Tag: wanderer

Budapest

This visit to Budapest has been astronomically different to our last visit.

In November 1993 we caught a bus from Istanbul to Budapest. The snow had only started when we left Istanbul, but several hours in it was a full blown snowstorm. It was a hair-raising trip through Bulgaria and Romania, snowing the entire way. There were moments when enormous trucks were sliding sideways down icy hillsides towards us; at one point Don told me to hold onto my bag and when he said run, I should run. What was meant to take 20 hours took 48 hours.

There was only one other English speaking passenger, and I was one of only two women on that bus. There was no such thing as non-smoking, a haze of permanent acrid smoke filled the air. After maybe eight hours, despite his protests that we were in the middle of nowhere, we had the driver make a toilet stop. Somehow we convinced him through gestures that the whole world is a toilet. Hours later at a border crossing I gave the other woman some money when the guards refused her currency and weren’t going to let her pass.

We were the only people to get off the bus in Budapest so they dropped us in a random location. We stepped off the bus into a metre of snow, with no idea of where we were. Somehow we found a tram into the city centre. We had no Hungarian currency so we couldn’t buy a ticket. Then we trudged through the snow to the cheap university accommodation, following the tiny map in our Rough Guide to Europe. It was bitterly, bitterly cold.

At the university they told us there was no heating but they’d give us some extra blankets. We turned around, fought our way back through the snow and caught the very next train to Vienna.

Fast forward 30 years to this visit. Three days compared to three hours – Budapest, what a spectacular city.

We walked the streets and saw the magnificent buildings, squares and statues. Heroes’ Square, the Hungarian State Opera building, Central Market Hall, St Stephen’s Basilica, the heartbreaking Shoes on the Danube Bank memorial, the incredible Hungarian Parliament Building.

We went on a food tour; hot langos, delicious raspberry strudel, pastries and chimney cake, tasty sausages, stew and a straight shot of pálinka that nearly took my head off.

We walked across Széchenyi Chain Bridge and caught the cable car to Buda Castle and Fisherman’s Bastion. And of course we surprised Ruth at the Christmas markets and celebrated her birthday with the most wonderful meal at local restaurant Pörc & Prézli.

Budapest, all is forgiven; we love you! You’re still pretty chilly, but no need for extra blankets.

London transport

London transport. Sigh.

When we arrived at St Pancras from Brussels, it should have been a simple case of hopping a tube home, with only one change of station. However as we navigated the tunnels of St Pancras, it became apparent that there were some issues with the westbound lines. Not one train was leaving from or arriving into Paddington. Not one. Something about power, or leaves, or snow or something. It didn’t matter the reason, Paddington was crucial to our journey. It just mattered that we couldn’t get home.

‘We’re screwed,’ said Don.

We brainstormed our options – hire a car? Book a hotel room? Go back to Brussels? In the end we just tried to head west as best we could until we couldn’t head west any further.

We went from St. Pancras to Farringdon to Paddington to Oxford Circus to Piccadilly Circus to Heathrow. We used five different lines and somehow went through Edgeware Road and Baker Street three times each.

It had taken us only two hours to get from Brussels to London, but three and a half hours to get from the centre of London to the edge of London.

Yesterday we were to head to Richmond to visit our friend Lucy – one tube ride plus one bus ride. Until our tube was delayed, sitting a tantalising one stop away from us, and then cancelled altogether. And then the next one was cancelled. And then the whole line into Paddington was cancelled.

‘We’re screwed,’ said Don.

We went home to regroup and to consult with Tim, the oracle of London public transport. He suggested the 702, a coach, doesn’t come very often but should do the job.

‘It’s a bit of a walk,’ he said, ‘but it’ll get you into the heart of London.’

And off we went again.

‘There might be a few people on this bus if all of the trains are cancelled,’ I said, about 30 seconds before said bus sailed past us, a sign on the windscreen proclaiming ‘Bus full.’

‘We’re screwed,’ said Don.

