, with some picturesque ruin, perfect for a Sunday stroll, than one of the world’s most significant historic locations. The entire Mediterranean and half of Europe was conquered from here. It marks the beginning of the rise of western civilisation, and they don’t even cut the grass.

By this stage feet all round were rather sore so we decided on lunch. We trundled across the river to a neat little café in a back street and sat down to one of the most delightful lunches I have had in a long time. The food was sensational – pizzas all round, mine was blue cheese and speck - the white wine was cold and crisp and we sat under an awning in a tiny square enjoying the Italian, spring, sunshine and I can’t even remember its name.

Having been disappointed at the Pantheon being closed the day before, we headed back that way - hopeful of getting inside this time. Open it was, and in we charged, again headlong into a milling throng. The pantheon is a bit of a tardis building. It certainly doesn’t look small from the outside, but its interior looks much to grand and imposing to be contained by the brown stone and brick surrounding it. It also seems far to magnificent to be 2000 years old. The building of ancient Rome are supposed to be ruins like the Coliseum and the Forum, not fully functioning beautifully maintained structures like the Pantheon (well, the interior anyway – the outside is showing its age just a tad) especially when it has a hole in the middle of its roof to let the light in ...and let the light in it does. The Pantheon has no windows, just the huge oculus at the centre of it splendid dome and its great entry doors. The sunshine spills into the space through the roof, creating a bright white disk of light on the internal wall which slowly moves with the sun, sparkling on the mosaics, marble, gilt and polished brass. The mathematics of the building are quite remarkable. The top of the dome is as high as the distance between the walls, the dome is a perfect hemisphere, so it will perfectly contain a giant ball – if you wanted it too. Gotta love the Romans – they built their buildings to perfection, and without a computer, or even a calculator.

Two days in Rome is clearly not enough. I managed to get to the biggest and most famous of the sites but there is so much more to see. You could spend days just wandering the streets, exploring. Something for next Summer.

When in Rome... Part I

Midnight was not the best time to arrive at the Royal Santina Hotel, although, to be completely honest, I would not really recommend arriving there at all. To say it is a hotel with faded glory would mean indicating it had glory to begin with. It needs a major refurbishment, but I would have settled for a wipe over with a damp cloth. Claudia and I were greeted by surly-man-at-desk on arrival – his one and only pleasantry being to offer us a wake-up call the next morning which was never made and thus we overslept by an hour.

Our room was at least less dusty than the lobby and stairwells and had what could almost be described as a nice view over the Basilica di Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri (say that 3 times fast!) toward the dome of St Peters in the distance – well, if you leaned out of the window a bit…

First thing Saturday morning (although, an hour late thanks to a lack of a wake-up call) we put our lodgings behind us a made for the Vatican. Having been warned of horrendous queues and madding crowds we started with the Vatican Museums in an attempt to head off the worst of it. We must have chosen a quiet weekend. 5 minutes after arriving we were buying our tickets and on our way into the museum for two and a half hours of frescoed walls and ceilings, marble sculpture, mosaics and tapestries, oh, and stairs… lots of stairs!

The culmination of the museum tour is the Sistine Chapel. Once inside the walls and ceiling are instantly recognisable. To stand in the space and look upon those frescoes alone and unhurried must be fabulous. To be jostled and bumped by the hordes is not such a pleasant experience. Both Claudia and I found the experience a little less than comfortable and spent only about 10 minutes gazing about before retreating to quieter areas.

Second stop was Piazza St Pietro, the sweeping curve of colonnade bound pavement stretching out before St Peter’s Basilica. Being lunchtime and both of us ready for a sit-down we resisted the urge to enter the Basilica right way and walked across the Piazza to a café recommended by a German friend of Claudia’s. Having seen where Germans choose to eat while travelling, I was somewhat dubious. My fears were allayed as I sat down to a carafe of chilled white wine, excellent bruschetta and lasagne.

Stomachs sated off we sauntered to St Peter’s Basilica. Without a doubt the most overwhelming space I have ever set foot. I defy anyone to enter the doors of the Basilica and not be moved by what they find. Whether it is the scale of the architecture (the building can hold 60,000 people – more than Lang Park, for a quick comparison), the richness of the decoration or something deeper I am not sure - perhaps a combination of it all.

The statues are enormous, towering about us from niches in the columns and walls. Every wall, column and floor is covered in patterned marble. Huge images adorn the wall behind the altars of the chapels down each side of the Nave. You take them to be elegant paintings or frescoes until you move very close, only to find they are actually the finest and most detailed mosaics - the skill of the artist is beyond comprehension.

The canopy over the central altar appears to float above barley sugar columns. Made of bronze and designed by Bernini it marks the point, under the basilica, of the tomb of St Peter and stands like an island at the centre of the cross of the Basilica ground plan.

There is so much to take in as you slowly walked around the space, and it was almost a relief to step back out into bright Roman sunshine and leave the intensity of the Basilica behind.

