My first (outdoor) festival - Cornbury!

After the wettest June on record, it stopped raining for the weekend (although only for the weekend!), so that I could go to my first outdoor music festival! (Okay, maybe not just for me.)

Cornbury is kind of a sister event to the Oxford Folk festival, held in the grounds of Cornbury Park mansion, about 15 miles from Oxford. I went with one of the girls from work – a Dublin lass named Ciara, no less – and friends of hers, so I wasn’t hanging around entirely without mates, although I arrived at least 3 Pimms before they did.

Ciara turned up sporting the brightest wellies (sorry – gumboots!) and smallest skirt combo I’ve ever seen, expecting ‘sunny day but wet ground’, only to find that the main stages were all on a hill, which had drained beautifully overnight so we could even sit on the grass. Miss Dublin proved remarkably adept at moving from sitting to standing with her dignity intact – although she did confess, having downed a few pints that ‘I did put on absolutely huge pants this morning, just in case'.

Pants, for the uninitiated, are NEVER trousers in England, as most Aussies find out to their detriment...

Smalls and practicalities aside, what a day! The music was all fantastic. Big names included The Waterboys, the Proclaimers, Hothouse Flowers and David Gray, plus some new people I'd never heard of before and DEFINITELY have to buy albums from! Yet another Dublin lass, this one named Imelda May, just blew my sox off with funky ska-inspired jazz blues. Plenty of Pimms & Lemonade (which is THE summer drink of choice over here!), ciders – very reasonable at 3 quid a pint – sunburn, and a good boogie had by all.

Anthony missed the fun, but don’t feel too sorry for him – he was away in Wales, having scored a re-enactment job with Nick, his boss at work, at Beaumaris castle. It's on the Isle of Anglesey, which is somewhere I have been DYING to go for ages... check this out!!!

I'm a bit jealous - must make him take me back there!!
PS Yes, that IS Anthony wielding a pike. Doesn't he look tall?!

Faith in human nature

Remember how buzzed I was about having a bike? Well I was gutted when six weeks later it got nicked from Oxford rail station, specially since I was too broke at the time to replace it.

However, the pedal power pixies must’ve been looking out for me - I arrived home on Thursday to a letter from the police saying my bike had turned up in a hedge about 8 miles away. A chap from the local football club found it and turned it in. I picked it up today, it's in almost perfect working order.

I'll be sore tomorrow though, cos I rode it all the way home...

All aboard for hogwarts, erm, I mean Christ Church

Oxford Cathedral is actually located within the grounds of Christ Church college, one of Oxford's most elite halls of residence. It was founded by Cardinal Wolsey, and later taken over by Henry VIII (when he took over most of Wolsey's grand plans, including Hampton Court Palace).

So the only way you can see the cathedral is to pay the (rather stiff) entrance fee - unless you go to a service on Sunday, something I'd like to do just for the free squizz.

And yes, the other thing Christ Church is famous for is that its dining hall and grand staircase provided the inspiration for the sets of Hogwarts in the Harry Potter flicks. You can see the similarities, below...

Uffington Chalk Horse...

...is the oldest chalk horse in Britain, at least 3000 years old. And it's in Oxfordshire! I've brought a few folk to see this in their travels. It's next to the remains of an ancient fort, known as Uffington Castle, but it's doubtful there was ever more than timber palisades here. Still, it's pretty cool, winding your way up a steep hill, wondering if your little hire car will make the distance, and battling fierce wind and cowpats up to the chalky bits. Cool.

Charles I's ironic folly and Hampton court revisited

It was the last weekend before our Historic Royal Palaces memberships expire, so I had to cross two more sights off my list this weekend.

The Banqueting House is all that remains of the royal palace at Whitehall, which was once, at 15o0 rooms, the largest building in the world. Whitehall burned down several times in its history, finally remaining unrestored after 1698 and gradually being subsumbed by other buildings, including Downing Street and much of Pall Mall.

