Curious Spuriosities

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Scotland: The Rave

Some places you visit don't even register as a fleeting blip in your memory. Some, impress a long-term stamp on your visual cortex. Others burn into your psyche like glowing coals: distilled into dreams, rehatched and rehashed and reminisced into myth and legend.

When I was a wee babbling bairn, toddling around the heather strewn highlands of Scotland, we moved around from place to place with alarming regularity: Edinburgh, Crail, St Andrews, Aberdeen, Inverness, Dingwall... And one place in particular left an undying memorial ember that has to glowed ever stronger for the last 36 years.

Hill and loch near Inverness

Farr Mains. A lovely little estate near the oft-mapless hamlet of Farr a few miles southwest of inverness. Our family was lucky to be able to rent this place for a year from the Murray's, a military family often stationed in the far pavillions of the ever-dwindling empire.

Farr Mains

A large, solid, bright and airy home, its sunny face looking south over glorious grazing land and the low rolling hills at the the foot of the highlands. Bounded by hedgerows and a cherry tree, the grassy back garden hosts a berry patch (rasp, black, straw and goose) some incredible rosebushes and an old barn.

A little brook winds along the back boundary where many an afternoon was spent playing and picnicking.

The babbling brook

I arrived one warm, brilliant morning to find the Murray's still in residence and only too happy to let me look around my childhood home. I wandered around the house as memories came flooding back. I strolled thrugh the meadow and dangled my feet in the chilly mountain stream. Nothing had changed. It was all as I remembered. I knew instinctivley where to find everything: the crooked tree, the fairy garden, the haunted elm thicket and the trolls' bridge.

I also visited the little loch nearby where we used to paddle out and fish for trout. It's glassy, tranquil surface reflecting the vivid colours of the Scottish Summer.

Loch Farr

Cycling down the backroads I even stumbled on a set of artist's cottages designed by no less than Charles Rennie Mackintosh.

Back at the house the Murrays had a wonderful salad prepared from their own vegetable garden with wild mushrooms form the adjacent forest. Bidding them farewell, I trundled off to see the surrounding countryside buzzing as long-latent memories smacked me in the face at every turn.

In many ways, this little side-trip was a driving force behind my entire journey. I had envisioned this homecoming many times over those 36 years. And with the stunning sunshine and the beaming welcome from the Murrays transformed it into a truly magical moment.

For more pics of Farr Mains: click here

For more pics of the Farr district: click here

For More pics of Inverness: click here

Ireland & the Craic

There are many things that make Ireland unique. There're the awe-inspiring landscapes, the mythical prehistoric past, those thousand shades of green... But what struck me most was the people.

Or the fact that they didn't strike me. Not physically anyway. Despite being the originators of the donnybrook, the shillelagh, hurling and gaelic football, you could not find a more friendly and loquacious race on the planet.

And nowhere is this charming characteristic better exemplified than in 'the craic'.

The craic (pronounced 'crack'), eludes definition in much the same way, I'm told, the word 'love' does. It cannot be explained. It can only be experienced.

The Craic in County Galway

More formally, the craic covers the general merriment that effervesces into every corner of any Irish pub in the form of music, singing, storytelling and poetry. Less formally, it also encompasses the cheer, goodwill and enthusiasm oozing out of every pore of the patrons -- be they performer or audience or even the oblivious rabble out the back.

Storytelling in County Sligo

Newcomers are welcomed and drawn into often endless conversations. Jokes and ales, smokes and tales are exchanged in generous quantities. The warmth and the mirth are inebriatingly infectious. Anyone is welcome to pull out a penny whistle, mandolin, dulcimer, zither or any other noise making device and join in. If you know a good joke, tall tale or bawdy poem, then the crowd pauses to lend an ear.

Guitars and accordians, Scotsman's Pub, County Donegal

Emboldened by Guinness and egged on by the locals even I had a crack in the craic with a rough-edged rendition of "Mulga Bill's Bicycle", and for an encore: "The Grand Farting Contest"... Needless to say, Banjo was better received than Mrs McLeod.

..."See here, young man," said Mulga Bill ...

And when closing time draws nigh, the tempo reaches its frenzied zenith. More often than not, the blinds are drawn and the doors discreetly closed for the 'lock in' -- allowing the revelry to continue way beyond its legal limits. Until at last, the last glassy eyed patrons are swept up with the sawdust and spilt stout and sent staggering on their merry way and into the night. And any untold stories can be resumed where left off the next day.

