Sometimes the best days happen quite by accident

I was supposed to go see the Prime Minister's question time in Parliament today. Turns out the Prime Minister is still on his way back to England after the Commonwealth Games, so Fate kindly intervened by helping me to forget my passport. No passport, no ticket, because they can't be sure that you're Australian (sure. Like anyone can fake this accent!) and not a terrorist.

So I found myself traipsing back down the Strand when I stumbled across a palatial set of buildings around a square. I discovered that Somerset House, as it's called, was free, so in I went.

I'm always amazed at how history lurks around every corner. Edward Seymour, Lord Somerset had himself declared Protector of England after the death of Henry VIII in 1547 left 9 year old King Edward VI on the throne (Seymour was older brother of Jane Seymour, Henry's third wife and Edward VI's mother).

The ambitious regent built Somerset House on the north bank of the Thames, uprooting several churchyards to make space and demolishing their buildings to provide cheap masonry. It wasn't a popular move and, when it was found he'd reburied exhumed bodies in unconsecrated ground, he was arrested for treason, convicted, and beheaded at the Tower of London in 1552.

He never saw his grand palace finished and it passed into the hands of the Crown. A young Princess Elizabeth lived there for a time and later, housed a succession of her thwarted suitors there. Anne of Denmark, Henrietta Maria and Catherine of Braganza (the wives of James I, Charles I and Charles II, respectively) held their courts here, but by the 1770s the palace had been abandoned and fallen into such disrepair that it was demolished and rebuilt, with a sweeping arched entrance that allowed boats to moor beneath the house itself. The new Somerset House (constructed at a cost of more than £250,000 over 25 years) accommodated government and Naval offices. It has some of the prettiest stairways ever - pointed out to me by an old bloke who is writing a book on the place, and who is the first person I've seen in England to initiate a conversation with a stranger.


Above - Somerset house in the 16th centurey and, below, in modern times.


Stumbling away from this pomp and grandeur in search of food, I wandered into Covent Garden market. Mostly a tourist market these days, it features lots of street theatre, from musical theatre duets to a knife-juggling tightrope walker, as well as the Beatrix Potter Shop and very yummy baked spuds for under 3 quid.






















Last but not least I wandered past St Pauls (the church, not the cathedral), opposite the market. The portico of this church is where the opening scene of George Bernard Shaw's "Pygmalion" (later the musical 'My fair lady') is set. It has for years been known as the Actors Church and its interior carries memorials to stage and screen stars including Vivien Leigh and WS Gilbert (of Gilbert & Sullivan fame, who was baptised here).

Far older than movies, St Paul's churchyard holds the first recorded victim of the Great Plague of 1665, Margaret Porteous, buried on April 12 of that year. By year's end, more than 100,000 Londoners had died from this disease spread by rats, before the Great Fire of 1666 scourged the city. Ironically, signs on the garden benches in the grounds bear this warning: "Please do not feed the pigeons, as the area is being over-run by rats".

Eugh.

Back in England...

One of the strange things about telling Dublin tales to my housemates has been that I can't really tell them. Much of what made my time in Dublin memorable was an understanding of their history - and much of that history was bloody, impoverished and unjust. And it's just not manners to bag someone's national treatment of an entire race when you're staying in their home for free.

So as I was busily trying to shut up, my housemate Julia made an interesting observation- that through most of the time the English were oppressing the Irish, most English people were also dirt poor, disenfranchised and allowed to starve or be exploited by the aristocracy.

She has a point - and it's not one that makes me think of England's ruling classes any more favourably. Is it this tradition, perhaps, that Aussie PM John Howard (who says 'most Australians' are proud of our English heritage) aspires to recreate by jailing refugees who have committed no crime, by stripping away Australian workers' rights to overtime, fair pay and even a meal break, or by making it harder for people to enrol to vote?

One wonders...

A tale of two cathedrals...

I visited St Patrick's cathedral on my first day in Dublin and Christ Church on my last, and despite the time between, was struck by the contrast. Truly these two landmark churches epitomise the differences between English and Irish culture, faith and history in this town.

At first glance they seem not so very different, standing at opposite ends of a street (which changes names halfway up it!) south of the Liffey, both built from the solid pale grey stone that distinguishes many of Dublin's oldest buildings. The current incarnation of both buildings include features from the 11th and 12th centuries, although the main structure for each dates to the 14th. Both cost 5 euros to enter, have leaflets with numbered 'landmarks' around the church with written explanations, and feature a gift shop just inside the door, at the back of the church.