The surviving room is famous for its massive, vaulted ceiling, covered with ornate and beautiful art painted by Reubens, commissioned by King Charles I. Ironically, the monarch was walked through or past the hall on the morning of his execution, in 1649. A pivotal tale in English history, perhaps, but at the end of the day, it's just a building...

Far more exciting was Hampton Court Palace revisited. I'd made a whistlestop journey out here just before moving to Oxford. This time, with Anthony and Nicola in tow, we made a day of it - and still didn't see everything!

What to say about this place (she says, furiously checking back to see what she said last time, in May 2006). Oh, here we go:
"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."

I was agog, once again, at Henry's kitchens, and spent far too much time trying to work out the ebb and flow of daily culinary life. I also had a big fat gripe to Ants about how the cafe, just metres from one of the world's most famous kitchens, turns out such crap and modern (and overpriced!) food. Prepackaged sarnies and salads and cake... I don't care if they were made fresh at the palace today, where are the slices of Grete Pye, the quails eggs, herb salads and baked custard tarts that would have been served to the king - and could turn a tidy profit AND make people smile here! It's becoming a regular beef (pun intended) of mine - English tourist attractions do nothing to improve foreigners' perceptions of English food. If only I were allowed a second job...

The best bits, though, were still to come. The Tudor buildings have been progressively expanded over time, by William of Orange, the Georges and others, and these rooms finally show some of the grandeur and ceremony I've seen from Renaissance Europe and had fully expected to find in the palaces of a nation that considered herself great. (I still hold to my theory that any country with as many royal residences as England has could never fit them out as sumptuously as a Versailles, a Schonbrunn or Schloss Charlottenburg. If only the English had learned to bathe! Then they wouldn't have had to flee to new premises every two months to avoid impending outbreaks of disease...)

Anyway, I trawled endlessly through royal suites, wandered the amazing gardens and even found the Royal Tennis court (with people actually playing Royal Tennis on it - cool!). It's probably best explained by pictures...




Above: Hampton Court's exteriors - from Tudor to Renaissance and the lavish gardens.
Below: the famed (and much lusted after) kitchens - check out the size of the spit fireplaces!!!

Cool, huh?

Posh nosh in England

Ants was working all weekend, so I found a B&B in Warwick and took m'self off to dinner while the boy finished work.

A decent bar will always get my vote if they don't turn a hair when you walk in, pick up a wine list and order a glass of wine and a table for one. The Keep gets full marks.

Maybe they thought I was an eccentric heiress? Certainly the service was lovely - attentive and perfectly timed. And they'd seated me in a perfect little nook opposite two angled mirrors - so I could see everything going on in the restaurant but not have to stare at visions of myself dining.

And the food! Penne with a luscious garlicky cream sauce and courgettes (I even remembered to call them courgettes!), impossibly crisp steamed veg (England doesn't typically 'do' vegetables much, crisp or otherwise!), decadent icecream and chocolate desserts, fresh herbal teas and a really scrummy wine list.

It's fair to say that the English have spent decades earning their reputation for appalling food. Greasy pub grub, kebabs that don't quite smell right, veg boiled to within an inch of its life, baked beans at breakfast. And what is it with 'salad cream'???

On my budget, I've enjoyed precious few truly memorable meals (although haggis with whisky sauce in Edinburgh, tea at The Ritz in London, and the eclectic Georgetown in Leeds experience all rate a mention). I've had many forgettable meals that cost a lot more than the £20 I parted with this night.

I'll definitely be back - and will bring friends if I can.

Sending m'self to Coventry

After catching up with that gorgeous bloke of mine, who has been working fearsome hard of late, we found a fantastic little guesthouse (plain but comfy rooms and nice touches, like real coffee and herbal tea at brekkie!). Next morning, I took myself off to Coventry in search of the country's newest Cathedral and a glimpse of the naked lady statue - this is, after all, Godiva territory.