West Coast Ireland: Hiking and Biking

The west coast of Ireland boasts some of the most dramatic and beautiful landscapes on the planet. There's the Ring of Kerry, the Dingle Peninsula, the Cliffs of Moher, the Burren, the Aran Islands, the Twelve Bens and the bay of Clifden to rattle off but a few.

The Dingle Peninsula

I wanted to do more than just observe their respective majesties from the filter of a tour bus window like the thousands of other gawkers cramming the tiny single lane 'roads'.
I also wanted to test my personal fitness levels in anticipation of more arduous treks ahead (The Scottish Highlands, The American Rockies, The Las Vegas Strip).
And finally and foremost, I wanted to put to the proof that oft-claimed adage that there's the nutritional equivalent of "a pork chop in every pint" of Guinness.

The Cliffs of Moher

I couldn't have picked a better season. When the sun came out it was gloriously warm, when the rain drizzled down, it was comfortably cooling. The wildflowers were everywhere in bloom, in an orgy of crimsons, violets, yellows, lilacs and oranges. The brambles were bursting with ripe, juicy blackberries. The summer air was swirling with butterflies and bumblebees. Comely local milkmaids were frolicking gaily across the meadows. And randy local farmhands stumbling comically behind, trousers around their ankles.

The Burren, County Clare

And, suitably fortifying myself each evening with the dietary equivalent of fourteen pork chops, I would set off on foot or pedal, cursing up the hills and gleefully whistling down them.

The Aran Islands

Each excursion was an utter joy, a multi-sensory feast -- despite the setbacks which included sporadic but howling squalls; flat tires miles from the nearest pump; precipitous climbs; moronic and myopic motorists among the sundry hordes of holidaymakers; swarms of wasps and bumble bees; oddly formed bicycle seats combined with a catlogue of bruising bumps, potholes and crumbling scree and their attendant saddles sores, muscles strains and chafing rashes; archaic and inaccurate cartography; horrendous hangovers, hypothermia, hyperthermia and (thanks to my liquid diet) a very nasty dose of diarrhea. Not to mention the all-too-frequent mid-ramble attacks of dehydration for which the only solution was a restorative... uh... pork chop.

Clifden

Every corner revealed yet another breathtaking view and every crest opened onto a eyepopping vista. I'll spare any verbal description of the scenery and give you a visual sampler instead.

Traffic Jam, County Kerry

Traffic Jam, County Kerry
Originally uploaded by baabuzz.

Rome: Papal Bull

I was paying a long-overdue visit to the eternal city and had taken in most of the sites when I realised that the Vatican was still on my list of "things to see".

Never was a big fan of old JP2, the last bloke in charge there, and was pleased to see that this time round my old mate Joe "Ratzo" Ratzinger had been given the nod for the top spot. Now me and Ratzo go way back. He'd be the first to tell you how we both signed up for the Traunstein chapter of the Hitler Youth back in '41. Heck, I even had to lend him my scarf toggle that one time before the big parade. Lousy goosestepper, too, try as he might. Don't know how he became an anti-aircraft gunner though, couldn't hit the side of a synagogue at ten paces.

Now ol' Ratzo was a bit of a lad in his day, but from all accounts has turned into a bit of a geezer. Dresses to the right, if you get my drift. And a bit anti- pretty much anything. You can see that I wwould be keen to see what had become of my erstwhile chum and sparring partner since he taken the oath.

So it was that I ventured out on a sunny Monday afternoon for a little informal chat. I figured that would be the pefect time, he'd have just wrapped up for the week (Sunday is always a big day for men of the cloth) and wouldn't need to start hammering up his next sermon and nut out an order of service until at least Wednesday... so he'd be sure to have a few minutes for an old comrade-at-arms.

So I rock up the the Vatican and ask, "Where's old Ratzo?", little realising they call him Benedict XVI these days. This stony faced padre tells me I'd have to make an appointment with the press office. After I'd come all this way. Sheesh! Not just that, but I'd need to show some press credentials.

Luckily I still carry my Concordia College School Newspaper Reporters Club card. And so it was, the next day, I front up at the Vatican Press office and request a few words with his Holier-than-thou-ness. "The Pope rarely, if ever talks to the press," a rattled press officer tells me.

"How can you tell?" says I, "He's only been in the job a couple of weeks -- hardly time to set any noticeable trends." Disdainfully returning my press card, she informs me that the Pope gives a public audience every Wednesday morning and I'd be welcome to join the faithful.