Below - St Patrick's and Christ Church cathedrals are at opposite ends of a row of tenements built by the Guinness family to help house Dublin's poor. St Pats is shown in the first image, 'downhill'. while Christ Church sits higher, overlooking everything, in the second shot below.

Here the similarities end.

Christ Church is, unashamedly, the church of Ireland's ruling classes - centuries of whom, you may recall, were English. Richard Strongbow is buried here, described as "the Cambro-Norman knight who captured Dublin in 1170". For centuries, Dublin's wealthy business folk sealed deals by swearing on Strongbow's grave. During Henry VII's reformation the church promptly and willingly abolished its abbey, embracing the new Church of England religion and winning Cathedral status. The church features statues of Charles I and II, a special pew for the monarch/head of state, featuring the Stuart royal arms, and a Civic Pew for the exclusive use of the mayor. The history of the church is dutifully recorded and presented as the kind of history lesson my parents grew up with - all dates and pomp and virtually no context.


Below - Christ Church Cathedral



Above, the Lady Chapel at Christ ChurchOriginal medieval floor in the Lady Chapel, Christ Church


Strongbow's tomb - the original (remnants pictured at the bottom of the photo) was destroyed when part of the church collapsed in 1562) and its replacement features 14th C, not 12thC armour detail. Quite gorgeous nonetheless. Below - The remains of the original abbey - a 12th century romanesque doorway, and the ruins of the 13th century chapter house.




St Pats, by contrast, vividly recounts centuries of work on behalf of the most impoverished and disadvantaged people, peppered with subtle homilies for the virtues of faith, tolerance and respect for one's fellow man. The cathedral is said to have been built on the site of St Patrick's well, where the saint said his first mass in Dublin, and ancient celtic stones found on the site are respectfully displayed within.

Inside it hangs the Chapter Door, a relic of 1492 when, after years of feuding, the Earl of Ormond took refuge in the chapter house from his rival, the Earl of Kildare. Wishing to end hostilities, Kildare hacked a hole in the door and thrust his arm through the gap, as a sign of his goodwill. Ormond seized it and, with a handshake, the feud was over. It is said that the saying 'to chance one's arm' dates from this event.

This church is clearly proud of its standing as an ecumenical church. Hugenots, persecuted elsewhere, were sheltered here and worshipped in the Lady Chapel from 1666-1816. Jonathan Swift, author and social reformer, was dean of the Cathedral from 1713-45. During his time here he established Dublin's first hospital for the mentally ill, and received the Freedom of the City for opposing measures introduce a 'special' (read: devalued) currency that could only be spent locally, which many believed would have further entrenched the poverty of Dublin's poorest workers. The church is frank about the 'life long friendship' of Swift and his companion 'Stella' (Esther Johnson), who is buried beside him near the Cathedral's south wall.

Swift's contemporary, Archbishop Narcissus Marsh, founded Dublin's first public library, the Marsh Library, in 1701. It's located next door.



Below - the Lady Chapel at St Pats, which was set aside for Hugenot worship when their followers fled England in the 17th -19th centuries; the altar; Celtic tombstone found when the church was being built; the Chapter Door which gave rise to the saying 'to chance one's arm'; the tomb of Jonathan Swift- author, dean of St Pats, freeman of the City - and his companion 'Stella'.










It seems now no accident that Christ Church - the cathedral of the english monarchs, sits atop the hill, towering over St Pats down the other end of the street, which. it claims "embodies the history and heritage of Irish people of all backgrounds from the earliest times to the present day". And, in true Irish fashion, St Pats tells its stories better, too.

The Books of Kells, Durrow and Armagh...

I went to see the Book of Kells when the Gospel of St Matthew was loaned to the National Library in Canberra. It's not nearly as good as seeing the real thing in the town it's called home for the last 345 of its 1200 years...

Yes, that's right. The Book of Kells is one of at least five surviving books held by Trinity College Library in Dublin that are over a thousand years old. The Book of Durrow is the oldest, having been begun in approximately 700 AD, while the Books of Kells, Armagh, Mulling and Dimma were all begun around or just after 800AD.

The monks of Kells, followers of the saint Colum Cille, had just abandoned their Monastery in Iona (which had been sacked year after year by vikings) for new land at Kells when the book was started. Over a period of several years, 340 vellum (calfskin) folios (double pages), were painstakingly inscribed with the four gospels of the New Testament, and all bar 3 of them illuminated, or illustrated, in some way. Gold leaf adorns many pages, crushed lapis lazuli mixed with mordants creates the most vibrant blue, usually reserved for colouring the robes of the Virgin. From preparing vellum to the many (often really toxic) substances inks were made from to a display of book binding, Trinity's exhibits brings ancient bookmaking to life.