I've always been curious to see the town that my Cuzin Tup called home for a couple of years. And it gave me a chance to add to my Cathedral tally (now at 8, plus 5 Abbeys) - although "Cov's" is the most unusual yet. The Church of St Stephen wasn’t actually a cathedral at all for most of its life – the ‘official’ cathedral of Coventry was nearby St Mary’s, although it never really recovered after the reformation… After surviving eight centuries of warfare, Reformation and the decay of old age, St Stephens was granted cathedral status in 1918, only to be firebombed by the Germans in November 1940 (Mum, in case you're interested, the unlucky day was the 14th...)

Ironically, reinforcing iron beams that had been installed just a few decades earlier to support the roof contributed to the building’s demise – as they warped in the heat they pulled the whole structure down in on itself.
The ruined building was cleared of rubble and cleaned, then left as a reminder of the war, in the same way that some churches in Germany have (the KaiserWilhelmGedachtsnichtKirke in Berlin springs to mind). The nave now stands open to the sky, the windows still clinging to fragments of shattered stained glass, the only complete structure a bell tower.

Walking out what would have once been a left transept door, the whole building flows seamlessly into the new cathedral built next door. I hadn't, at first, intended to go in there, but it rained, so in I went.

It smells like an old church, and for a new building, it captures the majesty of buildings centuries older. Stark soaring stone, ribbed and membraned vaulted ceilings with cris-crossing stone and timber, modern takes on stained glass masterpieces, and behind the altar, vibrant from floor to arcing ceiling, a brilliant green, gold and grey tapestry of Christ lends warmth and colour to natures greys, browns and bronze. Above the choir stalls, spiky timber 'trees' hold lights - or are they doves of peace? I couldn't help but be impressed, although there were too many congregationists around to feel quite right taking photos. This was a place for the practicing of a thoroughly modern faith, and fundamentally holy. I took my leave.

Of course, Coventry is also famous for Lady Godiva, the Saxon queen whose husband said in jest that his wife would ride naked on horseback through the town before he would lower taxes. As someone with good experience in getting my kit off for a noble cause, I can only stand and applaud this one!

Surprise. Anthony didn't give a toss about my cathedral photos, but really wanted to see these ones! *sigh*

Miss Mandy is a bad influence

'Mandy from the Dan' has been to visit, and my liver may never be the same...

We knew she was in England, and had made vague promises to have her come stay, but suddenly, there she was. Mandy's not a touristy kinda lass, but she's one helluva muso. Nights at The X, the Folly, the Oxford Folk Club and less musical-but-very-gorgeous venues (The Turf, Eagle and Child etc) followed. Somehow, (okay, never really a surprise) we always ended up locked in at the Half Moon...

Somehow, I made it into work each day. By Saturday, all we could do was sleep.

But how proud were we - Mandy has finally put her awesome talent into an album - and we have a copy!!

Feeling funny when friends go home

Two friends - Emma and Yvonne - who I worked with in Melbourne and who have been here since before I arrived, are going home. It sounds a bit sooky (specially given that we spent more time talking about how we 'must catch up' than actually doing it) but I'm going to miss those girls.

We managed to hook up for one final dinner at an awesome middle eastern place in Paddington, just streets away from the red-bedecked hotel room at the top of some rickety stairs that the blokey and I shared when he first came to England. It looked like it had once been a bordello... Yet I could never afford here unless I were a millionaire. That's Paddington - elegant but vibrant. Classy yet cool. Loaded with pubs with ornate plaster ceilings, Victorian wallpaper, and chandeliers. And an easy place for the girls and I to get to after work.

After the tediousness of office politics and the reticence of so many English folk, it feels so good to just hangout with fellow Aussies and know that we all find the same things a bit weird about England: people not making eye contact on the Tube, or not understanding why old stuff is cool cos they're surrounded by it all the time - and don't get me started on the whole 'breasts as public property' attitude, and sexism generally!

We talked non-stop for hours, in that way that only Aussies can, trading gossip, half remembered travel tales and news from friends at home, all at once. Even on the way home, we hovered at the entrance to Paddington tube, trying to squeeze in that last story, anecdote, juicy detail. For 40 minutes of it (coulda had a pint - but nevermind!)

