Berlin

The first couple weeks of 2010 were very cold ones for London. There were below 0 temperatures and snow. Not satisfied with the coldness of London I ventured to even colder climes and had a weekend in Berlin.
I have been to Berlin before, but only for a day trip out of Hamburg, and it was almost 2 years ago now. An old friend from Australia was to be studying there for a few weeks and it was a good excuse to catch up and get back to Berlin. We had grand plans to explore the city.
About 8 inches of snow inconveniently lying on the ground and temperatures about -6C put paid to most of our outdoor exploring. So we headed indoors. Our first stop was the Museum of Berlin. The museum starts off with a rather messily laid out medieval history of the city (or it could have been that the info was just lost in translation) and rapidly drags you into the early 20th century. The real interest of the museum begins with Berlin in the 1920s. The grand hotels of Potsdamer Platz, the vibrant and lascivious lives of the city’s wealthy elite and the struggle of the poor caused by reparations following the First World War all set the scene for the events to follow in the 1930s and 40s.
As part of your entry into the museum you get a guided tour of a nuclear bunker beneath the museum. Built in 1974 as a civil defence facility in the old West Berlin, the bunker was capable of housing 3,500 people on a first come first served basis. When opened it was fully stocked with beds and supplies but was quickly converted into an underground car park. It was estimated that it would take 2 weeks to remove the cars and prepare the bunker for use in an ‘emergency’. You wouldn’t be staking your life on the bunker I should think.
It has now been re-fitted with bunks and equipment for tourist purposes. There were very few toilet and shower facilities and with recirculated air it would have been a very hot, humid and unhealthy place with 3,500 people at home.
Having built an appetite climbing in an out of the bunker, and generally trudging through ice and snow we picked our way along the icy pavements to a café recommended in my guidebook. Called the Wintergarden at the Literature House (the name seems to lose something in translation), we dined on German sausage and potato salad and local white while looking out over a snow covered garden. It was all very warm and civilised.
In deference to the cold we retired to Friedrichstrasser and admired the fancy shops along a few blocks closest to my hotel and one particularly large and warm looking department store lured us in with the prospect of hot chocolate and cake.
One of the big problems with winter is Europe is the shortness of the days. In January it’s not light much before 8am and dark by 4:30pm or earlier if it’s a cloudy day. The approaching darkness and further dropping temperature chased us home. We had intended to try and get tickets to the Opera (my friend Georgia being an opera singer and all), but we were for some reason tired from what was in reality not a very big day and decided to get some dinner locally. There was a pub on the corner – a Lowenbrau Brauhaus to be precise – and we fell in there with the intention of having a pint while we figured out where to eat.
It was a large open and pretty well charmless establishment with too much space and too few staff and it was pretty much full! We squeezed into one of the few tables that was free and found ourselves beside a large – very large – group of people dressed in what we guessed was traditional local dress.
We ordered a couple of pints and a menu was put in front of us. We were told that food would take almost an hour to be served due to the large crowd. We drank our first pint, failed to think of anywhere better we might go for dinner and so, despite a long wait for food, slow service and a large crowd of Germans in braces rapidly becoming inebriated beside us, we stayed, ordered food and another pint.
The night wore on. We drank more beer, our food came – it was very good, we drank more beer, the Germans drank more beer and began to sing, the Germans drank more beer and started unpacking their musical instruments, the Germans struck up a brass band in the middle of the restaurant, the Germans started to dance to the brass band in the middle of the restaurant, we all drank more beer. All in all it turned out to be a very good evening. The Germans turned out to be Bavarian – so not quite local to Berlin, but the played, danced and sang very well and entertained Georgia and I no end.
The next morning dawned cloudy, cold and threatening to snow. We had decided to head to Potsdamer Platz. We travelled on the metro and emerging from the station we were hit by a chill breeze blowing across the open expanse of the plaza and swirling about the shiny new office towers and hotels build in what was until 1989, the no-mans-land of the Berlin Wall. It is now a steel, glass, concrete and granite tribute to the economic state of Germany at the turn of the 21st century. I rather wish I have seen it at the turn of the last century when it was a bustling intersections lined with grand hotels, luxurious department stores and plush theatres. A tiny portion of the Hotel Esplanade has been incorporated into the new Sony Centre. Behind a curtain of 21st century glass stands the decrepit grandeur of the Kaisersaal where Wilhelm II once held ‘gentlemen’s evenings’ with his friends, and women who were not their wives...
Potsdamer Platz is no place to be standing about in the middle of winter so we started the short walk to the Brandenburg Gate. It took half an hour on the icy and slippery pavements. We had enough warmth left in our hands to take a couple of photos of the Jewish Memorial on the way past and the Gate itself before collapsing into a Starbucks for a hot chocolate. We were lucky enough to score seats at a bench with a superb view of the Brandenburg Gate and figured it was a damn site better sitting in a warm café looking at it that out in the street with cold feet.
And then it started to snow.
My intention had been to walk back to the hotel from here via Unter den Linden the main boulevard leading from the Brandenburg Gate into the centre of Berlin and then down Friedrichstrasser finding a nice café for lunch on the way. The snow changed those plans. I again consulted my guide book and found a nice restaurant for lunch called Café Einstein. We hailed a cab and headed into the suburbs. Café Einstein proved to be just a delightful as the previous day’s lunch. Another grand old house converted to a restaurant and serving good German food. Although, I think I have eaten quite enough potato for awhile…
The snow got heavier as the afternoon progressed and as I got closer to the airport and my flight back to London. It was with some relief that my flight was on time … and was even more of a relief to arrive back in London and find the temperature 10 degrees warmer!