Then there are the books themselves - held behind glass in a dimmed room, their pages turned every 3 months, two of the Kells' gospels (as it's now separated into four separate books) and the books of Durrow and Armagh. In its original form, the book of Kells was bound with leather and adorned with solid gold, and branded "the most precious object in the western world". These hardy publications have seen much - the Book of Kells survived at least 5 major pillages by the vikings in the 10th century, and was the first thing protected when the monastery burned down in 1040, 1060, 1090, 1099, 1111, 1135, 1143, 1144, 1150, 1156.... you get the idea. It was briefly stolen in 1007 , turning up after "two months and 20 nights... its gold having been taken off it and with a sod over it" (ie buried). For all that, it looks still pretty spectacular.

It was eventually sent to Dublin for safekeeping in 1653, during Cromwell's rule after the Civil War (Ireland being firmly annexed by the English by then) and donated to Trinity College in 1661 by the Bishop of Meath.

Also at Trinity, upstairs in the famous 'reading room' (a bigger, more gorgeous, but somehow less scholarly room than the Marsh Library, Ireland's oldest public library, established in 1701 by Narcissus Marsh and located next to St Patrick's cathedral) stands the 'Brian Boru' harp. Apparently, this harp didn't belong to the famed poet and leader, Boru, at all - he was killed in the battle of Clontarf in 1014, and the harp wasn't made until around 1500. Nevertheless, it is a gorgeous instrument, carved with ornate patterns and illustrations. It's the harp you see on the Guinness logo, and also features on Irish Euro coins.

Not a bad way to spend my last day in Ireland. But I guarantee, I'll be back.

Fabulous food and wine

One of the best things about catching up with my childhood chum Jonathan is the plethora of fabulous food and wine. My Dublin adventure has proved no exception.

We met up on my first full day in Dublin, Jonathan lugging a dozen wines as we were going to a tasting... he and a group of friends are studying wine appreciation. They have a practical exam in a couple of months, so they get together once a week to, erm, study. And what a study session! 6 wines, tasted 'blind', that coud be from anywhere in the world, any year, any style. Try to identify them, order them by price, and pick the 'theme'. Quite a few of us thought the first three were 'new world' (Australian, South American etc) - they were all rather simple, lots of big cherry fruit flavour but not much else. Only one bloke (out of 5 of us) correctly guessed that these were Grenache wines. The second three wines were amazing - complex, rich full fruit flavours, spicy, mature, good oak. Definitely older, and certainly from the 'old world' - maybe France, more likely Spain - there was one that was full of liquorice and herbs and long, complex finish that blew us all away. None of us twigged that these 3 were Grenache too! And we fell over when, their labels revealed, we learned that the first three were French and Spanish, the others all 'New World'. The liquorice allsort that blew us all away? Peter Lehmann from South Australia. Check it out.

(For the record, I managed to pick the price order of these wines, even though I had no idea what they were made of! But enough wine wankery for one day!)

Dinner followed, at a very cosy, bustling french bistro near Dublin Castle, called Chez Max, where we were served by Max himself despite (or maybe because of) the mid-week crowds.

We rounded the night out with more gorgeous wine at a groovy little bar just over the Liffey (allegedly the only place my wonderful but occasionally rampantly classist pal ventures near the 'North side' of town.) The staff there knew Jonathan and his work/tasting pals, so we were well looked after with things to try...

Our next foodie adventure was Saturday night dinner at a Mexican place with J's colleague Laurent (the significance of the photo below is that Jonathan drank BEER!I've never seen that before...) followed next morning by the Dun Laoghaire (pronounced Dun Leary -honest!) Sunday farmers market - organic veggies, spelt bread, home baked baked pies, frittatas and brownie. Finnsh cloudberry jam (of course! er.....). And cheese.... Dinner that night was rather spesh, accompanied by some gorgeous wines into the bargain. And I came away with a wicked new recipe (of J's invention) that involved snow peas, mushrooms and cherry tomatoes in a cream sauce, over pasta. Apparently next time, it's my turn to cook...

Older than the pyramids, best seen at midwinter...

On Monday, my friend Jonathan and I boarded a tour bus for the Boyne Valley, to explore some of the history that abounds in royal County Meath.

