Elizabeth & Ian Laird

It was time for a new adventure, this time heading west into regional New South Wales and Queensland. We based our trip around a few days at a “luxury” hotel on the Gold Coast offered at a “too good to refuse” rate. Ian and I have travelled the coastal route to south-east Queensland many times and so this time my itinerary initially took us north-west into territory that I have not explored since my late teens and through some areas that neither of us had ever visited.

After a stop in Mudgee to catch up with an old friend and to caffeinate, we drove on to Gulgong, famous as the “town on the ten dollar note”. Much of the 1800s architecture is preserved in and around the main street of Gulgong giving it a picturesque pioneer town ambience. Like many of the towns we visited that feature classic Australian architecture, the effect is hard to capture in photos because the pubs are plastered in XXXX or Bottlemart signs, the shops beneath the cute frontages are Best & Less or real estate agents and the colonial style homes are surrounded by wheelie bins and festooned with air-conditioning units. Many of the noteworthy buildings are in the main thoroughfares, but these streets are lined with utes and four-wheel drives. It is really lovely however, to see these buildings put to good use, thus ensuring their preservation.

We paused in Dunedoo to check out our first example of Silo Art, depicting Winx, a retired champion Australian thoroughbred racehorse and her famous rider Hugh Bowman, who was born in Dunedoo. Side two depicts local flora and fauna and the third side, visible from the park is of one of the artists’ sons reading a book in a wheat field. 

The Silo Art Trail has really taken off as a concept to attract visitors to rural and regional areas. Begun in 2015, the number of painted silos has continued to grow and they extend right across Australia from Western Australia through South Australia, Victoria and New South Wales to Queensland on a trail over 8,500 kilometres long. We were to see other examples on this trip and they are impressive in artistry and scale and well worth checking out.

Our first overnight stay was in the north-west NSW town of Gilgandra and after checking in to our motel mid-afternoon, I looked up the things to see and do. The first thing on the list was a “picturesque” riverside walk named the Windmill Walk due to the placement along the route of several relocated local windmills. It sounded very nice and although it had only one review, that review described a pleasant amble beside the Castlereagh River. Look, we needed the exercise after a lot of sitting in the car so it wasn’t all bad. The “riverside walk” runs beside a relatively busy main road and doesn’t actually get very close to the river. 

To see the water you really need to get off the path. And what a path! Wide enough to drive a tractor on, clean and even, however the title Windmill Walk does seem to have passed its use-by date as most of the windmills appear to have been removed leaving four divots where the feet must have been embedded and a plaque describing in detail the history and workings of the windmill that isn’t there. At the end of the walk you can leave the path and view the river at a reasonable distance. It was very low when we were there, creek sized streams cutting along the much wider river bed. It was also very hot, around 36° or 37° and so that may have made the experience slightly less compelling than it might have been.

I knew that some of my ancestors came from the town of Gilgandra and Ian was able to find a newspaper article on-line, dating from the mid1900s about the death of my grandmother’s father. We visited St Ambrose church where his funeral took place and then found his grave in the local cemetery, along with his second wife, his eldest son and that son’s wife and one of his children. My father had the warmest childhood memories of his time at his Grandfather’s farm near Gilgandra, recollecting his early visits there many times through his life, including in the days leading up to his passing. I too visited the farm as a young child and loved the sprawling homestead, the roaming chooks and playing in the hay shed.

Back in town, we dined at The Royal Hotel on standard pub fare. The beer garden at The Royal is notable for the amazingly extensive grapevine, planted in the 1890s (!) that spreads over a support structure, providing a lovely shady, green canopy. 

The next morning we headed to Gulargambone and found excellent coffee, bacon and egg rolls and friendly staff at Café/Gallery 2828. There are many corrugated iron sculptures of galahs in and around the town and the lovely ladies at the café enlightened us as to their significance. Gulargambone is derived from the local Wiradjuri people’s word for “watering place of many birds” or Gillahgambone for “place of galahs”.

 

When my children were little, they had a favourite picture book called “Come By Chance”. It’s by Madeleine Winch and tells the delightful story of a woman named Bertha and her cosy, welcoming home that she named Come By Chance. Checking out Google maps, I noted that with a small deviation, we could visit a place called Come by Chance. My hopes were high for a fridge magnet, maybe a coffee mug, a souvenir of such a delightfully named location and so, around 25 kilometres north of Coonamble we left the highway headed for CBC. Shortly after leaving the highway the road turned to dirt. I could sense the consternation emanating from Ian as he negotiated the potholes and channels carved by recent rains but onwards we ventured albeit at a severely reduced speed. I looked about whilst constantly checking Google maps and the car’s GPS and counted down the kilometres until our arrival. And then…there was Come By Chance receding into the rear view mirror. “Stop!” I exclaimed, “That was it!” “What was what?” Ian enquired. 

The red dirt road we were following intersected with another red dirt road and at that point the indicators on both of our navigation aids told us that intersection was indeed the much anticipated location of Come By Chance. There was not even a sign to tell us we were there. I have never encountered more nothingness than what we found at Come By Chance. The name certainly alludes to coming across something amongst all the expanse of not very much, but we are here to tell you that there is oodles of nothing at Come By Chance. I was just relieved that we didn’t leave any of our low slung car’s innards on the track during the drive to get there.

Along the way however, we did come across Yarraman Lagoon. The recent rains had made a veritable bird paradise out of this inland waterway and the resulting wetlands were teeming with a great variety and number of birds. 

Shortly after we passed through Come By Chance we came across one of the largest grain storage facilities we’ve ever seen and the road was once again sealed, which as it turned out wasn’t such a good thing after all as Mr Lead-foot was stopped and asked if there was any good reason why he was travelling at just under 20 kilometres over the speed limit. There is absolutely no excuse but it’s easy to do on wide open roads, with no hills and no traffic. Duly fined and politely chastised we continued on and Ian employed the very useful cruise control option to prevent any further violations. 

A short stop in Walgett for coffee and a photo of a signpost giving the distance and direction of, you guessed it, Come By Chance, (48 kilometres apparently). We continued on to our next overnight destination, the opal mining town, Lightning Ridge. The town really hasn’t changed since I was last there in my early teenage years (and that’s eons ago). A town set on a grid pattern with simple fibro houses, a few restaurants, a Bowling Club, a pub and what could best be described as a shanty town of shacks beside heaps of white stones and dirt tailings. These are interspersed with open mineshafts complete with varying attempts at hazard mitigation. Most are potential plummet-to-your-death traps. Some had a makeshift wire perimeter but if you feel the need for a wander in these parts, it’s probably best that you heed the scattered signs that warn of the possibility that you may disappear at a particularly surprising rate and if you are ever found, the best you could hope for is that fine you receive for trespassing won’t be so large that you are unable to afford your hospital bills. 

Taking a drive out to the Artesian Baths we lowered ourselves cautiously from the 36° air into the 41.5° water. You do need to be careful that you don’t overheat while immersed, but there is something very soothing about soaking in the mineral rich baths. There are supposed great health benefits to be had from a dip in the waters from the Great Artesian Basin. I’m not sure if I am just highly suggestible but my dodgy knee did seem to feel less achy after our swim.

After careful consideration, we chose an Italian restaurant in town called Piccolo for our dinner. Arriving around 6.15 we were asked if we had a reservation. When we answered no, we were told we could be seated at 7.45. Who knew?! We drove on to the other Italian restaurant, Bruno’s, (yes, two Italian restaurants in LR, and just 200 metres apart). They too were crowded and again we were asked if we had a reservation, however when we answered in the negative they were still able to accommodate us in a lovely window alcove. The pasta was delicious and the young fellow who served us seemed a little nervous but was obviously trying to make a good impression when he brought our food and urged us to “Have a good dinner.” 

We left our accommodation the next morning amongst a flurry of visiting galahs making themselves at home in the gumtrees and on the Hill’s Hoist clothes line in the back yard. Heading north-west we passed through Goodooga which appeared deserted. I’m sure there were people there, just not out and about as we passed through. The countryside was very flat, covered in low saltbush scrub and we saw abundant emus, unidentified birds of prey, and many magpies, cranes, parrots and galahs. Over the Barwon River to Brewarrina where we stopped at the excellent and well patronised Muddy Waters Café. Again we found friendly, happy staff and great food and coffee. I had a delicious pumpkin, spinach and fetta tart with salad and very good it was too. 

A long time ago, I visited Bourke with my parents and my younger brother. Mum and Dad had driven non-stop the nearly 800 kilometres to get there in one go from Sydney and so they went to the hotel for a rest while my brother and I explored. Being older and clearly more responsible I instructed YB to be very careful on the slippery banks of the Darling River. Several times I warned him of the hazard of slipping and how annoying that would be not to mention potentially dangerous. I was still explaining all this when my feet shot out from under me and down I went into the slick river mud, coating my backside comprehensively in that very same mud. The memory still makes me giggle. Ian and I visited the river again and I’m happy to say it went without incident this time. 