Wien

Choosing not to buy my usual Classic Cars magazine for in-flight reading this trip (the articles about ‘80s super-cars for £15,000 looking rather tedious), I instead picked up Bill Bryson’s travel book Neither Here nor There: Travels in Europe. Written in 1991 it is a tad out of date, but I figured it would make for interesting comparison with the contemporary.

I flicked straight to the chapter on Austria: Hmmm, unfriendly people, an ex-Nazi President, souvenir shops on every corner – not an auspicious introduction. I hoped politics and hospitality had change in the intervening years.

Bryson describes Vienna as an unimaginably grand city – the place aliens would consider the capital of the world if they didn’t know better, as he puts it.

As you travel around the tree-lined Ringstrasse (the line of the old city walls), on a small part Vienna’s fantastic tram system, you pass the impressive bulk of the city’s biggest and best baroque and classical structures: The Hofburg (former Imperial residence), The Rathaus (townhall), the Museums, State Opera, the University and Parliament, interspersed with leafy green parks. It an impressive and surprisingly timeless sight, one we would be hard pressed to recreate today with our architecture of steel, glass and concrete.

It rained as I arrived in Vienna. I had to walk from the bus station at Westbahnhof to my hotel, and thanks to my desire to travel with carry-on luggage only, I had no umbrella. I got a tad wet. But my hotel was new, sparkling white and warm, and as it turned out, very well located.
I awoke next morning to a cloudy but dry day, and a delightful view over the rooftops to Vienna from my room. Over breakfast I decided on a ‘start at the centre’ policy and took the Metro to St Stephen’s Platz. Exiting the Metro I immediately liked Vienna – the centre of the old city is vehicle free! The Cathedral is surrounded by a large pedestrian square and the major shopping streets are for people only. It is pleasure the walk around the city and should be a lesson to London.

I had booked a tour of the Staatsoper, Vienna’s dual personality opera house. Built in the mid 19th century it was damaged by bombing in WWII. Rather than rebuild the damaged portions to replicate the original they were decorated in a chic 1950s style. The contrast as you move from space to space is quite intriguing. The highlight of the tour though, is the visit backstage. The Opera House presents a different opera every day and so the stage has to be reset accordingly, and the flurry of activity as the sets are stripped and reset is fascinating.

Getting to see the River Danube in Vienna is quite a task. I had always thought that the river would be reasonable well celebrated and accessible in a city with the signature tune The Blue Danube. I was mistaken. I took a tram to Prater the large park between the city of Vienna and the River. From here I thought it would be an easy walk. Again… mistaken. The walk across the park was easy enough, but once across I encountered a new commercial office park and treaded my way around its deserted street, past the most isolated looking Marriott Hotel I have ever seen (situated next to a delightfully picturesque deserted race course and multi story car park) and then faced my next hurdle - a post WWII partition era housing complex. The almost endless wall of grey concrete loomed over me and stretched away to the left and right. I squeezed my way between the blocks, under a railway overpass and continued my quest. I could see the river now – well the levee bank anyway. At the foot of the levee was a 4 lane highway and beside that a railway. A half mile walk along the highway took me a to a bridge servicing a Hilton Hotel, as equally isolated as the aforementioned Marriott, but at least the Hilton was on the River!

