The Traveling Bears

Farewell to all that

2011-11-22T07:22:00.004+11:00

Killing time before this afternoon's flight to Dallas and then on across the Pacific, so here are some more Marty pics.

I said that I hadn't covered the shopping; well two days ago we went to the huge array of factory outlets at San Marcos, up the road towards Austen. More clothes and shoe shops than you could shake a stick at, but as far as Marty was concerned the rides in the mall outside were far more satisfying.

This was the first, outside Eddie Bauer.

The horse was the second favourite.

He liked to watch his reflection in the window.

But this was the real favourite, even though the rotors didn't go round.

And Auntie Joanne hired a special car trolley!

After all that a boy needs some quiet time.

The iPad has been a godsend.

He has had more outdoor experiences, however. Hardberger Park is just up the road, with pleasant strolls through the oak woods.

Hardberger Park trail.

The park is new and very popular.

Sometimes there are squirrels in the trees.

And his US passport arrived, so to celebrate we had a flag-planting ceremony

Marty, Oliver and Jac.

And now we head for the airport. See you next time, San Antonio.

What we did in Texas

2011-11-18T09:50:00.007+11:00

Well, that should probably read "What Marty did in Texas", because when you're with a two year old he tends to dominate the schedule. But that's fine, except perhaps that we're not getting enough exercise to balance the intake of all that fine food.

So what did we do?

We went to the swings a lot. These were at Orsinger Park and popular with many small folk. And we found out just where to find the black squirrel.

This was a playground within Uncle John's gated community.

We ate at the diner. This was at California Pizza Kitchen and they provided good stuff for kids.

We drank some good ol' Texas beer. (Hold on, that must have been me).

We discovered stuff in the bush. He much preferred to be off the track.

There are probably bitey things out there, but Marty likes to turn over every log and rock. No idea where he gets that from.

We found some lovely deer statues at Huebner Oaks shopping plaza. There's a whole series of them, leaping along the pathways.

We went to Starbucks. It was Marty's first Starbucks, and he dressed for the occasion.

We went to Enchanted Rock State Park, where the trees were all turning and the wind blew their leaves down in clouds.

We found a Texas BBQ. Recognise the shape? We're about 14 bars up and bit to the right. Actually all fires in the open are strictly banned since this part of the country has been in serious drought for a couple of years.

We went "fishing" in the Frog Pond at Enchanted Rock. Marty is prepared to "fish" in any body of standing water.

We found a lovely little stream at Enchanted Rock, clear water over pink granite gravel. Marty said "This is the best water in the world".

We played in Auntie Joanne's back yard with Oliver the cat. The cat adopted us as we walked home one evening, and Joanne (who already has two inside cats) couldn't bear to part with him. The box came from Amazon with his outdoor cat igloo (in "Mouse Grey").

We went out for breakfast tacos on San Pedro.

And that little summary has missed all the shopping......

Jean and I return to Tasmania in a few days, but Marty's Texan adventure goes on for another three weeks. So much more to come.

Texas Again

2011-11-09T02:55:00.006+11:00

Here we are back in Texas again, almost exactly two years since we were here caring for Marty when he was just three months old. We're here to join in the celebrations for the wedding of Lorena Havill (one of Jac's colleagues, and the person who sent us that wonderful "edible arrangement": see Oct 2009) to Cullen Jones, who we also met back then.

Everyone loves a wedding.

And we are, of course, part of the support team for Master Marty Richardson, aka The Whirlwind, who seems set to steal the show, though I'm pleased to say that he is still at an age where he is blissfully unaware of the attention that he attracts.

Marty fishing at Brackenridge Park.

The goldfish in Uncle John's pond have been getting a hard time.

The journey here was pretty painless, considering that it involved a direct flight from Sydney to Dallas, and it was certainly a pleasure to arrive in Dallas rather than Los Angeles. Marty slept for many hours, and coped with the rest, apart from some demands to "go outside now?".

The wedding and its associated social events passed off very well. The ceremony was held outdoors in Brackenridge Park, which worked well for Marty and several other kids who were there, since not only was there water and ducks, but also a small train!

Brackenridge Park train.

Marty was wide-eyed at the suggestion he could ride it.

The bride, with friends and relations.

Jo reading a poem.

And making everyone cry.

Marty and the Pinata.

Papier mache effigies of the happy couple, full of sweets. The kids were invited to beat them with a stick until they burst. That's how they do it here!

We are here for three weeks, so there is every chance of another blog post or two before we return home.

Leopard Seal!

2011-10-16T17:07:00.004+11:00

Jean and I were at Boat Harbour for a few days last week, and while on our usual evening bird-spotting walk round the beach we spotted a seal on the rocks close to the car park. At first I thought it was a washed-up carcass, but when it stretched and yawned I rejected that hypothesis. The large head and very impressive array of teeth immediately suggested a Leopard Seal, a predator of penguins in the Antarctic that turns up in Tasmanian waters occasionally.

Young Leopard Seal at Boat Harbour.

Sound asleep!

Still sleeping.

It woke and displayed teeth, but the camera card was full!

We didn't interfere that night, but when it was still there the next morning and in full view of the car park, I thought it wise to call Parks and Wildlife. To my disappointment they didn't turn up with blue lights flashing, but simply referred me to the head office in Hobart. They asked for a picture (quite easily done: ah, the technology), confirmed my identification, suggested that it was a young animal (a mere 125 kg or so) and thought that it would be gone quite soon. And it was, after the next tide.

Such excitement.

Howe's that?

2011-09-15T16:34:00.017+10:00

Another episode in this year of travels (and it's not over yet).

Last week we were lucky enough to visit beautiful Lord Howe Island along with five students from Rosny College who were the winners of the Envirothon competition, run by The Bookend Trust. The students were there to enjoy themselves, learn about the island and help Jenn Lavers, a biologist who works on the local seabirds. We were there....... well, to help, and to visit a place that Jean and I have wanted to see for a long time.

LHI is nearly two hours flying time east of Sydney in a Dash 8 aircraft, which is how Jean and I got there. The students came more slowly in a smaller chartered plane from Hobart, with a couple of intermediate stops.

QantasLink Dash 8 at Lord Howe airstrip.

We were in Row 1 both ways!

The charter plane arrives at Lord Howe.

Head winds on the way, and on the way back.

The island is about 11 km long and nowhere much more than two kilometres wide. The west side is sheltered by the southern-most coral reef in the world, and the south end is dominated by two volcanic mountain peaks, Mounts Gower and Lidgbird, that attract the eye wherever you go. There are 300-odd residents, and tourist numbers are capped at 400 visitors at any time. About 20 km of roads support more bicycles than cars and the speed limit is 25 km/hr. It's a very pleasant environment.

The lagoon, the settlement and Mts Lidgbird and Gower.

The Admiralty Islands, from the north end of Lord Howe.

Birds everywhere, including many of these White Terns.

Definitely in my top ten most beautiful birds.

Main Street, Lord Howe.

So many cars!

Neds Beach dive hire.

No one there, just write your name and put the money in the box.

Lagoon boat.

This one took us snorkelling, and to see the turtles.

We stayed at Pinetrees, a lodge run by families that go back six generations on the island. They fed us superb food, obligingly (but slowly) drove us around in their minibus and packed a huge barbecue for our day out on the south end of the island. September is early in the season, but the weather was kind with blue skies and sun all week until the day we left.

Our unit at Pinetrees.

These hibiscus were to welcome us.

Ah, the food!

Fish every night, and this sushi table on Monday.

We walked the beaches and forests, watched birds, snorkelled in the lagoon, watched turtles through a glass-bottomed boat, watched the shearwaters come into their rookeries at dusk, and fed the huge fish at Ned's Beach.

The students at North Beach.

Needless to say, they had a great time.

Little Shearwater chick.

Big boy: a Providence Petrel chick.

Probably bigger than its parents at this stage.

Wonderful snorkelling, but a bit cool.

A glimpse through the glass-bottomed boat.

Feeding the fish at Neds Beach.

Hundreds of mullet, and huge kingfish.

Green Turtle, through the glass-bottomed boat.

Getting down and dirty.

Dissecting shearwaters, looking for ingested plastic.

Wrangling live shearwaters.

Handle with care: they bite!

Flesh-footed Shearwater.

Just landed and very approachable.

But the students were also there to take part in some research, so they helped to catch and weigh shearwaters, counted sprouting palm seedlings, dissected some dead seabirds to check for plastics in the stomachs, and we did our environmental bit by spending an afternoon pulling weeds in the forest.

Perhaps the two outstanding events were a boat trip around Ball's Pyramid, and the climb to the summit of Mt Gower. Ball's Pyramid is a 550 m sea stack that rises sheer out of the sea south of LHI. It's home to huge numbers of sooty terns, petrels, ternlets and other sea birds, also the "tree lobster", a sort of huge stick insect that was eliminated from LHI in the 1930s when rats finally arrived, but it (literally) clings on in weather-beaten scrub on the Pyramid. There's a plan to remove the rats from the main island, and if that is achieved the tree lobster will return!

Leaving for Ball's Pyramid.

Our destination, 23 km away, as we travel along the eastern shore of LHI.

Island legend, Jack, a relaxed helmsman.

This man has climbed Mt Gower over 1500 times!

Ball's Pyramid, 550 m high.

Approaching Mt Gower.

The summit is behind there somewhere.

Homeward across the lagoon.

We had perfect windless weather for the four hour boat trip. Since it was limited to 8 passengers, the rest of the group, including Jeannie, got a flight in the charter plane around the Pyramid and then back between the main island's twin peaks.

The charter plane, with Jeannie aboard, circles Ball's Pyramid.

Thanks to Ian Hutton for the photo.

All week I had been looking at Mt Gower (875 m) and wondering whether my knees would get me to the top. I knew that some sections required ropes, and from sea level some parts of the climb looked very steep and very exposed. It is only possible to climb the mountain with a guide and we were very ably led by Ian Hutton, a naturalist resident on the island who assured me that there would be very regular stops to look at interesting plants, and the view.

Ian Hutton, island naturalist, who enhanced our visit hugely.

7.30 am, at the start of the Mt Gower climb.

The first challenge was the upper strip of green under the cliffs.

The ledge was quite wide, and the ropes were a comfort.

Rounding the corner into Erskine Valley.

The mist cleared before we got up there.

Mt Lidgbird from the ridge up Mt Gower.

Not the steepest bit.

A long way down.

Ball's Pyramid in the distance.

The start of one of the steeper sections.

We made it!

The summit of Mt Gower.

The camera is pointing straight down!

On the way back down. Oh my knees.

In the event the climb was tough, but achievable. Going up was a grunt, and I was relieved to find that the steep sections were sheltered by the forest, so I wasn't hanging out over the Pacific Ocean. Coming down was harder and I suffered from Gower's Thighs for a couple days afterwards. But it was well worth the climb to see the cloud forest on the summit plateau and the views of the island. We also provided entertainment for many of the endemic currawongs who appeared wherever we stopped, sitting in the trees within arm's reach and eyeing our lunches.