Bourke has some lovely old buildings and as we wandered the streets to look at them we met a local lady and got chatting. She voiced her concerns about the problems in the area but also talked about her love of and pride in, her home town. There is work to be done here to discourage some people from causing trouble. One such initiative is a café down by the river, employing young, local unemployed people with troubled backgrounds and no café experience. It trains them in hospitality and skills them up for future employment options. We were happy to support the endeavour and get our coffee fix. The river was running high and flowing quickly, fed from further north where the rains had caused flooding. The towering gums on the river banks were full of sulphur crested cockatoos causing a noisy ruckus and they occasionally took flight as a whole group and swooped low over the river in a blur of squawking white feathers. A flock of Black cockatoos wheeled overhead also. 

Heading north the 250 kilometres to Cunnamulla there was much more vegetation either side of some parts of the highway and much of it was green too. We passed goats and emus and we startled a massive bird that I’m pretty sure was a Wedge-Tailed Eagle as it feasted on roadkill and took to the air with vast wings struggling to lift off. A really magnificent creature! We passed through several small towns on the B71 north including Enngonia which appeared to be a pub (The Oasis), a primary school and a preschool and that was about it really, (still a helluva lot more going on than Come By Chance!) We crossed the border into Queensland and drove on to Cunnamulla. 

A cabin at the Cunnamulla Tourist Park was home for the night and we were met by a welcome committee of four (actually five, if you look closely) kangaroos and inside the cabin, cranked up air-conditioning which was very welcome after the mid 30s heat outside. 

Again I checked out the “What to do and see” list. First up was the “Robber Tree”. It’s just as well there is an explanatory plaque at this site because the tree itself is a sorry sight. 

 

Next is the Cunnamulla Fella, a large statue of a fictional character immortalised in a country and western song with the same name. He has a far-away stare and a mug impossibly full of tea, his hat is suitably broad brimmed and his demeanour brooding and masculine. I had my photo taken with him and we were on our way. 

Third on the list was a “Riverside Walk” and we set off to see if it provided more “riverside” than our last one. Sadly, it did not. There was an arm of the track that took you down to the river which was full, wide and gently flowing but the actual circuit walk was well away from the river. It was well away from everything actually. There were some plaques placed along the track to tell what you might see but apart from a couple of cheeky Willy-Wagtails we only spied a lot of low scrub and a nest of meat ants. 

After our dinner near miss the previous night, we took no chances and booked dinner at the recommended place to eat in town, the pub, aptly named Hotel Cunnamulla. We turned up at six o’clock and found the dining room, spacious and with the tables laid but no diners. A woman bustled in the kitchen and she directed us to the bar to order.  We wandered back out to the bar where there was a lone patron propped on a barstool enjoying a beer. When he saw us emerge he stood up and went around to behind the bar. This was the publican, the lady in the kitchen his wife. We ordered roast beef and remained in the bar to eat and chat to the publican. The food was delicious and there was plenty of it. When the plates were cleared I had to apologise for not being able to finish it. “That’s ok’” she replied. “We’re used to feeding truckies.” There were no other diners and only one other customer during the time we were there. We wondered what the owners thought of our need to make a booking that was clearly unnecessary. The pub brews a couple of signature beers, the full-strength ‘Cunnamulla Fella’ and the mid-strength ‘Cunnamulla Sheila’.

After dinner, we drove a short way out of town and marvelled at the blanket of countless stars and the astonishing Milky Way. It really was stunning. The evening was clear and mild and it was hard to look down and get back into the car. 

We were lucky as overnight, a storm blustered through and rain fell like a herd of antelope galloping over our tin roof. The day dawned cool and sunny however and we took in number four on the “Things to do and see” list, a walk in the dunes. Well dune might be closer to the mark. We startled a few kangaroos on the track and we clambered to the top of the red sand but as a local landmark, it lacked the wow! factor of say, the Sahara or Namib. 

Driving out of Cunnamulla, on the open road again, a burst of bright green and yellow flashed over the road as a flock of budgerigars swooped into our path and then up through the trees. The road follows the rail line and we discovered why we hadn’t spotted any trains on our drive when we came across a bridge with a large part missing. This was the site of an explosion in 2014, when a truck laden with ammonium nitrate fertiliser rolled over and exploded taking out the truck, the road, the rail bridge, and an attending firetruck but thankfully no lives, although eight people were injured in the secondary explosion. 

We saw lots more emus and several circling birds of prey but honestly, the landscape just has an abundance of not very much (or not enough of either nothing or something) to be interesting. It lacks the extreme red dirt sparseness of the western outback areas and there aren’t enough features to make it scenic. It’s flat and scrubby and monotonous but the road was in good condition and the occasional passing roadtrain was always exhilarating. They are over 53 metres long!

 

We arrived in Charleville at lunch time and sought a local café or bakery for some sustenance. Heinemann’s Bakery supplied two of the best meat pies we’ve ever tasted, crisp, flaky pastry and plentiful, delicious filling. They were busy when we were there, so word has clearly got around. Charleville was the site of the first of several information talks that we had pre-booked. The Charleville Bilby Experience, located at the old Charleville Train Station, was a wonderful introduction to one of our most endangered native marsupials. Two passionate and interesting rangers told us of the efforts to preserve and expand the bilby’s numbers. Like most of our native fauna, the bilby is easy prey for the rampant populations of feral cats and foxes and so the key to their survival is a vast feral animal-proof fenced enclosure in south-west Queensland. This is where the bilbies born in careful breeding programs at other sites around Australia are released and monitored. The highlight of the experience was to see a couple of lively bilbies, Barry and Belinda, hopping happily about a glass fronted mini desert enclosure. Infrared lights mimic night time so we got to see them in their active nocturnal phase. So many of Australia’s native marsupials have gone extinct, it is great to see so much dedication and effort being put in to preventing the bilby going the same way. 

Charleville also has a “Riverside Walk” and so we set off to explore what it had to offer. Here, finally was a riverside walk that led you on a lovely walk, by the riverside! The Warrego River flows through Charleville and this path gives great views of the tree lined waterway. We met several school kids jumping into the water from overhanging tree branches, some chose to swing out on a rope tied to the tree and fling into the river. Recent rains meant it was fast flowing and wide but the Mum in me wanted to warn of the dangers of jumping into water where you can’t see what lurks below the surface. Other kids rode their dirt motor bikes over a rough track that followed the Riverwalk path. Again my maternal instinct wanted to yell out “Where’s your helmet young lady?!” (but I didn’t). They looked carefree and adventurous and were having a ball no doubt after the stifling confines of the classroom. 

Back at our motel we had a quick meal and headed out to Charleville Cosmos Centre where we had another of our experiences booked. The Big Sky Observatory features several 14” Meade telescopes operated by astronomy guides. Seated in a large shed we waited, seated in the dark as Also sprach Zarathustra rang out and the vast roof rolled back to reveal the glistening night sky. We had a perfect night for star gazing and marvelled at the constellations and stars that the guides lined up for our viewing through the telescopes. The facts and figures were mind-boggling, the distances beyond comprehension and the overall experience simply fabulous. You really do forget just how big the sky is when you live in a light polluted city.

The next day we headed east with a stop in Mitchell to have a look at the bottle trees that line several of the streets. Past Mitchell the landscape turned to rolling fields of golden wheat and rust-red sorghum. 

We stopped in Roma to check out Roma’s Largest Bottle Tree, which, to be fair, is pretty big. It was transplanted to its present position in 1927 and was fairly well grown even then. It now has a girth in excess of 9.6 metres and a height of about 15 metres. After some lunch in town we drove on to our friend’s place in lovely Toowoomba where we enjoyed some wonderful hospitality and a catch up. 

 

After a great night sleep, we were treated to a drive to the picturesque, heritage listed Spring Bluff Railway station where we watched the very train we had seen waiting at the station in Charleville, chuff its way past on her way to Brisbane. It was the first journey of The Westlander for about two years thanks to pandemic postponements. 

 

Next we visited Picnic Point where a lookout has marvellous views over the surrounding countryside and the restaurant does excellent scones. 

 

Our trip was set around a few nights on the Gold Coast, not one of our favourite destinations but if we agreed to a 90 minute presentation of arm-twisting from a time share company we would receive three nights of luxury accommodation for less than the price of one so we were persuaded. Our visit happened to coincide with three days of mostly miserable wet weather but we didn’t let that stop us enjoying ourselves. 

The presentation stretched to two hours while I eyed off the beautiful swimming pools just beyond the window. The company’s big selling point was that our investment would last for thirty seven years!!! I mean, have they looked at our D.O.Bs???   Anyway, I escaped like a dog off a leash and we were soon swimming with the fishes, yes actual fish swim in the salt water section of the pool. We floated around and got pummelled in the spa and wallowed and flipped and just relaxed. We practically had the whole complex to ourselves as the overcast and occasional showery weather kept the other guests at bay but then if you’re in a pool, you can’t get any wetter. We enjoyed our days of R&R despite the weather. It’s been a hectic year so far and a few days of doing very little was just what we needed.