We started back home but then had a thought – the 81, Don’s most hated bus. Stops constantly, takes forever, but should get us to a working tube line. And there was one in six minutes. So back we headed to the bus stop.

As we turned the corner, we saw the back end of the 81 as it departed the bus stop. We stood and watched in disbelief as it disappeared.

And then it started raining.

We really were screwed. We abandoned all hope and trudged back home in the rain.

London transport. Sigh.

A Rest Day

United Kingdom

We’ve been having such a lovely holiday. Two fabulous days in Singapore eating and wandering before we got to the UK. Catching up with Tim and Ruth, walking Bertie their exuberant Cockapoo, another crack at FitSteps (same results), a day trip to Canterbury and a tour of Windsor Castle. I’ve barely had time to sit down, let alone write.

Finally yesterday we stopped for a moment. And being the 1st of December, Ruth suggested I help her put up the Christmas decorations.

‘Of course,’ I said, ‘what fun! I love Christmas.’

And so I found myself standing at the bottom of the ladder to the loft while Ruth handed down bag after bag after bag after bag of Christmas decorations.

‘There cannot be anymore,’ I said after an hour and a half and at least eight trips up and down the stairs.

‘No, that’s it for the loft,’ said Ruth, ‘I’ll come down now and get the rest of the boxes from under the bed, and Tim can get the tree from the shed.‘

Of course.

Once everything was finally in the living room there was not an inch of room to do anything. Boxes, shopping bags, tinsel, plastic bags and baskets covered every available space. The floor, couches, coffee table, book shelves, mantel and dog had disappeared under an avalanche of Christmas storage. We could only stare at it all and wonder where to start.

This was when Tim suggested that we should have packed up autumn before we started on Christmas. Good grief.

And so we clambered through the towers of boxes and quickly stuffed hedgehogs, conkers, autumn leaves, mushrooms, pine cones, orange cushions and pumpkins into bags and carted them upstairs.

And then we started.

Now I thought my mother had cornered the market on excessive Christmas decorations, but Ruth is in another league.

It took us over three hours to unpack, position and hang everything. And I mean everything. As I sit on the couch today, let me attempt to work through it all for you. There are fourteen reindeer, five Christmas cushions and two Christmas throw rugs, three hedgehogs (different to autumn hedgehogs), an owl, forty-seven pine cones of various sizes and colours (different to autumn pine cones), seven stockings, four giant stuffed toys, five candles, six candle receptacles, hanging things, LED things, glittery things, furry things.

Hundreds of baubles, including themed baubles – Leeds United, a hamburger, a dog, a heart and a Pinocchio pipe cleaner cone.

One full size Christmas tree and three decorative trees that light up when plugged in. A huge neon star in the front window.

A stuffed felt rolling pin with Christmas bakers, a full size cardboard cut out of English celebrity Jenna Coleman. More Santas than all of the shopping centres in England. Tinsel, holly, stars, ribbons, bells.

In the kitchen there are Christmas paper towels, seventeen Christmas mugs, a Christmas apron, two Christmas cake tins, Christmas oven mitts and tea towels and Christmas plates and platters.

In the bathroom there’s Christmas toilet paper, a Christmas hand towel, Christmas liquid soap and a reindeer. Mistletoe is wound around the balustrade up the stairs.

Apparently Ruth is yet to put out Bertie’s Christmas water bowl.

It’s exhausting just thinking about it.

I was kind of hoping today might be the real rest day. But I’ve just been told that on the second day of December we put up the second Christmas tree.

The second Christmas tree.

What a week

Bali

And so it is our last day in Bali.

What a week. We started our holiday in a low key resort by the beach, some nearby shopping, relaxing by the pool. It was calm and peaceful and slowly we got used to taking our time, wandering instead of rushing.

Then to Ubud, and our villa nestled in the paddy fields, the beautiful views and the constant sound of water and birds. Markets, swimming, food, and massages to turn you into a limp noodle.

To experience all of this with two of my best friends has been magic.