Crafty currawong.

Another LHI endemic.

It's a wonderful island, and a conservation success story. All the cats, goats and pigs that once did so much harm have been removed, and if they can get rid of the rats several species can be re-introduced. The iconic species is the Lord Howe woodhen, a flightless rail that was down to 40-odd individuals confined to the summit of Mt Gower in the 1970s, but which is now so well recovered that you can meet them poking about (very tame) anywhere on the island.

Niall and Vicki and the Traveling Bears, on Transit Hill.

Now I just have to work out how we can afford to go back.

Nicer in Noosa

2011-08-06T10:48:00.006+10:00

As I look out of the window here at home I can barely see the beach through the low cloud and rain. What a contrast to a very pleasant week in Noosa that finished just a few days ago!

Noosa beach. Air: 22C, water 19C.

We were there to visit our friends Russell and Sue who are enjoying a post-retirement holiday with the help of serial visitors like us. Despite the 4.00 am start it was wonderful to swap wintery Hobart for the blue skies of southern Queensland, where at this time of year it seems to be sunny every day with a daily maximum of 22C.

Noosa in the distance from Mt Tinbeerwah.

Jean had never been in Queensland and it is over 30 years since I was in that neck of the woods on a post-conference tour. Noosa beats the rest of the Sunshine Coast in that it is more than just a coastal strip of apartments squeezed between the highway and the beach. The point, with its national park, and the river that winds its way back into lakes and mangroves for many kilometres, make a much more interesting landscape. And of course it's a "smart spot" too: all those expensive boutiques and restaurants along Hastings Street, a far cry from the pictures of the point break that I remember in Surfer Bimonthly, back in the 1960s.

We enjoyed several walks and many new birds, including the ridiculous brush turkeys that wander everywhere, and made friends with several butcherbirds who readily accepted bacon rinds from our fingers as we sat on the deck.

Brush turkey. Common along Hastings St!

Lazy sub-tropical lifestyle.

We didn't climb this one, but a couple like it.

Cane fields and distant Glasshouse Mountains, from Mt Coolum.

Jeannie descending Mt Coolum.

OCD barbeque?

Sunset at the beach, a glass of wine.........

Many others enjoying the sunset.

A very pleasant break and we may well join the snowbirds flying north next winter.

Italian postscript: dogs

2011-05-31T10:50:00.003+10:00

We saw this sign often.

But the dogs were usually inside.

While we were walking in Tuscany we passed a paddock with a flock of sheep. Just like a number of others, but in this case four "sheep" detached themselves from the flock and raced towards us barking savagely. These were Maremma sheepdogs, specially bred to live with the sheep and protect them from wolves, or Australian tourists.

As they rushed up to gate I thought we would just pass by ignoring them ("They'll never come through the gate"). Hah! Two stayed with the flock and the two others wriggled under the gate and advanced, snarling. Now my dear wife is not too good with dogs (or indeed most things that go on four legs ands are bigger than a tortoise), so she went pale and walked steadily away while I turned to face the dogs, suggesting as politely as I could that they should leave, and poking my walking stick at them. They followed us for 50m or so, then broke off went back into the paddock and rushed up to the top gate to check that we weren't planning to double back and steal a few of their charges, like true Australian swagmen.

After that we payed more attention to the "Attenti al Cane" signs and I had some difficulty in coaxing Jeannie down one road that was marked with that sign.

Getting braver.

Not too rash, now.

A Tale of Two Cities: Florence & Rome

2011-05-28T16:36:00.014+10:00

This Italian series needs to be wound up, as indeed the whole trip has now wound up; I am writing this back in lovely Kingston Beach where the sky is blue and the air is pure.

After the peaceful byways of Tuscany and Umbria, Orvieto seemed terribly busy on a Sunday afternoon, but as soon as we arrived in Florence (by train) we realised that we had not until then seen anything that would classify as a real crowd. It was, to use the Scots word, fair hoaching with people, many of them in tour groups, following their leaders, who held up a variety of signs and symbols to distinguish their group from everyone else's. And it was so NOISY; the ambulances had particularly loud sirens, especially when confined in narrow streets, and they were on the move all the time (presumably collecting the remains of pedestrians who tried to cross the road).

The duomo in Florence.

Not so busy.

Florence from the Bardini Gardens.

The old centre of Florence is easy to walk around and it all revolves around the huge dome of the duomo with Giotto's bell tower alongside it. But if you want to see the art treasures in the Uffizi gallery or David in the Galleria dell'Accademia you have to be prepared to queue, or get tickets in advance. We queued for David (less than an hour) but even our pre-booked tickets for the Uffizi didn't eliminate the queue, it was just a whole lot shorter than the regular entrance one.

The Ponte Vecchia.

Note the enclosed corridor that took the Medici big wigs from their Uffizi to the palace, a kilometre away across the river, so that they didn't have to mix with the common folk.

Rondels at the Spedale degli Innocenti (1498).

The orphans hospital.

I was surprised by my reaction to seeing many of the iconic works of art; not many of them really stopped me in my tracks, perhaps because the images were so familiar, or perhaps because it was hard to filter them out from the throngs of people. It was often the unfamiliar or unexpected objects that had greater impact than the famous pieces, and these were sometimes in the quieter churches or museums. So Fra Angelico's Annunciation for us had much more impact than the famous Botticelli works (Primavera and the Birth of Venus), though walking up to David between the rows of Michaelagelo's uncompleted works was undeniably impressive.

Climbing the dome of the duomo was an experience; how did they do all that back in the 13th century? We went up on our last day in Florence and it was good to be able to pick out all the places we had visited. We also appreciated the fly-by of a Peregrine Falcon that was apparently nesting in Giotto's bell tower next door!

Climbing the dome.

450-odd steps between the inner and outer domes.

Thanks, Laura, for enhancing my experience.

Frescoes inside the dome.

They don't rate highly in the fresco stakes, apparently.

Giotto's tower from the top of the dome.

We went from Florence to Rome by Eurostar train: very smooth and very fast, and found our way quite easily to our apartment, not far from the Spanish Steps, using the metro. It took a while to get in contact with the agents, but eventually Constanza turned up (on her scooter, of course) and let us into a little third floor apartment with the smallest bathroom in the world. From there we made our excursions into bustling Rome, returning in the late afternoons for antipasti and a drink, and to catch the arrivo of the day's stage of the Giro d'Italia.

Jeannie finding refuge in busy Florence station.

Seriously cool trains in Italy.

Via Zuchelli, view from our apartment.

Across the road was a depot for the city cleansing department. They finished late and started early.

Rome's smallest bathroom.

The shower wasn't quite in the toilet.

All ready for an exciting stage finish in the Giro d'Italia.

Although there were huge numbers of tourists we got more of an impression of being in a working city than we did in Florence. The drivers hurtling down the streets were clearly locals and it took us a while to brave a road crossing at anywhere else but the lights. Ordinary pedestrian crossings are generally faintly marked, and that reflects the attitude of drivers to them. One guide book said that the safest way to cross was with a group of nuns, but we learned to walk boldly, face down the oncoming drivers, never stop and get used to their very short stopping distances.

Must be Rome: that's me at the Trevi Fountain.

I saved my coins for more gelato.

The dome of the Pantheon.

Built in the 1st century AD. That's a hole in the top, not a window.

The Roman forum and associated temples.

The Coliseum.

Popular, but the scene of an awful lot of human misery.

Roman street artist.

I thought this one was worth a Euro.

Six days didn't give us nearly enough time to see and do all that Rome has to offer. You could spend all that time in the Vatican Museum for a start. We spent a full day there, getting in after an hour and half of queuing. There are several potential routes through the vast collection, all leading to the Sistine Chapel eventually, but we saw many beautiful things en route, such as a collection the Faberge Easter eggs that the Romanov family gave each other; exquisite is the appropriate word. We also wanted to see the Etruscan collection, having been poking around in their tombs back in Tuscany, and there were the unexpected surprises such as a lovely little pieta by Van Gogh that I have never seen reproduced anywhere. But for me the day's highlight was next door in St Peters: Michaelangelo's pieta that portrays Mary as a young girl.

Faberge egg, given as an Easter present to one of the Romanov tsars.

The carriage fits inside.

Michaelangelo's Pieta in St Peters.

Some distance away, and behind glass, but still most affecting.

Pieta by Van Gogh in the Vatican Museum.

The "Map Corridor" on the way to the Sistine Chapel.

Etruscan shields in the Vatican Museum.

And then there were all the antiquities. The forums and the Coliseum were much as expected (and when you think about it, the Coliseum is really rather nasty), but the Pantheon was magnificent. And a real surprise was the archaeological site at Ostia Antica, the old port at what was once the mouth of the Tiber. The town was abandoned in the Third Century and became covered in river silt until it began to be excavated in the 1800s. Now it is comparable with Pompeii and Herculaneum for its preservation as an intact Roman town. It was fascinating to walk down the streets and to be able to identify shops, warehouses, a bar, an amphitheatre, underground Mithraic temple etc, in a site that covers more than 30 hectares. And it wasn't very busy, apart from numerous local school groups; it would have been a perfect day out but for the steady stream of aircraft flying low overhead to land at Fiumicino.

The amphitheatre at Ostia Antica.

The lower seats still have their marble covering.

Mosaic on the floor of a shipping agent's office, Ostia Antica.

There were a whole lot of these around a square behind the amphitheatre.

Mithraeum, Ostia Antica.

The Mithraic cult was widespread in Roman times.

Ancient trattoria, Ostia Antica.

Wonderfully preserved: marble bar and counters, wall paintings of food.

Roman barmaid.

Not an original, I think.

The most intimate places still preserved.

It works, too (but the seat was very cold!)

Gastronomically, we did better in Florence than in Rome, mostly because it was hard to get out of Tourist Land in the latter. But on our last night we finally took up Costanza's suggestion of a place in Trastevere, across the river, and had a fine meal. We were squeezed in at 8.00 when it opened, and when we left there were 20 people waiting for a table. The food was simple but delicious, and I wish I had tried the deep-fried artichokes that our neighbour had, and described as "spectacular".

Ahh! Gelato. So good.

And so we left Italy. Our trip wasn't quite over, however. We had a few days with Jean's sister in Suffolk and finished up with a couple more days chasing birds in north Norfolk, where we ran into a couple who had been with us on the Morocco tour. The weather had been very good throughout the trip (rainjackets twice in 10 weeks), but as we drove to Heathrow there was heavy rain, which at least meant that we could leave with a little less regret.

Hidden Italy

2011-05-10T02:19:00.007+10:00

Hidden Italy is the name of the Australian-based company that organised the five day walk through the Italian countryside that we have just completed, and the name is a good one since we visited places well off the tourist routes; in fact in five days walking we met just two other people on the tracks, and they were just before an archaeological site.

