Meanwhile, back in Aus, they were celebrating a white Christmas...

Yes, really!

After weeks of fighting bushfires, which burned out a million hectares (that's 10,000 square kilometres, or an area almost the size of Northern Ireland), the valiant lads and lasses of the CFA finally caught a lucky break. Despite weeks without rain, come Christmas day the temperature plummetted, the clouds rolled in, thunderstorms dumped small floods on the fire fronts. And at Mt Buller, it SNOWED!

Orphans Christmas

Bugger the turkey - for our first Christmas in the UK, Ants and I went in search of traditional English fare... roast venison and pheasant. We found both at Oxford's covered market, a curious blend of overpriced tourist shops and fresh meat, seafood, deli goods and organic veg.

I've decided that the English really don't know how to cook any more. The market was almost empty two days before Christmas - but the readymade meals section at Sainsbury's was teeming with shoppers, as were the gourmet 'just heat and serve' aisles at Marks and Sparks. Sad really, but it made our shopping easier.

Christmas morning dawned in a haze, brought on by a late night at the Killingworth Castle Hotel, where friends of ours had a gig the night before, followed by carolling at the Half Moon, our local, where happy punters were falling over themselves to keep us plied with pints and scampi fries.

Eventually we gathered our other 'orphan' mates (people also spending Christmas away from family who live in farflung reaches of the world) Lynne and Lizzy, and fired up our roast. Preceeded by Ants' homemade parsnip and chestnut soup plus to-die-for smoked Scottish salmon (with juniper) and adorned with all the trimmings that a roast SHOULD have, lunch was followed by a nap and several lazy hours before we could even contemplate our christmas pudding.

Black and white movies and some impromptu music (Lizzy's melodion and fiddle, Ants on drum and me faffing about with tin whistle) made it one of the most laid back Christmases ever... yay.

On the eve of solstice...

As we approach the shortest day, I have a whole new appreciation of why ancient folk so marked the turning of the seasons. After the long days of summer, Britain’s long nights must have surely seemed like the end of the world. With still two days until the solstice, it’s not fully light in the mornings until I reach Oxford’s main street to change buses (around 8am), and if the day is cloudy, it can be fully dark again by 3.30pm.

The upside is that I get to see some fabulous sunrises as my morning bus makes its way past bare fields on the way into town. Yesterday was just such a one – all rosy pink light, with orange tinted clouds streaking a mauve sky. The sun, when it finally rose, was a glowing golden ball and even standing outside, watching it rise over the horizon made me feel warmer. Of course, it didn’t last. It’s now 2pm and the mist that came down at 3 o’clock yesterday still shrouds the carpark outside work. It’s ghostly to drive through, especially now that the trees have lost all their leaves, and their spindly limbs poke through the grey. It’ll be dark in an hour, I reckon. Oh, and the mercury has just peaked for the day… at -3 degrees C.

Melbourne, sweltering in 40oC plus and cloaked in bushfire smoke from fires raging along a 250 kilometre front, seem a long way off indeed….

Party Frocks

The office christmas party turned out to be a black tie do. Fine food, abundant wine and a B&B upstairs. Needless to say, we didn't look quite this glam by 3am...

...And live at 'the X'

Our third gig in a week was a benefit for Amnesty, held at the recently refurbed Exeter Hall in Cowley, organised by a friend of ours. We humbly shared the bill with some of Oxford's most legendary musical talent, including JJ Soul and Mick Henry.

We managed to get through without any major stuffups - actually, we thought we kinda nailed a few things, and one friend, not normally given to sentiment, says we almost made her cry! (Thanks Sal - I think!)




I could get used to this gigging caper...

Joie de Vivre in gay Paree

After our adventures at the General Elliott, I'm sure it'll be no surprise that we slept on the bus to London, and on the train from Waterloo to Paris. The Eurostar takes less than 3 hours door to door, and drops one right in the middle of Paris, at Gare du Nord.

On arrival, I forgot to tell Ants about the gypsies - folk who swarm around the entrance to the station, pestering unsuspecting smokers with mulit-lingual requests for money. I walked straight into them on my first trip here, 11 years ago and, dying for a smoke after 3 hrs on the train, so did Anthony.

Having evaded them without giving away any of our change, we made our way by Metro (the Paris underground) to Montparnasse, a hip cafe district south of the Seine, where we'd found a very cosy little hotel at a stunning price, then headed to the Right Bank to explore.

Paris is stunning, and I fell in love twice this weekend - first with this beautiful city that never seems to sleep, and second with Ants (all over again), as we traipsed through parks and along boulevardes, in and out of cafes and alongside the Seine. Paris truly is a city that never closes - the Champs Elysees was still in full swing at 7pm on a Sunday night - shops open, with throngs of shoppers - adults and kiddies alike - and we scaled the Eiffel Tower (actually, you take a lift) at 10pm. The cafe that we found for supper didn't even begin to get busy until well after 11pm, and the fellow serving us our plates of bread, cheese and saucisson seemed to really appreciate that, although he gave in and helped us order in English, we persisted in trying to ask for things in French.

By far the best value holiday trick we've uncovered on our travels so far is that, on the first Sunday of every month, most of Paris is FREE. The Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, and countless other places that normally charge up to 7 euros (about $A12) each. And in December, even the crowds at the Louvre are manageable. Ants was delighted to find the Mona Lisa (she smiled at him!) although he was peeved that Venus de Milo refused to give him a hug... After all that, paying 11 euro to climb the Eiffel Tower didn't feel to bad - it was our only admission fee for the day! And Paris by night (we went up around 10pm) was a sight to behold...

Monday morning saw us sleep late, wandering down to the famous Les Deux Magots cafe, near St Germain de Pres, renowned for its patronage by Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, Oscar Wilde, Ernest Hemingway and a host of others. The service was impeccable, the food simple but oh so stylish and tasty... Ants platter of rare beef and my hot chocolate were clear highlights!