Knowing that they're going has shaken me from complacency a bit. When it's our turn to head home, will we have done everything we've wanted to? That day feels a long way off right now - but what if something changed? Life has felt rather 'heads down, bums up' over the past few months, and there's definitely a difference between 'travelling here' for a year, and living here. Time to pull my head out of my routine a*se, I realise. Suddenly, I feel a fog lifting, bringing half-forgotten plans for travel, learning and sightseeing into crisp focus. That's more like it!

I pondered this all the way down to Hyde Park, where I'd catch the bus back to Oxford. I still wouldn't live in London, but her buzz tonight has given me much to think about.

Tales from Eynsham village

I spent most of my first year here thinking sleepy wee Eynsham only had 3 pubs. Actually, there are nine.

From the White Hart - built in 1366 or maybe earlier, and formerly a courthouse - to the Red Lion (previously aka The Angel and a good place for cockfights, it's the oldest continuously operating pub in the village), you can read all about them on the web.

There used to be more - thirty, in fact. - which surprised me. From the Black Horse (last heard of in 1674) to the Green Dragon (which probably stood where the local store now stands - right between the Jolly Sportsman and the Red Lion, just up from The Swan).

Eynsham's humble origins, I've learned (courtesy of http://www.eynsham.org/) date back to the founding of a massive Abbey in 1005, by the esteemed local scholar, Aelfric. However, apparently the monks all ran away when the Normans fronted up in 1066 and 67, not returning to finish the job til 1109. In its day though, Eynsham was bigger than Oxford.

If one goes back further in time, local archaeology digs have unearthed mammoth bones, and even a stone causeway (a very early road), that is at least 4000 years old. In sleepy old Eynsham.

Who'd a guessed?

My Brother Justin

Through all the goings on over the past couple of months, the biggest thing in my life right now has been the one thing I haven't been prepared to share online.

Many people will know that I have a very special younger brother named Justin, who was born with a host of physical and intellectual challenges, yet has in his 31 years defied all prognoses and expectations to become a strong, caring and independent chappy whom we all adore.

Jus as a baby underwent open heart surgery in New Zealand, and we've known ever since that one day he'd need further work. What we didn't know was that when his body needed attention, it would let us know by making him very sick very quickly. My cousin, who is a nurse, said that "it was literally as if someone flicked a switch in J's chest and he's gone downhill ever since". He passed out at college back in late March/early April and tests quickly showed that the heart valve replacement we'd dreaded was suddenly on the cards, along with a range of other repairs. Within weeks his doctor banned him from college and using public transport and even a simple flight of stairs was sometimes too much. It seemed that every test result brought more disconcerting news.

We were all extremely anxious - and for my other brother, in Japan, and me, being so far away from home was just the pitts. The day we heard that a date was set for surgery, and that his surgeon was a chap with excellent credentials, who specialised in 'dodgy hearts that've been fixed before and need more work', I sat at my keyboard and sobbed with relief.

So Jus had surgery on June 4 (small preparatory thing, which didn't actually go to plan, and freaked us out all over again), followed by 'the big one' on the 12th. To date, it seems to have gone REALLY well. He was out of intensive care after less than 2 days, half a day ahead of schedule, and has continued to come on in leaps and bounds.

I spoke to him for the first time yesterday, and he was pretty dopey, but morphine will do that - and after open heart surgery, morph or similar is in much demand!! He'll be in hospital for much of next week, then home to Mums to recuperate some more. If all goes well he'll be back at TAFE (college) within 3 months.

I'm amazed at what doctors can do to patch up bodies that weren't quite put together according to the manual. For the record, Dr TH Goh (J's cardiologist since he was a baby) and his surgeon, Mr Peter Skillington, deserve medals, along with all the nursing staff at Epworth Hospital, Melbourne.

Just as awe-inspiring is Justin's courage - he's managed to stay incredibly strong and upbeat, even when some of his test results were pretty awful and so much was uncertain. The day he told me he was "okay, but a bit nervous, because I know that something might go wrong and I might die" near broke my heart.