From the steps of the Basilica the view takes your gaze down Via della Conciliazioni, a contribution by Mussolini, to the distant River Tiber, so we walked that way.

We strolled, in the shade as the day was a warm one, toward the river. The cylindrical lump of Castel Sant Angelo drew near and we found ourselves looking down into the River Tiber, sluggish and a rather deep, bottle green in colour. Ahead of us leaping across the river from the entry to the Castel Sant Angelo was the Pont Sant Angelo. A guide book had identified this bridge as the prettiest bridge in Rome – clearly the other bridges of Rome were not going to offer a visual feast. We wasted little time on the bridge which would not get a second glance in Paris and plunged into a labyrinth of charming little streets and lanes on our way to Piazza Navona. We only got lost about three times before we found our way into the Piazza; home to three fountains and the second obelisk of our weekend’s touring – the first being outside St Peters - and by no means the last. Piazza Navona is also home to a plethora of stalls selling clichéd oil paintings of Roman scenes – St Peters, the Coliseum, Cafes etc. and a rather good gelateria called Tre Fontana. We bought both paintings and icecream.

Next stop was the Pantheon. Unfortunately, closed by the time we arrived we decided to return the following day so I will deal with it later. Although, while walking away we did enjoy obelisk number three…

Five minutes later and we were standing, mouths slightly agape, staring at the Trevi Fountain. It is rather larger than had anticipated and it dominates its tiny square, and the space is not taken up by the fountain was crammed with people. We managed to squeeze our way to the top of the stairs and take a few photos before we retreated to periphery to take in the sight. The fountain is designed to look like the sculpture, and the entire building above it, is emerging from the living rock. The edges are blurred where uncarved rock looms up out of the surrounding balustrade and creeps up into the building façade. The figures of horses and men spring from the mass of stone at the heart of the fountain as water pours around them. Despite the vigorous life of the sculpture and the throng of people all around, the square seems to hold onto an air of coolness and peace and there is the ring of laughter and joy in the rushing, tumble of the water and of the voices of those looking on.

From milling throng to milling throng. The Piazza di Spagna was no less busy than anywhere we had been all day. But, despite the crowds we found a few square feet on the Spanish Steps to sit and enjoy the afternoon. The steps really are perfectly formed for sitting and lounging and watching the world. Worn smooth and shiny by millions of feet and back-sides the travertine is remarkably comfortable. To lie back and gaze down upon the Piazza is a delight. The sun was warm and eventually that warmth and the need to meet up with other friends forced us to relinquish our spot and head to the Metro and back to the hotel.

Southern England

I had been wanting to go to Winchester for some time. The Cathedral gets a pretty good rap whenever it is mentioned and the town itself sits in a rather pretty park of Southern England.
Last Sunday dawned bright and sunny (despite a weather forecast predicting clouds and rain) so I took advantage of the day and scuttled off to Waterloo to get the 9:35 train to Winchester.
I have mentioned travelling by train before, but it really is a great way to see the UK. You peer into the back gardens of London’s populous (often looking a tad too Dickensian for the 21st Century) as you race out of the city at speeds that seem far to swift for what you know is inherently a 19th Century railway.

I am always surprised at how quickly a train will get you out of London and into the countryside. 15 minutes is all it really takes at 90 miles an hour. Look at a map of Greater London and you would think it should take at least an hour to work your way out of the dense habitation – which it would in a car I am sure.

So, the countryside was soon all around me and it is something to see in Southern England. Rolling green hills dotted with farms and small town, and fringed with woods, the odd country house standing serenely on a hill-side quietly commanding its surroundings.
In the middle of this picture is the city of Winchester. Former capital and home to some of the first Kings of England, the town seems to have had an existence of prosperity and solidity, at least as far as the 1800s anyway.

I had primarily come to visit the Cathedral, and on its own it would be well worth a visit. Many of England’s cathedrals were started in the 11th and 12th Centuries in the Norman style, but were often later rebuilt in Early English and Gothic form (often because the earlier buildings had a propensity to fall down). Winchester retains its Norman transepts – despite the original Norman tower… well… falling down). The difference between this architecture and the later Gothic is quite marked. The building also retains much sculpture, often missing from other sites thanks to one Henry VIII and his work to remove the Catholic Church and all its symbolism from the English world. I could wax on for quite a while about the place; the medieval floor tiles, the glorious windows, and rather avant-garde music choices of the practicing organist, but there are other gems to Winchester.

The view from St Giles’ Mount is well worth the climb up the steepish stairs. Looking west over the town the view is rather grand. It is also surprising to look at the 2 images at the lookout and compare what is there today to what was there in 1730. Very little seems to have changed.
Walking down from the hill, I wandered down to the river, through the ruins of Wolvesey Castle – the former home to the Bishops of Winchester, and into a quaint little Water Mill cared for by the National Trust. Unfortunately a sluice gate was broken and water wheel would not turn, so I could not watch the millstones grinding wheat.
Strolling up the High Street I made my way to the old West Gate at the top of the town. This is the only ancient city gate still standing and offers another great view over the town – back toward St Giles’ Mount.