Another highlight of our day was the awesome Musee du Moyen Age, situated in the remains of the 12th century Cluny Abbey, which is itself built on top of ruined Roman Baths. Oh the swords, the chain mail, the tapestries.... We then had just enough time to wander over to the Ile de la Cite and Notre Dame, (to light a candle for Mikko and send a message of peace to the world on behalf of Anthony's new nephew, Lachlan), visit a patisserie and collect souvenirs (a tshirt from our fave cafe for Ants, and a jaunty hat for me) before it was time to board the train home.

I'm so proud of my fella - he coped amazingly with his first taste of a non-English speaking country, which can be exhausting. We've come back hungry for more... time to start saving the pennies.

Live at the 'General'...

The worldwide debut of 'antipodean folk duo... Eclipse!' came sooner than we thought.

Here we are at the General Elliott hotel in South Hinksey, on December 1. Our mate JT is a legend for asking us to join him and our friends Alan and Julie (from a stylish 5 piece outfit called Opaque) at this folk night as part of the pub's beer festival. We played for about 45 minutes, and apart for a lyrical screwup invovling smoking a horse (yes, it was Star of the County Down!), and some bollocks in the Foggy Dew, we were pleased. We were utterly stoked that so many of our Oxford music mates came down and John the publican - or 'landlord' as they're known here - seemed to take a shine to us, asking us to please come back for a gig sometime. Certainly Ants took a shine to the 15 or so festival ales they had on tap...

The following night it was our turn to lend moral support, and a guest vocal or two, when Strange Vintage took the stage... although I wished we'd indulged in a little less Dutch Courage when the time came to haul ourselves out of bed to get a bus to London and a train to Paris... more on THAT adventure soon!

Rugby double header

Spent the morning helping my new workchum, Lynne, move house. follwoed by a massive double header - Australia vs Scotland and NZ vs Wales - at rugby.

Lynne, who grew up in Inverness and informs me that she is usually teetotal, knocked back a patriotic pair of single malts, but it did nothing to help her team's fortunes. The Kiwis steamrollered the Welsh - the Allblacks are well nigh unstoppable at the moment, and folk in the pub are starting to say that we might as well all hand over the World Cup now and go to the Bahamas...

Throw in the Aussie's win in the first Ashes test and it's been not a bad weekend for antipodaean sport, really.

Stonehenge to Southampton

W've just come back from a weekend of touring some really old bits of southern England - I took Anthony to see Stonehenge, the Roman baths at Bath, and the 3000 yr old white 'chalk horse' on a hillside at Uffington, on the edge of Oxfordshire.

He was suitably impressed, as well he might be... but what really floated his boat (sorry!!) was our random detour to the historical ships at the Naval dockyards down in Portsmouth.

We started with the HMS Victory - Nelson's ship during the battle of Trafalgar - which is still a commissioned and staffed military vessel! (Although she is in dry dock...) She seems huge - til you think of her three decks stacked with 800 crew, all sweating and stewing together from months at a time. No wonder men had to be press-ganged to serve...

No pix allowed on board this naval veteran, but our guide gives a riveting account of Victory's most famous battle, from the moment Horatio signalled his fleet: "England expects every man to do his duty", to the twin catastrophes marked by tiny brass plaques.

Here Nelson Fell.

Here Nelson Died.

What we wanted to see most of all though, was a lady only lately raised from her watery grave. The Mary Rose - Henry VIIIs flagship, named for his younger sister, which sank in 1500-something, is held in near darkness, her timbers sprayed for weeks on end with a waxy substance that will preserve them and enable folk to enjoy her in years to come. Eery.

Better yet, in salvaging her, she's been made to disgorge her treasures, now on display just yards from the a museum that displays the stuff found on board - everything from boots, games and clothing to 160lb longbows - some of which can still fire arrows! Not bad after centuries underwater.

It was only after we'd left that Anthony realised that he hadn't actually taken any photos of the bows... or the arrows.

Guess we'll have to go back then...

Jailbirds, submariners, exempt from smoking ban...

One of the most confronting things about living in England is that smoking is still permitted pretty much everywhere - in restaurants, shopping centres and, of course, in Ye Olde Poorlye Ventilated pubs.

Coming from Melbourne, where smoking was banned in restaurants and cafes years ago, seeing an ashtray on a restaurant table in Brixton was actually quite a shock.

In Ireland and Scotland, they've banned smoking in all public places, and England is set to follow suit next year, with bans for all pubs restaurants, train stations and workplaces... unless you happen to work in certain key industries where smoking is, apparently, still okay...adult care homes, hospices, prisons ... and submarines. Go figure.

Introducing... Eclipse!

Ever since the lovely Anthony arrived here 4 weeks ago, we've been busily throwing ourselves into Oxford's vibrant live music scene.

Anthony's talent with the bodhrain (irish drum) has drawn huge praise - he'd only been in town a week when, on joining him for a pint at Joe Ryan's Most Excellent Half Moon, I found him deep in conversation with three of Oxford most seasoned folk and blues veterans, whom I'd at best met in passing.

So we're singing at sessions a couple of times a week and have even been asked to do our first gig together! So we will be playing a slot at a benefit event for Amnesty in December. Allow me to introduce Oxford's newest acapella folk duo - Eclipse.

I've also scored another gig, working up a couple of numbers with my friends Guy, Sal and Barney, who together make up Strange Vintage. Guy would be the selfsame Guy Pearce with whom I made my gigging debut back in August, at the Marlborough House. He is also responsible for a moderate hangover today... not ideal for a Tuesday.

The world according to Tolkein

I watched the first Lord of the Rings movie (again!) on the idiot box on Sunday. I don't do much TV, so this was significant.

My life experience of Tolkien's series now looks like this:
-Swordfighting with my chums outside cinemas all over Melbourne in return for free tickets to the movies on their opening days.
- Touring through southern NZ with the lovely Anthony past the 'plains of Rohan', Milford Sound and several of the rivers used in the film. My nearly-brother-in-law Scott was actually in the films as an extra - he has pix of himself dressed as an Orc, an Elf and a rider of Rohan.
- Copious ciders in the Eagle and Child, the pub where Tolkien, CS Lewis and other literary legends used to skive off work on Tuesday to work on their childrens stories.
- Still haven't finished reading the book. D'oh.