Those days already seem a distant memory and we look forward to more good news in the coming days and weeks. Family have flown in from Japan, Perth and all over to be with him, and their support has been immeasurable. Our parents, who have each been through so much before, have yet again been bastions of support.

To all of you who have offered me - and Jus - your support, thoughts and prayers - especially folk here in Oxford - I can never thank you enough.

M'lords, ladies and gentlemen... dinner is served

Remember that Greens Party ceilidh back in Feb? Well I got chatting to the organisers (as one does) and they mentioned that for their next fundraiser, they wanted to do something really different: a medieval feast.

My heart soared - these are my kind of conscientious hippies!

Did they want helpers? I enquired. "Yes please".
And recipes? I don't have many books here, only those I've bought in the last 12 months, but...

what???

I was in.

Best of all, they'd found a thatched hall, with original oak timbers thicker than my head (and that's saying something!). Ironically, I'd been to a yoga class there just weeks earlier, and said to my friend Lynne 'I have to run a feast here one day... it would be so great!'

Re-enactors reading this will understand - this was hard, hard work. Regular feasters are used to cooking dinner for 50-80 people, and know that it needs long hours, lots of preparation and abundant cookware. Cooking for Greens people is always a bit more challenging, because 50% of people are vegetarian, there are always a handful of vegan, gluten-free and/or other allergies/dislikes/intolerances.

In 14 dishes, we catered for them all. Herbed cheese with nuts and dried fruit. Mushroom pasties, fried fig and onion pastries. Stewed rabbit (or lentils) in sweet and spicy red wine sauce. Roasted goat (or chickpeas) with pepper sauce. Asparagus. Chaals' infamous 'jazeer' carrots. Spring greens with nutmeg. Pear tarts and almond cream. With the exception of some soy cheese and gluten free flour, we did the lot using period ingredients (although some of the pagans might have baulked at having to request a 'lenten' or 'pious' diet when asked if they would be feasting or fasting... teehee!).

I am forever endebted to Kats and Mina, complete strangers to me at 4pm, who worked tirelessly in the kitchens, along with Aly, Ants and other people whose names I never knew. To the jesters who kept folk entertained when the carrots took forever to cook and our awesome MC, Bob. And to the abundance of birch, rubarb, elderberry and other exotic wines, sourced (almost) locally from Banbury. Ask Anthony about them - he held down the bar for a while... and by the end of the night was holding it up too! Last thing before sleep, he was giggling something about teaching children how to swordfight between refilling his glass. I think that means he had a good time.

The applause of 70 satiated diners as we bowed to "Lord" Matt at the end made it all worthwhile...

If you're interested, it looked like this... http://s194.photobucket.com/albums/z27/alyd_photos/

We were barely recovered on Sunday night when we had to pull our fingers out for a gig at the Folly. Actually, Ants wasn't recovered, but he fronted anyway, for our first gig with Jules Dickinson, a local teacher, composer and guitarist who we've gotten to know of late. He's opening up a whole new world of material that I'd never have tried to sing otherwise - Sandy Denny, Joni Mitchell. Cool. The punters liked it too...

Lady Oxford and her feminist past

I've been meaning for ages to pen a bit about Oxford and her gorgeous history, ever since I started playing tourist in my new home town last summer. Two short stories about Oxford women will have to suffice. This is Oxford cathedral - the smallest cathedral in Britain. The patron saint of Oxford is St Frideswide, an 8th century princess who, according to legend, secured a grant of land from her father so that she could found a priory here.