Imagine my surprise when I show up at 10 in the morning, expecting maybe a couple of people in front of me at the reception desk, to see a heaving throng of 30,000 people, all fumbling with their rosaries and staring straight ahead. Crikey, I can't even see where the bloody queue starts and finishes. Next thing you know, out pops Ratzo's head from a second story window. Looks like he's not even gonna even take a lousy confessional. He mutters something in Latin, crosses himself and then starts backing away from the window. And with a swirl of his cape, he's off. Like a Bride's nightie. 

"Oi, Ratzo!!!" screams I. "Over 'ere!" Gingerely, he pokes his head back out. "It's me, Lamb. 432nd Youth Cadre, Traunstein. Got a couple of quick ones before you go." He shifts a little uneasily and nods. 60,000 angry eyes zero in... "This AIDS thing, whatcha gonna do? Coz I reckon i got a couple of ideas. Frangers for one: Papally sanctionned rubber goods. Stops AIDS and reduces the abortion rate. Nothing like warm bodies to fill the pews and colection plates. Two birds one stone, no biblical precedent to contradict."

What are you looking so guilty about?

I don't quite know what happened next. But he slunk back inside. Next thing you know the crowd has parted like the Red Sea and a swarm of Swiss guards come storming towards me. Now, someone should have a word with these guys about military guile in general, and camouflage in particular. Unless you wanted to infiltrate a court jester's convention, there's no way you could blend into the background in these fancy togs.

Swiss Guards... um... guarding. Ok, now try and look inconspicuous.

I'll have to talk my way out of this one. "Hey, it's cool. I used to be a guard myself: Concordia College basketball team, 1983. I know all about silly uniforms too."

Not known for their sense of humour, the guards surround me, lances pointing at all the bits that could use them least. Looks like I'm gonna be the swiss cheese at their little ecuemenical fondue party. This is it: only one ball to go before stumps, so I better chance my arm.

"Look! Behind you!" I below and point frantically in a vaguely papal direction.

Not only does the entire Swiss garrison turn as one, but so does the the rest of that 30,000-strong congregation. And before you could rattle off an Ave Maria, I'm out of there like the devil at daybreak.

Well, times change and so, I guess, do earnest young goosesteppers. Still, I managed to raid the offering plate as I rounded the corner out of the Piazza, so the day wasn't a total fizzer. Strangely enough, all I picked up were a couple of raincoat buttons and a parking token.

Bullfights and bloodlust

I guess every society has a way of letting out their aggression. For me, its rugby league... for Spaniards it's the bullfight, or "Los Toros". I went along and despite some grandfatherly explanations from the old guy sitting next to me, it was pretty bewildering. I guess it was the frame of reference.

For a start there's the bull, weighing in at about the same as a rugby league forward pack. And from my vantage point in the stands, carrying pretty much the same IQ.

Then there's the toreros: prancing and preening in there tight-fitting gold lame togs and their pink capes. In many ways like the backline of a rugby league team: all hairdos, nifty moves and fancy duds.

As for the format of the fight itself, it can be divided in roughly five stanzas.

First Stanza: The traditional softening-up period.
Just as in a good game of rugby league, the comabtants face each other off and go charging in with all the fury they can muster. In this case, five or six torreros, aggravate the bull with a lot of slick cape twirling, only to skeedaddle behind the solid wooden barriers whenever he comes within a bull's roar. No real physical damage ensues to either party, but the level of animosity builds nicely.

Hence the term, "like a bull at a gate"

Part Two: bringing in the cavalry.
Again, just like a league match, the heavy hits usually happen up front and early as the bigger members of the forward pack go for bustling forays up the center. In a bullfight, out come the armoured drafthourses and blokes (picadors) with sharp lances. The horses are blindfolded and for good reason -- they'd be out of the ring and into the bleaches like a shot if they saw what was charging at them.

At this point we see a lot of bull-on-horse action. WIth the forequarters of the bull being ravaged repeatedly with the lance. All the better for the torreros in round 3.

Third Stanza: the shoulder charge.
By now the cavalry has all but left the arena and the matador poises himself with two sharp spikes which he drives into the already bleeding shoulders of the bull. He still has his torrero buddies around to distract the bull should he get into any groin-on-horn mischief. In a rugby league game, they'd be telling the forwards on the bench to start limbering up. Unfortunately, bulls don't have a fresh set of reserves on the sideline

All this shoulder spiking just weakens the bull more. All the better for the matador in round 4.

