ROAD TRIPPING (PART 2)

Another long post, but it could have been worse! Now...

SCOTLAND

I love love love Scotland, and was very excited to take my mum and sister up there, as neither had been before. First on our (unwritten) list of Scottish Things was Hadrian's Wall, constructed around AD122 to keep those nasty Scots/Picts out of Roman Britain. We visited the part at Chester's Fort, which was built slightly after the wall itself and is now apparently the best preserved Roman cavalry fort in Britain. On the day we visited, it was waterlogged, wet and windy, but we thoroughly enjoyed wandering through the remains of the barracks and bathhouse and imagining a Roman army garrison facing the same weather conditions 2000 years ago. Actually, when I say "we" enjoyed it, I meant me and my sister. Mum was wet and miserable and would have preferred to sit in the car instead, but I wouldn't let her. How do you like the old, "you'll thank me for this one day" line being used on YOU, huh mum? Huh?

(She loved it though. I was SO right.)

Lovely Scottish weather

Then it was onward to Edinburgh, one of my favourite places IN THE UNIVERSE. Mother Nature obviously didn't get my memo about wanting to impress my mum and sis, though, because the weather was abysmal. It was wet, windy and slippery. There were a few close calls for all of us, but in the end I was the only one who actually fell on my arse. Also, we couldn't find anywhere indoors to stay, so ended up pitching our tent under an arched railway bridge adjacent to the perennially loud and annoying A7. It was totally legal, though. Trust me.

The next day was slightly better weather-wise, so we climbed Arthur's Seat (that big rock thing in the middle of Edinburgh - well, the one without a castle on it). It was warm and occasionally sunny on the walk up, we had a lovely picnic at the top, then got rained on during the descent. It all felt so very Scottish.

We were set to meet friends in Glasgow the next night, but rather than head straight to the city, we spent the day at Rosslyn Chapel. Dan Brown and Holy Grail legends aside, it's a really, really beautiful chapel. I'm not usually a fan of churches - I've been in London for 4 years and have yet to set foot inside St Paul's Cathedral - but Rosslyn Chapel is genuinely gorgeous and you should definitely go see it if you're in the area.

Right. Next.

By happy circumstance, I had about eight friends all in Glasgow at the same time, so we all had dinner together and then introduced my mum to the nightlife of Glasgow. As an extra bonus, she was treated to the sight of both her daughters getting rip-roaring drunk. I'm not entirely convinced she wasn't a bit tipsy herself, though. That's what I like to believe, anyway.

Loch Lomond

Incredibly hungover the next day, we soldiered on and drove to the lovely and calm Loch Lomond and then through the stunning scenery of Glen Coe into the Scottish highlands. The Highlands were more lovely than I could have imagined. We saw green mountains shrouded in mist, waterfalls running down craggy outcrops, lochs at the foot of bright green hills. I really don't think I've ever seen anything so breathtakingly beautiful. Photos can't do it justice, so I haven't even tried here. Sorry. Google has a good selection of images here.

It had been a tough day battling through our hangovers, and despite a nap in a carpark in Fort William, we were still struggling to get our brains working by that afternoon. I'd thought it would be nice to drive across to the Isle of Skye that evening, but we ended up sitting for 30 minutes at the ferry terminal before realising we'd missed the last ferry of the day. Whoops. Time for another accommodation-finding adventure! We drove around looking for somewhere to camp, and eventually found a lovely site on the banks of the Sound of Sleat. Yes it really is called that.

Waking up at the Sound of Sleat

After a chilly night, we were super-keen to get to the Isle of Skye the next morning. With cloudy skies threatening rain, we managed to pack up our tent and gear with impressive speed.  We crammed the last of the gear into the boot just as the first drops of rain started to fall. Perfect. Smugly self-satisfied, we jumped into the car and were all set to go, when my sister slid into her seat behind the wheel, looked down, turned around and said, "Um, where are the keys?"

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK !!!!!!!!

They were last sighted on a sleeping back in the middle of the tent earlier that morning. We jumped out of the car and into the rain, unrolled and shook open all three sleeping bags. No keys. Next we unrolled the lovely dry tent onto the wet grass, and crawled all over it trying to feel if there were any key-sized lumps under the canvas. No joy. We were soaking wet and getting desperate, so I unzipped the now sodden tent, crawled underneath the dripping wet canvas, and double-checked all the corners. Victory! The car key was tucked away in the front corner. Phew.

On we go.

With that bracing and soggy start to the day, we went onwards to the Isle of Skye, visiting the Clan Donald centre and brushing up on a few hundred years of family history. Some relative we didn't know existed had done this huge research project on Macdonald family history and my mum was named in his book as a direct descendent. The two-hundred year old family tree included her marriage to my father, but didn't list the next generation (ie me), so I promptly concluded that the researcher was completely incompetent and his life's work was a piece of rubbish.

We had lunch in Portree, the capital of Skye, and made a half-arsed attempt to plan out the next few days of our trip. By now we'd been on the road for ten nights, only three of which had been spent with a roof over our heads, and we were feeling a bit weary. Much like you're probably feeling at this point if you've managed to make it this far in this extremely long and tedious blog post. Making plans was all too difficult, so we just decided to drive back to the mainland, head in the general direction of Loch Ness and find somewhere to stay along the way. She'll be right, mate.

Driving along, we passed a few handwritten roadside signs that said "Bunkhouse - £10". The price was right, and for lack any other option, we decided to turn off the highway and check it out. The directions took us deep into the middle of nowhere. It was a very scenic nowhere, but still... We were driving for miles and miles alongside a loch, on a single-track road with hairpin turns and no houses or people to be seen. There were also no further signs to this mythical bunkhouse to be seen. I started calling it "Brigadoon". Well. Technically I started calling it "Bundanoon", which is a small town in NSW and not a mysterious Scottish village that only appears once every hundred years, but what I meant was Brigadoon. After about half an hour we had decided that the roadside signs must be some weird Scottish practical joke (like a sign to Brigadooooooon), and started to look for somewhere with enough width to allow us to turn around without falling into a loch or off a cliff so we could get the hell back to civilisation. Finally, at the point of defeat, we spotted another sign to The Bunkhouse.

We were so glad we persevered. The Bunkhouse was a little stone cottage with real beds, a kitchen, stove, lounge room and hot water. Oh lordy, it was heavenly. So heavenly, that I just said "oh lordy" when talking about it. Hmmm. The next morning we met the owner, a lovely Scottish chap called Willie, who brought us some fresh eggs for our breakfast. Willie also told us about a great walk to a nearby waterfall, which we did immediately after breakfast.  It was a lovely walk, a lovely waterfall, and a lovely place. Lovely enough for me to give it a proper plug (which I don't think I've ever done before): check out The Bunkhouse here. I could have stayed for days, but we were constrained by the limited amount of leave my sister could get from work, and our determination to visit absolutely everywhere, so we pushed on towards Loch Ness the next day.