Our next destination was to have been Dorrigo in north east New South Wales but the torrential rain being experienced at that time in that area meant that we were unlikely to get there without a boat and a couple of heavy duty lifejackets. It’s not called Waterfall Way for nothing. That part of NSW was having its second 1 in 500 year flood event in a month! Our Airbnb host was very understanding, allowing us to cancel and instead we headed for Goondiwindi. The only road certain to be passable took us north-west to Ipswich and then we headed south through the aptly named Scenic Rim region. 

We stopped in Boonah and found the wonderful Story Time Café where, surrounded by shelves of books and comfy sofas we had a really excellent snack and friendly service. Honestly, their ham, cheese and tomato toastie and homemade apple pie were To. Die. For and the coffee was so good we had a second one!  

On the way to Goondiwindi we had stops at Moogerah Dam and the impressive Yelarbon Silo, painted with a mural titled “When the Rain Comes”.

 

After a walk around the town, we settled in at the impressive Victoria Hotel on Gundy’s main street (yes Goondiwindi is pronounced Gunda-windy) for a nice pub meal. The next morning we decided to take in the… you guessed it…Riverside Walk. This was a lovely amble beside the Macintyre River. We had walked down to the bridge the evening before and the river depth indicator showed just over 19 feet. The next morning however it had risen nearly 3 feet (about a metre) to just under 22 feet so the flooding upstream was having an impact. Goondiwindi itself has endured many floods over the years but now boasts an impressive levy and pump system which has protected the town since 1956 when, after successive devastating floods, the town council decided to construct the levy which has protected the town ever since. The tree-lined river is home to many birds and the walk was very pleasant.

 

We crossed the river back into NSW and changed our watches again (Qld doesn’t have daylight saving time). We drove south through Bogabilla to a tiny village called North Star. Our GPS didn’t even show that we were on a road, we were just an arrow hovering over the words North Star.

A small sandwich board on the side of the road indicated The Vicarage Café was now open and serving coffee. It was quite surprising to find a very appealing café in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere. More country hospitality and delicious cakes and coffee, this time in a lovely garden. We continued south through fields of sorghum and cotton and green, lush countryside. At Barraba we stopped to admire more silo art, this time the depiction of a fellow water divining, (either three depictions of the one person or one depiction of talented, water-divining triplets).

Tamworth was our next destination and I was surprised at how large the town is now. It has certainly grown since my last visit, many years ago. Tamworth is the home of the Country Music Festival and sports one of Australia’s “big things”, this time a Big Golden Guitar, (winners in the Country Music Awards get a Golden Guitar statue for their efforts). The Pig and Tinder Box Restaurant and Bar was a good choice for dinner. It occupies the heritage old bank building in the heart of the town. It was packed when we arrived but at 7.15 every diner in the place rose as one and queued to pay their bill. We found out from a couple at the next table, that Jon Stevens was playing the local entertainment venue that night and apparently every patron at The Pig and Tinder Box with the exception of the Lairds was attending. It sure was quiet after 7.30.

     

The next day we visited my gorgeous cousins at the farm of one of them in Tambar Springs. We had a fabulous catch up and lunch before heading off to Dubbo. Another Information Talk awaited us at Dubbo, this time an early morning walk through Taronga Western Plains Zoo. We arrived pre-dawn and watched the animals come to in the early morning hours when many of them are most active. It was an excellent behind the scenes look at the zoo with a wonderful volunteer guide. Back at the café we enjoyed a hearty breakfast before heading out on bicycles to check out all the exhibits. The zoo plays a role in breeding programs of several endangered species and its layout means that the animals live in spacious and appropriate surrounding. Zoos have come a long way since I was a child, thank goodness.

   

On the road between Dubbo and Yeoval I noticed our GPS was showing something called “Animals On Bikes”. We thought maybe there was a mural or perhaps a sculpture park but no, it turns out, that spread along the road for many kilometres are sculptures made of recycled junk, depicting Animals and yes, the animals are on Bikes! They are crazy and hilarious. We had fun pointing them out on the roadside as we drove along.

Our next stop was lovely Cowra where, at the Information Centre, a tiny hologram walks through a scenic background while explaining the details of a dark chapter in Australia’s wartime history. This became known as the Cowra Breakout when disgruntled Japanese prisoners of war staged a bloody escape from their internment camp at Cowra. It is a very disturbing story, my father was just a young recruit when he was sent to Cowra to deal with the aftermath. Cowra is the site of the beautiful Japanese Gardens established to recognise and develop the historic and ongoing relationship between the people of Cowra and the people of Japan. It is a really splendid garden set on five hectares with a peaceful aesthetic and we had a lovely walk after a delicious breakfast in the café there. 

We were so lucky to be offered accommodation at our friend’s gorgeous house, an original old railway cottage. Sadly our friend was away but we enjoyed our stay very much and will have to return to enjoy her hospitality in person next time. Her beautiful garden is abundant with veggies and flowers.

After our Japanese Garden walk we drove on to Carcoar on the final day of this particular adventure. Carcoar is a beautiful little town that retains many of the architecture from the 1800s. It is the town where my grandfather was born and it is very picturesque. 

It is also the site of Antica Australis, a “restaurant that is not a restaurant”, modelled on an Italian regional locanda, a place where travellers get a hearty meal but menus don’t exist. The Italian ex-pat owner cooks a five course set meal each month and the patrons are taken on a culinary journey by his Australian partner as she explains the source of the local produce and the traditional basis for each dish, our final “Information Talk”, if you will. It really was a holistic dining experience as you learned the origins of the way you were dining and the food you were enjoying. And it was delicious! We wandered the streets after the lunch concluded to enjoy the pretty township and also walk off at least some of the calories we had just consumed. Then it was in the car one last time for the drive home.

All up we drove 4005 kilometres which does give you some idea of the vastness of Australia. Looking at our trip on a map of the country, it is such a tiny route in the grand scheme of things. A trip of similar size in Europe would no doubt take you through a dozen or more countries with their different cultures, languages, topographies, cuisines etc. The landscapes my change in outback Australia but the language and culture remain fairly homogenous. We met many lovely locals and supported numerous regional businesses struggling after the pandemic shut downs slammed their livelihoods. Our trip was an excellent mix of informative encounters and experiences in nature and hey, at least two of our “Riverside Walks” took us by the side of the river. 

*This map does not depict each stop we made, it’s just to show our main route.(Google maps will only allow you to input stops A to H)

I know you can’t say ‘Irelands’ but this trip took us to Northern Ireland but also south into Ireland or Eire. The way you know you have crossed a national border is that the road speed signs change from mph to kph and back again. The border meanders through the countryside and the roads take you in and out of the two countries with no fanfare at all. Much like the rest of the European Union. Ah but what’s to happen when Britain and thus Northern Ireland is no longer in the EU but Ireland is? A big question that no one has been able to answer so far but that is an issue for another day.

There is a lot to see and do in Northern Ireland and I was keen to revisit some highlights of a trip I made there many moons ago. However the pressing reason for the timing of this visit was the exhibition of a marvellous feat of creative art and craft at the Ulster Museum in Belfast. A tapestry of the highlights of every Game of Thrones Season. This medieval style wall-hanging, made from Irish linen, initially depicted the major events, characters and filming locations of the show’s first six seasons. New pieces were added as the events of season 7 and 8 unfolded. The tapestry has been woven on a state-of-the-art Jacquard Loom using a linen thread sourced from one of the last surviving mills in Northern Ireland. Once woven, a team of over 30 stitchers meticulously hand embroidered all of the finer detail. On the day of our visit a team of four ladies were working on the final panel, Season 8. They were on a deadline to complete the work by the next day and they had only started the day before so they were working at a pace.

When work began on the first six panels of seasons 1 to 6 the artisans were actually locked in a room to work on the piece and sworn to secrecy because the season 6 episodes had not yet aired as they embroidered swords and blood and crowns and fire. The lady we watched working on the very final scene had never seen an episode! The resulting fine work of art is over 90 metres long and a vision of amazing complexity and beauty. It is attached in a single pieced-together length that stretches on panels that wind back and forth across the room. 

There are motif-laden borders top and bottom in some places and intricate scenes and relevant quotes in the main body of the panels. Even if you have never seen a single episode of the series you could not help but be overwhelmingly impressed with the sheer scale of the tapestry and the brilliant artistry of the design and handiwork. Production of the finished article has taken approximately 26 weeks from design, colouring, weaving and embroidery. National Museums Northern Ireland enlisted a team of volunteer embroiderers aged between 22 and 82, from local textile guilds who have spent a collective 1000+ hours hand-finishing the tapestry. I asked one of the ladies working on it when we were there if any of the embroiderers were male. She told me that she allowed one of the fellows tasked with setting up the display panel boards to apply one stitch and his was the only male hand to do so. So I think the answer to that question might be “no”.