This is our first visit to Italy and it got off to a wonderful start. We were met at Rome airport by Luigi, the driver who was to move our bags from hotel to hotel as we walked. Although he had almost no English (neatly matching our level of Italian), we discovered that he was 72, used to run a garage, has travelled all over Italy by motorbike, details of his family etc etc. While this was going on Luigi was hurling a rather nice Mercedes down motorways, main roads and very narrow country roads at speeds that made me just want to look away.

But needless to say we arrived unharmed at the little hilltop town of Pitigliano. And what an arrival! Without warning we came round a sharp bend and there was the town perched on cliffs just across a deep valley. Definitely an "Oh wow!" moment. It is a classic little medieval Italian town with a castle, narrow little lanes, a Jewish ghetto and everywhere fantastic views as you came to the edge of the cliffs. Our hotel was right on the edge, and from our room window there was a drop of 100m or more. We strolled the town with mouths agape, and met no one but locals, sitting around in the sun talking at the volume level that most Italians seems to use.

Pitigliano, growing out of the rock.

View from our bedroom window (if you leaned out a bit).

The area we were in ("La Tuscia") is in the far south of Tuscany, and we finished our walk in Umbria, having passed briefly into Lazio on the way. La Tuscia refers to the Etruscans who, 2500 or so years ago, were well established here, taking advantage of the landscape and geology to establish their towns and cities. The whole area is made of volcanic ash (tufa) which forms a soft rock that rivers cut through easily, leaving the steep-sided hilltops that lend themselves so well to fortified towns. And the rock is easy to excavate too, to extract building stone but also to dig caves and tunnels. The whole place is riddled with caves and tunnels, many of which have been co-opted by the locals for wine cellars, wood sheds, stables and general storage.

The Etruscans also created extensive burial sites: underground tombs with surface temple-like decorations. Sadly, many of the tombs were ransacked in the 19th century (often by English "antiquarians") and the tufa has weathered so the decorations are hard to see, but you can still get an idea of what it was like. Most spectacular today are the "vie cave"; roads that the Etruscans cut deep into the tufa, sometimes 10 or 20m deep, and in places so narrow that two people can hardly pass. Their function is a little unclear, perhaps defensive, or ceremonial, but from our point of view delightfully cool tracks through the landscape, because our walk took us down several of them.

Etruscan via cava.

Note the drainage channel at the side.

Etruscan cave dwelling.

Or tomb (hard to know at 2500 years range).

Etruscan tomb.

Two millenia are tough on soft rock, but you get the idea.

And we were here to walk. Each days we had a map and a set of directions to take from one place to the next, and we started from Pitigliano down a via cava on our way to the first stop in Sovano. I have to say that my impression of Tuscany had been of rolling hills covered with vineyards, golden corn, statuesque cedars and the occasional terra cotta covered farmhouse. Well that might be true elsewhere, but La Tuscia is quite a heavily wooded landscape, and much of our walk was in beautiful woodland: oak, hornbeam and hazel, with plants such as cyclamen, hellebore and solomon's seal on the ground. Not what we had expected, but very pleasant to walk through.

On the La Tuscia track.

Much of the walk was in woodland like this.

And some was on real Roman road!

But there was always time for lunch.

The pecorino sheep's cheese was lovely.

First stop was in Sovano, a tiny village on another hilltop, with a fine Etruscan necropolis just down the hill. Then to Sorano, on its hilltop. We got a bit bushed as we arrived there, thanks to some recent earthworks on the track. After a few iterations we found ourselves back on track, but with a steep climb up to our hotel, which was in the fortress at the very top! But after a shower and a rest, what a wonderful place! We had one of our best meals here, but only after we had found the ristorante. "It's easy to find" said the hotel man, so my attention wandered...... After many little alleys and stairs we gave up and asked a local lady, who kindly took us and pointed us in the right direction. We were the only people in the place, and beside our table a tunnel led away into the rock; their wine cellar, but connected to tunnels that went right back up to the castle. We had a tasting menu of local dishes; this isn't a food blog, but they were very good.

Tiny Sovano.

Note the crush of tourists.

The Merli Gate into Sorano.

Just a little forbidding.

Now where's that trattoria?

We missed this sign.

Down there? Really?

But the food was great.

And so to San Quirico, then to Bolsena (a long walk, that one: 21km) on Lake Bolsena, which lies in one of the huge volcanic craters that produced all that tufa. Our last day was to take us from Bolsena to Orvieto, and it was another long walk. We realised that since we were leaving Orvieto at 10.00 the following day we would have very little time to see the city, so we cheated a little and got Luigi to drive us a bit over halfway there, giving us the afternoon to explore the city. In the event, we got a bit lost and didn't arrive quite as promptly as we should have, but we still saw some of the town.

Orvieto was the biggest town we visited, and it's dominated by the huge duomo, the cathedral built to house an altar cloth supposed to have been stained by blood that miraculously fell from the communion bread a long time ago. The cathedral front is an astounding mix of statuary and mosaic, and inside, one side chapel is entirely decorated by frescoes by Fra Angelico and Signorelli that pre-date and influenced the Sistine Chapel.

Lake Bolsena.

It was a long way down into this ancient crater.

Our last Etruscan hilltop town: Orvieto.

We had to go down and up to get there!

We ate well in Orvieto too; think ravioli stuffed with ricotta and herbs in a black truffle sauce, and a wonderful escallope of veal with an artichoke sauce. I was trying to find out how to ask for a receipt in my iPhone phrase book when I pressed the wrong button and it spoke the phrase. The waiter was delighted ("Mr Computer") and gave us a tour of their wine cellars deep into the rock.

The duomo in Orvieto.

The front was amazingly decorated.

We could have stayed longer is almost all the places we visited, especially Orvieto, but we had an itinerary to keep to, and here we are in Florence. What a contrast to the La Tuscia countryside! But more of that later.

Italian Teaser

2011-05-09T03:03:00.003+10:00

We've been in Italy for almost a week, but wifi is hard to find (probably non-existent) in the little villages we've been staying in around the Tuscany/Umbria border. But here's a teaser.

View from our hotel window, Sovano.

And the hotel was in the fortress!

Florence tomorrow, and then Rome. Surely should have wifi there, so watch this space.

North and South

2011-05-03T02:42:00.005+10:00

This comes from a hotel room at Heathrow airport. We've just driven down from Yorkshire on a Bank Holiday Monday, so this is kinda therapy. (Actually, the drive was surprisingly easy: no hold-ups anywhere, but whizzing along at 120 kph with all that other hardware seems to be more stressful these days).

So it's nice to be able to dwell instead on the past couple of weeks and our experiences in the North and South (see Elizabeth Gaskell). Maybe the first thing to say is that the weather has been exceptional: no rainjacket since our first day in Cornwall!

From Cornwall we travelled not far north to Somerset, to stay for a few days at Parsonage Farm in the tiny village of Over Stowey on the edge of the Quantock Hills. I've blogged Parsonage Farm before, so suffice to say that it's a gorgeous place and we enjoyed walking on the hills and eating in the pubs. But we never saw a Lesser Spotted (hardly ever spotted) Woodpecker!

Jeannie explaining to orphan lambs that she has no food for them.

Tea in the garden at Parsonage Farm.

We met up with Jim and Cheryl Wilson for a night (see their Marvellous Adventures blog) and then committed ourselves to the bosom of the M5 and M6 to be whirled up north to my sister's near Bolton, Lancashire. Now you may not be aware that this country, as well as its well-established class structure, has an even deeper north-south divide than Tasmania! Probably even before Elizabeth Gaskell, southerners thought the north was populated by clog-wearing labourers with laughable accents, while the northerners believed the other half to be effete aristocrats busily grinding the faces of the poor. And there's still more than a bit of that, but our experience (as southerners originally) is that the north is full of lovely people who smile at you in the street and stop their cars to ask whether you are lost. That don't happen in London!

With Kate and Chris we visited a couple of stately homes and gardens, marvelling at the vast numbers of people who come to enjoy them. We also got to meet our very new grand-niece, Sophie: a real little charmer.

Tatton Park being enjoyed by the crowds.

Kate & Chris on the steps of the church where they were married 34 years ago, to the day.

Jeannie and our nephew Robert, the Boy from Bolton.

Grand-niece Sophie.

Why is that man making funny faces at me?

Family group, Andrea is the only one you haven't met already.

Our final stay in the north was in the North York Moors national park, an area that I've never been to before, but which Jeannie visited as a student. We stayed in a B&B at Kirkbymoorside (good names up there) and since the weather was so good we bought a book of walks and did one each of our four days. It's lovely country: deep valleys with stone walls and very white sheep in very green fields and then miles of open heather moorland on the ridges (or "riggs" locally). Just made for walking, and many people do; at every stop we would see people putting on walking boots and shouldering packs. We met plenty of people on the tracks and one pub offered covers for muddy boots at the door!

The Cornmill, Kirkbymoorside.

The mill leat still runs under the dining room floor.

North York Moors.

Quite steep!

Green grass, white sheep.

The word is "bucolic".

Intrepid walker.

Italy? Bring it on!

Next stop: Italy, and some more walking. Watch this space (but don't forget to breathe, dunno when I'll get wifi next).

What's that? Wedding......? Did someone get married? (OK, we admit it. We stayed in and watched)

Back In Cornwall

2011-04-17T03:29:00.006+10:00

It's long way from Morocco, that's for sure! But here we are back in Jeannie's home county, the holiday land of my youth, and where we were married.

Botallack Mines: iconic Cornish coast.

Cornwall has more than a little in common with Tasmania, being distal to the rest of the country, having a mining heritage, being dependent on tourism and having higher than average unemployment. But there are distinct differences too; Cornwall is not separated from the rest of the country by a Bass Strait, so there are many, many houses which once accommodated the local folk, but are now taken over, renovated and used occasionally by people from "up country". But now the locals can't afford to live in them any more, so we are constantly struck by the huge range of wealth on display.

We stayed for nearly two weeks at Kerriers, a converted barn down a bumpy road somewhere in the country more or less between Bodmin and Wadebridge. It is very convenient for the A30 highway, which is the main road running right down the spine of Cornwall. So we were able to head off in any direction and find nice places to go for walks. And with the good weather that we enjoyed, there were so many choices!

Kerriers Farm, as seen from our studio.

Unbridled hedonism!

Cold beer, hot tub: great way to end a day's walking.

We particularly wanted to enjoy one of the gardens, so an early stop was Trewithen, where we overdosed on magnolias, camellias and other flowering trees. And I wanted Jeannie to enjoy the same cycle ride that I had from Wadebridge to Bodmin along the old railway line a couple of years ago. Mostly she enjoyed it!

Trewithen Gardens: azaleas.

Sorry, but I love camellias.

Next, Le Tour!

Jeannie on the Camel Trail (The Camel is a river, not a bike).

Coastal walks in Cornwall are a sharp contrast between the wild and rocky north coast and the sheltered, wooded drowned river valleys on the south coast. We enjoyed both, but were especially pleased to see several of the choughs, the "national" Cornish bird, which is re-colonising the cliffs with only a little help in the form of land management, after many years of absence.