Although I was surprised and disappointed to learn at the Loch Ness Exhibition Centre that the Loch Ness Monster isn't real (what what WHAT?), I enjoyed the scenery and stuff. It almost made up for the destruction of my dream of one day discovering and befriending a plesiosaur who had survived for 65 million years longer than any of her cousins and now lived at the bottom of a lake I lived nowhere near. Almost.

I'd been hoping we could find somewhere to stay at Inverness, but alas, it was not to be. We had a shitty meal in a crappy restaurant, then retired to a gorgeous campsite beside  Beauly Firth. Hooray! Our tent-pitching skills were now sufficiently 'leet', that we managed to do so through gale-force winds. The night was freezing cold, but the view of the Firth in the morning was spectacular.

The end is nigh, dear reader, so bear with me just a little bit longer...

The next day was spent at the Culloden Battlefield, which was absolutely brilliant. It is the best 'museum' I've ever been to in my life. I entered knowing nothing about the battle except its name, and even that was only due to the fact that Doctor Who once had a Scottish companion who joined the TARDIS fresh from the battlefield at Culloden. Now I wouldn't want to disparage the historical learnings imparted by Doctor Who, but the museum filled in the gaps about the Jacobite uprising, the highlanders' defeat, and the fate of Bonnie Prince Charlie that Jamie and the Second Doctor were too busy fighting cybermen, daleks and aliens to cover in much detail. I wouldn't mind going to Culloden again, actually. It's THAT good.

The rest of the day was spent driving around in an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to catch glimpses of Cawdor Castle (of Macbeth fame) and Balmoral, the Queen's Scottish residence. Although we didn't manage to catch sight of the castles themselves, I can report that they both have lovely trees surrounding them.  Nice, big, solid, view-blocking trees.

After a less-than-successful afternoon of touristing, I should have known that we would struggle to find accommodation. Again. This was the night that we came closest to giving up and sleeping in the car. We drove around for hours, finding that every campsite was either locked or full. It was just after midnight when we finally snuck into one of those horrible caravan holiday parks that no human being with any grace or dignity should even set foot within. You know the ones - they advertise 'family-friendly' spaces and an indoor heated pool, but actually consist of skanky teens breaking away from their parents, drinking hooch, shagging in the bushes, having late night screaming matches, and throwing their empty bottles at tents.

It was awful.

We did the whole pitch-the-tent-after-dark-and-move-on-first-thing-in-the-morning thing, so didn't end up providing any financial contribution to the upkeep of that particular establishment. We'd unintentionally done that a couple of other nights of the trip - when we'd been unable to find the person we needed to pay and couldn't stick around for a half day until they showed up - but this was the first occasion I'd done so guilt-free. That place really sucked. Unfortunately this night marked the end of our stay in Scotland, and our trip was drawing to a close. Sad, sad panda.

A Hairy Coo!!

The next day we drove back into England. We managed to get a bit more Scottish tourist action even once we'd crossed the border, though, with a stop to visit the Highland Cattle Centre in Durham. I'm mildly obsessed with highland cows. The centre also had other farm animals, including large and terrifying pigs that went crazy as my sister and I approached them. I was scared they'd break loose and I'd end up trampled to death by 200 pounds of bacon. SUCH an embarrassing way to go for a vegetarian.

York Minster

After that little adventure, we continued our drive south to York. We managed to secure a room at the same B&B that I'd been at last time, so were treated to comfortable, warm beds and a wicked cooked breakfast the next day. Mum and sis visited York Minster and the Jorvik viking centre, while I wandered around doing sweet f*ck all. Win-Win.

That day was officially the last of our road trip. Sigh. We drove back to London that evening, with naught but our memories, M1 traffic, and intermittent radio reception to keep us entertained.

And so ended our amazing road trip, where my mum, sister and I managed to see the entire British Isles in only two weeks! Oh, but if any of you reading this actually know my mum, don't mention to her how good it would have been to visit Cornwall, Devon, Manchester, Leeds, the Midlands, the Peak District, the entirety of Wales except for Cardiff, the Yorkshire Dales, St Andrew's, central Scotland, and the inner and outer Hebrides.

Next time, Gadget, next time...

ROAD TRIPPING (PART 1)

I usually find travel reports really boring, and this one is unfortunately no exception. And it's REALLY LONG too. Sorry. Feel free to skip  it or nod off in the middle. I know I have, and I've been writing it.

So...after having just returned from Egypt, my mum and I met up with my sister and we all piled into a hire car and set off into the British countryside. What we lacked in terms of an actual itinerary and pre-booked accommodation, we made up for in enthusiasm and a blind faith that everything would turn out alright. We had two weeks in which to do a complete tour of absolutely everywhere. Easy peasy.

Inside the walls of Cardiff Castle

We decided to drive straight to Cardiff and spend the night there so that we'd have two glorious days to explore the (ahem) marvels of Wales' premier city.  We went first to Cardiff Bay, and were excited to see that we'd arrived on the night of a pretty impressive looking food and wine festival. Five minutes after arriving, the festival vendors started shutting their stalls and burly security guards told us to leave. Bastards.

The next morning was bright and sunny, so we walked to Cardiff Castle.  It's quite a cool castle, and we were enjoying meandering along the battlements, right up until the sky split open and the heaviest rain I've encountered this far from the tropics started flinging itself down from the heavens. We spent an hour hiding inside the castle walls until the driving rain subsided enough for us to run across the soggy grass to the cafe/tourist shop at the exit, where we loitered until the rain finally stopped and we could escape. That was enough Wales for me. We decided to move on.

Our next stop was Bath, where we marvelled at the Roman Baths, spat out the horrible tasting spa water from the Pump Room, and imagined being rich and classy enough to live in the beautiful Georgian homes of the Royal Crescent. Then it was off for a drive through the Cotswolds, where we enjoyed the rolling hills and pretty little villages for which the area is famous. This was to be our first night camping, so we sensibly set up the tent before going to visit the Rollright Stones. I'd read some spooky tales of mysterious happenings at those stones, so was quite disappointed when none of us were shoved in the back by a spectral hand or accidentally whisked away to an alternative dimension. Maybe next time.

The next day we found our way to Stratford-upon-Avon, and ate a lovely picnic lunch on the banks of the Avon river, with Shakespeare's decomposed corpse resting just metres away in the Holy Trinity Church. I felt so cultural. Mum wanted to visit his birthplace, which I'd seen before, so I got to sit in a cafe and have a bit of a snooze while she was doing that. I also snoozed in the car while my mum and sister spent a couple of hours avoiding screaming children at Warwick Castle later that day. It was obviously a really tough day for me.

Next it was off to Liverpool, so mum could re-connect with her inner teenager and walk in the footsteps of *swoon* The Beatles.  I'm hoping her visions of Liverpudlian life weren't too romantic, because the local scousers didn't exactly turn on the charm. As we were waiting for a bus to get home that night, we were almost trampled by police officers who pushed us aside to break up a fistfight between two drunk morons standing beside us. Classy place, Liverpool. We slept in an old dairy, and it was the most comfortable night's sleep we'd had so far.