Our ultimate destination was Newgrange, the 500o year old Mesolithic era burial mounds that predate the pyramids of Egypt by about 1000 years. One of three known tombs (the others are nearby Dowth and Knowth) in the area, known to have played several significant roles for local peoples through the ages. At dawn on the shortest day of the year, a single ray of light creeps along the floor of the (20 metre) entrance corridor and illuminates the crypt for just 17 minutes. To see this, one enters a ballot - keep your fingers crossed for me.






Enroute, we passed through the Boyne valley where, in 1690, the Battle of the Boyne ranged up and down seven miles of the banks of the Boyne river at high summer (July 1). It was at this battle the catholic King James II of England was beaten by William of Orange, securing William's claim to the throne, through his wife Mary (James' protestant daughter). The Irish Jacobites, supported by the French, fought on for another year, but this battle is said to have turned the tide. The war of religion between Irish Protestant and Catholic has been fought through the centuries since...


P'raps best of all though, was the blustery hour or so we spent on the hill of Tara, home and Coronation point for at least 142 High Kings of all Ireland, ranging from more than 2500 yrs BC up to the 'golden age' (5th-9th centuries) of poets, scholars, bards and craftsmen. Tara is only 500 ft above sea level, but the lie of the land means that on a clear day you can see more than 20 of the island's 31 counties. The buildings are all long gone, but a series of ditches and mounds inspires the imagination with images of what might once have been. On top of the Kings Seat (the highest mound) sits the Lia Fail (stone of destiny), which legend says was brought to Ireland by the godlike Tuatha de Danaan, and roars when touched by the rightful king. The Rath of the Hostages contains a burial chamber akin to Newgrange (though MUCH smaller) and aligned to the sun's light on the old pagan festival days of Imbolc (Feb 4) and Samhain (November 8). You can see fabulous aerial shots of the site here.

Give a cheer for Donegal....

I've heard loads of stories of Aussies who've spent Dublin in St Patricks day and say they had a great time... but can't remember any of it. So when I saw a website advertising for volunteers for the official St Patrick's day parade... well I had to put up my hand.

My partner Anthony was jealous as hell. I told him to wait and see how jealous he was after I'd spent hours standing around in the rain. And Murphy's law didn't disappoint! After 2 hrs standing around in close to zero temperatures, with varying degrees of snow and sleet (although, being Dublin, I've noticed that the weather really doesn't ever seem to turn anything on for longer than about a minute and a half at a time), I began to wonder why I was there. I'm sure the Latina dancers (who were wearing tiny bikinis, beaded fringe-skirts and huge headdresses and heels - but nothing else!) were wondering the same thing. They danced to keep warm, to the enormous appreciation of every bloke in the marshalling area...

But then we set off, and it was grand! Wind was still blowing a gale, so we spent a lot of time wrestling with our sponsors' banners. But once we got down into the city the buildings sheltered us and there was lots of time for waving to the crowds, and calling out to the crowd to 'get ready with a big Dublin welcome for Donegal, brought to you by Irish Ferries'. And the people DID cheer, and kids were holding out hands through the railings begging for high-5s (not easy when both hands are trying to hold a 10 foot pole upright in the wind!) as if I was someone important. Apparently I was (briefly) on the telly...






We marched all the way down O'Connell St, over the Liffey, past Temple Bar and down to St Patrick's Cathedral. Afterwards I was freezing and bone tired, so I took m'self off for meaty pasta and red wine, then a pint to watch the local Gaelic football final in a pub until it was time to meet up with my Irish pal Ciarra. A mate of hers was DJing at a pub in one of the main streets, and the place went mad - you should see the way Dubliners fire up as soon as ANYTHING by U2 plays.


Like anywhere with grand craic on Paddy's day, it was packed, and at some point (i have no idea what time) we took off to Ciarra's old local, a place called Cobblestones, which was quieter, but still lively - there was a trad band playing when we arrived, in the front bar, and later in the night, a singing session started up in the beer garden! We wandered out the back and Ciarra asked me to help her through 'black is the colour' (she always forgets bits of the middle verse)... then someone asked if I knew 'Waltzing matilda", and suddenly we had a 4-part harmony going that (after 6 pints) sounded glorious to me!! Of course, by the time we all wound down it was far too late for the last train, so I stayed at Ciarra's Granny's, as it was nearby - toast made from home baked brown bread has never tasted so good!

I think it was a very good way to mark a national day...

A land of Priests and Scholars...

I've spent my first few days in Dublin immersing myself thoroughly in two fine Irish traditions - cider and storytelling.