Fourth Stanza: Mano a mano -- bull versus beast
By now the support torreros are sucking down Spanish Gatorade on the sidelines. Its just the matador and the bull. Already hobbling, gasping for air and looking for the trainers to run on with the magic sponge, the bull's game is all but decided. The matador is just toying with him now. A lot of sylised flurries with the cape while the befuddled bull keeps lunging. Cue to roars from the crowd every time it sweeps past the cape.

it can get really close

Fifth Stanza: The money shot
At last the bull, depleted of energy (just like Greg Dowling after the first fifteen minutes of every game), can't give a rat's arse about chasing no stupid cape no more. It's time for bed. The matador looking down his sword like a barrel of a gun, gives the final thrust -- throught the pectorals and into the heart -- and the once mighty bull, staggers, sways and drops to the sand.

Here bull... nice bull...

Dead.

For a station that's right up your alley, tune in to...

Unfortunately, the reception is crap

San Sebastian and the Dormitory of Doom

Well, if you're a skinflint like me, ye can take the high road -- I'll  be taking the low road. I'll even take the muddy ditch adjacent to the low road if it can save me a few cents. My bank account suffers enough rude shocks as it is. This means opting for supermarket sandwiches over opulent riverside dinners and for the most part, youth hostels rather than pensions or hotels... especially if you´re travelling alone.

Now, don't get me wrong: hostels are a great way to meet fellow travellers and pick up useful tips for the road ahead. For instance, in Madrid, I shared a dorm with three wonderful young things with exemplary personal hygeine habits and sane sleeping hours who were also full of vitality and laughter and keen to explore the ancient city.

Experiences such as these are, sadly, on the wane. And to my chagrin I have also discovered that hostels are also a great way to learn to despise your fellow man and pick up unwanted entomological companions for the road. In San Sebastian, north-eastern Spain, I scored something of a trifecta.

Number one was a talker. Day or night, asleep or awake, it didn't really matter. Daytime provided endless hours of moaning about how nothing here is as good as it is at home (Newcastle, England). And nighttime brought out the demons who would erratically and abruptly (but very regularly) come howling from her dreams, jibbering and jabbering in devilish tongues and thrashing limbs and then subsiding again into her troubled psyche.

Number two (boyfriend of number one) was a snorer, chainsaw variety. He was completely oblivious to his ladylove's nightmares, and to his own glotus-shredding rumbling, happily slumbering from dawn til dusk. Loud, rasping, constant and completely impervious to suggestions, prods and left-hooks alike.

Number three was a stinker, with foot odour to wake the dead. I suspect this guy must have grown accustomed to his own stench over the ensuing decade since his last contact with soap. As he snuck into the room after lights out, a faint glowing vapour seemed to follow him. My first whiff of his grime-caked feet snapped me into full consciousness like a dose of smelling salts. I hadn't woken dry retching like that since the cat pissed on the hotplate.

And I spent the rest of the evening spasming in semi-conscious sensual agony, trying to remember what it was like to sleep in a nice clean bed... in a quiet room of my own... with big fluffy pillows...

But I'd rather hear about your worst hostel inmates...

Paris

If I were to believe everything anyone ever told me about Paris, I probably wouldn't have gone: Cold, miserable, unpredicatable weather; rude, obnoxious locals; smelly and land-mined with dog turds...

All I can say is that I was thoroughly disappointed by the stereotypes. Brilliant, glorious sunshine for the entire week. Damnably hot, by Gad, if the truth be told. Lovely, friendly, helpful people (especially my wonderful hosts Emma and Laurent). And my trusty Blundstones went unbesmirched: no more dog shit than any other city -- less, in fact than Brisbane, Bangkok, Berlin... I could go on.

So I spent the week waiting, almost willing something to bugger it all up. Packing my unweildy umbrella and raincoat, wherever I went... just in case. Tensed like a coiled spring to counterattack an hint of an arrogant shrug or roll of the eyes or muttered gallic oath. And carefuly eyeballing every flagstone, artfully dodging anything so much resembling a Malteser.

Arc de Triomphe

But when I wasn't paranoically watching the cloudless skies, garcons' gestures or concrete curbing, I was bedazzled by the wealth of art and architecture. The Musee D'Orsay being probably the pick of a very fine bunch. A week of wonder. A week of pleasant surprises round every corner.