We knew that the exhibition closes at the end of the month (July 2019) so I asked why it was closing and where was the tapestry going. The answer astounded us. It is being taken to Bayeux in France to be exhibited in a venue near to its inspiration, the famous Bayeux Tapestry (which is only a measly 77 metres long!) No doubt it will be used to shine a spotlight on Game of Thrones locations in Northern Ireland and as tourism posters go, this one must surely be the grandest ever made!

There is no doubt that Game of Thrones has had an enormous impact on tourism in NI. 

The country is riddled with spectacular locations for the show from Episode 1, Season 1 right up to the final Season. We headed south to several such locations. Inch Abbey, the remains of a Cistercian Abbey founded in 1180 and used as the site for Robb Stark’s Camp at Riverrun. The views across the nearby river to the Cathedral of Downpatrick are lovely.

 

And then on to Castle Ward where an 18^th century mansion sits on a rolling green hillside. Also on the estate is a huddle of 16^th century buildings that were transformed into Winterfell, home of House Stark. It includes the tower that Bran Stark was climbing when he probably shouldn’t have been. The estate nestles on the side of a bay and is very picturesque.

 

 

Next we travelled south to County Meath, Ireland to visit the UNESCO World Heritage listed site of Brú Na Bóinne. Here we joined a tour of the exceptionally grand Neolithic passage tomb known as Newgrange. Built around 3200BC, the site is essentially a very large circular mound of grass covered earth 85 metres in diameter, with an inner stone passageway that opens into a single domed chamber. The mound is ringed by huge engraved kerb stones and the front façade has been reconstructed with smaller white quartz stones. The amazing thing about Newgrange is that above the door entrance to the passage there is, what has been called a roof box. At dawn on the winter solstice, the rising sun shines directly through that opening forming a narrow beam of light which pierces the length of the passage to the base of the rear wall. Thousands of people apply to a lottery draw to be one of the lucky ones to experience this amazing phenomenon and then the fortunate few sit back with baited breath and crossed fingers hoping that the winter sun will actually be visible on the morning in question. We, however, were treated to an electric light simulation of the event.

We don’t know much about the people that built this amazing structure as they had no written language. It was re-discovered in the late 17^th century when some workers uncovered an enormous stone that they intended breaking up for road construction. The stone however was covered with carved patterns and thankfully the workers left it intact. This led to the discovery of the entrance and subsequently the passage and chamber.

Heading north again we re-entered Northern Ireland and headed to a beautiful B&B set on a dairy farm in County Fermanagh. We had a delicious meal at a nearby country inn and went to sleep serenaded by the cows and sheep. Before retiring however we were asked by our host what we would like for breakfast. We were to choose from a menu of “Breakfaster starters” followed by “Breakfast mains”. Two course breakfast! Pre-ordered from an extensive menu! Very impressive and utterly delicious when we enjoyed it the following morning. 

Our lovely host, Bernie, very helpfully booked us on the first tour of the near-by Marble Arch Caves. I usually avoid caves and suchlike as I am a terrible claustrophobe but I have grown better in recent years and have even ventured into the odd lift when I absolutely have to. I’m really glad that we opted to see these caves however as the tour begins with an underground boat trip across crystal clear waters with the marvellous limestone formations reflected on the mirror like surface. Then follows a walk along a well-constructed path through the caves with ample warning from our lovely guide Luca about low hanging, potentially concussive rock formations. The caves follow the river and the reflections produce some wonderful effects. 

The reflection above is named after the lost city of Atlantis - the water reflecting the stalactites formed on the overhanging rock above.

After coffee and cake at a country park containing the most enormous fir tree we continued north and had ourselves a “Spinal Tap” moment at a Stone Circle. We followed signs off our route to a paddock where we found a ring of stones that were not what you would call on any kind of Stonehengey scale. They were ancient however, and that’s important.

 

 

We didn’t really have time to visit Londonderry/Derry (depending on your political persuasion) but we passed her by on the other side of the river with wonderful views of the commanding Cathedral.

 

 

 

 

Further north and we encountered the steep cliffs and plateau of Binevenagh which dominates the skyline of the Magilligan Peninsula. It’s a stunning landscape and there are many stretches of coastline here that were utilised as locations for various scenes in the GoT franchise.

Perched high on the cliff overlooking Downhill Beach is the iconic Mussenden Temple. Modelled on the Temple of Vesta in Italy, it once held the Earl Bishop’s Library when his striking and palatial home was built in the 18^th century. 

Today the mansion is in ruins but you can absorb the scale of the thing with its double storey stone construction encompassing a spacious residence including walled gardens, stables and barns.

The cliff top provides awesome views of the beaches. 

Unfortunately it seems to be a thing that you may park directly on the sand so a carpark of vehicles somewhat disrupts the natural beauty.

Our next stop was the delightful Ballintoy Harbour. The tiny fishing harbour featured as Lordsport Harbour where Theon Greyjoy returned to the Iron Islands for you GoT nerds. At the base of a narrow twisting roadway a café/store and a couple of houses edge the foreshore and grassy hilltops provide great views of the rocky coast.

 

Before we retired to our next B&B we stopped off at the Dark Hedges, an impressive avenue of beech trees planted by the Stewart family in the 18^th century and intended to impress visitors as they approached the family home at Grace House. (It was the setting for The King’s Road in GoT.)

Our home for the night was a cosy B&B in the town of Bushmill. As we set out to find somewhere for dinner, several marching bands paraded down the main street which was very jolly. Several police stood on point duty to divert any traffic away from the musicians. We asked one of the officers where we should eat and he pointed to a nearby restaurant indicating that the fare was excellent but “pricey”. There was another establishment at the other end of town but from the puff of his cheeks and the shake of his head we got the picture that a bank robbery might have been required to foot any bill arising from a meal there. We tried the nearest restaurant and the menu looked great however they were booked solid. So that left one of the four or five fish and chip shops on the high road. We checked their closing times and decided to partake of a quick pint before dinner.

Bush House was packed to the rafters with uniformed band members but we squeezed in and had a very pleasing Smithwick’s ale each before heading back for a ludicrously cheap and exceptionally tasty fish and chips for Ian and burger and chips for me. Then back to the pub, where despite being a Sunday night the place was still enjoying some lively crack (or craic as they know it). The juke box was five choices for a pound and old hits was the order of the day (or night as it was).

We imbibed pints and then moved onto the local famous Bushmill whisky, made right there in the town. When we ran out of cash and decided to head home the locals stepped up to shout. It was an exceedingly friendly and lively night. The next morning I couldn’t decide if my head or my feet hurt the most! (there was dancing involved). We found out from our BnB host the next day that the pub is known locally as “The German”. Apparently about 20 years ago the publican shut the place down for a fortnight while he went to Germany on holidays and upon his return he and his establishment were dubbed ‘the German’ and the name has stuck.

We got up veeeerrrryyyy early so we could visit Giant’s Causeway without the hoards. I got to the top of the tallest stack and my hangover really kicked in but the view was stunning so I put my malaise to the back of my mind and trundled on careful not to slip or stumble on the stones. Ian was there of course to guide and support, love him. (A couple of litres of water and a lovely Irish breakfast later and everything was right as rain.)

Giant’s Causeway is a famous landmark in Northern Ireland. I happened across it by accident all those years ago on my last trip to NI and I wanted Ian to see it. It is a very strange geological phenomena consisting of about 40,000 basalt columns, the result of an ancient volcanic fissure eruption. The tops of the columns form stepping stones that lead from the foot of the cliff down the shore to disappear under the sea. 

Most of the columns are hexagonal, although some are 4, 5, 7 or 8 sided. Some of the tops are flat, some concave and some convex. All in all it is a very peculiar site. Legend has it that the columns are the remains of a causeway built by…you guessed it, a giant named Fionn mac Cumhaill (pronounced, utterly appropriately, Finn MacCool.

After breakfast we headed for Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge. The bridge spans the 20 metres from the mainland to the tiny island of Carrickarede and is 30 metres high. Keeping in mind that any discomfort I would feel on a flimsy swaying structure high above the sea and rocks below could only last as long as it took me to move just 20 metres, I decided in a moment of rashness to go for the challenge. It did take a while for my legs to stop shaking but it was well worth it. The view back to the coast from the island is amazing and I even steeled myself for the return journey, although Ian did get a sharp rebuke for clattering along behind me and causing way too much movement for my liking.

After yet another cake and coffee we continued along the Causeway Coast Route, as it is known, down tiny twisting lanes to Torr Head where we climbed the hill to the old ruins of a Coast Guard Station and more fantastic views of the coast.

We encountered a traffic problem as we headed south. A family of unsuspecting holiday makers had been trying to navigate the steep and narrow roads with a mid-size campervan and got stuck when the wheels refused to grip on a very steep section. They completely blocked the road and had no choice but to very slowly and very carefully reverse a mile or so to an area with room to perform a twelve point turn to return from whence they came. And we had no choice but to follow on behind at a snail’s pace.

 

Our journey continued along the east coast to the pretty town of Cushendun where we ventured into the Red Caves, yet another filming location for GoT (where Melisandre gave birth to the shadow creature).