A Warwick, a Warwick...

Warwick castle is reputed to be one of the best pieces of castle entertainment outside London. It's also just an hour from Oxford (as so many things are - lucky us!), so Ants and I hopped a train this morning and took ourselves up to see it.

It's VERY touristy, and cost a bomb, but I have to say it was worth every penny... The grounds are massive, even though they're right in the centre of town, and still walled in as they would have been in days of old. Walking in via the pedestrian entrance, we made our way along a steep winding path that might once have been a coach road in... certainly the moment when you round a bend and see the castle in all its grandeur is designed to impress, and could have come straight from a Philippa Gregory novel.

Said to have been first built by Alfred the Great, Warwick has seldom been a royal palace (except when it was confiscated after the fall of the Plantagenets and the demise of Dudleys in Elizabethan times). As it's been used almost continuously as a residence, there it's been continuously meddled-with and remeddled-with, but you can still follow the evolution of the place through the centuries. The towers are still lofty, the dungeon and torture exhibits chillingly creepy and the trebuchet (apparently the world's largest), really impressive, even at a distance. If the 'Kingmaker' history feels a little contrived, the waxworks by Madame Tussauds (who run the palace now), do a wicked job of bringing workchambers and stables to life.

The Kingmaker, by the way, is a big deal up here. The 16th Earl of Warwick - who won his title by marrying a chick who wasn't allowed to hold it in her own right - was a descendent of the house of York and is said to have been influential in swinging the crown from the red rose of the Lancastrians to the white rose of York. Later, he changed his mind and, such was his influence (he was the wealthiest man in britain, outside the immediate royal family, at the time) that he succeeded in bringing down Edward IV (over a woman, what else!, and having first beheaded the King's father in law) and restored Henry VI to the throne in 1470. The whole gory story isn't terribly well explained at the castle - I've borrowed once again from Wikipedia for this entry! - or maybe I just have a lot still to learn about this period of history...

We watched a pale wintry sun set from the top of the battlements and I defy anyone to find such a moment lacking in romance or beauty (except for the fact that it was only 4.30pm at the time!). We're contemplating making a return journey for one of their Kingmaker feasts... apparently friends of our from the Half Moon occasionally feature in the cast...

Harold vs William: the big game

Top of our ‘must-do’ list on this trip has been the battle of Hastings re-enactment. Held on the 940th anniversary of the big day, this was an amazing weekend - by far the biggest even I’ve ever been part of – or probably will ever be. 3000 or so re-enactors, about a third of them in the historically accurate ‘authenti-camp’, dozens of market stalls, a capacity crowd of 12,000 on both Saturday and Sunday to see the show. Highlights? Watching (and hearing!) 110 Norman cavalry in full armour thunder up the rise toward the Saxon line, standing with 150 archers firing volley after volley in unison at the Saxon centre towards the end of the battle, the organic cider in the beer tent, the hearty meals in pubs in Battle (yes, of course we went in period dress!), the all night singalong with the lads and lasses from Valhalla …

As always, it’s the people that make an event like this – it was amazing to see so many familiar faces when we’re so far from home (expecially after 8 months away!) – clan Dunn, Eggy and all the rest of the lads from Melbourne, Sydney and even Perth! Perhaps the most special memories though, are of the many and varied new faces… our archery commanders Dave (“I don’t do rousing battlefield speeches – blah blah blah!”) and Goose (‘British by birth, Welsh by the grace of the gods!”); the mad Frenchman from Normandie who insisted on sharing his home distilled calvados (which tasted so like paint stripper that even he told us to put it under the tongue, so as not to taste it); Sophie and the other Bretons on the Norman left, who were in our archery contingent and who taught me to speak ‘battle french’; the mad Icelandic guy who was really confused when I answered his finnish questions… in finnish!; Chinky from York; and most especially, Ian the farmer who owned the field we were camped in, and who turned some of his pigs into a mountain of sausages and spent most of the weekend cooking egg,bacon and sausage sarnies for hungry re-enactors…

Best of all, Ants was here!

Naturally, there are loads of online weblogs with pix. I still haven’t managed to get mine out of the camera, but will post another link once I get them into flickr.

http://www.angelfire.com/mb2/battle_hastings_1066/hastings2006.html

http://www.alexmcneill.myzen.co.uk/hastings/

http://s100.photobucket.com/albums/m40/elizia25000bc/
http://s114.photobucket.com/albums/n249/jarlsoe/Hastings%202006/?start=0

http://good-times.webshots.com/album/554873891eaIUbh

http://www.bbc.co.uk/southerncounties/content/image_galleries/hastings_battle_gallery.shtml

The big game (2)

Word for today - tephrochronology

Since my punting adventures, I’ve taken to having the occasional after-work pint with some of the Oxford Uni Centre for the Environment crew, courtesy of an invitation from Simon-The-Wet-Punter. Most of them are archaeologists – not surprising, since Simon is one himself.

Actually, he’s a Tephrochronologist – someone who works out the history of volcanoes (and climate change, and other climatic stuff) by studying layers of dead volcano ash. Cool huh? Anyway, for a bunch of science boffins, they make surprisingly brilliant conversation. Take these excerpts from a single evening session.,“You can’t say that to me - I’m an early bronze age metallurgist!” or “You remember Phil, Professor, he once sat next to you in a dress” and the diamond of them all: “Aaah yes, another brilliant dead archaeologist, ruined by Canberra”…

It’s not every day a girl gets called a goddess…

And even when it comes from a pissed bloke who’s about to fall over a table, I still think it counts.

How did such a thing come to pass? Well, you'll remember that I found an open mike night courtesy of Charlie and Ed-the-Aberdonian. After much mustering of courage (aided by a few pints), I've started doind unaccompanied stuff, braving the use of a mike for the first time ever... and last week, by some total fluke, I won!