I don't know what came over me, but looking at our map the next morning I decided it would be a really good idea to go to Blackpool. And it was! Blackpool was fantastic! Picture all of the cheesiest, tackiest components of a stereotypical British seaside town, plonk them all into one small area, and there you have Blackpool. There were amusements, piers, rides, terraced seating leading on to a sandy beach and overweight fifty-year old women dressed as Britney Spears. My sister was concerned by the number of our fellow day trippers who were missing teeth, but I was mostly distracted by the teenage mothers screaming at their children so didn't notice. Ah, Blackpool, how I loved thee.

Mum convinced us all to go on this terrifying ride on the South Pier called the Sky Screamer. It was like a reverse bungee. The three of us were strapped with a flimsy-looking seat belt into an open cage, then sling-shot 200 feet into the air. Apparently we went from 0-60mph in 2 seconds, before bouncing around upside down and sideways for a while. Yeah, we screamed. It was so much fun we went on it twice.

Once the adrenalin drained away, Blackpool started to feel a bit  boring so we drove on to the Lake District in search of a campsite and an early night. The next day we took to the hills for a hike. It was brilliant. My mum had never done any rambling before, but she powered on up the hills like a trouper. We had lunch in a meadow with cows in the foreground, Lake Windemere in the background, and mountains rising up behind us. I love country walks. Even ones where we get lost, end up ankle-deep in mud and completely ruin the inappropriate footwear in which we chose to walk. Even then, I still love country walks.

The walk took us five hours, so the next evening in the campsite was quite chilled out. We bought some beers and sat around chatting as our drinks chilled in a stream. It was lovely.

The next day we started our journey to the most-anticipated part of our road trip: Scotland!

** If you've managed to make it this far, you'll be pleased to know that I've now decided  to break this tale into two parts. They're still two long parts, but that's gotta be better than one super-long part where you finish the story in a different demographic/age bracket from the one in which you started. **

WELCOME TO BRITAIN, MUM!

After seven months in exile, I was finally back in London. So what did I do? I went travelling again, of course!

My mum was coming to visit, and was set to arrive just two days after I landed. Within 48 hours of her landing at Heathrow, mum was grooving with the hippies inside Stonehenge as we waited for the summer solstice to approach. Oh, and my sister and I made her sleep in a car. My mum's pretty awesome.

Anyway, you probably want details. Here we go:

The day after mum arrived, we hired a car and set off to visit the Queen at Windsor Castle with my sister. It was Royal Ascot Weekend, so the Queen was actually there. She didn't pop out and say hello or anything, though, which I thought was quite rude. Although I do like to imagine that she was just on the other side of one of the doors we passed, in her slippers and nightgown, sipping on a nice cup of tea.

Windsor Castle was nice and castle-y and stuffed full of treasures stolen from the colonies. I fell in love with Queen Mary's dollshouse and want my own. It's exquisite. It's also approximately the same size as the average London apartment. Don't let that put you off buying me one, though. Just be sure to budget extra for lots of wrapping paper.

We couldn't hang about in Windsor too long, as we had to get to Stonehenge. It was the Summer Solstice, which is the only night of the year that We The People are allowed anywhere near the stones. The plan was to be sitting up amongst the stones as the sun set on the horizon. It was a lovely plan. The plan forgot that it would need to account for Royal Ascot Weekend traffic and a queue on the A334 leading into Stonehenge that would see us take 2 hours to travel 2km. The plan made us miss sunset. Bad plan.

Still, there was a little light left when we finally made it so we hiked up to the Stone Circle anyway. It was spectacular. There were people everywhere, drumming echoed out from inside the Circle and the famous stones were there - right there!- looming in the twilight. I felt a wave of hippy nature-love and hugged a stone. It felt good.

We sat around soaking up the atmosphere for a while but, being substance-free, we decided to go back to the car for a 3-hour nap to wait until sunrise. There were no tents allowed on site, and though a few others had risked it and pitched in between vehicles, we had foolishly decided to follow the rules. My sis and her friend L slept in sleeping bags outside the car, while Mum and I had the comparative luxury of sleeping under doonas (aka duvets) inside the car. It was cold and uncomfortable, but we really did have it easy compared to the other two. They looked like popsicles when we woke a few hours later in the pre-dawn darkness.

Back at the Circle, the party was still in full swing. In the event, dawn itself was a bit of a letdown. The morning was cloudy, so we couldn't see the rays of the rising sun strike the middle of the Circle or whatever the hell magical stuff is supposed to happen at Stonehenge during the Solstice. Still, it was a brilliant experience and I'd love to get back there again. We grabbed some food and went back to the car, passing hippies, druids and drug-f*cked teenagers on the way. I love this country.

After another wee nap, we pulled ourselves together and drove on to have lunch in the grounds of Salisbury Cathedral (the sun was actually out by then - where were you at dawn, Sun?) then drove on to Avebury. For those who don't know, the village of Avebury was built almost completely inside another prehistoric Stone Circle monument. The Circle is 16 times larger than Stonehenge, though the stones themselves are a little smalller. They're really cool and eerie, and I find the atmosphere there much spookier than Stonehenge. We ended the day with a cream tea and a drive back to London. As my mum seemed to be immune from jetlag (I really wish that was genetic), I organised another full-on adventure for the very next day: Wimbledon!

It was Day One, so we managed to see some decent players on the outer courts, and also bought a refunded pass for Centre Court to watch  Djokovic (world number 4 at the time) beat Brettaneau from France. Surprisingly, the weather was lovely. We ate strawberries and cream and sat on Henman Hill, just to get the full British experience. Lovely.

The next few days were spent on the typical tourist trail in London: a Hop-On Hop-Off bus tour, Thames river cruise (sunny weather again!), the Greenwich Observatory, Tower of London,  Shakespeare's Globe, the London Eye, Westminster Abbey etc etc. We had to take a pause from the tour of British culture and history to take in some Aussie culture and history. It was State of Origin night, so we joined my sister at a typically obnoxious Aussie bar to watch the delayed match surrounded by drunken Aussie yobs. "We" (Queensland) won the game and the series though, so all was right with the world.

The next day mum and I flew off to Egypt (read more about that trip here) and once back we were joined by my little sister and went road tripping across the UK. Stay tuned for more tales of my mum's adventures here in the homeland...

EGYPTIAN VOYAGE

I've been to Egypt!! Wait, let me try that again: I've been to Egypt. Yep, feels just as good without the exclamation marks. When I was 12 years old, studying ancient history for the first time, I decided unequivocally that I wanted to be an archaeologist when I grew up. The thrills! The adventure! The crumbly old stuff!  

Ten years later, when I finally met an archaeologist, he shattered my illusions by describing the tedium of a life spent cataloguing and examining tiny fragments of pottery indoors, instead of Indiana Jones-style adventures below shifting dunes in a foreign desert. Fast forward another eight years, and I'm standing in a valley on the west bank of the Nile, walking up a sandy  track in unbelievable heat, about to enter the Valley of the Kings. I was drawn back to the Indiana Jones imaginings of my 12 year-old self,  excited and awe-struck.

