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

Yes, really!

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

Orphans Christmas

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

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

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

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

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

On the eve of solstice...

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

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

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

Party Frocks

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

...And live at 'the X'

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

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




I could get used to this gigging caper...

Joie de Vivre in gay Paree

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Live at the 'General'...

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

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

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

Rugby double header

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

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

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

Stonehenge to Southampton

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

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

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

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

Here Nelson Fell.

Here Nelson Died.

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

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

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

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

Jailbirds, submariners, exempt from smoking ban...

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

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

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

Introducing... Eclipse!

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

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

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

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

The world according to Tolkein

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

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

A Warwick, a Warwick...

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

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

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

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

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

Harold vs William: the big game

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

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

Best of all, Ants was here!

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

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

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

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

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

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

The big game (2)

Word for today - tephrochronology

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Black is the colour indeed, today...

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

A proper stone and bronze age weekend

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

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

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

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

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

The henges of Salisbury Plain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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