A neighbouring lord, hearing of her beauty and caring not at all for her piety, decided after her father's death that he would make her his wife. According to legend, as his soldiers approached the fortified trading town of Oxenforde, they were all struck blind, as Frideswide prayed for deliverance. Historians differ on the legend from that point. One version says as each man, including the lord, gave up the chase, their sight was miraculously restored. In other versions, all the soldiers recovered their sight, but the unrepentent lord died lonely and sightless. This is her tomb. The stained glass window behind it tells her story. There's a legend that says any king of England who sets foot in Oxford will suffer a tragic fate - certainly things didn't bode well for Charles I, who was based here during the 17th century civil war (he was later beheaded for his trouble).
England's other civil war, in the 12th century, also has roots here. Mathilda, daughter of Henry I and grandaughter of William the Conqueror took refuge in Oxford castle at the end of her 10 year struggle against her cousin, Stephen of Blois. He surrounded the town in December - but the canny Mathilda and her escorts, cloaked in white, slipped across the frozen Thames like ghosts and escaped to her waiting kin. She later hammered out a deal that gave the crown to Stephen, but ensured her son, Henry, would take the throne on his death. If you tour Oxford castle (pix above and below) you can stand in the very room that was her base, in this square tower....

Miss Heather comes to town...

Oxford is soggy and grey this week, but otherwise, life is good. Ants and I are still recovering after having the gorgeous Miss Heather up for the long weekend here - Monday was a public holiday (or bank holiday, as they're known in these parts).

I'm somewhat proud to say that Heather now loves Oxford nearly as much as we do! Took her to the pub where CS Lewis wrote Narnia and Tolkein invented hobbits (they used to skive off from teaching english classes on a tuesday and hang out with literary mates in a bar called the Eagle and Child), a wander beside the Thames and past Oxford Castle and King Henry VIII's former stables. There were pints at The Bear (laughing at students in grad gowns and doting rellies wearing even funnier attire!) and Head of the River (the rowers were out - yum) and at the Half Moon, where the Sunday Session was absolutely cracking.

Monday we adjourned to Warwick Castle to see Ants in action- he is just loving life as a Master of Trebuchet, although this particular day it was down for maintenance, and he did look funny trying to demonstrate it on a model that was barely as big as himself... Oh well!

Jousting at Blenheim

The highlight of this May weekend, though, was Blenheim Palace, just up the road from Oxford, in regal Woodstock. Edward the Black Prince was born here, they say, and a royal hunting lodge stood here for centuries. Princess Elizabeth (later Elizabeth I) was held here for some months too, by Queen (Bloody) Mary, during the maddest years of her sister's reign.

But it wasn't 'til the 18th Century that Blenheim took the gorgeous form one sees today, when the grounds were gifted by Queen Anne to the first Duke of Marlborough for his victories over the French. Sumptuous, no?

(btw, that's the lovely Heather in yellow... showing just how grand a scale these buildings have!)

Most famous these days as the birthplace of Winston Churchill (not a bad place to grow up), Blenheim opens its doors to tournaments and such...

... and yet here and there are reminders that this is still someone's private home...

Hooray hooray, the first of May...

...outdoor screwing begins today!


So cool to finally be in the right hemisphere to say such things.

So despite running away to Aus for a month in the middle of winter, I totally understand why the beginning of spring is such a big deal. Winter tends to send English people a bit mad.

I'm sure that's why thousands of people stagger into the high street at 4am in the freezing dark to assemble outside Magdalene (I still don't know why it's pronounces Maudlin) College - some of the college kids still sporting strapless evening gowns and the remains of black tie from all-night-end-of-academic-year balls. After about 2 hours of freezing my bits off and texting family back home about what a lunatic thing I was doing, I finally heard the college choir shuffle onto the roof of the tower about 5 floors overhead. They then sang hymns in Latin for about 15 minutes (that was worth waiting for - not) which was broadcast down to us on the tinniest PA system you ever heard. Actually, I'd have preferred to hear it through tin-cans joined by a string... No wonder people jump off the Magdalene Bridge (into about 18 inches of freezing water, a long way below). Despite a recent ban and a heavy police presence, apparently 3 people managed the feat this year...

After such an anticlimax, I hastened off to the famed Victoria Arms in Old Marston village, not far from home. I arrived at 6.15 to find the morning folk session in full swing, with about 100 revellers well into cooked-brekkie-for-a-fiver washed down by at least their first pint. All the Half Moon regulars were there - even Joe, the landlord! And we sang all the spring songs - John Barleycorn (at least 2 versions, maybe 3), Long Life and Success to the Farmer, Nothing for Poor Shepherds to Do and a long list of others. By the time chilly dawn turned into brilliant sunny morning we were far too merry to bother with suncream as we trouped outside for Morrismen (and women!) and my first maypole dance.