North Cornish coast, Gurnards Head.

Lelant Mine.

It's really a derelict industrial landscape.

The gentle south coast.

The Truro estuary at St Clement.

The ferryman's house, Malpas.

Just ring the bell.

South coast path.

The bluebells were just coming out.

Miles of public paths like this.

Moors and woodlands too; it's a diverse place.

Bodmin Moor.

Beware the Beast of Bodmin Moor! (We saw nothing more fearsome than sheep).

The Cheesewring, Bodmin Moor.

Nothing to do with cheese, or rings. Rather wring the cider out of "cheeses" of apple pulp.

Jeannie on the Very Top of the Cheesewring.

For the last couple of days we've moved to Mannings Hotel in the centre of Truro, since tomorrow marks 40 years since we jumped the broomstick at the Baptist Church in River Street, just round the corner.

This one's specially for Marty!

They run water down Truro's gutters, and sometimes it's green!

Truro real estate.

Jeannie's old home for sale!

And this was once her father's shop.

But it sold vegetables and fruit then.

It has been a great stay, even if there are some places where Cornwall seems to be being loved to death, even this early in the season.

Morocco 3: heading west

2011-04-11T19:33:00.012+10:00

So far we had spent two nights at each accommodation, but now we turned towards the coast again and had single nights in two towns on the way to our final two night stop in Agadir.

We left the desert with regret, returning to Erfoud and the bus. From there, although we drove for most of the day, it was a long time before we were out of the arid zone. On the way we passed a very ancient underground canal system that still brings water from the mountains to the oases.

Ancient underground canals.

The cross-section at the bottom of the sign explains.

Each of those hummocks is a well down to the canal.

The end result.

Irrigated alfalfa, beans and date palms.

It was also much clearer and we had fine views of the High Atlas as we ran parallel to them on our way south to Ouarzazarte (try that with a mouthful of chips). We went through several Berber towns and stopped for wonderful fresh-squeezed orange juice from a guy who showed us a postcard he had received from appreciative Australian customers.

Ouarzazarte sits beside a very large artificial lake which provided us with a whole lot of new birds. It also has a very fine kasbah, but there was no time to explore!

Atlas snows, from the bus.

Another Berber town.

Note all the satellite dishes!

Roadside view.

Each tree has its own dam to conserve water.

Palm leaf camel.

Made in 30 secs by a lad who gave it to us, but asked for "une cadeau" in return.

Water at last!

The lake at Ouarzazarte.

The kasbah at Ouarzazarte.

(Out of the bus window: as close as we got!)

Desert kasbah?

Nope. Film set outside Ouarzazarte, Morocco's Hollywood.

The following day we stopped for lunch in a market town called Tazenakht which serves many surrounding villages. As we were eating on the street we could discretely watch the locals who had come in for the market, and they could (less discretely) check us out. It was hard (and impolite) to photograph people, but there was a wonderful range. I even saw one guy wearing a ceremonial dagger. There were donkeys and donkey carts, old vans with sheep in cages on top and people of all sorts. And a lot of dust!

Tazenahkt street scene.

Surreptitiously photographed.

Tazenahkt.

To market, to market....

Dusty street, Tazenahkt.

The next night's stop was in Taroundante where we stayed in a palace! This town has the best preserved city walls in all Morocco and our hotel began life as the palace of the local supremo, more or less built into the wall. Our room was amazing: it wasn't a room, but a suite on two levels with two bedrooms, two bathrooms and its own private roof garden. The only pity was that we only had about 12 hours to enjoy it. In the morning, rather than joining the birders on the roof trying to sort out the Pallid Swift from the Common Swift, we sneaked out and walked round part of the walls. We ducked into one of the gateways into the old town, but we weren't game to try to navigate our way back through the alleyways; mustn't keep the bus waiting.

Getting greener.

Heading west through the southern end of the Atlas.

The palace apartment in Taroundante.

We decided to sleep downstairs.

Taroundante apartment.

Entry way and stairs, inside the apartment.

Our roof-top garden.

Part of the palace gardens.

Palace courtyard.

Palace door.

Early morning swift watchers: Common or Pallid?

The one on the left doesn't looked entirely rapt.

Taroundante city walls.

Complete circuit is a 1.5 hour walk.

Taroundante gateway.

On the road today we passed through Talouine, saffron capital of Morocco. They produce two and half tons of saffron every year and when you consider that one flower yields just three little stamens, that's an awful lot of flowers. We were able to buy saffron very cheaply at a local shop.

The saffron shop in Talouine.

Now, as we skirted round the southern end of the Atlas mountains the country was at last becoming better watered. We drove west down the Souss River valley into an intensively agricultural area. But the hills, and anywhere not cultivated, were dominated by the argan tree, in a landscape that reminded me of the Albert Namatjira paintings of the Flinders Ranges.

Argan trees in the upper Souss valley.

Argan trees.

Argan fruit.

Waiting for a hungry goat.

Intensive cropping in the Souss valley.

Never saw exactly what these were; mint perhaps (we drank a lot of mint tea).

Argan trees produced a hard fruit around a oil-bearing nut which is the basis of a vegetable oil industry. In the traditional way the fruit is eaten by goats, then the nuts are recovered from the goat droppings, crushed and pressed for the oil. A bit like that very expensive coffee that goes through the gut of some creature or other. It seems there are now more modern ways of extracting the oil, and it is on sale everywhere for both culinary and cosmetic purposes.

Shop selling argan oil products.

Agadir doesn't have much to commend it, unless you like large modern beachside cities. That's because the whole place was flattened by an earthquake in 1960 from which only one building survived. We were there for the Bald Ibis, a bird badly in need of friends, but with few natural advantages. It only survives in two small colonies on the coast, which no one is allowed to visit, but the birds turn up for a midday drink at an estuary nearby, and we saw them, at least in the distance.

The Bald Ibis beach, north of Agadir.

Some tasty surf around Agadir.

We also wanted to visit the mouth of the Souss estuary, but it borders on a very posh golf course where an international competition was being played, and despite three attempts we could not persuade the security guards to allow a motley crew, some in camouflage gear, armed with high-powered telescopes into the restricted area. Funny, that.

Our last day took us south to the Massa estuary. This is effectively the last river for a very long way south along the west African coast, so it is an important staging post for migrant birds as they fly between southern Africa and Europe.

Massa River, south of Agadir.

Succulent vegetation in the Massa National Park.

And so our Moroccan adventure drew to a close. We saw so much and thanks to the birds we were able to get out into the wild and taste it, which you can't do through the windows of a vehicle. It would have been good to have also been able to "taste" the towns a bit more, but that will have to wait for another time.

Morocco 2: the desert

2011-04-09T03:36:00.007+10:00

We had two nights in Marrakesh, but then we set off eastwards towards the mountains and beyond. But first we had to get out of town, and that was a slow business because there had been some sort of major flood that jammed all the traffic, but provided plenty of opportunities for watching the people.

Traffic in Marrakesh.

There was mud everywhere.

The road across the mountains was amazing: hairpin after hairpin, so that all the time we could look back to see, down below, where we had come from. We reached the pass at 2500m, where we had lunch and then started to descend. But we didn't go down very far, since the desert plains start at well over 1000m asl. As expected it got much drier as we travelled east, but there were surprises: there are several quite large towns and places (oases, I guess) where irrigation, or a natural water supply, allowed plantings of date palms, with the ubiquitous alfalfa and beans in between.

The Tichka Pass.

Not at the top yet!

Top of the Tichka pass.

And our lunch spot

The Ziz valley.

Amazing oasis, unseen in the barren lands until we were right at the edge.

Our first destination was Boumalne de Dades, a Berber town on the edge of the hamada, ie the pebble desert that covers most of the area (sand dunes come later). Our hotel was perched over the town, so that the call to prayer started the waking process at 5.00, since we had a pre-breakfast expedition into the desert to see some of the specialities, such as coursers and sand grouse. As well as the birds, many ground squirrels and fat-tailed desert rats live in the area, and the sand between the pebbles is a records of the previous night's activities.

Boumalne de Dades.

So many mud brick towns like this.

Boumalne from our window.

Dawn in the desert.

High Atlas behind.

Road to nowhere?

Pity the driver who has birders on board.

What happened last night?

Tracks in the sand.

Darkling Beetle.

One of the track-makers.

We call it "desert" but for the locals this is just the landscape in which they live, and as our eyes became accustomed we began to see that there were people all over the place. Most were shepherds, with a flock of sheep and goats, but we also saw people gathering fuel and forage, and a group of nomads who were on their way into town after what was probably a walk of several days from the outer parts of the desert. We met two Berber women on their way back to their camp (in caves in a dry wadi) with big bales of fodder; they were curious but not game to accept an invitation to look down the telescope of a male birder. But when Jean and one of the other ladies met them alone they were very happy to see the binoculars and one of them suggested (jocularly, I guess) that Jean should let her keep them.

Berber nomads.

Too shy to look down the 'scope.

On another occasion we ran into a very large flock (they disturbed our sand grouse before we got to see them) minded by three heavily veiled women. They came over to see what we were doing and asked us for water, so it was a privilege to transfer the contents of my water bottle into the two litre plastic bottle of one of the women, which was carefully sheathed and carried around her waist. There were no effusive thanks, just a nod of acknowledgment.

Berber camp in a dry wadi.

The building on the horizon was our hotel!

The Berber people are the original inhabitants here, but they are intermixed with African people from the south and arabs from the north. They speak their own language, but Arabic, and to a lesser extend French, is the universal language. We descended, unannounced on a very small roadside cafe in one town where we simply wanted to eat our picnic, but the owner told us in broken English that "I am Berber, you are welcome, no problem!" and proceeded to go to some trouble to produce tables and chairs. Needless to say we were careful to buy food and drink to make it worth his while, but his welcome was genuine. On another occasion we met a couple of boys who came to see what we were doing, one of whom spoke good English and wanted to practice it. When I asked whether he spoke Berber at home he was a mite scornful, so perhaps there is a little Berber-Arab tension. Certainly the Berbers were a thorn in the side of the French administration well into the mid-twentieth century.

After two nights at Boumalne, we drove to Erfoud, fossil capital of Morocco (but we didn't get to see the good stuff, I'm afraid) and transfered to 4WD vehicles to reach our outermost stop, an auberge at Derkaoua on the edge of the Erg Chebbi dunefield. This place was established by a Frenchman and is a delightful walled complex of mud brick buildings with little courtyards, pools and outdoor dining. We spent two nights there, and in the day in between our 4WDs took us along the edge of the dune field (skirting some settlements which began life as sets for Lawrence of Arabia!) to a remote spot where we met up with a local nomad who was to guide us to see some desert specialities.

Desert driving.

Spread out to minimise the impact, and the dust.

The auberge at Derkaoua.

Midday at the oasis.

Welcome break after an early start.

They're out there somewhere.

Chilly in the early morning.

Not paying attention at the back!