For our last night we went for dinner at Honey and Smoke. We had a banquet, with multiple luscious dishes dropped in front of us one by one and cocktails that arrived in a cloud of smoke, with big red chillies, flowers and pieces of seaweed adorning them.

By the end of the night Jen was convinced a bug had flown into her cocktail that turned out to be the remnants of the seaweed, Gab was convinced that no food arriving at our table had been on the menu and I was explaining the nuances of flavours to rival a MasterChef judge. None of us could get on or off our stools, and we all wondered how we were going to balance on the back of the scooters on the ride home. When we did get home Jen found IDR 100.000 stuck to her boob.

You’ll have noted from reading that we’ve been in sync the whole time, happy to just hang with one another. I haven’t even mentioned couples massages, the pesky grasshopper, swimming in our underwear, the restaurant that was never open or our glamour birds nest photos. Some things are best just left.

It’s been wonderful; the people, the landscape, the temples and most of all the company. I admit it, I was wrong to wait so long to go to Bali, or to think I might never go!

And that thing I said before I left, about having curbed my enthusiasm for scooters and batik?

Spectacularly wrong.

Kajeng rice field

Bali

We left the beaches of Bali a few days ago, and are now in Ubud, in a beautiful villa nestled in the paddy fields. In Ubud we have spent lots of time swimming, reading, relaxing by the pool, shopping and having spa treatments.

We’ve been hitching scooter rides to get into town, but yesterday we decided to walk down. There is a short walking track through the Kajeng rice field popular with tourists that starts not far from our villa, so after being reassured by Gab that her ankle would be fine, we set off.

Bali is an absolutely beautiful island. There are waterfalls and streams, beaches, lush forest. As we walked we had the paddy fields spread out around us, rimmed by palm trees and dense tropical greenery. It’s the beginning of the planting season, so the fields were full of water with the bright green stems of early rice only just emerging. The brilliant morning sun made the water glisten. Beautiful.

We chatted, took photos, stopped to look at a small stall of baskets and spotted many birds.

It was flat and easy most of the way. And then we came around a corner to find the path had suddenly narrowed to a small tract of mud with a sheer drop to the side.

Gab reassured us that her ankle was fine, and so on we slithered.

Then we came to an unsecured dodgy looking plank of wood across a gap in the mud path.

‘I’ll go, ‘ I said as I stepped forward, ‘it seems sturdy. Ok no a bit spongey. Walk quickly everybody!’

Then we came to a vertical mud drop in the path.

‘Here…if you hold my hand….just….’

‘I’ve got it….can you just….hold a sec….’

‘Ooh, that gives way.’

‘Maybe if you go down sideways….’

The rice fields were far behind us, we were now at the top of a canyon. Ok maybe more a valley. And even through the treacherous terrain we could appreciate the crystal waterfall tumbling into the verdant gully below.

‘We’re here now,’ Jen reassured us only to find we weren’t at all anywhere.

Another bridge of wonky dodgy wood, an even narrower pathway and an alarmingly steep set of mud steps and finally we emerged into the bustling main street of Ubud.

‘Coffee?’

‘God yes,’ said Gab.

And she doesn’t even drink coffee.

I’ve been to Bali too

I cannot believe it, but I am going to Bali.

I always said I had no interest in going to Bali. I was no longer a carefree backpacker, I have mostly given up partying like it’s 1999 and I have curbed my enthusiasm for riding scooters and buying batik. Yet here I am at the airport, waiting for a flight to Bali.

There are three of us going on this holiday. Jen, Gab, me.

You may remember Disco Jen from such posts as The Entourage. She is mad strong and helped me hoist kettlebells back when we used to do things like hoist kettlebells.

You may remember Gab from such posts as Gab’s issues. She is mad skilled at attracting travel drama, and is almost certainly the cause of Madonna and my cancelled flights to New Zealand.