So, the big question. Is it Blue? Well, a lot bluer than I expected, and a lot more peaceful. The opposite bank (which isn’t actually a bank but an island separating the River and a canal) was undeveloped and covered with trees. There were a few hearty souls walking their dogs (there are a lot of dogs in Vienna!) or maybe they just knew of easier access to the river bank.

The Prater park is home to one of the world’s oldest Ferris Wheels, the Vienna Riesenrad. Built in 1897 and made famous by the movie The Third Man, it is tucked away in the corner of a large amusement park. I would suppose the amusement park would be crammed with families on a summer Sunday afternoon, but in early November it was pretty much deserted, there were only a few locals walking their dogs, and offered a rather surreal setting for a stroll along the leaf strewn laneways. It would have been the perfect setting for an American teen horror film.

The Schonbrunn Palace makes a delightful summer retreat. Not quite the scale and grandeur of Versailles (nowhere near it really), it is still a lovely place to wander about on a sunny morning. The palace itself is a delightful collection of baroque interiors. The Great Gallery is just the place for a lavish summer ball of Mozart, powdered wigs voluminous gowns and candle-light reflecting in the gilt edged mirrors.

But it was too nice a day to spend inside, so I repaired to the gardens. The main focal point from the principal rooms of the house, is the Gloriette, a colonnaded folly built atop a nearby hill. It is reached via a series of zig-zagging paths up the hill. The view back down to the Palace is impressive, unfortunately the bland western suburbs of Vienna behind the Palace are rather less impressive.

I strolled about the gardens for an hour or so, admiring the lengthy tree line boulevards, the palm house and the slightly less that welcoming zoo (closed for the season) and the stunning autumn leaves. There were not many tourist about and only a few locals walking their dogs (did I mention there are a lot of dogs in Vienna?) and at times I felt as if I had the whole place to myself.

As I was leaving the Palace I noticed an advertisement for the Schonbrunn Palace Orchestra which performs a daily concert of Mozart and Strauss. Mozart and Strauss seemed like a thing one should do in Vienna so I forked out 29 euro (the cheapest seat I could get) and returned promptly at 8pm.

The concert was performed in the Palace Orangerie, a rather elegant, white vaulted hall with large south facing windows and hung with glittering chandeliers. I was rather disappointed that there was not a citrus plant in sight. I was also disappointed that the quality of the architecture and its illustrious past (Mozart himself had performed here) far overshadowed the quality of the performance.

Being off season I was treated to a sextet rather than the full orchestra (no reduction in ticket price mind you) who played the repertoire with what I can only describe as mechanics. I am not the world's biggest fan of Mozart to begin with, but when he is played without enthusiasm the complexity becomes tedium. At the end of the first half (with Mozart safely out of the way) I was hoping the flowing and somewhat more lively nature of Strauss might wake things up. Unfortunately not. I haven't mentioned that the 'orchestra' was accompanied by a soprano of adequate voice, a baritone who missed the mark by quite a way and a pair of dancers who danced on the world's noisiest stage. At times the footfalls drowned out the musicians. Maybe I am being harsh... the 3 American women in front of me loved it... to the point of giving a standing ovation... they were the only ones. There are other places you can here Mozart and Strauss in Vienna, choose one of them.

Well, my travel for the year has pretty much come to an end. Besides a quick day trip to Birmingham for the biggest German Christmas markets outside of Germany and Austria (why they are in Birmingham, I have no idea) my only other trip is back to Brisbane for a couple of weeks at Christmas. Hopefully I will have a few days in the sun to work out where to go next year!

A weekend in Tuscany

I like trees you can see through. They make me feel at home. England has trees that are green and lush, and thick with leaves. They give lovely deep green shade in summer but they block out the sky and the rest of the landscape in a way that a eucalypt never would. The charm of Australian trees is that they are part of the landscape, you see them, and through them to the wider world beyond.