Top of the list was the Houbara Bustard, a bird that has so much significance for some Arabs that it has become severely depleted. The Saudi royal family fly into Morocco to hunt these birds in the traditional way, with falcons. They do at least put quite a lot of money into a breeding program at several sites in Morocco, but it was sad to learn when we did get to see one of the birds that it was the sole survivor of a group that has been whittled down by Saudi hunters.

Another sad thing was to see young boys at the side of the road holding up animals for tourists to photograph. One of these was the "sand fish", a lizard that spends most of its time under the sand dunes, but the worst was a fennec fox, a charming animal that I have always wanted to meet, but not squirming in the arms of a boy, with a collar of blue plastic twine round its neck. We could have bought it and released it, but a) it probably would not survive and b) it does no good at all to encourage these boys (hence no photo).

Having shown us the bustard, and an Egyptian nightjar, in the middle of nowhere, we dropped our nomad off, and he just headed off on foot, who knows where to. Humbling to see that people survive in that environment, where the temperatures were already in the high 30s, in what was still only spring.

But altogether, the desert was an amazing experience and I've barely done it justice.

What's that? Camels?

Oh yes, there were camels.

Camels at Erg Chebbi.

These looked more natural, but they are all domesticated.

Morocco 1: Marrakesh and the High Atlas

2011-04-05T21:58:00.008+10:00

I'm not sure that it is altogether a Good Thing to be able to move from the burning sands of the Sahara to the cool grey dampness of a Cornish spring in such a short time, but here we are, enjoying a catching-up day in our self-catering "studio", more of which anon. We've just returned from 11 days in Morocco and all the experiences are still spinning round in our heads, but I will try to distill them in a post or three.

Our trip was arranged by Travelling Naturalist, a UK company that we used before, in Iceland. The tour was called "Spring in Morocco", but it quickly became apparent that it was a serious birding trip for most of the participants, who were keen to add various Moroccan specialities to their personal lists. This wasn't a problem for us, since we like to look at birds too, even if we don't keep a "Life List"; a tour like this takes us to places that we wouldn't find under our own steam and there was certainly plenty to entertain us while others were trying to sort out the Western Olivaceous Warbler from the Eastern Olivaceous Warbler.

The trip fell into three parts, the High Atlas, the desert and the Souss valley, so I'll probably do the posts that way, with general comments about that wonderful country and its lovely people as we go along.

Morocco, simply drawn.

We started in Marrakesh, west of the mountains, then Boumalne, Derkaoua, Ouarzazarte, Taroudannt and Agadir.

We flew from London to Marrakesh via Casablanca with Royal Air Maroc, arriving late in the evening and finding (to my relief) that our transport was to be a reasonably large bus, not the minibuses that I had feared (cramped, little luggage space, competition for best seats). The hotel was a tourist place in the nouvelle ville, some distance from the old centre of Marrakesh, but the patch of waste ground opposite was enough to get the birders out early, collecting new species.

Marrakesh hotel, where it all started.

Our bus wasn't as big as that one.

The first day took us more or less east up the Ourika valley into the High Atlas. I confess that hadn't realised how high, and how extensive, the Atlas Mountains are. It was hazy as we left Marrakesh, so it was a surprise when snow-covered peaks emerged ahead of us. We drove up the valley on increasingly narrow and winding roads getting higher and higher until we reached the ski resort of Oukaimeden, one of very few ski resorts in Africa (and I had to keep reminding myself that we really were in Africa). Here we were at the snow line and the highest peaks in the range were all around us.

The High Atlas.

Fabulous scenery.

The only African ski-field? Oukaimeden.

And those are Crimson-winged Finches on the sign (You knew that, didn't you?).

But this wasn't your average coach tour. You must imagine it punctuated at frequent intervals by cries of "raptor flying right at two o'clock!) and the bus stopping as quickly as possible. The leader, Arnoud van der Berg, is a gun birder with an amazing ability not only to see very small birds from inside a bus, but even to hear them! So our stops were rarely chosen for their aesthetic qualities and we often found ourselves dodging passing traffic while scouring the bushes for a bird.

Roadside birders.

And Rachid waiting patiently in the bus.

And not much of this was happening in the wilderness. Only at the very highest altitudes were there no local people; everywhere else there were Berber villages of mud bricks, apparently growing out of the landscape, many seen across valleys with no road access at all. The first impression was of the pictures I've seen of Afganistan, or even Tibet. There were foot tracks everywhere, and as we looked around we started to see people all over, walking on tracks, gathering fuel and forage for animals, or cultivating tiny terraced fields of alfalfa, barley, beans and fruit and nut trees.

Berber villages in the Ourika valley.

Yes, more than one. Look across the valley.

And wherever we stopped people appeared almost instantaneously to see whether we were interested in buying necklaces, minerals, fossils, scarves etc. Stalls were set up at the more frequently used stopping places, but there were many mobile opportunists on little motorbikes who were prepared to pursue a bus like ours for some distance. After my experiences in Tunis I was not looking forward to the attentions of these salesmen, but in Morocco it seems that a polite but firm "no thank you" (or rather "Je regret, mais non", since French is widely spoken) was always respected.

Roadside stall.

So many tagines for sale, but not suitable for our hand luggage.

Other people, mostly small boys, also turned up out of sheer curiosity. We saw several other birding groups as we travelled, but the phenomenon of adults spending a long time peering at something apparently invisible through very expensive optics is clearly still a novelty. One old man enjoying the sun outside his house watched us for a long time as we tried to locate Levaillant's Woodpecker in the nearby trees, then smiled and tapped his forehead. Amusement or bewilderment was the common response, but one group of young men in car blew the horn and shouted "Vous etes fou!". But generally everyone was friendly and many waved spontaneously as we drove past. Any eye contact or wave from our end was always met with a wave, even from women bent double under huge bales of fodder. The kids waved enthusiastically, and when I made faces they went into hysterics.

We returned to the hotel in Marrakesh, and although we'd had a long day we accepted an offer from the bus driver (Rachid, what a star) and Arnoud for a visit to the main square in the old town. Diemma El-Fna is a very large open square in front of the main mosque that fills up every night with food stalls, musicians, story-tellers, conjurors etc etc. It borders on the souks which are open at all hours, selling just about everything. We did a circuit of the square and a cautious loop into the souks (easy to get lost) and noted that les than 10% of the crowd were tourists, the rest all locals, of all ages.

Diemma El-Fna, Marrakesh.

Can't share the noises and smells, I'm afraid.

Our first day in Morocco was a mass of new experiences, but it all suggested that we were in for a great trip.

A Stroll in the Country

2011-03-24T02:16:00.004+11:00

I think I said before how well this country is supplied with places to walk. Despite the very busy roads there is a multitude of public footpaths, bridleways and lanes through the fields from village to village.

The village of Odell, Bedfordshire.

The wood we walked in is on the ridge.

Today Ruth dropped us in the neighbouring village of Odell, only a few miles away as the crow flies, but a bit of a loop in the car because of the wandering River Great Ouse. At Odell there is a large patch of woodland, mostly old oak trees with an understorey of coppiced hazels. In a few weeks there will be a carpet of bluebells as well, but right now the flowers are mostly primroses and celandines. The trees are just beginning to come into leaf, but the open woods are great for bird watching.

Odell Great Wood.

Track in Odell Great Wood.

We strolled through the woods for a couple of hours, then returned to The Ball at Odell, for a baguette and pint of the local ale, and the weather was certainly good enough to eat it outside in the garden.

The Bell at Odell.

Pub lunch in Odell.

Note the hearty pint of ale, and the bird book.

Then we crossed the river at the site of the old mill and returned to Pavenham, only having to cross one back road. Nine or so kilometres, and all very pleasant.

Mill pond on the River Great Ouse.

Oozing along quite quickly, really.

I know my limited readership is keen to see a few shots of Heron House and its inhabitants, so here they are!

Bowers Towers, Pavenham.

aka Heron House.

Jean and Ruth.

Two respectable ladies of late middle age.......

....but still capable of acting the fool occasionally!

Change of scene (and season)

2011-03-20T06:08:00.004+11:00

Well here we are in the UK, after a fairly painless journey via Hong Kong.

We are staying with Jean's sister Ruth in Pavenham, a small village not far from Bedford in the east Midlands. And of course it's early spring here, not autumn any more, and when we pulled the curtains back this morning (fairly early, thanks to the time-shift) the world was coated in white frost.

Frosty morning in Pavenham

Lots of cold wood pigeons warming up in the sun

But the day was cloudless and by mid-morning it was warm enough to sit outside and read the paper. Needing to adjust our clocks we got out in the sunshine to walk some of the lanes and footpaths that abound in this part of the world.

Country lane near Pavenham

Early spring here means snowdrops, celandines, primroses and daffodils. The trees are just coming into leaf and the hazels are covered in catkins; all very English and charming.

Snowdrops, mostly finished now

Celandines, with their yellow enamel petals

Jeannie enjoying the catkins

It was so nice that we even missed the second half of Scotland beating Italy at the rugby for another walk in the afternoon, but got back in time to see Ireland beat England: hurrah for the Celtic Fringe!

They found a cave.....

2011-02-19T14:40:00.007+11:00

This should have been a post about the summer wader count, but it was cancelled yesterday because of the weather forecast, which quite accurately predicted the rain and easterly gale that lashed us here at Boat Harbour this morning.

But our short visit hasn't been altogether abortive. We arrived at lunchtime on Thursday to a glorious day that allowed lunch and dinner on the deck, and with a gentle little swell that tempted me in for a surf in between.

Sunset clouds over Table Cape.

Perfect end to a perfect day.

Friday was grey but dry, so we went out for a walk in the afternoon to do the "Postmans Track", which is actually a small segment of the old track that used to bring the mails into Circular Head years ago. It runs halfway around the Twin Sisters, two small hills in a small eastern enclave of Rocky Cape National Park and takes you through a fragment of the tall forest that must once have covered all this region, and some fine Banksia woodland. We had a pleasant stroll and saw lots of birds, including several sightings of a White Goshawk. Why would a bird of prey that relies on ambush be pure white?

The Postmans Track.

Bad Banksia Man.

Guardian of the track?

I have posted before about a couple of the aboriginal cave shelters on this coast, and we had heard stories of an even better one somewhere in this part of the park. It isn't marked on the maps and was reputedly hard to find, so when we noticed a rather indistinct track leading down towards the coast it seemed good to explore.

And there it was! About a hundred metres above the sea, formed in a joint in the quartzite rock. It has a low entrance, but a large chamber behind that is quite dry, unlike the nearby "Wet Cave". At the mouth there is still a large midden of shells and bones. The entrance faces east and would be wonderfully sheltered from the prevailing westerlies. Even in the stiff easterly the cave was still quite snug.

Cave entrance.

Midden pile in foreground.

Cave entrance from inside.

The chamber was dry and snug.

Someone enjoys a quiet beer in there.

View from the cave entrance.

Boat Harbour at the extreme right.