I should point out that some of our friends had been up all night at the previous nights session, and that most of them book May 2 off work as well, to recover. We lasted until about 3pm when, given our big weekend in Leeds and an early start, we trudged across the field home for a long hard nanna-nap.

Next year, I aspire to know the words...

Tall tales and tall trees - Nottingham and Sherwood Forest

I'd been warned that it was the murder capital of Britain, but the part of me that grew up devouring tales of Robin Hood and Sherwood forest was just dying to go check out Nottingham.

Nevertheless, we went there during daylight.

The road from Leeds is curvy and scenic, but it's very clear that Sherwood Forest is not a patch on the mighty greenwood of 1000 years ago. Just a few hundred of the thousands of 'really old trees' remain, the rest were cut down for ship-building in the 1700s. Signposts now mark out patches of remnant forest amid fields and shrubby regrowth, and the visitor's centre, when we get there, is (as Ants put it) "In desperate need of a cash injection". No doubt it was leading edge when it was built in the 1970s... undaunted, we followed one of the walking trails to the oldest oak in the forest, said to be 1000 years old. Its massive limbs held up by scaffolds and steel posts, it looked as though it was being kept alive for the sake of a record, and it was all a bit sad, rather than awe inspiring. We cut our losses and headed to Nottingham for lunch.

As English cities go, Notts is pretty modern, but the shape of the old medieval town is easy to imagine - the castle (what's left of it - not much more than a posh renaissance manor house now, really) sits atop a massive rock formation that rises out of the earth. A lot of the hillside boasts prettily sculptured gardens, but many of the old walls at the foot of the hill remain, winding their way up a series of no-man's lands and narrow gateways. It would have commanded a powerful view of the town below, and seemed all but impregnable.

But it wasn't the castle we really came to see. Nestled at the base of the castle and built into excavated rock, is a stone and timber formation that claims to be England's oldest pub. Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem was opened in 1189AD, and is said to have been the staging point from which Richard I led his troops on the third Crusade. Tunnels dug into the rock connect it to the castle grounds - the infamous Mortimer's Hole is said to have been used by Roger Mortimer, Earl of March and lover of Queen Isabella (wife of the allegedly-not-very-into-women Edward II, of death-by-red-hot-poker fame) to access the queen when she was in residence. Most historians now agree that neither the tale of the midnight rendezvous nor the poker is likely to be true, but that doesn't stop venues from continuing the myths.

Ye Olde Trip... is full of plaques with tales of dodgy artefacts - from a 'pregnancy chair' to a ship in a bottle that kills anyone who tries to clean it. All good tourist fun. Best call in for a pint only though - food is standard english fare, and not as good as many other pubs we've seen in our travels.

One of the coolest weekends. Ever.

The lovely Anthony turned 35 on Saturday...(Teehee!)

To celebrate, we took a coupla days off and hired a car (I know, evil Georgi. Moo!) to head up to the Royal Armouries at Leeds, about 3 hours away. I swear, it's re-enactor's paradise.

We spent nearly 3 full days madly photographing and documenting everything we could find, plus watching displays of pattern welding swords, Tudor hunting, horseriding. and falconry. The renaissance armour from Italy was stunning...

There were suits of armour owned by Henry VIII and Robert Dudley....(That's Henry VIII's armour Ants is standing beside below - funny how weapons make him strike a rugby pose. Hmm. Primal.)

These masks, from the same era, were pretty trippy too - handmade, as gifts (?really) to Henry VIII... personally, I think it's as mad as the dinner set frenzy that was showered over Wellington after he defeated Napoleon (check the rant on March 9, 2006, if you can't remember this piece of giggle).

For mine, there's way more to see in Leeds even than at the Tower of London...

I loved this boar spear... I want one!!