County Antrim is also home to the spectacular Slemish Mountain which rises steeply from the landscape. It is said to be the first Irish home of Saint Patrick and on 17th March each year large crowds walk to the top of the mountain as a pilgrimage. We didn’t have the time for the ascent and the view of the surrounding countryside is pretty spectacular even from the base.

 

We moved on to check out Carrickfergus Castle, an imposing Norman castle built on the edge of the sea in the town of the same name.

Our final afternoon was spent in Belfast where we walked along some of the famous ‘Peace Lines’ or ‘Peace Walls’. Built mostly in the late 1960s and early 70s to separate predominantly Republican and Nationalist Catholic Neighbourhoods from predominantly Loyalist and Unionist Protestant neighbourhoods these structures were constructed in Belfast, Derry and Portadown to minimise inter-communal violence. Many of the walls are covered in murals the themes of which express ideas or messages that are important to the community in which they are portrayed, including murals that depict solidarity with international revolutionary groups. There are 97 separate walls, barriers and interfaces in Belfast. There is a growing movement to consensual removal of the Peace Walls but whether this will include removal of some or all of the murals I cannot tell. Some view the structures as necessary and others see them as a blight. There is however an understanding that the Peace Walls are an integral part of Northern Irish history.

Northern Ireland is a fascinating country with outstanding natural beauty and an interesting if troubled history. The people we encountered were unflaggingly friendly, helpful and sociable. You may think that we undertook a self-drive Game of Thrones filming locations tour of the place and you might be right but consider this…those location scouts sure know what they are doing. If the name of the game is to set your story within spectacular landscapes then they definitely got that bit right. If you have never watched a single episode of the show you would still love the beautiful Northern Ireland scenery that is showcased throughout the eight seasons.

It’s taken me a while to get around to this blog about our recent trip to Morocco. I had to spend some time back in familiar surroundings to get my bearings and to process all that we experienced in our two and a half weeks in the North African nation. This holiday was always going to be bit different for us as we opted for an organised tour, our first. It was a small group, low-budget affair but a tour all the same. For some reason we imagined our fellow travellers would be like us, middle-aged couples. In fact our companions turned out to be, for the most part young, female solo travellers and one extraordinary Australian adventurer aged in his early eighties! They were an excellent group of friendly and kind individuals from Australia, UK, Canada, US, South Africa and Switzerland and we are very pleased to say that we all got on very well. One member chose to be less involved than the rest of us but that in the end was her choice. Our local guide, Mohamed was lovely also, helpful, friendly and knowledgeable.

Our Moroccan adventure began with a hectic, hair-raising taxi ride through the peak hours (it’s definitely more than one hour long) traffic of Casablanca. The use of lanes, indicators and road rules is absolutely discretionary and for the most part, totally ignored. The use of the vehicle’s horn, however is heartily endorsed by all. Shouting and “what are you doing?” hand gestures are also popular. Cars combine with buses, trams, trucks, carts drawn by horse, mule, donkey or human, taxis – petit and grand, pedestrians and all manner of two-wheeled vehicles to create traffic pandemonium. How we didn’t see several road fatalities during our time in the larger cities in Morocco is surely down to pure luck. Even our taxi driver was bewildered to see several motor scooters weaving through the three, four or five lanes of traffic (it was anybody’s guess what the line markings indicated) travelling on the wrong side of the road towards us at high speed. I was in the front seat and he shot me a look of “well, that was surprising”. We arrived without mishap at our lovely hotel which was ornate with mosaic decoration and in typical riad style, had a light-filled atrium. The standard of our hotels throughout the whole trip exceeded our expectations although the beds were universally ‘firm’ to say the least. No sagging mattresses, that’s for sure and our backs never troubled us so maybe the Moroccans are onto something.

We arrived a few days before the tour started so we spent the time investigating the sight, sounds, tastes and smells of Casablanca. The most visited site is the Hassan II Mosque, the largest Mosque in Africa and either the third or fifth largest in the world depending on your source. Completed in 1993, it has a capacity of 25,000 people. 20,000 men on the main floor and 5000 women in the women-only galleries. All the materials used to construct the mosque are sourced from Morocco except for the giant chandeliers and several of the massive columns which are Italian. It is an imposing building and the tour is very informative.

A walk through the old medina took us through tiny twisting alleys lined with stalls selling all manner of things. The fruit and vegetables looked fresh and inviting and the herbs and spices sent amazing wafts of aroma into the streets. The butchers and fishmongers are a little confronting as most of their produce is hanging from hooks or stacked in plastic tubs. None of your polystyrene trays and acres of plastic wrap here which is laudable from an environmental viewpoint.

We were subjected to a ‘scam’ while wandering through the busy streets on our way to investigate the Sacré Cœur Cathedral. It goes like this, (and while harmless, it is probably worth noting if you intend visiting Morocco as we came upon it five minutes after the first time and then again in Marrakech) – A man approached us with a big smile and a toddler on his shoulders and said “I remember you from the hotel. I work there and I saw you there. Today in town is a very special exhibition of beautiful Berber handcrafts. They have come all the way from the mountains and they go home tomorrow. Come I will show you so you can see the amazing exhibition before it closes.” He took us to a large shop basement, filled indeed with beautiful Berber carpets. We drank mint tea with the “exhibiter”, admired the lovely workmanship and took our leave. 

Not five minutes later, a fellow sidles up to Ian, “Hello, I remember you from the hotel. That is where I work.”  We looked at each other and laughed out loud. Poor guy, probably thought we were crazy. We didn’t feel unsafe and the carpets and other crafts were beautiful so no harm done. When we finally found the Cathedral (technically not a cathedral, but big and impressive nonetheless) it was behind hoarding and appeared a bit derelict. A fellow opened the gate and said we could look inside for 100 dirham (just over 20 quid or AUD40). We declined.

We also visited the Quartier Habbous, home to the Royal Palace, another medina, several pretty squares, a few mosques and a book shop lined road where many of the books are leather bound, gilt embossed tomes whose titles eluded us as we don’t read Arabic, they looked marvellous though.

It was time to leave Casablanca and head north in our trusty minibus through undulating farmland and banana plantations, strawberry fields and groves of apricot trees to the port city of Tangier. After a walk on the beach we did a guided walking tour of the old medina and Kasbah where we looked out over the sparkling Strait of Gibraltar to Spain just a half hour ferry trip away.

Our journey continued in the afternoon to ‘The Blue City’ of Chefchaouen. What a sight for sore eyes. Blue, blue, blue in every vivid shade and hue. We wandered the streets and climbed the track to the Spanish Mosque to see the view back towards the town and it was something to behold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We had a whole day to explore the town in all its blue glory and then on again for an informative tour of the ancient Roman city of Volubilis with its impressive triumphal arch and remarkably intact mosaic floors scattered through the various ruins. Then on to Fes.

Fes (aka Fez) was another revelation. The Fes medina is mind-blowing in its scale with over 9000 “streets” (actually little more than narrow twisting alleyways), it lies within 365 hectares. A visit to the famous tannery is a must as is the bouquet of fresh mint to hold under your nose while you’re there. If you want to buy leather goods, prepare to haggle.

The heart of the medina is the great Karaouine Mosque where non-muslims may not enter but we did see the University within the medina and the dormitory quarters of the students was interesting. But the star of the show is the medina itself. It surely would not be hard to become hopelessly lost in the labyrinth of alleys. Men with donkeys or mules wind their way through the tiny streets with cries of “Attention!” or “Balak!” which essentially means “Get out the way!” The occasional motorbike or even car squeezes through the crowds too which seems utterly crazy. The vast array of goods available is head-turning, bread and pastries are baking, metal work is hammered, tagines are stewing, there are hammams and Koranic schools, mosques and pottery kilns, weavers and cafes and everything from televisions to teapots, sheepsheads to shelled peas for sale and rising over all the chaos and activity five times a day the wail of the muezzins calling the faithful to prayer.

This is a universal feature of Morocco and of course other Muslim countries, the loud-speakered call to prayer and sometimes passages from the Koran that fill the air of every community five times every day. It is a calming rhythmic sound that cannot be ignored but soon becomes part of the fabric of the country and your visit. I understand no Arabic but I found the sound melodious and soothing. The population of Morocco is essentially Arab but some consider themselves Berber and have their own language, spoken and written. 99% of the population are Muslim.

Our hotel in Fes was in the new town where Ian and I enjoyed a pizza on our last night. This is not particularly notable, although the pizza was delicious but the manner of our waiter had us giggling for days. He strode up to our table channelling his inner Basil Fawlty and in a deep, loud voice, asked us “Yes, what do you want?” As we were leaving he gave a small dip of his head and said “Thank you for you.” It was efficient and courteous just a little literal.