It would be nice to say that it was undisturbed, but the footprints on the floor (and an empty beer bottle) showed that there have been recent visitors. Close to the junction with the main track we found a red and a yellow flower, and a black banksia cone placed on a stump, which made me wonder whether the visitors might have been from the present day aboriginal community. I hope so. There is little enough for aboriginal people to claim as their own, and if they were to ask that access to these cave sites be prevented I for one would accept.

Aboriginal track marker?

Red, yellow and black are their colours.

But I'm pleased that we got to see it and had the chance to put ourselves in the place of those older inhabitants.

And there's no show without Punch.

Jo and Marty at Christmas on a walk to Anniversary Bay.

While shepherds washed.....

2010-12-20T16:56:00.004+11:00

Our neighbour Jo has been troubled for some time with water under her house, to the extent that her backyard has become a swamp. After some time, and an attempt to shift the blame to her downpipes, Southern Water turned up this afternoon to deal with it (and in a typically Tasmanian way the guy in charge was the brother of Jo's ex-housemate).

The water main runs along the edge of the footpath, just in our gardens and to Marty's intense delight an orange digger came to expose it. In truth it was only a baby digger, but it was impressive enough to Marty, and when he was invited to sit in the driver's seat..... well!

What Marty wants to do when he grows up

At the bottom of a deep hole they struck water and traced it back to a leak that was actually in the neighbour's garden (not ours, thankfully, since when they are on the hunt for a leak they just keep going, garden or no garden).

There goes the front garden

The water had to pumped out into the gutter and Marty (who likes a good drain) enjoyed watching it disappear through the grating. Later they had to flush the pipes and Marty got happily wet in what was now Wombara Rivulet, rather reminiscent of the streets of Truro.

Ooooh!

What an exciting afternoon!

And a Merry Christmas to all our readers.

Rejuvenated Shack

2010-10-31T16:41:00.005+11:00

Our little shack has been looking weary and unloved for quite a while (it's over a year since Hugh helped me to replace the rotten weatherboards on the windward side), but in the last few weeks great leaps forward have been made.

The flashings around the roof have all been covered in metal, thus rendering them weatherproof for ever, effectively. The walls have all been painted and new doors upstairs and down are being fabricated from uPVC as I write. We hope to have them fitted in a month or less. And that will pretty much complete what needs to be done outside for quite a while.

Incidentally, the pics below are a little misleading; they were taken in a brief window of sunshine that has since closed again. At least it's not raining now, but the gale is now blowing from the north west instead of the north east.

Brilliant new shack.

Window frames and old chimney piece now white.

New Fuchsia bed on the eastern side.

The brick blue is not quite as blue as this appears.

Shack from below.

The brick blue is less intense in the shadow of the deck.

Shack from west.

So tidy!

Retrospective Miscellany

2010-10-30T17:15:00.009+11:00

How's that for a blog title?

What it means, of course, is that I haven't posted for a while and I'm cobbling together something to make amends. There are two themes: food, and the shack at Boat Harbour.

While the Cuisine de Jeannie may not be as exotic as some to which this blog is linked, she does do some Very Good Things. For a long time I have carried the memory of a steak and kidney pudding (and yes, that's pudding, not pie) that she once made, and she was recently persuaded to do it again. Oh so good, and my excuse to the Heart Foundation is that we don't eat like that very often. Steak and kidney pudding may well be what robust Australian Shiraz was designed for in heaven: the perfect accompaniment.

Jeannie's steak & kidney pud.

Seriously luscious.

Once upon a time I had to use my wiles to persuade innocent students to come on field trips and spend a day digging up burrowing crayfish in the rain. It was generally hard to get anyone to come twice, but one factor that greatly increased the chance was to offer a slice of Jean's egg and bacon layered pie. Seen here in its "just out of the oven" mode, it is perhaps even better cold the next day.

Egg & bacon layered pie.

So much for food. I write this from Boat Harbour, where the rain is pouring down on our trim, re-painted and refurbished shack. More of this in a later post, but our two previous trips involved care and maintenance, and a little respite for Jo and Marty Roo while Jac was away in the US.

We hired a 4 cubic metre skip and spent a couple of days dealing with the excess vegetation (including the kiwi fruit on the bottom fence which had been trimmed, without invitation, by a neighbour). While I did the heavy lifting, Jean did a wonderful job trimming the debris into small lengths to maximise the carrying capacity of the skip. The guy who collected was so impressed he said he was going to take it back to the depot to show them what could be achieved with care.

The shed with associated debris.

The shed was almost invisible under the jasmine & kiwi fruit.

Jeannie's skip.

Not much spare space in there.

Jo and Marty came up at tulip time, and the little fellow generally had a great time, apart from being mown down by an errant toddler, thus collecting a mouthful of rich basalt soil and a graze on the cheek.

Tulip fields forever?

Table Cape, just west of Wynyard.

Off to see the tulips.

Marty, Jeannie and Jo.

This is fun!

Well, fun most of the time.

Slightly scarred Roo.

But generally, life's good.

In the laundry basket in Granma & Papa's bedroom.

A day in the life

2010-08-27T09:54:00.011+10:00

I've had a few requests for more "every day" business on this blog, and particularly some information on Grandsons 1 and 2, Angus and George, so I thought I'd tell you about our recent Thursdays.

Hugh teaches on Thursday and Friday, and for the last eight weeks or so Jess has had work placements at rural health centres, so Budda and Granma have been looking after the boys on a Thursday (Jess's Mum, Kym, aka "Bamma", has them on Friday). It's easiest for the boys to be at home, so we go to their place in time to see Jess off and stay at least until Hugh and Jess get home, and usually for dinner.

Georgie Jacket has a midday sleep, but Angus is on the go pretty much all day, so we get a good work out, especially since a lot of the activity is at ground level. Toy cars figure largely in indoor activities; Angus has a rug in his bedroom with printed roads and buildings and he and I spend a lot of time running bus services and repairing the roads. Georgie J is learning fast and although he wails if Angus shuts him out of our bedroom play, he will occupy himself with the cars quite happily for ages. And I have to say that Angus is very good at sharing the toys, at least when he hasn't got something special planned with Budda.

Georgie Jacket

Georgie absorbed with his toys.

An undemanding little fellow.

Jeannie introduced Angus to Plasticene and it has become another favourite play, stretching my creative talents to the limits.

Late winter in Tasmania doesn't encourage a lot of outside play, but there are the chickens to be fed and checked for eggs, and when it's dry Angus has a garden bed where he can do some earth moving. Small boy's energy can be worked off on the trampoline and there's a nice walk down the creek to its little estuary and finally a small beach on North West Bay.

From Hugh and Jess's back step, looking across the yard to Snug Primary School.

The Girls, as Jeannie calls them.

One of the white ones has become an escapologist.

Angus, earthmoving.

The folded towel is for Budda's knees.

Angus, preparing for his career in the circus.

Pretty good on the trampoline, too.

Jeannie and Angus.

With other houses going up all around, there's always something to watch out of the window.

So we have a happy day; Angus always has things he wants to do and Georgie Jacket is so good-natured and obliging.

The Katy Trail

2010-08-04T09:56:00.013+10:00

In my last couple of days in Missouri I hired a car and drove not very far from Columbia to Rocheport, a quaint little town on the Big Muddy, but also one of the access points to the Katy Trail.

The Missouri River, or Big Muddy, at Rocheport.

Church at Rocheport.

(What's happened to my verticals?)

House at Rocheport.

Way back in the 1800s the Missouri, Kansas and Texas Railway (=MKT, hence Katy, geddit?) ran from St Louis down into Texas, but in the second half of the Twentieth century it gradually lost steam, and the last freight train ran along it in the 1980s. But thanks to a local visionary and philanthropist, Ted Jones, the State of Missouri was able to buy up the track bed, and turn it into a bike trail and State park, one of the longest rail-trails in the US.

At Rocheport I was able to hire a bike and pedal off, binoculars round my neck, balancing the muscular effort against the cooling breeze. On the first day I went north to New Franklin, and one the second the other way to a bit beyond MacBaine.

Bridge on the Katy Trail.

The northern trip ran alongside wetlands at first, then through rather uninspiring corn fields, though there were always things to see. I almost ran over a little colourful snake, and a deer watched me approaching for a long while, apparently unable to work out what the strange creature was until I was just 30 m or so away. When I reached New Franklin I met the only other cyclist I saw all day. Perhaps this was because of the weather, since by now the clouds were building up and thunder was rolling around. As I cycled back one storm was moving ahead of my and another coming up behind, but they never got closer than a couple of miles, which was probably just as well on some of the exposed stretches of trail.

These flowers are common.

Hummingbirds like them.

Tunnel just north of Rocheport.

The only one on the Katy Trail.

The next day's southward run was more interesting as it was almost all right beside the river, under high limestone bluffs. Lewis and Clark passed this way in 1804 and noted "verry fine" indian pictographs on the cliffs made from pigments and inlaid mussel shells. Sadly the MKT engineers blasted alomost all of them away to form the railway, but a tiny fragment remains at one point. The weather was better today and many more people were out cycling. The Katy Trail is a major tourist attraction, and people cycle the while 300+ km.

Limestone bluffs along the trail.

Fragment of Indian pictograph.

The originals must have been spectacular.

MKT explosives store under the bluff.

That's what happened to the pictographs.

Burr Oak near the trail.

Included because it was the only place where I fell off!

The whole visit to Missouri went very well, and it was good to get to know another small part of the US, and one quite different from Texas.

Visiting the Ozarks

2010-07-27T07:54:00.015+10:00

I'm sure the Ozark Mountains have many claims to fame, but perhaps their crayfish fauna is not the one that immediately springs to mind. For most people, that is..... I, on the other hand, saw a conference presentation about them many years ago and vowed that I'd get to visit them one day, and that ambition has been achieved, thanks to Bob DiStefano, the guy who gave that conference talk.

Following the crayfish conference in Columbia, twelve of us went off on a two day tour of the Ozarks, visiting some nice little creeks, seeing lots of crayfish (and fish, and frogs, and turtles, and even some snakes) and having a day-long "float"in canoes down a wild river.

Fourche Renault Creek.

Water temperature? Well over 25°C.

Lots of crayfish.

Fish too.

This is a bullhead.

We left Columbia very early in a small convoy and drove south for a couple of hours, then made a series of stops in crayfish creeks, and in the little town of Arcadia for lunch at Aunt Mary's, where I had a catfish sandwich.

Aunt Mary's, Arcadia.

Run by an Italian lady.

Lunch at Aunt Mary's.

The last stop was to walk down through oak and hickory woodland to a very large spring, gushing out from the limestone. But underground water runs more or less at the annual average temperature, in this case about 12°C, very much colder than the streams we had been wading in all day. Hardier souls than I went swimming; I just paddled.

Greer Spring.

Fast and cold.

Young people don't feel the cold.

Now you see him, now you don't!

We spent the night in a roadside motel that advertised clean rooms and waffles. We had to sign a declaration that we would not keep pets in our rooms.

The Honeysuckle Motel, Mountain View, Mo.