My prize was my very own gig the following Friday - my first ever. Aided by my very talented chum Guy Pearce, (12string, vocals, sound guru – and looks fab in high heels and hotpants – oops, sorry, wrong Guy Pearce…) we made our way through 2 x 45 minute sets of classic rock and new stuff, a little bit o’ soul, and a whole lotta laughs. Guy is a sound engineer by profession and managed to make even me sound good, and I had so much fun!

Apparently, I’ve been asked to have another crack this weekend, supporting Pete (aka Trigger) who won this week… watch this space.

Black is the colour indeed, today...

Every so often, the Universe graces us with the presence of a perpetually cheery, lively, generously giving soul. My friend Ciarra, who died in a motorcycle accident in County Kildare on Monday night, was one such soul. Regulars on this blog may recall my St Patrick's day antics back in March - Ciarra was the feisty Irish lass who took me out to some of the best pubs and sessions, ensured I was well supplied with ciders, and later tipped me into a spare bed in her granny's house, with a post-it note on the door to warn Nana Norah that the house had company. When Anthony and I went back to Dublin in May, she was still asking for help to sing 'black is the colour', because she never could remember the words. I don't think I'll ever listen to those lyrics again without hearing her clear, lilting voice, warbling over the high notes when the hour was late. It's one of life's horrible truths that we often don't stop to consider what matters in life until part of it goes missing. I realised, as I bawled my eyes out on the bus home yesterday, that I've never heard Ciarra say a word against anyone. I know that couldn't be said of me. Perhaps it's time I try to make it so. My grandfather used to say that no-one is truly dead while they are loved and remembered by even one person who knew them. Ciarra, in her short 26 years, shone her sunny disposition into hundreds of lives, and those memories will never leave us. That doesn't help with the sense of 'gone-ness' just yet, but in time, I think, her spirited cheer will be a good thing to try to carry forward in the world.

A proper stone and bronze age weekend

I love bank holiday* weekends - especially the ones that fall during good weather. The fact that everyone else does too and so the roads are chockers with cars takes the shine off things a little, but if you get the girls to come up to Oxford on Friday night (so you can all go to the pub) and pick up your hire car first thing Saturday morning, you miss the ugly traffic and reach Bath in about an hour.

Bath is famous for two things. First, the Roman Baths are there. And they are magnificent. it's hard to believe that up until less than 200 years ago they were completely unknown and forgotten, buried beneath up to 6 metres of detritus. (It really is amazing to see how much 'street level' rises over time - Bath and York are two of the most classic examples).

And the baths themselves are stunning. Carefully preserved and partly reconstructed, the baths complex includes the remains of a temple to Minerva Sulis (the Roman/Saxon hybrid goddess of water - the romans were good at deity hybrids, it made it easier for the people they conquered to accept their rule, because the gods seemed nearly the same), a forecourt and the massive bath-house itself, which by the time it fell into ruin boasted male and female wings, a royal bathing pool and the massive central bath, all fed by one of Britain's only hot springs. The engineering is largely intact - you can see lead pipes joined with massive welds, huge hollow bricks to conduct heat or give strength to arches, and hypocausts - I never understood Roman underfloor heating before. Now I do. This was worth every penny of the 10 quid entrance fee. Really.

The second famous aspect of Bath is its Georgian gorgeousness - the architecture is everywhere and it's really very pretty, although it does lend an air of exclusivity and poshness that more homey, less homogenous places like Oxford or St Albans manage to escape. I was less thrilled with this bit, although Nic and Lara my travelling mates were rather taken with it. I was also less than taken with our accommodation (which, sadly, I had chosen) - by far the least friendly, most crowded hostel I've come across so far in the UK - so I won't name it here. In hindsight, given that we had the car, we'd have been better off in a B&B outside town - cos we also got a parking ticket!

(*'Bank holiday' is english for 'public holiday', so a bank holiday weekend is a long weekend)

The henges of Salisbury Plain

However, Bath was just the first step in our long weekend journey through ancient britain. Bright and early on the Sunday morning, we hightailed it down to Stonehenge.

These are some of the most famous bluestones in the world, and yet nobody knows what they were for. No huge surprises there - the folk wh0 built them died thousands of years ago (Stonehenge is as old as the pyramids in Egypt) and unlike the Egyptians, these folk left precious little in the way of written records to help enlighten us. The folk we spoke to on the day think there's a connection with Woodhenge, a series of concentric post hole rings a few miles distant - and Durrington Wells, on the next hill- where to my very great delight, there was an archaeological dig in progress and an open day, complete with recreations of what the neolithic homes being excavated might have looked like.

The best bit, though, was the look on our Kiwi companion Lara's face as the penny dropped, and history started to become about real people for the first time. In just 2 days she evolved from 'How do you know that's an arrow head and not just a piece of flaky rock' to stuff like 'do you think that pottery would be roman, because it's red' and 'so they might have used that for....'

Our next ancient stop was Avebury, on the road home. This massive stone circle, which takes a good half hour to walk around, passes through parts of Avebury village, and is completely accessible anywhere, any time. And, again, we know almost absolutely nothing about why its there. There is, however, an excellent museum that details leading theories on the matter, what we know about people from neolithic times, and a history of the archaeology of the site. And, once again, Lara went nuts trying to work out stuff.

Last but not least, on our way back to Oxford on Monday, we stopped at the Uffington Chalk Horse. I'd seen signs to it when out and about on a work trip, and Nicola wanted to see a chalk horse. Who knew that ours would turn out to be the oldest in Britain? Right here in Oxfordshire.

Lucky we didn't pick any of the other ones - a good many of them are 18th and 19th century 'follies', put in by bored aristocrats who wanted to make their mark, literally, on the landscape. This one, with its abstract design that has virtually not changed in 3000 years, is cool. Oh, and just next to it is the hill said to be where St George (who wasn't actually English, but Greek!) slew the dragon. You can see where the dragon's blood fell on the earth - nothing grows in the tearshaped spot on the hill with an unnaturally flat top.