After a short stop in the forest to become better acquainted with an extended Barbary Ape family we drove on to what was definitely one of the highlights of the trip despite some changes to our original itinerary

We travelled to the edge of the Sahara desert to stay in an auberge for a couple of nights. Originally we were travelling further into the desert on camels to stay in a tented camp however there are moves afoot, put in place by the Moroccan government, to dismantle these desert camps and our planned destination was one of the first to go. Apparently before long they will all be gone. The official reason given is one of detrimental environmental impact which on its own is an understandable concern as the desert is a delicate ecosystem, however the desert region is very close to the border with Algiers which has ongoing ‘issues’ with Morocco over the disputed Western Sahara region which both countries claim. Not long before our visit two young Scandinavian women travelling alone were murdered by terrorists and this incident has raised concerns among tour groups and the Moroccan government as the country relies heavily on the tourist dollar and can ill afford such disasters to taint their image of safety. While the murders took place in an area close to a later stop on our trip, the relative seclusion of the desert camps has perhaps had a hand in their closure.

Despite this change to our plans the desert was beautiful. We explored the dunes at dawn, sunset, during the day and under star strewn night-time sky on foot and for our second sunset we travelled into the surreal landscape on camel-back. What a marvellous experience. Watching the changing light play with the colours of the dunes from yellow to pink to red and brown and the shadows sculpting the forms of the shifting sands setting the ridges in sharp relief and then melding the shapes into pure organic architecture. I’m waxing a little lyrical but it was such a marvellous natural spectacle and my first experience of seemingly endless sand dunes. Riding a camel is quite the experience too. If you’ve done it, you’ll know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t my advice is hold on real tight and especially tight when he’s about to go down to let you off. The front knees buckle and you are pitched forward unceremoniously and without a firm grip you are liable to go ‘over the handlebars’ as it were. Then follows the folding of the back legs and you’re down and level again. I say ‘he’ advisedly by the way. Apparently the lady camels don’t have the temperament for traipsing the dunes with tourist aboard so it’s left to the boys. We parked our camels in the camelot and walked to the top of the nearest dune to watch the sunset which was beautiful. Then back aboard ‘Rocky’ (we were allowed to name our camels. Ian called his ‘Trevor’,) and back to the auberge for a delicious buffet dinner and a sit by a camp fire to stare into the flames and reflect on the fact that you are sitting in the Sahara Desert. The gorgeous starry sky sent me a shooting star to wish on but obviously I can’t tell you what I wished for as it against Shooting Star Wish Rules and Protocols. (SSWRaP).

I came away with a bottled sample of the red Saharan sand plus what lodged in my shoes during our various dune hikes.

And then it was time to turn our back on the desert and travel on to the Todra (aka Todgha) Gorge, a massive fault that runs through the High Atlas Mountains. Actually a series of gorges, canyons or wadis cut through by the Todgha River which form both the steep cliff-sided canyons popular with rock climbers, and the lush green valleys where the locals farm intensively using the diverted streams to irrigate their crops such as wheat, alfalfa, beans, potatoes, almonds, apricots, peach and pomegranate. We walked on raised tracks through the fields to appreciate the scale of the hands-on agriculture taking place in this very fertile valley. Our lovely hotel was nestled in the gorge with steep ochre coloured walls rising beside us and a charming vine-covered riverside terrace on which to eat our dinner. We went to sleep listening to a boisterous frog chorus.

The next day we travelled the “Route of 1000 Kasbahs” through the Ante Atlas to the town of Ouarzazate, the movie making capital of Morocco where we stopped for lunch. Then on to the UNESCO World Heritage site the Ksar of Ait Ben Haddou. This remarkable community is one of the oldest and most intact fortifications in Morocco built of rammed earth and used as a location for many films including ‘Lawrence of Arabia’, ‘Gladiator’ and more recently ‘Game of Thrones’. The old town now houses only four families as most people moved across the river to a later township. Technically the old area is a ksar, a group of earthen buildings surrounded by high defensive walls reinforced by corner towers. Built on the side of a hill and topped with a large flat roof granary, Ait Ben Haddou is a remarkable sight from every angle. The terrace of our hotel gave fabulous views across the river to the old city. We woke the next morning to a brilliant cacophonous chorus of roosters crowing, goats bleating, donkeys braying, birds chirping and the muezzins calling. Yep, we were still in Morocco.

Our next journey took us into the High Atlas Mountains crossing the Tizi n’Tichka pass at 2260metres and into the splendid Toubkal National Park. The winding road provided wonderful views of snow-topped mountains and wildflower filled valleys, although some of the crazy overtaking on blind bends by those sharing the road with us was alarming to say the least.

Our destination in the bus was the village of Imlil where we gave our overnight bags to the mule drivers as we walked up the side of the valley, down to a mountain stream and then on and up to the little hilltop village of Aroumd. This is a popular starting point for climbers wishing to ascend Morocco’s tallest mountain Mt. Toubkal but we were not there for such vigorous pursuits. After a walk through the tiny streets to our simple mountain gite we kicked back and enjoyed the glorious mountain views and a delicious meal. With no cars the air was sweet and the quiet was so peaceful. I went for a wander in the village and was met with many a shy “bon jour” from the locals as I walked the narrow, stony lanes.

After breakfast the next morning we walked another scenic route back to Imlil and re-joined our trusty bus for our drive to the coastal town of Essaouira. With its pine tree lined sandy beach I was reminded of Manly back in Sydney but that is where the similarity ends. Essaouira, or Mogador as it is known in Berber, is a lovely fishing port with palm-lined avenues and an old medina with great shopping. We went down to the port around sunrise to see the fishermen unloading their catch from their bright blue painted boats.

The seagulls and the cats all know that there is a likely feast on and flock to the area. In fact seagulls and cats are an unmissable feature of this very pleasant town. Cats are given free reign throughout Morocco. We saw them in every city, town and village where they appear to be owned by no one in particular but fed and encouraged by all. When we asked our guide about this his simple answer was one of pest control. Where you have cats, you do not have hugely destructive mice and rats. We didn’t see any fat cats, but then we didn’t see any that were too skinny either so the symbiosis seems to be working for everyone I would say.

 

 

 

We had a delicious meal on a roof top terrace restaurant with excellent cocktails, Casablanca beer, local Moroccan wine and a funky duet singing the balmy evening away. Essaouira was a perfect, relaxing calm before our final Moroccan destination of Marrakech.

 

 

In Marrakech we were met by a May Day march which slowed the traffic to a standstill but we eventually walked the last ten minutes or so past the Koutoubia Minaret and Gardens to join our local guide who took us to the Saadian Tombs, a 16^th century royal burial place only recently re-discovered and restored. Then on to the astonishing Bahia Palace. With a fraction of its 150 rooms open to the public those that are, are exquisitely ornate with intricately painted cedar wood ceilings, carved plaster work upper walls and divinely intricate mosaic work on the lower walls and floors. We also visited the Old Jewish Quarter, which was once home to 240,000 Jews but now only about 100-200 remain.

 

 

 

We finished our tour back at the massive Jemaa el-Fnaa square. During the day the square is relatively uncluttered and sedate. Come the evening though and the place “kicks off” with lines of food stalls including barbecued kebabs that you choose the ingredients of and watch constructed and sizzled before your eyes. The numerous barbeque stalls send out succulent meaty smells to ignite the carnivore within. 

Less likely to light those gastronomic longings however are the many stalls selling intact, cooked sheep’s heads and others with massive pots piled high with cooked snails. There are stalls bursting with all manner of fruits that you can select to be juiced in any combination while you wait. Traders sell their wares from jewellery and brass lanterns to leather and wood work from blankets laid out on the ground or from small temporary kiosks.

 

 

 

Acrobats and musicians perform but be warned if you photograph them they will see you do it and they will demand money and they will chase you round the square for their payment too. The restaurants, bars and cafes that edge the square are all out for your business and tout relentlessly. There are snake charmers too that set up hooded cobras rearing their heads or large pythons that they will drape around unsuspecting passers-by. Take a photo if you want but again you will be pursued for a substantial payment. I saw things get heated several times between tourists and angry snake charmers. It looks like an unbearable cruelty to keep the snakes in such terrible conditions. What was even worse was the poor Barbary ape I saw dragged along by a rope round its neck to perform for lousy tourists who encouraged this cruel and unnatural behaviour. It broke my heart. The movement to prevent ‘animal tourism’ is yet to reach the market of Marrakech. I feel a bit hypercritical here though as we did take a horse drawn buggy ride to our hotel and there is evidence of mistreatment of those animals too.

The next day Ian and I set off for a wander to the souks of the medina that surround the square and on the way we were ‘scammed’ again. We knew we were being scammed with the familiar tale of being shown something so amazing that we couldn’t miss it. We were led into the old walled city of Marrakech with not another tourist in sight. It was intriguing to wander the narrow streets and shopping squares with only locals for company. We were shown an ancient mosque in the process of renovation and got to see the plaster workers etching the intricate designs directly into the unset plaster. Eventually we ended at the obligatory “Artisanal” to be shown more wares. You are expected to pay for their hospitality and we were happy to make a ‘small gift’ to our impromptu, but cheerful and informative guide.