My waffle for breakfast.

Made it myself!

This was next door to the motel.

What could it be?

Where vending machines go to die.

The following day we took the canoes to the Jack Fork River and descended, two to a canoe. Once we had mastered the steering the rest of the day was idyllic: perfect weather, and warm clear water in which we could see fish, turtles etc. The river is shallow and without any serious rapids; in fact in one of two places we had to get out and haul the canoe over shallows. We stopped regularly to catch crayfish, swim and to visit a large cave in the bluff along the river.

Jack Fork River.

Canoes to go.

Jack Fork River.

Idyllic cruising.

Gently down the stream.

That's how they catch crayfish in Missouri.

Cave on the Jack Fork.

Strange, pale cave creature.

We were on the river for 6-7 hours, and in that time saw just one other party on the river bank. This is in sharp contrast to several other rivers in the area, where "outfitters" rent canoes and run fleets of yellow school buses to pick people up from downstream. In these places a cooler for the beer is apparently and essential part of the equipment.

The Jack Fork supports many different fish species.

.....Summer in Missouri

2010-07-19T03:10:00.011+10:00

From Tasmania at around 10C to Missouri in the mid 30sC in 24 hours is a more than a bit of a shock to the system! I'm here for the eighteenth meeting of the International Association for Astacology, to meet all my crayfish pals, drink beer and swap stories for a week. That's what conferences are for, aren't they?

The trip over was no bother, except that my suitcase thought we were going to San Antonio again, and got to Dallas before someone caught up with it and delivered it here to Columbia, 24 hours later. I arrived a couple of days early, partly to take a look around and partly because I forgot about the International Date Line. In the event this was a Good Thing. I spent the first day (sock-less), exploring Columbia and the University of Missouri campus (which takes up a major part of the town). I'd hoped to buy some fresh socks, but downtown Columbia is stronger on coffee and pizza than on socks, but I coped and tried to stay out in the fresh air.

The "Mizzou" campus is impressive for its stock of neo-classical buildings, and indeed its sheer scale. Columns are big in Columbia, and the reasons stand in front of Jesse Hall, the centrepiece of the campus. The university was the first west of the Missouri River and the original building was on the grand scale, with great columns supporting its portico. But someone decided that the crowning dome would be a good place for a store of munitions (Civil War?), but the building caught fire...... and all that is left are the columns.

Jesse Hall, the epicentre of the Mizzou campus.

Note the columns.

Ecclesiastical, eh?

Actually, its the Students Union building.

Having got my bag I was able to dress appropriately (shorts and teeshirt) and I hired a car to get out and see some birds at the Eagle Bluffs Conservation area, which is a restored wetland of many hectares on the floodplain of the Missouri. It was only a few miles out of town, and the traffic here is a good deal more placid than in Texas. But oh my it was hot, and so humid that it almost felt as though you could swim through the air. By lunchtime I had to retreat and find food, which I did at "Lucy's", the only option in MacBaine, Missouri.

Eagle Bluffs wetlands.

So hot, so humid.

Missouri River.

The only place where mosquitos were a bother.

Lucy's, at MacBaine.

Airconditioned refuge, with cold beer (lite, of course).

Swarm of tiny fish in a Missouri backwater.

Back out again I saw plenty of birds, to say nothing of frogs, turtles, jack rabbits and a raccoon. But the strangest thing was a noise that came rapidly from behind me, sounding like the crackle that comes before a big crack of thunder. But the sky was blue, what on earth....? And then half a dozen deer erupted from the dense corn alongside the levee I was walking on at full speed, so fast that one of the bucks had a whole sweet corn plant entangled in his antlers! They kept running for more than a kilometre, and indeed all the wildlife here is very wary of people and even cars, suggesting that they get shot at quite often.

I've been conferencing for a day now, renewing old friendships and listening to some interesting talks, but needing a jumper n the lecture theatre because the aircon is set so cold! It's a pleasure to get back outside, at least for a while.

In the middle day of the conference they took us out for the day to the Shaw Nature Reserve, which is an annexe of the Missouri Botanic Garden, one of the world's great botanic gardens. They started up at Shaw when the air pollution in St Louis started killing the plants in the 1930s. It's a patch of upland forest, some restored tall grass prairie, wetlands and rivers (with crayfish). We had a sweaty, but interesting, afternoon being guided around.

Shaw Nature Reserve.

Lots of flowers. I didn't catch the name.

Insects too.

Some gorgeous butterflies.

But this was the main event.

Meramac River.

Slightly frustrated crayfish biologists, since the water was too high to get into the river.

Now (Friday) the conference has finished officially, but we are off for a two day tour tomorrow.

And finally, hats off to Tasmanian giant freshwater crayfish legend, Todd Walsh and wife Bronwyn, who have travelled to the conference and beyond with Oscar (3), and Vincent (10 months). And the boys behaved wonderfully.

Todd & Bronwyn, with Oscar and Vincent.

Temperature at least 34C, humidity in the 90s!

Winter in Tassie.......

2010-07-19T02:16:00.010+10:00

Just a quickie to set up the huge contrast that I'm experiencing now (see next post).

Mid-winter is the time for the second (and much less-desirable) wader count of the year. Last year it involved a long walk along the beach; this year I only had to walk a couple of hundred metres, but the trade-off was that I had to be up at 6.00 am to make the crossing to Robbins Island. This can only be done at low tide in a 4WD, guided by someone who knows the way across the complex banks and channels (think Sands of Dee, or the Solway Firth).

Google Earth's view of Robbins Island. The island is about 20 km east to west.

We cross slightly west of the southernmost point.

And of course it's pretty dark at 7.00 on a mid-winter morning, and completely dark at 6.30pm, which was when we made the return trip. We travelled in the back of a Parks and Wildlife ute and our guide was John Hammond, who leases Robbins Island to run wagyu cattle which he sells to Japan. I appreciated his local knowledge as we were coming back; the route is marked with reflective posts, but it zig zags all over the place, so who knows which of those shiny reflections comes next?

Between those two crossings there was a lot of waiting around, before and after the hour or so so of formal counting around high tide. Fortunately there is a warm and dry hut just opposite our counting site at Wallaby Island, so Gary, my counting partner, and I were able to brew up before and after.

The Wallaby Island Hut.

It might not look much, but it's very welcome.

Inside the hut.

The floor is woodchips

And did we see anything? Not much is expected in the winter count since most, but not all, the migratory waders ought to be in Siberia, doing their reproductive business. But as it happened there were a number of birds that had decided to stay with us, probably first year birds. We saw a couple of the bog-standard Red-necked Stints, but also some Eastern Curlews with their ridiculous beaks, and a Whimbrel, all of which made the other counters quite jealous, the more so because our site was sheltered from the very sharp and squally westerly wind.

Our counting station.

High tide.

And at low tide.

(I know these are the wrong way round, but Blogger is having an off day)

And here are the curlews.

Excited?

Jeannie stayed home, of course, but loyally got up to see me off, and had restoring hot dinner when I got back.

I blog, therefore I am

2010-07-01T10:32:00.008+10:00

I find myself wondering just why I have been so long between posts. It's not that I haven't had the time, so it must be the inclination. I guess a major motivation used to be the Family in Exile in Texas, but I know that there are at least one or two other readers out there who might be interested in our doings.

And then there's the quest for the bloggable......

Well, we do have a view...

But all the leaves are gone now.

Life has largely rotated about Jo, Jac and Marty Roo since they returned in April. We were very glad to have them living downstairs while they got themselves organised, looked for somewhere to live, bought a car etc etc. It was great to have full time access to Marty, or at least "full time" in grandparent-speak, i.e. daylight hours. We found that the downstairs room is far enough from our bedroom to insulate us from any nocturnal activity apart from the bathroom fan. During the day he is a sort randomising influence, and we quickly found that we had forgotten the need to make the house crawler-proof. But Mr Bump didn't come to any serious harm, and neither did the house.

Oooh, Granma's pantry is such fun!

Papa's beer, bags of kiwi fruit......

He's convinced the Morso stove is some kind of robot.

And no, it didn't get lit while he was there.

Games on the floor.

Mind that brandy and dry.

This one may come back to haunt him.

By now, as Jac Wabbit readers will know, they have moved into a delightful little house which is just around the corner, really handy for shared meals, walks and taking Jac to work.

Otherwise, we have been enjoying seeing Hugh, Jess and the boys settle into their new home. The boys have lost of playing space, inside and outside. I'll try to post a bit about their place soon.

Here's Georgie Jacket, at our house.

Cruising III. Adelaide to Fremantle

2010-05-16T15:52:00.017+10:00

Oh dear! Like the Cornish Walker I'm feeling the tyranny of keeping up with a sequential blog. I left you somewhere in the Great Australian Bight and since then there has been so much more happening! So let's get the last section of the trip out of the way and clear the decks (har) for some more up to date posts.

Two days of gentle cruising (and a lecture or two) took us to out first port in Western Australia: Esperance. I had been looking forward to these stops since I visited the area years ago on a crayfish collecting expedition and found the coastline very attractive. So it was a pity that we arrived in low cloud and rain. However we still got glimpses of the islands of the Recherche Archipelago, granite tors really, and much higher than I had expected.

Recherche Archipelago, approaching Esperance

The port of Esperance handles more grain and minerals than cruise ships, but we squeezed in alongside the loading derricks with their colony of pigeons and attendant peregrine falcon. We weren't allowed to walk through the busy port, but it was just a short bus ride to the town centre. One of Esperance's claims to fame is that very nearly scored a direct hit from SkyLab when that large lump of space junk fell to earth back in 1979. The town's little museum had a display of SkyLab fragments alongside a delightful assemblage of other items.

Sign on the Esperance Museum

SkyLab fragments, Esperance Museum

Skylab fragments.

They looked, well, kinda primitive.

More Skylab fragments.

It must have been raining bits out there.

Esperance Museum.

It would have pleased Angus.

Startling flowering eucalypt, Esperance.

It was just an overnight cruise to Albany (not All-bany), a larger centre than Esperance, but still in the granite country. Great lumps of granite poke out of the earth in the middle of town. The Albanians were enjoying a weekend fair, and the place seemed busy and developing.

Ship graffiti, Albany wharf.

Granite outcrop, Albany.

I wonder why they call it Dog Rock?

More granite outcrops, Albany.

A bit oppressive for the householders!

Albany centre

Cannon outside Albany Museum.

I think the native were friendly.

The last lap to Fremantle took us a night and half a day, so we rounded Rottnest Island and docked in Freo in the afternoon, in bright, but breezy conditions. Niall and I met up with colleague Pierre Horwitz and some friends for an al fresco meal on the buzzing main drag.

Leaving Albany

Docking in Freo.

Perth CBD on the skyline.

Docking in Freo.

Upwind of the sheep carrier, fortunately.