Sometimes, tourist sites don't look anything like you imagine. The Mona Lisa is much smaller than you expect, turn your back on (the Canadian) Niagara Falls and you're facing a tacky, gaudy kitsch-land of neon signs, amusements and slot machines, the Great Wall of China is.....actually that really is pretty Great. Anyway, the Valley of the Kings looked EXACTLY as I wanted it to. A few sand dunes, with tiny openings peeking out below, leading down to  the dusty tombs of Pharaohs who walked the earth thousands of years ago.

Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself. So how did I get here? It was all because of my mum. Mum was coming to visit my sister and I in London, and because sis couldn't get enough leave to cover the whole trip, I suggested that mum and I head somewhere else for a week or two first. This was my mum's first trip to Europe, so I was thinking she'd choose France, or Italy, maybe even Greece if she was feeling a little adventurous. But no, mum wanted to go to Egypt. It had been barely a month since a bomb exploded in Khan-el-Khalili, Cairo's most famous (or at least most touristy) souk, so the idea of taking my mum on a holiday there made me just a wee bit nervous.

Anyway, she couldn't be dissuaded (and to be honest I didn't actually try that hard - why would I?) so we made plans for a 9-day cruise and tour package. It was outrageously expensive and luxurious, but I used the fact that my mum was accompanying me to justify the extravagance and thus keep my backpacker credentials intact. We ended up travelling right in the middle of an Egyptian summer, so with 40 degree-plus temperatures, every little luxury was appreciated.

The week went something like this:

Day One - We're in Egypt!

After an overnight stopover in Zurich, we arrived in Cairo and were instantly bombarded by the heat and noise of this big, bustling city. A night at the Ramses Hilton helped cushion the blow somewhat.

Day Two - Sightseeing in Cairo

We spent some time in the Egyptian Museum and also went out to the Pyramids. (The real ones! Wow!) My first glimpse of the pyramids as we approached on a minibus was marvellous. Oh how I marvelled. People who tell you, "it's ruined now, man, because there's a KFC right beside the Sphinx, man, and you should have seen it 20 years ago" are just being grumpy old spoil-sports. The KFC is a good hundred metres away, and it's still easy to get a sense of isolation, mystery and wonder as you face the sphinx and see the pyramids rising up behind it. Plus, when you're done, it's a really short walk to get a Zinger and Chips.

Day Three - On to Aswan

An early start today, as we had to catch a flight to Aswan. Once we landed, some minions magicked our bags away and we set off  to see the High Dam. I'd already started to think that forking out for 5-star luxury now and again wasn't so bad after all.

In making the dam, they had to flood several ancient temples and Nubian villages. After taking snaps of Lake Nasser (on the high side) and Lake Aswan (on the low side), and daydreaming about what those abandoned villages and temples would look like under the waters below, we caught a boat across to visit Philae Temple. It too would have been lost to the waters of the High Dam, were it not for the French. They chopped it into 450,000 pieces, then relocated and rebuilt it on another island just metres away from its original home to save it from being flooded. Maybe they're not so bad after all.

Day Four - Cruising along the Nile

My first ever cruise. Lounging under an umbrella on a sundeck, sweating under 3 inches of sunscreen, a hot breeze washing over me, watching sand dunes and palm trees slip past as we glided through the swirling water of the Nile. It was thrilling. I wanted to pinch myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming. It all felt so exotic, helped in no small part by the fact I was reading Agatha Christie's Death on the Nile at the same time (thanks mum!).

We went on-shore to see a couple of temples during the day (Kom-Ombo and Edfu), but it was so excruciatingly hot that I can't say I absorbed much information. All I remember is that they were both dedicated to Horus and one of them had something with a crocodile god. Whatever. I may not have learned anything, but I took lots of photos so it totally counts, ok?

Day Five - Luxor

Could this trip possibly get any more exotic? We were now at Luxor, formerly Thebes. To me, even saying the word "Luxor" conjures up images of 18th century aristocrats tripping to the continent to escape the damp English weather.

We went to see Luxor temple, one of the best-preserved in all of Egypt. Our tour guide was an Egyptologist, and while it was interesting to learn about the history of the temple, by now I was really 'over' the whole tour-group experience. As an independent traveller, I'd never been on an organised tour of this length before, and by now was tired of 6am starts and being herded around like schoolchildren. Still, it wasn't too much of a hardship. I found sanctuary in hanging out in our air-conditioned cabin or on the sundeck, reading and chatting with my mum.

Day Six - The Valley of the Kings

I (almost) shed a small tear as we said goodbye to our luxury, air-conditioned cruise ship and hit the road again. Day Six was when we went to the Valley of the Kings and I had my Indiana Jones moment. It really was marvellous. It was also DAMN hot that day.  By now I had taken to wearing a sarong over my head and shoulders every time I stepped out from under the shade. We visited some more temples (one dedicated to Hatshepsut, the only female pharaoh, and also Karnak Temple) then took an Egypt Air flight back to Cairo.

Day Seven - On the road again

No rest for the wicked (or my mum) so we were up early YET AGAIN for the drive to Alexandria. Six days of pre-dawn awakenings, combined with daytime temperatures hot enough to boil the sweat off my brow, had by now almost drained me of the will to live. Anyone who's seen me even slightly sleep deprived will be shuddering at the image of how I must have been after 7 days of it. After all, the effects of sleep deprivation are cumulative*. We stopped in to look at some Coptic Christian monasteries on the way to Alexandria, but it just wasn't floating my boat. The head monk-dude showed us a tomb that he claimed was the final resting place of John the Baptist. When he shared this amazing, unbelievable, and unsupported-by-factual-evidence revelation, the Americans on our tour all gasped in awe and pulled out their cameras. Americans are weird.

Day Eight - Alexandria

Suddenly, on the second last day of the tour, I got my second wind.  I remember standing on the balcony of our hotel room in Alexandria, overlooking the sparkling blue Mediterranean sea, with a cool breeze on my face, tripping out on the awesomeness of life. I love those moments.

In addition to staying at a hotel that is best described by the word 'opulent', we climbed down some damp, smelly catacombs, saw Pompey's Pillar on the site of what was once Cleopatra's temple, visited a Roman amphitheatre, and wandered around Alexandria Museum. I really like Alexandria. It even has trams. I like trams.

Day Nine - The end

Oh to leave Egypt was so sad, it had been a really great trip. Mum and I had become quite fond of the oldies, I mean, other people, on our tour, and had perhaps grown a little too accustomed to soft beds and buffet breakfasts. Especially as the next phase of mum's visit involved my sister and I hauling her on a very budget trip around England, Wales and Scotland. The most comfortable night's sleep mum would have during the next few weeks would be the night we stayed at an old dairy in Liverpool.

Apart from that, the adventures to come would include sleeping in a car in the fields beside Stonehenge, pitching a tent under an overpass near Edinburgh to escape the relentless rain, and slipping into an appallingly chav-tastic Scottish campsite/trailer park after midnight only to sneak out again in the early hours before getting caught.