But the most amazing bit came out of a natter with the horse display guys after their show. They were at Hastings, we were at Hastings, they've studied fighting from manuscripts, we've studied fighting from manuscripts, the usual re-enactor patter. Then Ants offered them a special day out at Warwick... and they returned the favour by offering to have a word with Phil-the-chief-librarian... Next day, we were wandering around the fencing weapons section when the phone rang. "Hi, it's Chris, would you like a really cool finish to your weekend'??

Suddenly we're down on level 1 (the 'no public access' floor), meeting Phil the Librarian, who handed us a pair of white gloves each and pointed us towards a big cushion on which was resting... i33. Yes, the original.

Those who don't give a rats about history won't care that it's believed to be the oldest extant manual of swordfighting, published circa 1270 AD. The rest of you, please wipe the drool off your keyboards now. We spent about 40 minutes leafing through it, admiring the piccies (neither of us reads Old German, or Latin....), and half laughing, half wincing at the bits where some generations' past toddler appears to have coloured over the diagrams with crayon...

We left feeling really special.

More about Leeds

The Royal Armouries, it must be said, were hard to top, but the artsy craftman's market and the painted timber Covered Market (the largest in Europe, apparently) gave us more than a morning's browsing.

As you can see, Anthony spent the morning pulling faces - although he downright scowled when he realised I'd posed him under this sign on purpose.... Modern Leeds is a carelessly cool city - a whole lotta Victorian stone edifices meet industrial revolution hits urban chic, that reminds me a bit of Melbourne. The reclaimed waterfront is clearly becoming a hub for trendy bars and renovated factories-turned-studio-flats.

And damn but the eating's good! Having turned up at a spanish place I'd found on the web and found it packed on the Saturday, we wandered around for ages trying to get a bit to eat - Anthony's (which I've since learned has a michelin star!) was booked out, and there was nary a table to be had even at Loch Fyne or any of the better 'national' restaurants.

We were getting desperate, when we found Georgetown. Set inside a former watchmakers shop, this restaurant was still all kitted out in Victorian opulence (etched mirrors, chandeliers, dark timber and pretty porcelain), serving up seriously good Indonesian, Malay and Chinese dishes in a quirky, but workable, 'civilised dining in the colonies' kinda theme. The asian flavours tasted authentic, the service was darn good, and after our champagne, three courses and wine, we adjourned to the piano bar for coffee, digestifs and a smoke. Piano bar? Yes, an asian chap played for about 3 hours to an almost empty dining room. At the prices we paid, I don't understand how this place wasn't packed.

From there we found a groovy bar where we drank cherry beers from Belgium before staggering into the shrieking cacophony of chavs and mingers that litter the streets of English cities everywhere on a Saturday night...

This was a new breed of chav though. Leeds counts, to most English folk, as 'up north' (some people consider Brummies to be northerners - blimey!) and is fulled with an odd mix of accents - I'd just gotten used to the slightly nasally singsong of Lancastrian-like accents, when a cab driver's broad Yorkshire drawl made me sit up and have to check my ears. "Y'want 't Brookfild 'otel? On 'Unslet roood. Aye ah noo the won". Maybe you had to be there...

Anyway, we rounded out the weekend by heading back to the Spanish place on Sunday, where we learned they did "Tapas for a Tenner" on Sundays... bliss!

Edible Anzac Day

There's a lass at work called Trisha the Crazy Queenslander. She had a stroke of genius this year - let's show the Brits what Anzac spirit is all about... by cooking for them!

Don't laugh - it worked! As folk chewed through plates of Anzac Biscuits, TJ explained that the food had to be hard-wearing to last all the way to the trenches, and then survive a warzone. And the kiwifruit on my pav was, clearly, a reminder that Galipoli was a proving ground for New Zealanders as well as Aussies - two young, newly independent nations making their debut on the world stage.

Nah, actually, it was just an excuse for a yummy morning tea. But given that a lot of Brits and Europeans don't even realise Australians were even IN the war, let alone dying in their thousands, I think we made our point, quite deliciously.