My final stop for the day was the Great Hall. Formerly attached to a Castle – destroyed by Cromwell, and Royal palace of Charles II that burned down, it seems remarkable that this building has survived at all, let alone remained in such a fantastic state of preservation for 800 years. Nailed to the wall at one end is a rather gimmicky looking interpretation of King Arthur’s round table, complete with the names of his knights. Made in the 13th Century, it is about as good as gimmick things get I suppose… Although it’s not alone; close by is a rather grandiose, larger than life, bronze of Queen Victoria on the throne and at the other end of the hall are two great steel gates to commemorate the marriage of Charles and Diana – looking ever so slightly rusty these days and little used… which seemed appropriate.

And so, once more swamped by history I departed Winchester, as clouds gathered from the west, and headed back to London and sunshine.

Southern Italy Part III

Finding the bus stop was my first challenge of the day. I had set my self an ambitious itinerary of climbing Vesuvius in the morning and wandering about in the glamour of Positano in the afternoon. After my limited mobility the previous day, I had to compress my travel plans a tad to fit it all in. So, here I was outside the ruins of Pompei trying to find the right stop for the bus to Vesuvius. It was early… even the tourist market selling dodgy copies of ancient artefacts (yes, I bought one) next door was still closed.

Finally I deduced that the one bus stop with absolutely no signage must be the one that I wanted, and shortly along trundled the bus I wanted.

50 minutes later after a rather dramatic mountain road I was standing in the carpark for a volcano. This was a novel prospect for me. I have never set foot on a volcano and was looking forward to dramatic vents pouring forth steam and gas and bubbling pool of lava. Alas it was not to be. Vesuvius is a very civilised and considerate volcano (well, the day I was there it was anyway). I hiked up the steep by well-graded path spiralling around the cone, the temperature plummeted and wind rose. There is not a tree, shrub or blade of grass growing on the mountain side once you get above the car park. The mountain’s sides are crumbing red gravel which can give the volcano a rather fetching glow in the afternoon sun.

I was ahead of the larger tour groups and upon reaching the crater rim looked down into a dramatic, but by no mean menacing looking, hole. The view into the crater – without steam, gases and lava – is out done by the sweeping panorama when you turn around. The view from the Sorrento Peninsular, with Capri at it tip, right up the Bay of Naples to the city of Naples is breathtaking. The Island of Ischia floats out in the bay and the ferries speed across the blue waters with long white foamy tails trailing behind. I could have gazed at it for hours… but it was rather cold! … and I had an appointment with the Amalfi Coast.

My hike down the mountain was swift and, thankfully, warming. Back on my bus it was back on the bus it was back to Pompei, back to St Agnello for a quick change into something more stylish than the daggy sweater I was wearing, and off to the Amalfi Coast and the rich and famous…

The road is incredible; clinging to the cliff-sides and sweeping around the coastline, it seems far too narrow for traffic to pass safely, let alone at 50 miles and hour. One thing that will not wear out on the buses of the Amalfi Coast are the brakes, they are never used! Although the first bus I was on did have a small malfunction with its gearbox, and a bus load of people were cast out onto the roadside in a small hillside village while we awaited the arrival of a replacement bus. It was a rather nice day to be stuck in the middle of nowhere… especially Italian nowhere.

Eventually the alternate transport arrived and I was on my way again towards Positano. Famed for its beautiful location and as a playground for the rich and famous Positano definitely lives up to the hype. Nestled into a steep hillside, the town seems to tumble down into the azure water below.

The streets of the town are lined with classy shops selling designer clothes, art, ceramics and anything made from lemon you can think of – the most famous product of course being Lemoncelo the local lemon liqueur which makes for a tasty but rather potent after dinner aperitif.

The anchor for the town, beside the beach, at the foot of the hill, is the church of St Maria Assunta. Its dome, covered in green and gold majolica tiles, is visible from high above on the road into the town and can be seen as you twist and turn through the narrow lanes and stairs as you descend through the town.

Passing right through the town, I wandered along the coast path toward the beach of Fornillo. My guidebook had recommended the terrace of Hotel Pupetto as a great place to eat and drink and take in the view. Arriving at 3pm, I was a little past lunch, but the staff very kindly offered to make me a tomato and mozzarella salad and serve me a beer while I looked at the rather splendid view. The beach was nothing to write home about – mostly pebbles and dark sand – but the view along the spectacularly rocky coast with the bluest of water foaming at cliff bases was incredible. I confess I probably spent more time lounging over my late lunch than I should have, to the detriment of my exploration of Positano. But in reality its not a big town and my walk up and down from the bus stop took me though a main part of it, and so I climbed the path back to the main road and joined the hordes waiting for the bus back to Sorrento.