Not a bad weekend's sightseeing - and we all felt afterwards we didn't even feel terribly rushed. Nice.

The Asian supermarket that smells like home...

In England, ‘Asian food’ means one of two things – takeaway Chinese (usually wet curry, sweet and sour or blackbean with fried rice, or more likely, chips!), or Indian. Occasionally you see Thai. You can often buy small bottles of soy in Tesco. But that's about it. So, just like in my Seymour days, I’ve been having cravings for Vietnamese rice paper rolls.

One of the reasons I love Cowley Rd in Oxford is the diversity of food – I can get Thai, Indonesian, Japanese, and good Chinese all 5 minutes from my house, not to mention Jamaican, Polish, Greek, Czech, Spanish and proper pizza, as well as abundant pub fare.

But I’ve been trawling through supermarkets and even ‘Asian’ grocers to buy ingredients for home, and always without success, even in London. Finally, I started asking at my local takeaway Asian joints – and they all pointed me to one place, a Chinese grocer between Gloucester Green and the train station. I took my pal Di and we went exploring. I walked in and was assailed with smells of Chinatown.. and home. We went slightly mad rummaging through shelves and fridges, and came away with things I haven’t seen in months – laksa paste, wonton wrappers, pork and leek dumplings; Thai fishcakes, marinated tofu; Chinese sausage, bok choi, pak choi. They even stock chicken’s feet (not my thing, but very Chinese).

And, best of all, wrappers for Vietnamese rice paper rolls. I’m in heaven. And I love Oxford.

Punting Style

Of all the quirky pasttimes in Oxford, there's nothing to beat punting (except, maybe, those nutters that jump off the Magdalene bridge into 6 inches of water every May Day...).

It seems to be a uni thing - Cambridgians are mad punters as well. There are even rival styles of punting - and heaven help the poor souls that dare to punt 'Cambridge style' when in Oxford... even the well-bred amongst the English are inclined to laugh and point.

But what IS punting?

Punting is the art of putting 6 people, some wine and cheese (and Elk salami, if one has any handy) into a long skinny boat, called a punt. One brave soul stands at the back (if in Oxford, in the front if in Cambridge) carrying a pole - better known to our boat as a 'punting stick', and uses the punting stick to propel the boat up and down the shallow river. Gondola style, if you will, but without the gorgeous italian arias, or vistas of Venice.

Some work chums and I had a crack at it on Friday, taking to the Cherwell, which runs into the Thames. What a laugh!

Punting is actually quite hard work, and punters acquire a range of styles to keep the boat moving forward and the punting stick from getting stuck in the mud. The lovely Simon, who kindly procured our punt from the Oxford college where he works (staff perk - he pays 5 quid a year for free punt hire) freely professes to have a 'wet' punting style - one that covers himself and anyone sitting directly in front of him in water running from the punting stick as it is pulled from the water. I was glad I brought a mac. My friends Hannah, Stella and I were all decreed to have a 'dry' punting style, meaning that most people didn't get very splashed most of the time. We managed to keep the cheese, biccies and salami dry too, and kept Simon well supplied with food and wine as he propelled us along the river.

Not sure why the wet punting guy had to do most of the work, but it worked fine... right up until he took the whole 'wet punting' thing one level too many.... yes dear reader, he fell in. Sadly, the rest of us had all gone to the pub by that point, so not only were we deprived of his and Stella's company at the bar, we never even got a chance to laugh and point.

Never mind - there's always next time...

Oxford's musical underbelly

I like this place better and better the more I stay here. It's gorgeous, the food is good, the pubs are fantastic, the history is world class. There's a very famous uni here and I can be a complete academic wanker.

It's friendly, and the uncanniest things happen here. As part of my 'Gods, I've been here three months and I still haven't seen ANY of Oxford' epiphany, I've started taking myself around to some of Oxford's more famous pubs.

A couple of days ago I found a most Hallowed Turf indeed... the Turf Tavern does hard-to-find-down-little-laneways, low ceilings and a massive range of stuff on tap all with infinite flair. I was famished, so I ordered chips and headed for the beer garden. Surprise - there were no tables. So I asked a couple of harmless looking older geezers if they'd mind if I sat at the far end of their table, and they obligingly welcomed me into a seat.

After a bit one of them went to the gents so his mate started making polite conversation with me. By the time gent no. 1 returned, I knew his name was Ed and he was from Aberdeen, and that he and his mate Charlie, to whom I'd been chatting, were a pair of recreational folkies from wayback. They put me in touch with a pub called the Marlborough, which runs an open mike on Wednesdays and they were planning to play. Well, Charlie was. So last Wednesday I rocked up, and there they were. They fairly obviously don't get a chance to practice much together - after all, it's a long hike from Aberdeen to Oxford - but they were charming and I also got to meet some of the folk that run the session - some very muso types named Guy and Sal and a half-Brit, half-German wannabe-Aussie named Barney who lives next door to the pub - with his mum. Quirky but interesting. He's a huge wine buff and very into music and rather like what I imagine the evil twin brother of my Dublin pal Jonathan might be like...

Be that as it may, I now technically have friends in Oxford (other than my work chums). And I owe a special thanks to Barnes for introducing me to two haunts literally on my doorstep that, to my shame, I hadn't managed to find for myself.

The first is the KazBar - a moroccan/spanish themed tapas joint that does free tapas with your first drink until 7pm... and at £2.60 for a proper amontillado, it's hard to beat!

The second is a pub called the half moon. I've heard lots of musicky people talk about it - Barney included, he reckons its where the hardcore folkies hang out - and have only just realised that it's about 200 metres from my house. I ducked in on Sunday evening to try to catch their session... and at 8.30pm was horrified to find the place empty. Having strode in boldly, I felt like a right dill just walking out again, so I ordered a pint ... and watched a trickle of incoming guitar and fiddle cases become a stream. By 10pm the place was packed - and it was then that I learned that this place is reputed to have a licence til 3am...

