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.