I offered Gab and Jen at least twelve beaches and islands that we might visit as an alternative, but they were pretty keen on Bali. Jen reminded me that we are adults and we don’t have to stay in hostels and we don’t have to go to party central. We can find a beautiful beach, visit the gorgeous mountains, eat the fabulous food and wind our way through the more peaceful sights of Bali. We can relax, swim, read, eat, shop, visit day spas and just hang out in the sun with one another.

It was a pretty convincing argument.

So I have dusted off my shells and beads, packed my shorts and frocks and am on my way to Bali, with almost zero preparation.

Actually I lie, we’ve done a little bit of prep. Gab and I have filled all of our spare time sewing outfits for around the pool. Jen has sent multiple TikTok Bali tips to the group chat.

And Gab broke her ankle. Because, you know, Gab’s issues.

In love with glaciers

We have arrived at the west coast – New Zealand glacier country!

People have often asked me what’s the best thing I’ve ever seen in my travels, and forever I have answered Svartisen Glacier in Norway.

Australia has a lot of things to offer, but it’s the only continent that doesn’t have glaciers. I can’t even begin with glaciers. They’re just so magnificent – kilometres high, solid and beautiful. Powerful and tangible reminders of how lands were formed. They’ve ever so slowly bulldozed their way through the continents, and crept backwards, leaving new landscapes in their wake. Wikipedia calls them persistent!

I walked on Fox Glacier during that first New Zealand tour, but I’m not sure I recognised the significance of a glacier at the time. I don’t think you can fully appreciate the might of a glacier until you stand in front of the sheer wall of ice at its face. We were lucky enough to walk right up to Svartisen Glacier, to see inside to the ice crystals and shards, to touch the retreating cliff face. It was an extraordinary experience.

We walked up the South side walk to Fox Glacier today. The end of the trail is several kilometres from the glacier, but we could see the ice and snow solid and unmoving at the top of the valley between the mountains. Even from a distance it was spectacular; we stood there for ages just watching it, unwilling to turn and walk back to the car. Then we were on to Franz Josef, where we only caught a glimpse before clouds obscured our view.

Perhaps we’ll try Franz Josef again in the morning. Perhaps I just don’t want to leave glacier country; because glaciers continue to be one of the most spectacular things I’ve ever seen.

Milford Sound

It’s our wedding anniversary and what a fabulous day we’ve had cruising Milford Sound. This is New Zealand’s most famous fjord; deep blue green water, towering mountains and cliffs and spectacular waterfalls. We had endless blue sky and sunshine and were lucky enough to see dolphins and seals. Perfect.

Our driver and tour guide, Eric, was superb. It was quite a long journey to Milford Sound, around five hours in total, and Eric’s commentary was on point. We learnt about the tectonic plates, the history of the land and lakes around Queenstown, the different sheep and cattle being farmed in the area. Volcanoes and their current risks, the elusive yet charming hermit graziers, the poisonous tutu berries, New Zealand freesias, how Shania Twain bought up land in New Zealand. The gold rush and the crazy, failed scheme to dam the lake and expose the gold.

Yes, Eric was knowledgeable, friendly, funny and informative. He told some great stories and was very entertaining. And this was some feat, because we were a tough audience.

‘This hill was featured in Lord of the Rings’ he said as we headed out of Queenstown, ‘is anybody into Lord of the Rings?’

Silence.

‘Ok, nobody? That’s ok we can talk about the glacier that formed this peak.’

‘Has anybody visited Glenorchy yet?’ he asked as we drove around Lake Wakatipu.

Silence. some shaking of heads.

‘No? Ok I highly recommend a visit.’

‘Has anybody experienced a hāngī yet? Eaten meat cooked the traditional hāngī method?’

We all shook our heads, no.

‘Anybody into fishing? Fly fishing?’ he asked hopefully a little later.

No. Nobody was into fly fishing, or had even tried fly fishing.

‘There really is some great trout fishing around the South Island,’ he persevered and went on to regale us with his adventurous fishing exploits.

‘Does anybody play tennis?’ he asked as we drove through Te Anau, home of the annual Tennis Invitational.

‘Anybody know about Lake Taupo?’

‘Does anybody trek?’