By far the best way to hear an abbreviated body of lore and legends in this town is on board a hop-on hop-off bus, that will also take you to 20 'must see' spots, on a ticket that's good for 24 hours. Every driver has different tales to tell at different parts of the city - there's no standard patter - sometimes even the routes change!

What I'm seeing is a nation of singers and storytellers - so it's no surprise to learn that in Ireland's Golden Age (5th-9th centuries, called the Dark Ages everywhere else in Europe), they were known as the 'land of priests and scholars'. Irish monks founded monasteries all over Europe, notably in Switzerland Austria and Germany, taking with them gorgeously illustrated books and manuscripts (more about those another day). This was the age of 142 High Kings crowned at Tara, overlooking 22 of the nations 31 counties, when craftsmen wrought gorgeous pins and elaborate jewelled brooches, and Irish traders brought diverse luxuries home in return for gold. Here too, the Irish were converted to Catholicism by St Patrick in the 5th Century - those tricksy monks offered the secret of writing in Latin in return for the immortal souls of kings, who apparently figured the deal quite a bargain!

Hill of Tara, above, and St Patrick's Statue behind the church on one side of the hill


Small wonder the Vikings came to play. A stone called the Stein, (which has taken various forms through the ages - current incarnation shown below) has marked since the 8th Century the original Viking landing point and site of docks on the banks of the Liffey. It's now 150 metres inland, as swampy bank has been reclaimed over the last 250 years...

The next wave of invaders was, of course, the English, and I defy anyone to come to this country and NOT side emphatically with the locals. (In pubs, I've taken to calling myself 'of Welsh descent', which is true, I' m 25%, and only fessing up to the rest being English blood after being welcomed as a fellow Celt. Apparently, as long as I'm Aussie, and not fullblooded pom, it's okay...).

The irony, however, is that the first English (Norman) warriors were invited here, to help the king of Leinster sort out some border skirmishes. Enter one Richard de Clare, called Strongbow, the Earl of Pembroke, who landed in 1170. It took nearly 800 years for the poms to figure that they weren't welcome, and leave... Strongbow married Aoife (Eve), princess of Leinster (and you can read about him here, and his famous son in law, William Marshall, here).

The troubles experienced by the Irish at the hands of the English are legion - but to understand them, you really have to visit this place, so I won't go into them here. To the credit of the Irish, they don't dwell on the long list of injustices perpetrated over centuries. They do, however, sing unceasingly the praises of their patriots, the men and women who achieved significant gains in the fight for Irish voting and land rights. Daniel O'Connell (after whom my 'local' in Melbourne is named, and pictured below) for securing the vote for persons without land, Wolf Tone, Charles Parnell, Michael Collins, the unionist Jim Connolly, and of course, the men and women of the Easter Rising of 1916, 14 of whom were shot, including the legendary Robert Pearse. Others, including Constance Markiewicz and Eamon de Valera (who became the first prime minister and President after a lucky let-off because he was entitled to US citizenship, and the Poms needed the US in the war) escaped with prison terms instead.

This recent history is everywhere - from the Post Office (first pic below), which still bears bullet holes from the 1916 rising, to Kilmainham Gaol - the most chilling, moving and strangely inspiratioal place I've seen on these travels - to the legion of statues dotted around the city. The 'new wing' has featured as a setting in film clips by U2 and the film 'In the Name of the Father' - the image below that is of the 'old' cells, where the condemned from the Easter rising were held.
Above - Dublin Post office, below, Kilmainham Gaol

Statues also commemorate the famed writers in this nation of scribes and scholars - James Joyce (pictured, below, with his shoes on the wrong feet - oops!), Oscar Wilde, Bram Stoker (who married a woman who had previously been engaged to Wilde), George Bernard Shaw, Yeats and a host of others. Musicians, too, have a special place here - one bus driver shows us the very corner where fellas called Bono and The Edge started busking back in the day, another cheerily tells of all Dublin turning out to watch U2 receive the keys to the city - the following day, Bono, exploiting an old and never-repealed law, exercised his right as a Freeman of the City to graze livestock on St Stephens Green (a carefully tended park akin to the Fitzroy Gardens at home)... and herded in a small flock of sheep.

So much walking and writing, learning and talking, is enough to work up a thirst in anyone. What of the cider? I'm glad you asked. The house cider, almost everywhere you turn, is Bulmers, and it tastes a little sweeter and spicier than it does in Australia. Naturally, you'll all understand now why nothing called Strongbow would ever get served in this part of the world...

I've been here 90 minutes, and already I like Dublin...