Italy has see-through trees. Even travelling at night from Pisa Airport to Florence you can see through the roadside trees to the passing hills and villas. Admittedly the night probably made this somewhat industrial part of Tuscany nicer than is might otherwise appear. The road was lined with outlet malls, warehouses and large car parks.

Florence on the other hand is a stunning place. It is neck-hurtingly beautiful. Everywhere you look there is a fine palace, church, museum, statue or bridge. Florence has an elegant beauty. It is a human scale city. It does not possess the monumental grandeur of Rome, or the elegant boulevards of Paris; its streets are narrow and twisting. You come upon its architectural gems often with surprise. The Duomo is enclosed in a piazza and only comes into sight as you turn the last corner and even then it is difficult to take in the whole structure in one view (see cramped photograph!).

You can almost walk onto the Ponte Vecchio without really knowing you are on a bridge until, of course, you get to the centre and catch the views up and down the river (although the wall to wall goldsmiths on either side rather give the game away).

Travelling with 2 girls has its moments. Florence is famous for its leather, and rightly so. The streets are lined with stores – there must be thousands of them - and I think I have been into most of them! It cost me too… they persuaded me to buy a new black jacket and a satchel for work.

It’s also famous for its art, without a doubt the most magnificent being Michelangelo’s David. Like the Mona Lisa the David seemed a bit of a cliché to me. The image adorns aprons, ironing board covers, fridge magnets, boxer shorts and a myriad of other cheap and tacky items. But nothing prepares you for being in the presence of the sculpture. It is enormous – much taller than I had imagined - and it towers over the milling throng all craning there necks to take it in. The David stands in a large apse; the space is grandly proportioned and yet the sculpture still dominates the room, magnetically drawing you gaze and not letting you turn away.

The ironing board cover cannot show the blood pulsing in the veins in the arms, and hands ready for battle; the slight wrinkle of the brow showing consternation? fear? determination? …and the age and weathering of the stone after 300 years in the elements which, if anything, contributes to the life the Michelangelo created out of a cold block of stone.

When is too artwork really too much? The Uffizi is home to a sensational collection of art spanning the renaissance. Home to Botticelli’s ‘The Birth of Venus’, works by Michelangelo, Di Vinci, Raphael and Rembrandt and housed in a 16th century building overlooking the Arno, the gallery is overwhelming to say the least. The 3 hours we strolled around left us desperate for lunch and a nice crisp white.

Friends had told me that Pisa isn’t up to much …and to be honest I would not want to be wandering the streets alone after dark. But, despite the slightly seedy feel, I liked it. Pisa is a pretty town – or it could be if they actually gave it a wash. Walking from the train station to its one major tourist draw card, it’s is easy to see why people don’t hang around. Florence is less than an hour away and has the shopping, the museums and the restaurants.

Pisa only has its somewhat askew tower. Quite and 'only' though...

We timed our visit for the afternoon before our flight back to London (Pisa and Florence share an airport – in Pisa) and had a few hours only, so we dumped our bags at the train station, and walked straight to the Duomo.

Ok. No matter what you have seen of the Leaning Tower of Pisa in pictures or on television, it leans a damn sight more in real life (and more than my photos can show). The three of us were rather stunned, in fact, by the extent of the lean. We didn’t get to climb the tower as the only tour available was a bit too late to connect with our flight, so we had to be satisfied with wandering around the monumental cemetery and the baptistery – both worthy sites to visit in their own right, but wholly overshadowed by the tower.

We strolled along the row tacky souvenir vendors (and bought the obligatory 3 inch high leaning tower for 2 euro) enjoying the evening sunshine and continuing to be surprised by the lean.

In the end time won out and we headed for the airport (the worst one I have been in, in Europe so far – and Naples takes some beating!). Although, we did managed to get pizza and wine to fortify us for the flight – it was Italy after all.

BCN

Montjuic is home to:

• a 17th and 18th century fortress (Castell de Montjuic)


• a funicular railway


• a gondola lift


• the site of the 1929 World’s Fair


• the site of the 1992 Summer Olympic Games


• the former circuit of the Spanish Formula One Grand Prix


• Botanical Gardens


• numerous art galleries and museums


• and, much closer to my heart, La Caseta de Migdia …a bar.