No, no and no. By this stage he must have been thinking he’d picked up the fifteen of the most boring tourists in Queenstown.

‘Is anybody a singer?’

This really is where we should have piped up, but honestly we were way past that point by now.

Our apparent lack of hobbies or interests certainly didn’t deter Eric. Over the five hour drive to Milford Sound he told us some cracking stories, knew the history of every place we passed, the geology of the land and waterways and the names and uses of the plants and animals.

Then on the shorter journey home he let us choose songs that we sang at the top of our lungs all the way home.

Even though none of us were singers.

We now know everything

Today we crossed the border into Queensland, and soon the roadtrip will be over. Nat and her family will be Queenslanders.

Travel, it broadens the mind. We’ve had many discussions, conversations, investigations and questions over the past four days. And we turned to google for these most pressing questions….

– what are some fun facts about Ned Kelly?

– Parallel parking – what is it again?

– Is Uno (the card game) Spanish?

– If Uno is from Ohio, how do you pronounce Uno?

– Where is the nearest coffee/petrol/sandwich/McDonald’s?

– Can you drink your pee if you’re lost in the bush with no water?

– Can you get sunflower honey?

– What is the actual name of the song about the dog that sat on the tuckerbox?

– What’s the name of that song that goes down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico?

– How do you play Go Fish?

– What are the top things to do in Coonabarabran?

– What’s the story of Jimmy Governor and Dubbo Gaol?

– How do you play Old Maid?

– What are the real rules of Uno not the rules Goldie is explaining to us?

– What/where is the world famous six foot tall cow and is it really a cow or is Lulu just making it up?

– What is the price of cherries at Woolworths compared to the price we paid to pick them ourselves?

– Nicole Kidman – googled by Peppa, who knows why?

– Why are there so many flies?

Yes, our minds are certainly broadened. Yep, Uno – pronounced like the Spanish word for ‘one’.

Cherry picking

On Day 2 of our roadtrip we went cherry picking in Wombat. Yes we did. And yes there is a place called Wombat.

It was pouring rain and cold, which I suspect are very good conditions for tromping around the hills picking cherries.

The old cherry farmer explained the pricing structure to us.

‘So it’s $15 per kilogram if you pick a kilogram but you have to guarantee you pick probably five or so kilograms each for all of you altogether and then we’ll weigh them and then you’ll pay per kilogram. Or you can pay $10 per person for the five of you and then you can pick as much as you want and then that’s yours. So what do you think?’

Nat and I just stared at each other.

‘We probably just want to pick this much,’ I said pointing to a box of cherries.

‘Five boxes,’ said the farmer, ‘so that’s about 20kg.’

‘No, not each, just one box total please!’

‘Ok, we’ll it’s best you just pay $10 each. That’s $40.’

‘There are five of us.’

‘Yep. $40.’

So we paid our $40, took two white buckets and headed out into the rain. A young boy gave us a quick lesson on how to pick a cherry, pointed into the distant hills and told us that’s where the best cherries are.

It was still raining, and we were wearing thongs and Birkenstocks, but we were determined to go where the best cherries were. For about a kilometre we slid through the mud, sank into mud puddles, slipped down hills, and slipped backwards trying to go up hills, all the while shrieking and clutching each other’s arms as we tried to reach the utopia of cherry trees.

We picked two bucketloads of lush, plump cherries, probably ate a kilogram between us, and then back into the mud we went, down to the farmhouse, where another young boy wanted to weigh our cherries and charge us even more.

‘No, we had the family deal,’ Nat was saying as I slid to a halt next to her.

The old farmer wandered up at that moment, assessing our efforts.

‘Looks like we owe you $10,’ he said.

What?

‘You can go collect $10 from the house over there,’ he pointed to a shed up another hill.

What?

‘No, that’s ok,’ said Nat, backing away towards the car with our enormous bag of cherries.

So now we have five kilograms of Wombat cherries and a bag of wet muddy shoes stuffed into the last available space in the car.

What fun!