I am SO coming back here... if only sessions weren't on a school night!

Rakas Mikko

He was afraid it would be a cold stone crypt, but Mikko's ashes lie in the earth, beneath a shady tree on a quiet hillside on the edge of the cemetary outside Vihti, about an hour from Helsinki by train. Antti met Charles and I and drove us up a winding road from the village, and we all sat with him for an hour or so. He would have preferred to be scattered on the sea, but it's peaceful here, and feels like a place where spirits can be free.

Kiitos, Annti, Anna ja Chaals, for a beautiful, soulful day and evening.

Heathrow to Helsinki....

Yes, despite flight chaos at Heathrow on Saturday morning (caused by my first UK terrorist alert), I have boarded a plane to Helsinki for five days, and arrived with both my person, and my luggage, intact. (Rest assured, mother dear, that the Finns are not high on the priority list of terrorists, and I am flying with Finnair).

As we stood patiently in our even-longer-than-usual queues, there were lots of jokes about the terrorists all laughing at us, carrying our little clear plastic bags with wallet, passport, keys, my glasses (without their case). I had to throw away a lip salve because it wasn't prescription medicine. I had already packed my pens and papers away, just as well as they're banned too. So no last minute cramming to dust off my rusty finnish. Am managing okay so far, although my accent has gone to shite... must see if I can remedy that. English is widely spoken, however much I hate relying on it.

Helsinki in summer is beautiful - when I've come here before (in winter both times) we've emerged through thick grey clouds to a vision of thick fog and blankets of snow, only the slate grey roads and occasional green-black forests breaking up the otherwise featureless landscape.
Today we descended through fluffy white pillows in brilliant sunshine above a land of green trees, slaty blue lakes and fields full of golden yellow crops ready for harvest.

The first thing I notice as I make my way to my hostel (the fabulously homelike and now very familiar Erottajanpuisto on Uudenmankatu) is that everything in Helsinki feels much closer than it used to. Then it dawns on me - I'm not picking my way from cobbles to kerb, afraid of slipping on ice, dodging crowds of likeminded other careful folk, and being buffeted by zillion-knot winds.

The next thing is that everywhere is so green. Far too nice to be inside, so as soon as I dumped my bags and changed into shorts, out I went again.

First stop was the town market square, or kauppatori, and a reindeer kebab for lunch. The outdoor market here is fantastic too - another first for me and Helsinki. I've already spent too much money, but this is Helsinki, after all, and it's nearly 4 years since I was here last. Amazingly, very little has changed - other than the seasons. The people here are a soulful as ever too, but more about that in a little while....

Miss, Ms, Mrs....

I’m struggling a bit with the English need to pidgeonhole everyone, and the persistence of that quaint tradition of unmarried women being called “Miss” (even if they’re 36, like one of my colleagues!), and married women insisting on becoming “Mrs Husbandsname”. Men become “Mr” as soon as they’re adults, regardless of marital status.

Yet it’s apparently important for everyone to know whether a woman is hitched. Why? So blokes know whether they can hit on her with impunity?

It all just smacks a wee too much of patriarchy, and a tendency to still regard women as chattels and objects of desire who somehow don’t have a right of refusal. In a nation where ‘tits out for the lads’ is a national dress standard that women accept and men expect, it makes me slightly queasy. Apparently in the UK there’s even a different tax rate for married women!

I’ve been Ms Georgina Myownname since I was 16, through boyfriends singledom, marriage, separation, widowhood and engagement. The lovely Anthony is my great love in life, and he brings a million kinds of happiness into my world. But I don’t need me to give me his name in order to appreciate that.

Jean-Luc Picard plays Prospero...

London may have the replica 'Globe' theatre, but nowhere does The Bard quite like Stratford Upon Avon. And we tourists flock in throngs to see the 'official' (and very picturesque) Shakespearean properties: 'the Birthplace'; the home of his mother, Mary Arden; and Anne Hathaway's cottage. (Anne Hathaway was Shakespeare's long-suffering and little mentioned wife, who was seriously dudded in his will, receiving only 'my second best bed'...).

My nearly-sister-in-law Nicola had the genius idea of hiring bicycles to get around the outlying places, which were up to 4 miles from town. At least, it was genius for me, because I rode lots at home. Nic, however, hadn't been on a bike in nearly 15 years, and was very brave about the ensuing saddle soreness. Undaunted, we braved the mad traffic on the Avon river and hired a rowboat on the Sunday afternoon, which we both did okay at. Nic's rowing experiences in highschool definitely showed - she was lots faster than I was. But then, I wasn't the one that ran into the bridge...

But the best bit was going to see a play. Not just any play. And not just any players. Stratford is the home of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre Company. We scored tickets to The Tempest. And Patrick Stewart (yes, of star trek fame) played Prospero! Unbeknownst to most people outside England, Patrick Stewart was a Shakespearean stage star long before he was a cult hero - he was a RSTC regular for nearly 20 years. Famous players aside, this was probably the most polished stage performance I have ever seen. Every gorgeous detail of sight and sound, staging and spoken word - just gorgeous.

Nic and I were so inspired we both went out and bought Shakespeare's complete works. I'm still only up to Sonnet 23....

Boats, bikes and the Bard, in pictures

Above: Shakespeare's tomb and below: the Royal Shakespeare Theatre Company

Above - rowing, not swimming and below: Anne Hathaway's house

Verulamium and the tomb of St Alban

In Roman times, Verulamium was the third largest and most important city in Britain after Londinium (London) and Camulodinum (Colchester). This bustling metropolis of 8000 people suffered a brutal sacking at the hands of Boudicca and her Iceni kinsmen* although plenty of ruins still stand, including a rather impressive amphitheatre.

It was later the site at which Alban, England's first Christian martyr, was put to death. The great cathedral founded here is in great nick, its shrines all restored and gleaming and full of artefacts and stories from days of old.