What happened next demonstrated the infamy of the “informal guides” of Marrakech (and other Moroccan cities). One offered to show us the tannery and stupidly I followed and left Ian little option but to follow me. Don’t bother with the Marrakech tanneries. They are filthy shit holes, (literally as they soak the hides in pigeon guano) and we got passed off to someone else who of course took us to an “Artisanal”. When I objected telling him I didn’t have any money for any purchases, he demanded payment for his “services”. We emptied our pockets and came up with 12 dirham (just under a pound) which sent him into a foul mouthed rant. We exited hastily leaving him to spew forth his angry diatribe which left us in no doubt as to what he really thought of tourist, they are cash cows to be milked at every opportunity, with intimidation if necessary. Tourism is a mainstay of the Moroccan economy, second only to agriculture so there are going to be issues between locals and tourist.  We wound our way back to Jemaa de Fnaa with the help of a French couple who had just come from that direction and were still familiar with some of the landmarks to help navigate the jumble of alleys.

Our advice if you find yourself in Morocco, and Marrakech in particular is don’t engage with anyone who targets you on the street to show you something. It doesn’t matter how amazing or interesting it sounds they will lead you to a shop where you will be harassed to purchase and then they will demand money from you for taking you there. I should have known better and Ian of course did, but in the end we stood firm, walked away and suffered nothing more than an earful of abuse.

On our last day in Morocco we visited the Jardin Majorelle, a two and a half acre botanical garden which for the first half hour or so that we were there, provided a lush, peaceful escape from the busy city beyond its walls. Paths wind through the trees, shrubs and large numbers of diverse cactuses and the Berber Museum set in the gardens is painted a brilliant cobalt blue. The artist Jacque Majorelle who originally planted the lovely gardens in the 1930s actually patented the shade of blue which now carries his name. Imagine having an actual colour named for you! The serenity was intruded upon eventually by the hordes of instagrammers that descended as they had done at every notable site we visited throughout Morocco. Don’t get me started on the weirdness of people standing in 15 or 20 slightly different poses in front of something beautiful and then rushing to check each photo before the process is repeated by swapping the photographer and the photographed. All I know is that if I want a photo of the beautiful thing I have to time it between ‘grammers and that is getting increasingly difficult and exasperating. Strange times.

 

So, how can I sum up Morocco? The biggest surprise was the amazing diversity of landscapes; the ochre coloured flat-roofed cubist buildings of the towns and cities, the sandy red desert dunes, undulating fields in geometric patterns of various crops, lush green stripes of vegetation winding through arid rocky terrain, snow-capped mountains rising out of wildflower filled valleys, the bustling port cities of Tangier and Essaouira, ancient crowded medinas, rammed earth kasbahs and even a ski resort where the buildings resemble the sloping roofed houses of alpine Switzerland. Date palms, olive groves, hills covered for miles and miles with low clumps of wild thyme, vast orchards of oranges or apples, forests of cork oaks or cedar trees. Towns famous for roses, fossils, Beat poets, cherries, surfing, rock climbing, an enormous mosque built partly over water, mountaineering, movie making and the best dates (the edible kind not the Tinder kind). Morocco was fascinating and full of amazing surprises. The people by and large do not like to be photographed, which is fair enough. They can be very pushy when it comes to sales but there were also many vendors who were happy to let us look without harassment. My favourite souvenirs are my little bottle of Sahara, a silver bracelet with Berber designs etched into it and a tiny row boat carved from the local thuya wood plus of course the many, many photos that we both took. Ian looks totally dapper in his very fine goat leather coat from Fes.

Morocco is an astounding destination with an incredible variety of experiences.

 

Have you read “My Family and Other Animals” by Gerald Durrell? It’s been one of my favourite books since primary school days. I recommended it to Ian and he enjoyed it very much also. It is guaranteed to make you want to visit Corfu, preferably with a butterfly net, a collection of glass jars and a straw hat. It tells the delightful story of the Durrell family who moved to the island in the years between the wars, from the point of view of the youngest member of the family, ten year old Gerald, a born naturalist who basically runs wild and free over the island investigating the wildlife. It always seemed like a paradise to me, cooped up in a stuffy classroom interminably. It has been made into several television series too which make for lovely viewing. I finally got to visit way back in 1980 (when I was surely just an embryo!) and I found the paradise I was looking for with jewel blue and green seas, golden sand, olive groves and friendly locals, some in donkey drawn carts. I used a moped to flit about the island and found totally deserted beaches. I saw fireflies blink and quiver before my mesmerised eyes and I got chased by a very cranky watch turkey (like a watch dog but with fewer teeth). My short visit to the island of Corfu was definitely one of the highlights of my first sojourn in Europe all those years ago and I made a mental note to return asap.

 

Well turns out my “as soon as possible” was a long time in the achieving but 38 years later I made it with my gorgeous partner in travel, Ian. That’s a long time between ouzos! I was prepared for a “resortification” of the island, I mean 38 years is a lifetime in destination terms but to be honest, I was expecting more and was surprised to find so many areas virtually untouched by the tourist footprint. Admittedly they were mostly away from the coast and the all important sea-frontage so prized by visitors. We stayed in the delightful tiny village of Agios Prokopios not far from the island’s main town, Corfu Town or Kerkyra (Kέρκυρɑ) and essentially in the centre of the island. We were met at the airport by our generous and friendly Airbnb host, Sophia who led our car along narrow winding roads to our village home, a beautifully refurbished and fully self-contained pension complete with wine in the fridge and a cat on the doorstep in a narrow cobbled lane surrounded by olive groves and vine covered buildings. Sophia brought a plate of delicious chopped home-grown tomatoes and capers on chunky local bread doused with a liberal splosh of olive oil which we consumed with the wine by candlelight at a table by our doorway at 11pm. We watched the moon rise in the clear sky and we were officially on Greek time. 

The sound of local Greek chatter from the little taverna and tiny village square lulled us to sleep in the small hours and the crowing of roosters roused us in the morning. During a walk around the village the next morning, I was met with smiles and calls of “kalimera”. 

“Our” cat was on the doorstep when we closed the door each evening and there again when we opened it again in the morning. We called him πατάκι which is doormat in Greek. He made full use of our laps whenever we made one. It was sweet to have a purring feline snuggled on our lap. We miss our furry ladies in Sydney.

The village was a perfect base from which to explore the island. We drove north-west to Palaiokastritsa and marvelled at the bright aqua water. We walked up the hill to the monastery and olive mill and looked down over the stunning coast. Last time I was here there was very little sign of tourist infrastructure. Today there are jetties taking throngs out in boats to various coastal caves and rock formations but it is still a very pretty spot. We drove further on to the north coast stopping at sleepy mountain villages and bustling beach side towns.

We wandered through a small fishing village where the local fishermen worked together mending their nets, one fellow using his toes as a third hand to hold the net in place. The local tavernas and restaurants boasted a huge range of seafood, understandably as the fishing boats were less than ten metres from their doors.

The next day we took the coastal road along the north eastern water’s edge. The road literally follows the coastline for kilometres. You could just about jump from the car seat into the sea! The colour of the water is dazzling as it is in so much of the Mediterranean, Ionian, Adriatic and Aegean Seas. We found a tiny beach down an extremely steep goat track of a road (I use the term “road” quite loosely here) to a beach with a tiny taverna, full of locals, perched above the pebbles and sand. We plunged into the clear pleasant water to bob and float. The weather during our stay was changeable to say the least. Most days thunderstorms were forecast but just when and where they would strike was anybody’s guess. 

Visiting Canal d’Amour Beach we watched people jump from the rocky ledges into the sea and others smear themselves with mud from the steep sides of the beach we watched a dark storm turn the sky purple.

Perhaps standing on an isolated cliff top during an approaching electrical storm was, on reflection, not the smartest choice so we turned to head back to the car. Approaching a beach-side bar the first huge raindrop splashed on my face. It was perhaps 150 metres to the car but within seconds that single drop turned into a torrential downpour so what else could we do but retreat to the bar? Ian ordered wine and I ordered icecream and we watched the storm move along the coast until the sun broke through again and the glass folding doors were moved back to reveal the dripping landscape.

We had similar perfect timing on the last day of our stay when we stopped for some lunch at a canal side café in Lefkimmi, a town in the southern tip of the island. As we sat and discussed menu options the clouds drew in. As our food arrived the waiters dashed from the café to the canopied outside dining areas in the downpour. And as the bill was settled, the sun reappeared to steam the pavements dry. The temperatures were in the early to mid 30s each day and a pleasant 22ish overnight.

 

 

The skies were often cloud-filled in some pretty extraordinary displays. There were amazing towering cumulonimbus affairs that looked incredible on the horizons. Coastal Albania just a short hop across the straight from northern Corfu wore long flat berets of cloud on her mountain tops. The water was a perfect temperature for swimming, refreshing but not bracing.

A one hour and forty five minute ferry trip took us to Gaios on the island of Paxos off the southern tip of Corfu, where we hopped into a smaller runabout to scoot the 15-20 minutes to the tiny island of Antipaxos. After a morning coffee and spanakopita overlooking the dazzling aquamarine beach we walked to a smaller beach where we had the place to ourselves. The water looks especially glorious against the white cliffs of folded rock formations that edge the beaches and coves.