Goodbye five-star luxury, hellooooo Britain...


* That single sentence is the one and only thing I remember from my first-year Psychology textbook. I try to quote it as often as possible. It makes me feel wise and learned.

HONG KONG AND AWAY...

Waking up in Beijing that morning, my sole task of the day was to get to the airport and fly back to Hong Kong. Simple? You'd think so. But Beijing was trying its hardest to make sure I left in a bad mood.

Did you know that Hong Kong officially became part of China again in 1997 (called 'the handover' by the Brits and 'the return' by the Chinese)? I knew that. Beijing apparently is still a bit confused about it, though. My flight back to Hong Kong was classified as international, meaning that I was subject to that ridiculous 100ml all-your-stuff-in-a-teeny-plastic-bag rule. I hate that rule at the best of times, but on a domestic flight? I was carrying one small suitcase which I hadn't thought to check in, this being a domestic flight and all, and as my original plan was to catch a train back to Hong Kong my packing wasn't very 100ml rule-friendly. So I had to watch with resignation as they confiscated my shampoo and deodorant and dumped them unceremoniously into a garbage bin, then with sadness as they did the same with my fake swiss army knife from Burma. Resignation and sadness then turned to horror as they pulled out the luxurious handcream that my grandma had just bought me in Australia. Noooooooooo! I don't usually carry luxuries when backpacking, and I'm not much of a handcream user, but this one I was very, very attached to. Ignoring the images in my head of being clapped in irons and thrown mercilessly into a Chinese prison, I kicked up a bit of a fuss. Unsurprisingly, they were rather inflexible. Eventually the uniformed gentlemen agreed to run it through that machine that allegedly reveals whether the contents are of the scary, bomb-building variety. Apparently they were. But, but, but...

So I did what any normal, self-respecting, sleep-deprived, slightly unhinged, weary traveller would do in times such as these. I took the handcream back, opened the jar, and proceeded to smear it all over my body. Everywhere. I rolled up my jeans and rubbed the handcream all over my legs. I rolled up my sleeves and put handcream all over my arms. I covered my face with handcream. I was a greasy, gooey, handcreamey mess, but they still wouldn't believe that it wasn't made of bomb-stuff and wouldn't let me take the rest of it (less than 100mls) on the plane with me. Bastards. I refused to let them sweep it into the bin while I was watching, so it sat on its own at the end of the table while I turned and sloped forlornly away to catch my plane.

I had arranged to meet up with a school friend in Hong Kong that evening, but - can you guess? - China decided to throw some more spanners into the works. The flight was delayed for half an hour in Beijing, then another hour during the stopover in Shanghai. I finally got to my hostel in Hong Kong half an hour after the time I was supposed to have met my mate at the pub. Forsaking a badly-needed shower, I dumped my gear and rushed out to meet H and her fiance. When I arrived at the pub I was flustered and distracted (though my skin was smooth and handcreamey soft) but all the trauma of leaving the mainland was quickly forgotten over cocktails and beers and 7 years' worth of catchup chats. We all had such a good time that I stumbled back to my cheap, grimy, windowless hostel only 4 hours before I was due to wake up and go to the airport to catch my flight to London. What could possibly go wrong?

If I was hungover when the alarm went off, that would have been ok. Unfortunately, I was still heavily intoxicated when the alarm went off. I didn't even hear it until it had reached the rapid, high-pitched screech that kicks in after it's been ignored for a few minutes. I think there was a ringing phone in my dream, but I was more than happy to ignore it. So when I eventually stirred, I reached out my hand, grabbed the alarm and...switched it off. I fell instantly back into a heavy and drunken slumber. That was a bit silly, really.

Still, I've decided I must have had a guardian angel (of non-specific religious denomination) who was determined to ensure I made it back to the UK. First, he/she/it compelled me to race along the streets in Canberra to collect my passport from the Embassy seconds before it closed for the weekend; then conspired to have me inexplicably arrive at Sydney airport three hours early only to find that my flight had been moved forward by two hours. I have to believe there was some external intervention happening, because it was very early in the morning, I was in a very dark room, was very drunk, had been asleep for a very short time, and had just switched off my alarm.

But, for some unfathomable reason, I woke up again 20 minutes later and suddenly (ok, slowly) realised where I was and that I needed to get to the airport immediately. I launched myself drunkenly out of bed, had the world's quickest cold shower, and left the hostel. I nearly got on the wrong bus, was almost physically ill the whole journey, but then finally, mercifully, managed to board the flight back to London...

...only to have it grounded for an hour and a half. So I folded my dehydrated, queasy and sleep-deprived self into a cramped, uncomfortable economy-class seat and counted down the minutes - all 87 of them - until the plane took off and I was on my way back - at long last - to London town.

THE WALL

My trip to Beijing started very badly. I walked out of the train station and into torrential rain, couldn't locate the bus I needed to catch to my hostel, and found that the taxi queue was about 100 people long. Quite literally. There were about ONE HUNDRED people lined up. I reluctantly stood in the queue for about 15 minutes, during which time only one taxi showed up to start shuttling the people in front of me. Tired and impatient, I decided to walk. In retrospect, walking on the streets of Beijing during a thunderstorm with zero knowledge of the language and very little idea of where I was going was probably not the best idea.

I had a map, which for many of you may have been a useful tool, but in my hands became quite meaningless. As soon as I stepped outside the train station I became completely and utterly lost. I couldn't tell one street from the next, the characters on the street signs were indecipherable, and the rain was coming down so hard my map quickly became a soggy mess. I wandered in the pouring rain for HOURS. Again, this is sadly not an exaggeration. I was actually wandering, lost in Beijing in the middle of a heavy downpour, for nearly two hours. Nobody on the street could understand English or help me get towards the place I was pointing to on the map. Oh, and did I mention I had no umbrella?

Eventually I found a tuk-tuk guy who screamed out at a passing student who ended up speaking a little English. I explained to her where I wanted to be, she told the driver, and insisted on jumping in the tuk-tuk with me to make sure I got there safely. At this point it's probably worth reminding you that I was completely drenched; I couldn't have been any more wet if I had jumped fully-clothed into a pool. She, on the other hand, was the picture of elegance underneath her umbrella. Why she offered to squeeze into an area the size of car boot with a drowned-rat and her soaking suitcase I'll never know. Once we screeched to a halt at the metro (which was much further away than I had imagined it to be), my Chinese Angel insisted on paying for the trip. I was completely overwhelmed by her generosity and kindness in helping me. Then to top it all off, despite having told me the metro was on her way home, she said her goodbyes and then hailed a taxi to get back to wherever she was heading before being dragged into the whirlpool of my disastrous morning.