Apparently it also contains secret underground passageways running under a park to the local pub, Ye Old Fighting Cocks, which is one of several dozen claiming to be the oldest pub in Britain. Cromwell hid here during the Civil War.

Nowadays, St Albans is just another grotty city/suburb on London's fringe, but these gems are well worth poking around for on a day trip...

*The moral of this story is that if you're going to invade someone's country, beat her up and rape her daughters, don't pick the charismatic, newly widowed leader with 70,000 of her friends and family in tow to help her take revenge.... cos she'll be well pissed off, I can tell you.

It's getting hot in here...

Ahhh, global warming, you've got to love it.

England has made global headlines this week after the temperature hit 37oC, the highest ever July temperature. This country just is not set up for >30 degree days -There's just not the ventilation that we're used to, because most buildings and vehicles are designed to keep the heat IN, not let it out. Locally, there have been articles with horror headlines like "44oC on the Tube: 53oC on a bus".

However, as the sole antipodean in my office, I'm loving it!

All about Oxford...

Hmm, I've been far too slack about updating this - I blame the fact that I have a new job, new home and a whole new city and county to explore! Some readers may remember that, when I left Aus, I hoped to find work in energy/greenhouse management, live somewhere gorgeous and historic and outside London, and maybe get stuck into some live music stuff. So far, I'm three from three!!

After 7 weeks, I finally feel like I'm finding my feet in the new job - I'm working for a government-funded NGO providing energy efficiency advice to companies. For the energy geeks, there are some major differences between Aus and the UK - their power, being part nuclear, only produces about 1/3 as much greenhouse gas as in Victoria and natural gas is nowhere near as commonly used as heating oil. The usage profile is different too - where heating and cooling takes up about 35% of energy use in an Aussie home, here in chilly Britain it's a massive 60%! Massive energy price hikes (some companies have seen their gas bill treble in 2 years) mean that energy saving measures pay for themselves faster. And inexplicably, there's way more interest in wind and solar power than at home. Who'da thunk it?! My big challenge though will be to get my head around co-generation (they call it Combined Heat and Power, or CHP, here)

There's the usual bureaucratic joy, and the occasional mad manager, but the lads and lasses I work with are hilarious fun, good for a pint (or five) after work, and have made me feel most welcome. Plus, having a job that is very strictly 9am-5.30pm (with an hour at the pub for lunch) means I can have a life...

Oxford also apparently has an amazing live music scene, which I must get into. Not only is this Radiohead territory, but apparently it's also renowned for folk stuff, which is also close to my heart. If only one knew where to find it... there are apparently a couple of hundred pubs in Oxford, and it will take some time to check them all out...

I'm eating out a lot. Oxford is wickedly good for cheap ethnic food - my street boasts spanish, italian, polish, japanese, chinese, and indonesian, as well as a choice selection of at least 7 pubs within a 3 minute walk from my door!

The history of this place is phenomenal too, and I'm dying to get myself into Oxford Castle, Christ Church, Blackwell's Books (spread over 5 storeys!) and the Bodleian library, just for starters! More about THAT soon.....

Ye olde village of Eynsham

I started my new job last week. My new employer is based 6 miles outside Oxford, on the outskirts of a little village called Eynsham. This is Eynsham.

You'd never guess it, but Eynsham was, in centuries gone by, bigger than Oxford. Before Henry VIII built the cathedral at Christ Church, St Frideswide's church in Oxford was just a humble local parish. The bishopric resided in Eynsham, and thus, so did all the power, the trade and the big boys with money.

Today, Eynsham boasts a fine church and a paved market square, that would be just about the same floor area as my house...

Yes, that's a thatched cottage in the foreground. The pub in the background (the Swan) is where the work crew winds down after a day's work, usually in a stone walled, grassy little groto that we've dubbed 'the secret garden'.

And oh yes, this is the main street. No, two cars cannot pass one another in opposite directions without one of them pulling in to give way. Rumour has it that Stagecoach, the local bus company, would dearly love to introduce new, lower floor buses on the route through town and out to Carterton, but the new buses are 4 inches wider than the old buses.... and they wouldn't fit down the road without clipping cars or stone houses.

My office? My office is my daily irony. You see, Eynsham is surrounded by modern industrial parks. I work not in a diamond paned cottage, but a black glass megalith just outside town. But the walk from there to the bus is lovely...

Making environment part of business making decisions (Warning "Energy Nerd" alert)

It's finally happened - the major insurers of the world have started giving insurance premium discounts to people who drive low-greenhouse emitting cars.

The theory goes that insurance companies are the ones who have to pay up after hurricanes, droughts, bushfires, wild storms and flooding, all of which are set to increase as climate change takes hold. So people who do their bit reduce the risk of these problems, and get charged less accordingly. Apparently they (okay, technically 'we', until my little Pulsar gets sold) also drive less and are considered less of an accident/theft risk. Hurrah!

For the record, anyone who still thinks that 'global warming' means everything just gets warmer, and that this wouldn't be so bad (especially in England), consider this - 2 degrees "average" increase is enough to kill most of the Great Barrier reef. The last Ice Age was triggered by average temperatures just 5 degrees colder than now. And temperatures could rise by up to 7 degrees by 2100. Do you really need to drive to the shops to get milk?

Another kick in the shins for global corporate power...

I bought The Big Issue recently (yes, Melburnites, it's sold over here too, for £1.40, or about $A3.50) for its article on the new Robert Greenwald doco: "Walmart: the high cost of low prices". Apparently this bloke has caused such a stir that there's even a section of the Walmart website called "Robert Greenwald: The High cost of Low Credibility".

I have to confess though, I couldn't find it when I went looking at www.walmart.com. What I did find, though, was that when you click on the "Staff benefits" page for employees, you get a "This page may have been removed" message. Interesting, when you consider that the documentary discusses claims that full time staff are so poorly paid that they qualify for state- funded health benefits, and thousands of American women have launched the worlds largest ever sexual discrimination class action against the company (alleging they were routinely paid less than male counterparts, and expected to attend 'team meetings' at topless bars).