Sunday evening I was sitting in this shady outdoor establishment, relaxing in a deck chair in the midst of a grove of pines and looking out over the cliff-top to the Mediterranean. Evening joggers and mountain-bikers trundled by, my beer was cold and my company was delightful.

It’s a bit of a walk to the bar it is set at the top of the high cliffs looking south from Montjuic - but it just makes the beer taste better when you get there. If you look down you can see the vast sprawl of Barcelona’s container port, but from our table this was invisible, and we looked across the grasses, the prickly pear and our fellow customers (and their dogs) to the blue horizon and watched the cruise ships glide in and out of Barcelona’s busy Port Vella. (http://www.lacaseta.org/ if you fancy going)

As the light faded we strolled away from the bar and toward Placa Espanya. It was alittle further than we thought as we wound our way along the paths and roads of Montjuic. Almost an hour (and some sore feet) later we wandered onto the terrace of Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya and gazed down the Avenue lined with fountains toward the plaza. In the middle of it all is the Font Magica (the Magic Fountain of Montjuic).

Having been to Barcelona a couple of times before, I had never made time for the Font Magica. From 9pm each night – every half hour - it spurts water in time to various musical medleys a concept I had always though, somewhat tacky but my friend Claudia was keen for a look. We arrived after 9pm and caught the end of the first performance. My initial fears seemed confirmed, as the stains of Celine Dion boomed in the distance and lights flashed red and green and blue. By the time we had made our way down from the Museu to the fountain itself all was quiet and we had to await the 9:30pm show.

We found a place to site on a wall overlooking the fountain. It is a large fountain. A very large fountain in fact. Basically circle shaped with only a couple of tiers, when not in use it is rather unassuming and appears oversized.

Promptly at 9:30pm the fountain bust forth. This time (most thankfully) to a classical theme. As Mozart and Beethoven rang from a hidden sound system, the water did some quite amazing things all in genuine sympathy to the music. I was enthralled. The engineering, artistry and sheer force of water is a thing of marvel.

All in all Font Magica remains a tacky thing (anything called the Magic Fountain must be!) - it would be perfectly at home in Las Vegas, but the crowds of tourists loved it, and so did I.

Every visit to Barcelona must be punctuated with some Gaudi. I returned to La Sagrada Familia to check on construction progress – there is a south wall now. I wandered around the paths of Parc Guell and admired the views over the city to the sea and the mastery with which Gaudi draw out of the scrubby hillside the remarkable landscape design that looks as much a part of the natural landscape as the plants and rocks themselves. I still fail to understand how a mind can imagine, grasp and transform its thought into reality in the way Antoni Gaudi’s did. He created monumental architecture of a type entirely unique and equally harmonious with both the natural and man-made world and in a way that presents shear enjoyment.

This time around the queues were short so, while on a Gaudi theme, I visited Casa Mila, an apartment building in the Eixample (‘eh-sham-pla’) district. It is built on the corner of a busy boulevard and offers a typically organic Gaudi façade to the street this time finished in relatively austere and rough cut, pale brown stone. The apartments were built for the wealth in the early 20th century and are large, airy and sinuous. They curve and twist around internal courtyards and the articulated external faced. Despite the wildness of the architectural appearance, the apartments appear as if they would be remarkably easy to live in. The internal colours are muted and constant. Ceiling and walls and doors all painted in a monochrome, pale green. There is little ornamentation. Even the walls and ceiling meet with a simple curve instead of a cornice, blurring the distinction between vertical and horizontal and giving the interiors a slight cave-like feel.

The gem is the roof space above, giving a lesson in the potential for elegance in structural engineering and slapping the face of any architect or structural engineer who fails to grasp the principals and the potential of the other discipline. The brick vaulted arches are amazingly beautiful and remarkably well finished for an area not meant to be seen by anyone bar the maintenance man. The roof-top offers a great view over the Eixample and a close-up of the building’s chimneys and vents of improbably design, while walking around a constantly undulating path. Odd, completely odd – fun though.

So, another weekend in Barcelona. That’s 3 now. The beach, the sun, the food, and the city… might be time to learn Spanish I think.

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.