Feeling overwhelmed by the kindness of strangers, I squelched into the metro and bought a ticket to the stop that looked closest to my hostel. I can only imagine what the other travellers thought as I stood beside them on the train, water puddling on the floor at my feet. After re-emerging above ground (still raining! joy!) I still had a 15-minute walk to reach my hostel. It was located in one of the few remaining hutongs in Beijing. Literally meaning 'alley' or 'small street', a hutong is a small neighbourhood of traditional courtyard houses and is a rapidly disappearing part of Beijing's cultural ecology. Given the splendid day I had had up until now, you'll not be surprised to learn that I managed to get lost among the interconnecting alleys in the hutong. And being rained on for two hours straight had me rather urgently needing the use of a loo. As I became increasingly agitated, I fleetingly toyed with the idea of dispensing with the use of a toilet altogether and relieving myself in the manner favoured by small children and crazy bag-ladies the world over (I was so drenched with water there would be no evidence) but alas, it wasn't in me. I decided instead to try my luck with a scary-looking hutong toilet block.

Relieved of my most urgent need, I was still dripping wet, miserable, dehydrated, and now sneezing and nursing a cracking headache. When I found the hostel and went to unpack my bag, I discovered that everything inside it was rain-sodden. Perfect. I had a shower and changed into a t-shirt that was only damp on the bottom half and managed to find some dry underwear hidden inside a wet shirt. The rest of my belongings I hung off the edge of the bunk and every other surface I could find in the dorm, before crawling under the sheets for a well-deserved nap.

I woke up a short while later, still unfortunately accompanied by my headache and sneezing. While I couldn't bear the thought of heading out in the rain again, I'd only planned two nights in Beijing so eventually I dragged myself out and made my way to Jingshan Park which overlooks the Forbidden City (photos above). Very impressive. Then I caught a bus home and went back to bed.

Walking the wall
I had already booked a bus trip to the Wall for the next day, meaning a VERY early start. I had two very sympathetic Chinese girls in my dorm with me, and after a bit of sneezing and sign language, they offered me what I assumed was cold or flu medication. I really had no idea what the little pills were, and I'm the sort of person who doesn't even take a Panadol unless it's under extreme duress, but I was eight hours away from hiking the Great Wall of China and felt like twelve layers of crap. So I took the pills.

And they worked! I woke early after a blissful sleep, packed my water and snacks for the day, and caught the bus that would take me out to the Great Wall of China (have you noticed how much I love saying that??). I'd opted for the more difficult of the wall segments open to daytrippers - Jimshangling to Simatai - and was a bit nervous about my fitness. I'd heard that there were parts in such bad disrepair you needed to climb around them, and that it was so tough that even guys with military training struggled. Rubbish. It was more often a climb than a walk, but it was fantastic.

The terrible weather of the previous day had lifted completely, and it was warm and sunny. I had taken some more wonder drugs that morning and while I still felt a bit crap, the euphoria of walking the Great Wall soon lifted me above the trials of a headcold. Yes I was still blowing my nose every three minutes, but I was blowing my nose on the top of the world!

It was a great day, and as I headed back to Beijing late that evening I found myself disappointed that I was set to leave the next day and train back to Hong Kong without having explored the city itself. So I decided not to leave after all. The fabulous Aussie couple I'd met in Xi'an had offered to let me stay with them should I need a place in Beijing, and after the horror and misery of my arrival in town, I decided to take them up on their kind offer. They had spoken so highly of Beijing, and all I'd seen so far was rain and traffic. I hadn't yet bought my train ticket back to Hong Kong, so booked a flight departing one day later instead.

Bicycling in Beijing
So my final day in Beijing was spent riding a bicycle around the lakes, through the streets, seeing a side of the city that I would never have thought existed behind the traffic-congested streets that I had glimpsed outside the bus window. B was a fantastic tour guide, and his love for his new home town was infectious. We met T for lunch, and later that night also had a great dinner with her dragon-boating friends. It was a lovely day, and my impressions of Beijing were changed so completely by that experience.

It was with a tinge of sadness that I headed off toward the airport the next day. Flying back to Hong Kong meant my trip was coming to an end, and though I was excited about finally returning to London I'd really enjoyed being back in Asia. Still, I intended to go out with a bang. I was planning that night to meet an old school friend who had moved to China a couple of years before, and was looking forward to much merriment in Hong Kong. First, though, I had to deal with Beijing International Airport...

THE WARRIORS

I was really really looking forward to my trip to Xi'an. It was to be my first foray inland into rural China. At least, that's what I thought. Once I jumped off the train I realised that although I was indeed inland, Xi'an was definitely not rural. I really should start reading guidebooks before I travel. If I had, I may usefully have learned that Xi'an is a city of more than 8 million people. It is also the capital of Shaanxi Province, and has a long and distinguished history as capital for many of China's most important dynasties. A guidebook would presumably also have alerted me to the hideous heat that awaited me. It was allegedly 39 degrees Celsius on my first day there but it felt much hotter.

As it was, all I knew about the place was that it was the gateway to the Terracotta Warriors, and apparently going to China without visiting the Warriors is akin to visiting Egypt and skipping the Pyramids. With this being such a short trip, I had given up any notion of seeking meaningful experiences and was just doing a quick tour of the biggest tourist sites with the intention to come back and explore China again in the future. Speaking of which, I met some amazing amazing people at my hostel in Xi'an who were definitely making the most of their first visit. Among my favourites were a lovely Australian couple who had recently moved to Beijing as part of AusAID's Youth Ambassador for Development programme; a Bosnian-born Swede who had spent most of the last 6 years living in India and Africa, and who was desperately seeking an elusive 'unguided' trip to Tibet; an amusingly clueless group of eight Canadian lads who were on their first trip out of the homeland, had no idea what they were doing, and were trying to make every decision (EVERY decision) on the basis of consensus; and lastly the seriously hardcore group of an Australian, an Irishman and a Finn who had met in Irkutz and stuck together ever since. While I suspect from a few things that slipped out in conversation that these guys had met and bonded through some pretty unnerving and harrowing experiences in Siberia, their adventures in Xi'an managed only to include a missed train and a suspected kidnapping.

Trying to overcome my severe case of Backpacker Envy, I wanted to have my own adventures and arranged with some other girls to cycle 14km along the top of the city walls on a bike that turned out to be so old and bone-shatteringly devoid of suspension I think I was 3cm shorter when I dismounted. Then of course there was the trip to see the famous Terracotta Army. AMAZING! There are three separate pits, discovered over the period of a few years, with Number One being the largest. Acting on a tip, we started with Number Three and worked our way backwards which I highly recommend. I walked into Number Three and was flabbergasted by the size and sheer amazingness of the whole thing. After taking about a billion photos we moved to Number Two which was even bigger and blew my mind again. Concluding with Number One - the biggest and most impressive - was just too much for my heat-exhausted and over-amazed brain to deal with. So I had an icecream and a little sit down. My Swedish friend and I had caught a local bus out there, flashed our drivers licence in order to claim a student discount (naughty, I know) and managed to spend the entire day at this breathtaking site for about AU $16 (including my icecream) as opposed to the $100-ish being charged by tour operators. Bargains make things even better.

The evening was spent exploring the Muslim quarter, buying souvenirs (a Chairman Mao clock! Irresistible!), eating and drinking. The next day I was on the train again and off to Beijing.