...way better than london.

Don't get me wrong, London is big and busy and chaotic and every Anglo-Antipodean should come here once, to experience that and see the stuff you can't find anywhere else, like the Sutton Hoo helm, or the castles built by William the Conqueror, or the place that our political system came from, or the streets full of theatres on the West End. There's so much to see and do here. But London is a great big toilet - a dirty, stinky place where people come to do something very important, play after dark and then leave in a shambles. (Credit for this analogy must go to my cousin Sam. It's not my own invention, however apt!)

There's also apparently an unspoken rule that says it is absolutely forbidden to even make eye contact with (let alone speak to) anyone on public transport, in the street, even in pubs! I'm constantly amazed at how people in a tiny space packed full of beer, smoke and bodies STILL manage to avoid any dealings at all with anyone they've not been formally introduced to...

How refreshing then, to escape across the sea to Ireland. (A friend of mine says landing in Dublin felt like he was coming home... but his name's Liam O'Keefe... so he kinda was!) The customs chappie was downright friendly compared to every Pom behind a counter anywhere. A feller on the bus asked if I needed help sorting out where I was going, and worded up the bus driver (said bus driver then hopped out of his seat at my stop to point me down the right side street). Dublin's double decker buses, by the way, are fantastic - big blue bouncy, squeaky things that rattle over the roads at breakneck pace, I wonder is this where JK Rowling got her inspiration for the Knight Bus?

My hostel is a faded, slightly battered but generally cosy rabbit warren, with winding stair cases up and down, great big window alcoves with people sitting in them to write, and a massive underground kitchen and common room. (And at about $20 a night including brekkie, a bargain!!). It's in a long row of cheap hostels around the corner from a street full of pubs and a 24 hr internet cafe. So I've already been to my first trad gig - I got there just in time for the last 3 songs, finishing up with Whisky in the Jar... and then 'that's all from us for the night, all stand please, for the national anthem'. Truly! Then an old bloke who makes Guinness for a living and hails from Killarney shook my hand and kissed my cheek and wished me a happy stay in Ireland. I was so stoked, I had to come straight to the internet cafe and write it all down.

I SO like it here already!

Taking tea...

One of the best things about being in London has been catching up with friends I haven't seen in ages (because they've been over here, or, in my friend Em's case, in South America).

Obviously, there has been much red wine and reminiscing with the fabulous Sarah Johnson, who still lets me call her couch home. My cousin Sam and I have enjoyed some stellar pub sessions (one included a 6 nations match and a pie with sauce!) And Yvonne, Brendan and I found a most excellent pub in Wandsworth that has local takeaway menus instead of a kitchen - hows that for variety!

But tea at the Ritz with Em, for her 30th birthday, erm, takes the cake!

Apparently, one doesn't 'have' tea, one 'takes' tea. And apparently one is supposed to book 6 weeks in advance, but Em managed to find a morning that had a table for two available just after her big day (which she spent in Paris, a surprise engineered by her partner Simon. How lovely!).

So, suitably attired, we handed our coats in at the cloak room at 11am sharp, and settled in to the exquisite Palm Court, with a sumptuous tiered silver tray of sandwiches, scones, fruit cake and petit fours. And tea - in about 15 different varieties, of which we sampled 3. Thus I learned that moroccan mint is nicer than peppermint, and elderflower is, well, just fabulous, especially when sweetened with a little honey.

I don't know how hobbits do it - breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses... I didn't eat again 'til suppertime (which in Dublin, is a pint...)

Brighton, dahling...

Sarah's very funky partner Mark has a new job in Brighton. Not only will he live by the beach, but he will be paid to play computer games all day... and suss out what does and doesn't work on them. Tough job, but someone's gotta do it.

Mark's new colleagues were hosting a curry night, so we all trundled down to the seaside. Brighton is a very pretty town, with just enough bohemian funk to avoid being impossibly well heeled and sterile. There's a very funky market district, called 'The Lanes'. And I saw my first pebble beach!


The english concept of a pier, by the way, is very different to at home... Where I grew up, a pier or a jetty were about the same thing, a long narrow boardwalk with some spaces for boats to tie up on. Not so in England, where piers feature shops and carnivals and tea rooms and all sorts. One of Brighton's two piers was burnt out recently - terrible shame, cos it was heritage listed, but it looks pretty at sunset.

Curry, when we meandered our way back through The Lanes, was excellent, as was the company - lots of new people with interesting thoughts and tales. And the bottleshop just around the corner sold MEAD. (Don't tell Ants, I bought some as a surprise...)