Getting off the shop was a bit of circus, since (despite the fact that we had already been ashore the previous day) we has to clear customs and immigration before we finally disembarked. The process took forever (with a 07.00 hrs start!) but eventually we were in a taxi with one of the other crew member who was heading back to Portugese Goa for some leave and on our way to the airport. Given the time difference, the trip back to Hobart takes all day, but it was uneventful, and Jeannie met us at 9.30.

Farewell to Holland America!

We had one of these towel sculptures every night, but this was the stand-out.

Cruising II: Hobart to Adelaide

2010-04-08T16:02:00.010+10:00

O wad some Power the giftie gie us

To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion....

(Robert Burns, To a Louse)

I've often seen the cruise ships coming up the river into Hobart and wondered what impression the visitors get of the place. Well now I've done it for myself, I must say that the approach to Hobart and the port itself make a fine entry to Tasmania, and sitting in the Crows Nest bar with its 180 degree view at night showed off the waterfront to its best advantage.

Battery Point from the ship.

Pity about Empress Towers.

View from the Crows Nest.

It was part of our duty to be in the bar, honest.

It was a day's sailing down to Tasmania from Eden and we woke to find the ship moored off Port Arthur on a perfect morning. As I was doing my morning constitutional around the promenade deck I heard several people come out and say "Wow, look at that" as they looked across the water to the penitentiary and the hills behind. I didn't go ashore ($28 just to step ashore from the tender!). But many did, and we then sailed again at midday around Tasman Island and Cape Pillar into Storm Bay (no storms, but lots of dolphins), and then around the Iron Pot into the Derwent.

Port Arthur.

Tenders taking the visitors ashore.

Cape Pillar, Tasman Island in the distance.

Spectacular coast, lots of wildlife.

I could pick out our house as we sailed up the river, but I wasn't to know that there was no one home (in fact Jeannie arrived home just in time to see the ship disappear behind the trees). Hobart is a good port because passengers can walk off the ship and straight into the town. I did that and met Jeannie and then Hugh and the family, so that I could at least show them the ship from a distance. Sadly I was way too late to organise for them to come aboard. But we had fish and chippies on the wharf and Angus admired it from a distance.

Angus, and Budda's big ship.

That's my ship.

Hugh & Jess, George in the stroller.

The traveler and family.

Note the Holland America tote bag.

After the chippies, we had icecream at Sticky Fingers.

George had some too.

An overnight stay in Hobart allowed me to do some mundane things like get my winter flu shot and go home and do the washing up. Jeannie was busy with the State election, which happened the next day, so I didn't see much of her. Niall earned the undying gratitude of the bar staff by driving them out to Bonorong wildlife park so they could get to see a kangaroo in their rather brief time ashore.

The Volendam in Hobart.

Much closer to the city than in most ports.

We sailed from Hobart at midnight, back up the east coast of Tasmania, between Cape Barren Island and the Tasmanian mainland and then across Bass Strait to Melbourne, another day and night at sea (and consequently lecturing time for us). In Melbourne we met up with an old flatmate of Niall's who took us to St Kilda where we had brunch, browsed the Sunday market and had a beer at the Esplanade Hotel (home of the Gershwin Room and Rockwiz, for those who know).

An evening sailing from Melbourne, just early enough to see our passage through the Heads (it takes two hours to cross the Bay), and much nicer than last year when we sailed out under a pall of smoke from the fires. Niall is always keen for a bit movement in the ship, since he's a good sailor, but we didn't get much. The passage to Adelaide was the roughest and that was certainly nothing to trouble me. It was also interesting from the wildlife angle, since we saw lots of birds and whales, 7 or 8 of the latter blowing at once. Probably humpbacks, but fin and even blue whales are not unknown in this area.

Farewell, Melbourne.

Station Pier.

Adelaide put on a clear blue day for us and I was collected by Paul Charlton and taken off to lunch with his mother Ruth, now in her 93rd year and still firing on all cylinders. Paul is a keen shipping buff, and was able to tell me all about the port, and the Queen Mary II which had been preceding us at several ports a week or so before.

Then it was off for a couple of days sailing across the Great Australian Bight, and I'll leave that till next time.

This has been a displacement activity, really. Jo, Jac and Marty are about to take off from LAX as I write..... correction, they have just taken off!

Cruising Again, on MS Volendam

2010-03-30T13:32:00.013+11:00

"Nothing to blog about" is a well-worn excuse, but I really can't use it now. Sorry for the gap in postings.

I'm just back from 14 days on the Holland America Line ship MS Volendam, having cruised all the way from Sydney to Fremantle. Once again, the reason was to give lectures on wildlife and conservation to the passengers, and to promote our Bookend Trust, and I was sharing the lectures (and a cabin) with Niall Doran.

The Volendam
All the Holland America ships are "Dams"

Our cabin on Deck 3.
Just like last year. The ships are almost identical.

The cruise this year is a circum-navigation of Australia, starting and finishing in Sydney, so while we were sailing the same route as last year, this time we had several more port visits. We joined the ship at Darling Harbour, which meant that we had to sail under the Harbour Bridge on our way out, which made a spectacular start to the cruise. It seemed a tight fit under the bridge, and we were waved a away by several parties of climbers on the structure.

Approaching the coat hanger.
It made a great start to the cruise.

A tight squeeze.
And you can just pick out groups of climbers, waving madly.

Strangely, since the circum-navigation was clockwise, we turned left out of Sydney Heads and made for our first port at Newcastle. Nobody seemed to know why we started this way, but Newcastle turned out to be a pleasant stop. Like it's UK namesake, Newcastle has a reputation as an industrial town, but also like it's namesake, it was much nicer than I had been led to believe. The port and industrial areas are well upstream from the city, leaving the river mouth, it's beaches and parks quite untouched.

Durham-on-Sea?
No, it's Newcastle, NSW

The walk out to "Nobbys".
Almost an island at the Hunter rivermouth, with lighthouse.

Fort Scratchley, Newcastle.
Built to keep out the Russians, apparently.

Newcastle rock.
It seemed to be trying to tell me something, but I couldn't quite make it out.

Nobbys, again.
As we sailed out.

Fort Scratchley.
And yes, that is a puff of smoke: they fired a three gun salute as we sailed past.

Bulk carriers outside Newcastle.
Huge amounts of coal are shipped from here.

Our second call was supposed to be at Batemans Bay, allowing access by road to Canberra, but apparently the port authorities there hadn't done all that they were supposed to to make the harbour suitable, and so the captain decided (at only a couple of days notice) to call at Eden instead. This was a disappointment to those who had wanted to see the national capital (been there, done that), but Eden was delightful. Here (and at Newcastle and Port Arthur) access to the shore was via the ship's tenders, but they came right into the little harbour among the fishing boast and Sammy the Seal.

The Volendam.
From the rear window of a tender.

Tender unloading at Eden.
Nice day!

Young fur seal in Eden Harbour.
It was hanging around a couple of fishers, waiting for any cast-offs.

Returning to the ship.
Very big from the waterline.

Welcome home!
The crew are very friendly.

After two overnight sailings (gently rocked to sleep) we now had an "at-sea" day on our way to Tasmania, which meant we actually had to work! Niall gave the first lecture to 300+ passengers in the Frans Hals cabaret room (he was into cabaret, old Frans). Our talks have been very well-received and the clientele is slightly different from our round-the-world cruisers last year. Still dominated by Americans (600+ out of the 1200-odd passengers), but more Australians, and perhaps more people inclined to come and talk about our subjects. We had dinner with a new group each night and a number of interesting conversations.

Maybe I will leave Tasmania for the next post.

The Wild West: 3

2010-02-16T12:26:00.008+11:00

Oh dear! this has taken far too long, and everyone has probably lost interest now. But I need to finish up this account of our tramp up the West Coast with Tarkine Trails.

In some ways, it's not a bad thing that there has been a gap between the last post and this one, since our experiences at Sandy Cape were in a bit of a different category to the previous days. Remember that we had been walking through lonely places, meeting only one couple since being dropped off at Pieman Heads. So even though we had been walking down 4WD tracks you can probably imagine our feelings when a group of tiny blobs in the far distance resolved themselves into a pack of trail bikes and quad bikes. They hurtled past and we waved politely, if unenthusiastically, and tried to forget about them, but now our wild beach had fresh tyre tracks along it.

Not just our tracks in the sand

As we approached Sandy Cape (and it's a long, long approach) we could see signs of civilisation; first the lighthouse, then a small shack or two, and as we trudged along the final beach, we were overtaken by an old and decrepit HiLux. The driver stopped to chat, and so we met Troy and Rusty, two Sandy Cape "locals". Troy, from the north west coast, has been coming to Sandy Cape since he was an infant (and his father and grandfather before him), while Rusty, who is from Hobart, makes an annual trek to spend a few weeks there each summer. They were impressed with our walk, and noted that we were a bit short of water. They also spoke magic words: "D'ya like crayfish?" (Much nodding of heads). Anyway, they disappeared only to return shortly with two jerries of water, and a huge cooked crayfish!

Oh yum.

(No disrespect to Simon's cooking)

Clare knew just what to do

Sandy Cape camp

As it turned out, this was not our last experience of the kindness of strangers that day. A little later the quad and trail bike guys returned, and also stopped to hear our story. When we confessed to having walked from Pieman Heads they were staggered: "What d'ya want to do that for?" (Pause) ".....and how d'ya get your beer?" When we admitted that we had no beer they went into crisis mode: back to their camp, returning swiftly with a six pack, just in case we might have fainted away in the meantime.

They came back later (after we had eaten the crayfish for hors d'oeuvre, and then our dinner) to ask whether we liked abalone. More nodding of heads, but our friends doubted our ability to cook abalone properly so they whipped out a small gas stove from the back of their 4WD and proceeded to melt butter, add garlic and feed us fresh-cooked abalone in large quantities!

Rusty and Troy arrive to take us over the dunes

Troy and Rusty took some of our party out in their 4WDs that evening to check the cray pots and see the sights. In the morning they were back, and insisted that we all climb aboard so that they could take us on a tour of the dunes, and then drop us off where we were to picked up by our vehicles for the drive out (thus saving us an hour's walking). After some very professional driving we arrived at the summit of the dunes, looking inland to a lake formed where the mobile sand had blocked a stream. Troy's brother showed what could be done on a quad bike over mobile sand. Amazing skills.

On top of the dunes

They were high. It was windy.

Rusty in his Range Rover

(Shamelessly stole this pic from Gayle. It's so good)

Troy's brother on quad bike

The marks disappear very quickly in the wind

There he goes!

And he came back up at immense speed

By the time we left Sandy Cape in our own 4WDs to the way to meet the bus at Arthur River we had come a long way from our first meeting with the trail bikes back down the coast, both literally and metaphorically. It was quite clear that these guys had just as strong a feeling for the place as we did, even though they might enjoy it in a different way, and we left cogitating about the challenges in involving all of the stakeholders in the management of this fabulous coastline.

Well done, Team

(Left Rear: Katie, Jean, Alastair, Clare, Hamish, Greg, Gayle, Erin, Heidi. Front: Simon, Darvis, Hiraly)