HONG KONG -> SHANGHAI

After the dramatic events surrounding my departure from Australia, I was pleasantly surprised by the ease with which I settled into Hong Kong. Immigration was quick and efficient, the buses were easy to find, bus routes were clearly marked, it was all very straightforward. And after a long, sleepless flight, that was exactly what I needed.

I'd booked into a little guesthouse in Kowloon - an area I hadn't really explored on my last trip to HK - and was delighted by the the contrast between it and the Hong Kong of my memories. Last time I'd stayed on Hong Kong island, which is the Hong Kong of postcards - huge, gleaming skyscrapers crammed side-by-side, a towering shopper's paradise of malls, air-conditioned walkways and office blocks. Kowloon is more stereotypically Chinese: neon signs hanging above the streets, chinese characters adorning every shopfront, crowds, grimy buildings, bustling markets popping up unexpectedly in side-streets. It had been a few years since I'd been to Asia and I was loving it.

I spent a couple of days in Hong Kong: eating, exploring, unsuccessfully trying to avoid buying things, and plotting my China trip. Apart from getting the visa and booking two nights' accommodation, I arrived without any plans at all. Just the way I like it. After eating my body weight in yum cha over a couple of days, I decided to catch a train to Shanghai.

From Hung Hom station it was a 20-hour journey to Shanghai. I thought for a moment I would have a 4-berth sleeper to myself, but in the end I was joined by a Chinese man who looked to be in his fifties and spoke not a word of English. After exhausting the cross-cultural communication potential of pointing and nodding within the first sixty minutes, I passed the daylight hours gazing out the window at the countryside passing by. I saw women washing their clothes in a filthy river, children riding their bikes along dusty streets, vegetable patches growing alongside the train tracks, images of life in the country. I pretended to be posh and had dinner in the dining car, then it was back to the berth for a surprisingly good night's sleep.

We arrived the next morning in Shanghai, and were held on the train for around 15 minutes while everyone had their temperature checked for swine flu. In Hong Kong, they'd tested me by shooting a laser gun at my head, but here on the mainland they weren't quite as high-tech. I tried not to shudder as a mask-wearing official stuck something in my ear, the very same unhygienic something that had just gone into my roommate's ear. My ear must have been particularly warm that morning, because I was pulled out of the queue and taken into a special room for further examination.

Despite nightmare images of being locked up in quarantine, the interrogation was cursory so I re-joined the immigration queue and entered China for the first time. I walked out into the madness of Shanghai.

The first thing I noticed was the smog. I'd been disturbed enough in Hong Kong - visions of Sydney harbour being as smoggy as Hong Kong harbour had horrified me and brought home the full tragedy of the pollution - but Shanghai was a whole other ballgame. The sky was milky, and the air was thick. I dragged myself and my baggage through the hazy morning air and settled into my hostel. It was a calm oasis providing refuge from the loud and dirty world outside. With a courtyard, a gently trickling water feature, and a bar packed with hot Norwegian backpackers and cheap lager, it was hard to make myself head back into the madness of Shanghai.

With tremendous willpower, I left my sanctuary and went out to explore the town. I wandered along Nanjing Lu, described by the Rough Guide as a cross between Broadway and Oxford Street, soaking up the consumerist extravaganza; explored the former glory of the Bund and fought my way through the hordes of Chinese tourists having their photos taken in front of the famous Pearl TV tower to take a snap of myself there.

The next day brought more exploring, and a surprisingly rewarding few hours in Shanghai Museum, but the city wasn't really exciting me as much as I hoped it might. So I booked a train to leave that night for somewhere I suspected I'd enjoy a whole lot more - Xi'An, most famous for being home to the Terracotta Warriors. After only 38 hours, I was off again.

OH WHAT A MONTH!

June 2009: The month I hiked along the Great Wall of China, gaped at the Terracotta Warrior Army in Xi'an, visited Windsor Castle and the Tower of London, saw the dawn of the summer solstice from inside the stone circle at Stonehenge, sat on Centre Court at Wimbledon, ate Swiss chocolate in the country where it was produced, visited the Pyramids in Egypt, watched the banks of the Nile slip past from the sundeck of a cruise ship, and explored 3,500 year old tombs in the Valley of the Kings. Not a bad way to spend 30 days...

I've been a very busy camper since flying out of Australia on the 31st of May. I think I'll start by outlining my escape from the land of Oz, then write later about my overseas adventures.

Come fly, come fly away...
I have to say, it was a huge pleasure to finally board the return flight to the UK that I had booked last September. During the intervening months there were many times when I doubted I would be able to make that flight, thanks to the imbecilic fumblings of the Home Office. In the end, it was my own imbecilic fumblings that almost caused me to miss the flight.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, the bumbling UK bureaucrats had mistakenly sent my passport to Sydney, so I flew there first, collected my passport, and then drove a hire car to Canberra. I had a bunch of things to do there, one of the most important being to secure a visa for China. The Chinese embassy offers a same-day visa collection as long as you submit your application before 9:30am. Because of the timing of my arrival, I had to submit the visa application on a Friday morning. Then I went off to get a haircut.

Now, I knew the visa could be collected by 12pm, but as the minutes turned into hours my hairdresser didn't seem to develop any sense of urgency at all. After covering my head with chemicals she ran away, and seemed to forget I was there. Probably off with the trendy people. It was getting closer and closer to 12pm, and I was trying to remember whether the embassy re-opened after lunch. If I could collect my passport later in the afternoon I'd have plenty of time to receive a cut and colour so stylish that my friends in London would pass out with envy the minute they saw me (obviously the ideal). In my mind, I could still see the sign on the wall of the Chinese embassy: it said "Opening Hours", with "09:00-12:00" written beneath it and another line underneath that which my annoyingly non-photographic memory couldn't picture. Was it the afternoon opening hours? 13:00-16:00? No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't remember.

I was getting a bit antsy, so the next time I caught sight of the hairdresser I grabbed her and tried to impress upon her the urgency of my leaving. She sent me to the basin where the dye would be washed out. Several long minutes (ok I know a minute can't actually be long but it seemed that way) later an apprentice came along to start. Halfway through it became clear that something had not gone according to plan. The head stylist was pulled over and many more minutes passed while they fussed around and rubbed something into my head. I had no idea what was happening. Despite being fairly confident I could collect my passport after 1pm, (that must have been afternoon opening hours on the sign) I was getting more and more agitated.

Once free of the basin, I told the hairdresser I didn't have time for my hair to be dried, ignored the look of shock on her face, practically threw the money at the till, and raced out the door with water still dripping down my back. The drive to the Embassy should have taken about 15 minutes - I think I did it in around 8. During the whole drive my head was thinking, "Why on earth are you speeding? You've missed the early slot, pick it up later" while my foot had other plans and was planted firmly on the accelerator. I wasn't consciously panicked, but my body was behaving as though it was. Very strange.

