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