Tim Flannery came to London

My housemate Julia and I joined up with my friends Trent and Belinda to hear Tim Flannery speak about his new book, The Weather Makers.

Yes, there's something very greenhouse-UNfriendly about seeing an Australian talk about climate change when we've all flown across the planet to be there (not Jules, she's a pom).
For those who haven't heard him speak, or read his work, Flannery does an awesome job of making science easy to understand... and even interesting!! (Not just to energy nerd like me.)

For the record, he thinks that biosequestration (storing carbon in trees) is a pile of malarchy - for two reasons. First, because burning fossil fuels (which took millions of years to create) and then hoping that planting a few trees (that live, at most, a few hundred years each) will soak up the damageand KEEP it soaked up, is just unsustainably STUPID. Second, the total amount of carbon sucked up by trees is infinitisimally small compared to the amount of carbon sucked up by certain soil types. So by all means, we should invest in trees for biodiversity, salinity, and all those other things, but if we're doing it to save carbon, we're barking up the wrong, erm, ...you get the idea... I'm paraphrasing, but basically, if we want to stop global warming, we could be doing it in much smarter ways.

He also signed my copy of his book, which my last workplace gave me as a parting gift. Thanks guys!

I saw the Sutton Hoo helm!

Good heavens! Is it really two weeks since I blogged?? Bad travelling storyteller.

Okay, so my next great adventure was the British Museum (complete with reading room, and newly enclosed forecourt, shown above. That's Mark and Sarah, my fabulous hosts/housemates, in the pics above).

The British Museum is the world's oldest museum, free to the public since its inception in 1753. The British Museum Act of that year decrees that "This museum, and all its exhibits herein, shall be freely available to all Studious and Curious Persons". It's an awesome concept - and all because a bloke named Hans Sloane, a doctor and professional collector, donated his collection to the Crown (in exchange for a sum of money to be given to his descendents), which at the time of his death comprised several hundred thousand insect/plant specimens and hundreds of manuscripts, prints, pictures, coins and other curiosities collected from around the world.

So as such, the British Museum isn't so much a museum of things from Britain. In fact, my housemate Mark (partner to the lovely Sarah, and English), says it's more accurately described as "The Museum of Stuff We Nicked". Consequently, there's lots about this place that bothers me. Parts of the Acropolis from Greece are here, along with countless mummies, artifacts from Pacific and South American cultures and even some Aboriginal upright coffins from north western Australia.

I’m not denying the contribution of countless dedicated (and independently wealthy) archaeologists to Egyptology or the importance of exchanging knowledge to further our understanding of and tolerance for other cultures. But what’s missing, for me, is the story of how this stuff was collected – and whether the people from whom it was taken have ever consented to it being here.

Various displays blithely describe how many of the practices documented in their museum have since “died out”, with no acknowledgement that British explorers brought disease, violence or disinheritance that may have contributed to that. I know that Aboriginal Australians lobbied for years before finally getting agreement this week from the Musum for the return of some of the bones of their ancestors. You can read about it in The Age). The whole thing smacks of lingering colonialism and presumptions of superiority (even some of the commentaries still refer to ‘primitive’ people).

I’m not arguing from a position of moral superiority. Australia does not adequately acknowledge our indigenous past, or the enormous carnage wrought by English colonisation. New Zealand does it far, far better (the fantastic museum in Christchurch makes it very clear that every Maori exhibit has been prepared in consultation with Maori advisers and with respect for local spiritual beliefs).

So much of the museum left me feeling badly uncomfortable – I suspect there are big chunks of the collection that I will never look over.

The medieval British collection, however, is cool! The Sutton Hoo helm is here, and all the other bits unearthed from this 6th century grave, in immaculate condition. The Lewis Chess Set is here too, along with coins from William the Conqueror, and Irish and Viking brooches and jewellry unearthed on British soil (note - some of it was technically 'British' soil at the time of unearthing, but is now called the Republic of Ireland). I've been back twice since I first went with Sarah, Mark and Julia - I've decided that such visits are best conducted alone - Ive decided I'm probably quite painful to go see old stuff with, because I want to see, and read, and take notes on everything...

More about Londonon a shoestring

Okay, I’ve now been here a week. Here’s what I’ve learned about getting around London and seeing stuff without blowing a fortune…

1/ Museums are all free. Not all of them are fabulous, and if you can spare a quid, do give them a donation, but the Imperial War Museum, the British Museum, Natural History, Tate Britain, Tate Modern, Victoria and Albert, and a host of others besides, are all free.