I (almost) screeched into the dirt car park and raced through the embassy doors at 11.59am. While I felt satisfied in an adrenaline-fuelled kind of way, I still felt a little silly about my melodramatic exit from the hairdressers and super-speedy trip to the Embassy. That is, until I looked again at the sign that my mind's eye had been trying to picture for the last half hour. It did indeed say "Opening Hours", with the line below reading "09:00-12:00". However the line underneath that didn't say "13:00-16:00" as I had assumed (but not seen in my mental picture). It said "MON-FRI".

Whoa.

I was literally 30 seconds away from having the ever-bureaucratic Chinese close the doors and lock away my passport until 9:00am Monday: more than 24 hours after my international flight was scheduled to depart from Sydney. I was a bit stunned. All morning I had been confused by the involuntary panic that had driven me to hurry the hairdresser along, cut away early and speed along the streets. But it seemed my subconscious had remembered the bottom line of the sign and forced me to act even though my conscious mind didn't know why. Would've been a whole lot simpler from the start if my subconscious had just let my conscious mind read the bloody sign. Don't they know how to share?

Oh well, at least it all worked out. What else could go wrong now? Um...

I drove back to Sydney on Saturday and stayed with some friends in Lane Cove. My flight was the next morning, and the plan was to drive to the airport and return the hire car, leaving plenty of time to do a bit of duty-free shopping and board my flight to Hong Kong. I had to be at the airport 2 hours early, but I added a little extra time in case there were any issues with the hire car, then added a little more in case I got lost or traffic was unexpectedly bad (at 5am the latter wasn't likely but the former certainly was). In the end, the gods of fortune smiled on me. The traffic was non-existent, and I cruised to the airport without making a single wrong turn. The hire car return was also quicker than expected, so I arrived at the departure terminal with plenty of time to spare, looking forward to wandering around and buying a few last-minute items of Australiana (think Tim Tams and Triple J CDs, not koalas and kangaroos).

So far, so good. I walked into the departure terminal and looked at the screens to find out which counter was checking in passengers on my flight. But my flight wasn't there. That was a bit weird, as I could see an earlier Cathay Pacific flight on there, and one a few hours later. Where was mine? I walked over to the information desk and asked which counter I should use to check-in to my flight, and was promptly told that my flight had been cancelled.

Uh, excuse me?

"Don't worry," the woman continued, "we've booked you on the earlier flight".

I didn't even have time to yell at her about the impracticality of cancelling a flight and re-booking to an EARLIER flight without advising the passenger (were they relying on my psychic powers to ensure I arrived at the airport 4 hours early?) because the luggage check-in closed in 10 minutes' time and boarding commenced immediately after that. I raced to the counter, checked in (was allocated a crummy middle seat, no surprise there), twitched impatiently in the security queue, then ran up to the boarding gate to arrive just in time to board. Whew.

If I hadn't left my friend's house extra-early, or if I had made one wrong turn on the trip to the airport, I wouldn't have arrived in time to make my flight. That was twice that the Universe had conspired to ensure that I successfully made this trip back to the UK. I don't know what it is about things happening in threes, but 'they' helped me one more time, as I also nearly missed the final leg of my flight from Hong Kong to London. But I'll tell you about that bit next time...

HAPPINESS THROUGH WANTING LESS

In an oh-so-subtle reference to my lack of recent blog updates, I offer you this article from the New York Times on The Joy of Less.

It reminds me also of a Danish study that found that the secret to happiness is to have low expectations. This makes good sense. I've always found that being pessimistic and then surprised by good things happening makes me feel more joyful than those times I've built up high expectations only to be slightly disappointed by reality.

For example, I had low expectations of my recent trip to China but ended up thoroughly enjoying myself. I'll eventually find the time to blog about that trip and attach some pretty photos for your viewing pleasure. By being so slack in updating you on my travels, I'm actually keeping expectations low and therefore increasing your happiness when I finally post something interesting. So this irregular blogging schedule is all for your benefit, really.

(See what I did there?)

VISAVISAVISAVISAVIVSAVISAVISAVISAVISA

My UK working visa has finally been approved. Hurrah! It was SUCH a hassle getting it. Trawling through multiple UK government pages in an attempt to find clear guidance on the required documentation, fighting with Barclays Bank to get statements that conformed to the stringent visa application requirements (with each occasion eating up two weeks of my life as I waited for paperwork from the other side of the globe), being forced into handing over my fingerprints to the same government that lost the personal and banking details of 45,000 people last year as well as two (still unrecovered) CDs holding the child benefits details of 25 million families, and finally the long, long wait as their 6 week processing time turned into more than 2 months.

Not content with making my life a misery for three months, they continued to screw up what should have been the joyful visa approval by (a) forgetting to advise me of the outcome; and (b) posting it to my friend's house in Sydney despite me telling them I wanted to collect it from Canberra. Now I need to travel from Rocky-Sydney-Canberra-Sydney before flying out to Hong Kong on the 31st of May. Sheesh!

DEATH STAR VS THE ENTERPRISE

Sharing the geeky goodness:

ROCKHAMPTON

So I'm back in my hometown, crashing at my parents' house. Oooh yeah, I feel like a winner. For those who have asked what it's like being back in Rocky, I'll let this article from the Daily Mercury speak for me.

Ok it's not really that bad, but then again I haven't left the house much. The days have just been slipping away in a Foxtel-induced haze. My routine is as follows:

0930 Wake up
1100 Go to the gym
1230 Make lunch
1400 Lie on sofa channel-surfing
1700 Walk the dog
1800 Read/surf the internet/generally avoid my father's cigarette smoke and ear-splitting tv volume.
LATER Eat and sleeeeep

As you can see, I'm way too busy to do useful things like updating my CV, talking to my bank manager or going to the dentist. Some days I'm so busy with the channel-surfing I don't even make it to the gym. Shocking I know.

Still, the days are passing quickly. This would normally be a good thing, however I've convinced myself that my visa will be rejected on the basis of an inconsistency in the UK bank statements I submitted. I sent off for a letter to rectify this about a month ago, and a response is only now winging its way across the seas to me. I need this letter to (a) contain the information I need and (b) arrive before the decision on my visa is reached.

My experience with Barclays so far doesn't give me confidence that the response they've sent will be what I need. Assuming for the sake of argument that it is, the letter should arrive in Rocky mid-late next week, after which I need to package it up with a covering note and send it to Canberra (taking another 3 working days). Unfortunately, the decision on my visa is due early next week. Not looking that good, really!

So I'm a little tense and stressed out at the moment. Part of me just wants to know the answer, even if it's a no, so I can get out of limbo and move forward with my life. The other part of me is going to be really, really peeved off if it's rejected on the basis of a stupid mistake by Barclays so wants to delay the news until I get this other letter and try to fix it.

I applied for the visa online 61 days ago, so with the progressive elevation of my stress levels over the last 2 months I couldn't manage much more than lying on the sofa even if there was something more interesting for me to do here. So I'll be keeping myself to myself for the next week, hoping for the best but expecting the worst. My readers will be the first to know the outcome. Well, actually you'll be the third - after Twitter and Facebook. I'm such a social networking site junkie :)