After a wonderful wallow we wandered on to another beach but on closer inspection we found it thronged by boat arrivals so we returned to main beach to swim and wait for our ride back to Paxos. The “Insta” set have found Antipaxos and we watched with a mixture of amusement and amazement at the lady frolicking and pouting firstly as her husband took photo after photo (which she quickly reviewed and critiqued) and then dozens of unnaturally posed selfies. I actually saw her gently shove her toddler out of one of the shots! Admittedly the sparkling water makes a lovely backdrop but lounging provocatively on the sand while making odd faces into your phone strikes me as a bit of a waste of time when you could actually just be relaxing and enjoying the place with your husband and child.

 

 

Back in Gaios we strolled the narrow cobbled streets and the waterside paths. A cold local beer slipped down very nicely overlooking the sparkling sea and we felt like the luckiest people alive.

 

 

 

 

Our food choices were suitably Greek, seafood, lamb, olives, cheese, seafood with cheese, lamb with cheese, olives with cheese, cheese with cheese. I discovered Feta Psiti or spiced baked feta. Oh! My! God!

 

The seafood was fresh and plentiful and the lamb tender and delicious. We were only really hassled to eat at particular places in Corfu Town where showing interest in a menu was an open invitation to have all fifteen pages of it read to you by the waiters or owners. In the smaller town we were left to stop and browse without badgering. Prices for apparel were not the cheap option I remembered from all those years ago but I did manage to find a little boutique with end of season prices that were too good to pass up. Not sure when I will get to wear my new collection of sundresses in London but I’m assured summer will come again and I will be well ready.

One very disappointing situation on Corfu currently is what could best be described as a garbage crisis. With almost non-existent recycling (a mere 5%) and the only designated landfill site declared illegal and shut down, garbage mounts in roadside piles across the island. Interestingly although the piles can be pretty big we didn’t see evidence of widespread rubbish littering the streets randomly. There seems to be an effort to collect the garbage but nowhere to take it after it is collected. The new designated site is subject to protests from locals which I can understand. The answer is a concerted effort to reduce, reuse and recycle but as usual everybody seems to expect someone else to sort the problem for them. Our host was a dedicated recycler but she is definitely in the minority. Corfu needs its own “War on Waste”. Maybe we could find a Craigos Reucacasselopolis to take on the challenge. It is not a challenge that can be put off much longer before it spoils this beautiful place.

The end of our stay was a walk around the narrow winding cobbled streets of Corfu Old Town and a visit to the Old Fortress.

From this vantage point there was a marvellous view of the peculiar 'Sailing Yacht A' owned by a Russian billionaire and enormous in size, it certainly turned every head by the harbour. On our ferry trip back from Paxos the day before, Ian was googling the boat and it turned out we were sitting next to a young couple who worked on the yacht. The young man cleaned the masts, each one over 90 metres tall, the tallest carbon masts in the world and taking two days each to clean. (The main mast has a room inside it!) The sails are each larger than a football pitch! And there is a helipad on one of the decks. It is a BIG boat. Certainly not classically beautiful as yachts go but it sure looks amazing with the sun glinting off its steel and carbon fibre hull.

 

It was lovely to be back in Corfu. It still retains its charm despite the tourist hoards and the garbage problem. We found plenty of places off the beaten track and had a wonderful relaxing time. Ian thoroughly enjoyed his first Greek adventure and we left happily tanned, water-logged and perhaps a kilo or two heavier (on our hips and in our baggage!)

 

 

 

Ian and I have spent some time in Amsterdam and checked out many of the wonderful sights and experiences available to the avid tourist. It’s a lovely city and we enjoyed our time there, (well maybe me more than Ian as he was attending a trade show for most of it). The thing that drew us back this time was the stunning display of bulbs that burst forth every spring. Exactly when in spring is not an exact science. The bulbs require certain temperatures to germinate, grow and flower and the temperature of the air and ground has a lot to do with it. Just when peak flowering time is will change from year to year and last year’s timing is not the way to make a prognosis for the following year.

I subscribed to an email newsletter that told me each week about the flowers’ progress. In the end though, you still need to make a calculated guess and so we locked in the weekend of the 21^st/22^nd April and then crossed our fingers that the forecast thunderstorm would not fry us on our bicycles in the flat Dutch landscape.

 

We arrived in the evening and went into the city for a meal and a wander. Amsterdam is a very popular destination for “hens” and “bucks’ and so large swathes of the city are full of gaggles of mates ‘avin’ a larf. Still it’s all good fun (‘til someone falls into a canal and drowns!) Marijuana is legal in the Netherlands and the air is thick with the smell of joints. It makes for a pretty chilled vibe though and it must be good for business at the late night eateries.

We chose accommodation near the airport for easy access to the shuttle bus that takes you to the marvellous Keukenhof Gardens in Lisse. This is 32 hectares of botanical gardens dedicated to showcasing the Dutch floriculture sector with a special emphasis on bulbs. It is open for just eight weeks annually with a theme allotted each year. This year’s theme was Romance with Flowers. We arrived as early as possible on the first bus of the day and spent the morning being wowed by the marvellous massed displays of colour. The colours are so vibrant that you can easily imagine the whole vista as vast stripes of pigment-rich paints spread across the garden. The stripes and shapes are all beds of flowers however and they are planted in arresting arrays of single colour blocks or mixed complimentary colours. The effect is dazzling to say the least. The garden is cut through with many paths and at each junction your eyes are distracted by still more amazing beds of colour making navigation a permanent quandary; down there to the orange and yellow, over there to the purple and pink or straight on to the red? I wanted to be everywhere at once and I envied the bees’ ability to flit from place to place and their aerial views.

Our early start worked very well for us as the place was uncrowded and we could move about very happily for a few hours. Some delicious Dutch apple cake (complete with ‘slagroom’ or whipped cream to you and me) and coffee sustained us for more ‘oohing and ahhhing’. We got a stamp of a tulip (what else?) on our wrist and exited the park to join the inefficiency of a queue to exchange one piece of paper for another piece of paper so that we might join another queue to pick up our bicycles. In a canny bit of manoeuvring, Ian joined one queue and I joined the other and we made it to the head of each in perfect synchronicity. So we were literally ‘on our bikes’ and off into the countryside.

Surrounding the Keukenhof Gardens are vast fields of bulbs. The farmers in this region grow the flowers only for the bulb production. They sell them to trading companies who package and sell the bulbs to garden centres and retailers all over the world. This means that if you get your timing right you will witness fields of colour with the flowers fully bloomed and at their prettiest. Soon after this peak blooming time the farmers ‘head’ the plants which is to say they chop off the beautiful flowers. This allows the energy to return to the bulb and produce a larger and more robust bulb for harvesting. I was a bit confused because I didn’t know about bulb production. I had visions of the farmer buying a bulb, producing a flower, harvesting the bulb and selling it to the trader. So then next year he buys another bulb? Well this has a very obvious flaw. You have to buy a bulb to replace the one you just sold. A little investigation shows that this is not the unsustainable commercial cycle that I had initially imagined. By removing the flower at the right time and leaving the stem and leaves to wither, the plant redirects its energy back into the bulb which multiplies thus producing plenty of bulbs for sale and re-propagation. Any proper gardeners out there reading this will doubtless have known about this and consider me a right ignorant pillock but as my grandmother used to say “you learn something new every day.”

The fields were bursting with bulbs of every kind. There was the very obvious Dutch emblem tulips in every hue but also golden fields of daffodils and heady perfumed swathes of purple, mauve, pink and white hyacinths. The jonquils also scented the air in a way that was truly delightful. It was like passing the florist on the high street during spring but on a huge scale. I perched on my bike, closed my eyes and just drank in the fragrant air. All in all it was a very sensory experience with the sun and the breeze on our skin, the marvellous colours to see and the beautiful perfume to sniff appreciatively. 

We cycled down to the North Sea where we ate friet met mayo and cooled off under an umbrella. Then across the dune areas and back through more flower fields, past a yard with two sheep and a lamb complete with a sheep dog keeping a watchful eye and another yard with several alpacas. We finished our 25 kilometre circuit back at the Gardens for another quick look around and a well-earned beer before we headed back to the airport. We gave ourselves a bit of leeway as we assumed we would queue for some time at the end of the day for the transfer but as we approached the end of the long line of people waiting, a fellow was asking for volunteers to stand on the coach that was ready to pull out. The trip is only about 30 minutes so we jumped aboard and saved a significant wait. Not that it was all that helpful as our plane departure was delayed by a good 45 minutes.

 

 

What a marvellous experience is tulip time in Holland. Sights on a grand scale often impress and this was definitely floral colour and heavenly scents in very large proportion. That thunderstorm never eventuated thank goodness. Who wants to be in a broad flat landscape when lightening is active? In the words of Daffy, ‘Not this little black duck!’