"I'm going to paraphrase slightly," says Greenwald, "but of the 30 largest econmies in the world, 15 of them are private corporations, and only 15 of them are nation states." If only kicks in the shins like this would trigger more of a 'kick in the goolies' reaction...

Oxford restaurants do BYO!!!

My first night in Oxford, and my housemate Gavin invited me to join his mates for a game of pool and a curry. The Indian place we went to not only does a brilliant 6-dish banquet for a tenner ($A25) but IT’S BYO. If you’re reading this and live in Melbourne, you probably think ‘so?’ And if you’re anywhere else, you’re probably thinking ‘what’s that then?’. The Melbourne tradition of Bring Your Own, which usually only applies to wine these days, but used to cover all booze, has always drawn a blank stare from restaurateurs and diners whenever I’ve asked, wherever I go. Until now. Not only did we only pay 5 quid for the wine, they don’t even charge corkage. The food rocked too! I’m going there again!

From London to Oxford - via the Tower, the Globe and Hampton Court

A sleepless night at the airport and a teary farewell saw Anthony head back to Melbourne, to start packing his bags and start planning to join me in Oxford.

Yes, I'm moving - I've taken a job providing energy efficiency/greenhouse gas reduction advice to industry. And it's based in Oxford.

I'm a little relieved to be leaving London behind. Despite all the kindnesses of Sarah, Mark, Julia and Alex, I'm not ready to live in a city of 20 million people where the water tastes like poop (with good reason!).

Moving means I had just a week to see as much as possible of the stuff I haven't yet... May I suggest that no-one should try to climb St Paul's Cathedral (500+ steps) and the Great Fire Monument (280-soemthing steps) in one day. Because then, when one tries to tour the Tower of London the next day, one's legs are stuffed.

However, the Tower of London is, in my opinion, the most spectacular of England's historic sites, and so giving up was not an option. Nothing has brought history to life quite like this. Not so much a single tower as a collection of 35 of them (I think), linked by walls and living quarters, this massive ediface had somewhat humble beginnings when William the Conqueror built a single square keep of 4 floors, entered by an earth ramp/staircase from the second floor (the ground floor having no doors). It stands still in the centre of the castle, known now as the White Tower, housing the Royal Armouries.

The walls and towers surrounding it are the stuff of legend. Here stands Traitor's Gate, where a young Elizabeth I was brought (in the Cate Blanchett movie version, at least), to answer to her sister, Queen Mary. Here the tower where Sir Walter Raleigh was imprisoned (twice), and the young princes, Edward V of England and his brother Richard of Shrewsbury, aged 12 and 10, reputedly held and later buried - perhaps at the behest of their uncle Richard of Gloucester (who thereby became Richard III). There the green where Anne Boelyn was beheaded.

Perhaps most spectacular though are the Beefeaters - those guards who, despite their jolly demeanour, represent the pinnacle of British military service. I asked one what it takes to join his brethren: "a minimum of 22 years of military service with an exceptional service record, attaining at least the rank of Sergeant-Major, just to apply. Applicants are then examined for ability to entertain the public and lead tour groups, as well as secure Her Majesty's most famous royal property". Hmmm, not in my lifetime, then...

Hampton Court Palace was a whole different visual feast. This sprawling masterpiece was started by Cardinal Wolsey, chief advisor to Henry VIII, and like so much of Wolsey's work, taken over by Henry when the good cardinal fell from favour after refusing to divorce the King from his first wife, Catherine of Aragon. Little remains from Big Henry's time, although his Great Hall - which even with seating for 500, was too small to feed all his staff at one sitting - and nearby reception rooms have been recently restored. The Chapel Royal is larger than many village churches and the kitchens have to be seen to be believed. Yes, I bought another recipe book.

Last but not least on my list was a tour of 'Shakespeare's Globe', a reconstruction of the original from surviving fragments and texts, located "probably not far" from where Will Shakespeare's primary playhouse once stood. The new Globe is the first building in London, since the fire of 1666, to be allowed a thatched roof. Almost totally privately funded, its forecourt is littered with the names of prominent actors who, led by Sam Wanamaker, couldn't believe that London had nothing to honour one of its most famous literary periods.

This day, our tour included a sneak peek at the cast of Titus Andronicus in rehearsal - happily, we arrived just AFTER they finished the scene where the chief nemesis is fed her children, baked in a pie (I had nightmares after seeing Anthony Hopkins in the title role). To be allowed to watch the final scenes being choreographed, changed and totally subverted with silliness on the part of actors at the end of a long day, was something special.

By the time I came to pack my bags for Oxford, I was knackered, but happy.
The purely 'holiday' part of my trip is over - but what an amazing 3 months it's been. I've seen sights and sounds, laughed and cried, learned and forgotten more history than I ever saw in school. I've met no-one new in London (it's just not that friendly a place!), but the friends I have caught up with here have made me so welcome.

My next journey is on my own and into a great unknown- but I'm no less excited about what it holds...

Dublin!

Given that we met at an Irish folk session (at the incomparable Dan O'Connell hotel in Melbourne), Ants' visit wouldn't really have been complete without a trip to the Emerald Isle.

Some finds from March had to be revisited - a session in the courtyard at the Cobblestones pub in Smithfield, ending a night at the Talbot with the national anthem, meanderings past the Post Office, the Stein and through St Pats.

But travelling with Anthony also showed me quite a different city to the place I'd visited in spring. There was the Guinness Factory, for starters, and the trip to a local Gardai (police) station to swap badges (and a hat) with Dublin's finest. Glasnevin cemetery, where patriots including Daniel O’Connell, Cathal Brugha and Maude Gonne are at rest, was an eye opener for me. And Ants acquired a curious talent for posing with statues...


Our second best new find of all was the Marion Guesthouse, just of Parnell Square, which came complete with a fully cooked breakfast, bottomless coffee and juice, and patriot songs on the radio every morning.

The best one was our wedding rings... where else were we going to buy claddaghs from?!