2/ Not everything else costs money. Walking through parks, hunting for statues and marveling at architecture from the outside is also free. Changing the Guard at Buckingham Palace, wandering through Whitehall and around the outside of Westminster, along the Thames and popping down to Speakers Corner at Hyde Park can all make for a cheap day out.

3/ Buses beat the Tube, hands down. A bus pass for the whole of London is only £3.50 a day (compared to £6 for a Zone 1-2 tube ticket, although it also gets you on buses). If you’re in a hurry, the Tube is faster, but for getting to know London, you can’t beat actually driving through streets rather than passing under them. For truly cheap thrills, sit upstairs and up front of a double decker bus, and marvel at how many pedestrians, streetsigns and other vehicles these crazy London bus drivers nearly wipe out on your way home…

4/ Benjys. These little sandwich bars are all over London and most of their sandwiches and rolls are under £1.50. Sure, they’re not the best sanger you’ll ever scoff, but they beat McFriedTakeaway hands down, and for a bargain priced lunch on the go, they do the job.

5/ Tap water and cordial. Okay, this is really gross, but when a drop of rain falls in the Thames catchment, by the time it reaches the sea, it will have been drunk by EIGHT PEOPLE. London still releases high quality treated water into the Thames, and gets much of its drinking supply from the same source (Sarah’s housemate Julia says that’s not true, but I read it on a government website…). Try not to think about that if you’re short on cash. Tap water tastes yucky compared to Melbourne or NZ tap water (hence the cordial – thanks for the tip Sheree!), but I haven’t gotten sick yet...

Things you DON’T do if you’re on a budget

Eat in restaurants (opt for pubs, even those in the centre of town often have dishes for under £5); go to the movies (£9 is the going rate at the cinema nearest here, that’s about $22!!); get taxis (I haven’t even tried!); go on the Eye (£13) or pay full price at the Tower of London (£20 to see all the exhibits – that’s almost $50!! Get a London Pass instead!!).

Those who have been here a while...

...also reckon it’s best to NOT keep converting stuff into Australian dollars, because otherwise you’ll never be able to justify the cost of anything, and just have a crap time. I’m trying to take their advice (although I’m having fun no matter how much I spend!) – by thinking in terms of a daily limit of X pounds per day for spending money. I suspect it will be easier to think in pounds once I start to EARN pounds…

I spoke too soon about the queueing...

Okay, I had it coming. It’s true that I got through my whole first week without any substantial queueing (apart from walking into a post office at midday - I took one look at the 40 or so people waiting and 4 staffed counters and walked out).

For my sins, the Universe paid me back at the Brixton “Sainsbury’s”. The queue for the 9 checkouts, when I joined it, had over 60 people in it. Yes I counted them (I was queueing, I had nothing better to do). Our conga-line of shoppers stretched way past the normal allocated queueing space, right down the bread aisle, round a corner, past wine, beer, chips and snacks, around another corner, past the dairy case and fruit juices, all the way back to the meat fridges (near the entrance to the damn shop – it’s not very big). I swear, there were more people in the queue than there were in the rest of the supermarket, and for those poor shoppers, trying to navigate the narrow aisles filled with people was insane. And yet, the queue was orderly, nobody grizzled, and I was served within about 10 minutes. These English queuers, I have to say, know their stuff. But I’m never shopping at 7pm again.

Two (more) views of London...

Sunday saw me in search of the Museum for London – reading a Tube map is getting easier and easier, so I found it first go. This museum doesn’t ‘flow’ as well as the War Museum, it’s more like a bunch of vaguely related snapshots of stuff, and maybe suffers a bit from trying to be all things to all people. That said, it’s a tough job to condense 400,000 years of history (or even 2,500 years!) into one building. The Black Death (1348) and Great Fire of London (1666) stuff is good, they have public talks on throughout the day covering different topics, and it was free, so I’m not really grizzling. Go see it, but be prepared to skim over the bits that don’t interest you.

Hooked up with Sheree and Glenn afterwards, to go ride the London Eye. This giant ferris wheel carries people 135 metres above ground level – even at that height, Big Ben, Westminster and St Paul’s dome are really impressive! We went just as it was getting dark, so the city was all lit up below us, and there were hardly any queues! (I’m starting to think Londoners’ famed passion for queueing is a crock). And some of my photos worked – look!

Found a pub for tea (Jacket spud with chilli for £4.50! Bargain!!), and maybe too much wine. Don’t tell my mum I caught the Tube home at midnight…