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?!

As happy as a boy in beer....