Belfast and Giants Causeway

I’ve wanted to come to Belfast and in particular go up to Giant’s Causeway since 1995. Only on that trip to the UK, we couldnt’.  Myself, BigSal and BluddyMary had hired a car to drive around the UK for 6 weeks – extremely decadent, and only possible due to a corker of a British Airways deal that BigSal had found us; our BNE to LHR flights came with a free side trip to a number of European capitals and 7 days free car hire. Per person!  Else, I’m not sure we could have afforded to hire a car for such a long period of time in our early 20s.  There were, sadly, two restrictions on the whole travelling by rental car thing… 1) I was the only driver because the other two didn’t have their damn licenses! and, 2)  we couldn’t take the rental car into Northern Ireland because of The Troubles.  Having no desire to be blown up, bailed up or held up, and also being somewhat law abiding and risk adverse (we would not be insured if we did), we sensibly stayed away.  Anyway, it’s been on my list ever since.  Only 30 years in the waiting to get here… fucking puffins still on the list – but that is another story! 

I found us a day trip from Dublin to see the Causeway and Belfast, (primarily to see the Titanic Museum), and while it promised to be a long day, I was hoping for a good guide so it would prove to be an informative and if we were lucky, entertaining.  Happily, we had an amazing guide named, Quiggs.  Quiggs was quick-witted, interesting, and stuffed full of interesting cultural and historical tidbits.

On the drive out of Dublin, we learned all about Irish oral story telling and musical traditions, and had a quick lesson in Irish language!  Quiggs was raised speaking Irish and is one of only 2% of Irish people who are fluent in Irish… the Irish language is seeing a resurgence in recent years thanks to the promotion and sponsoring of Irish language programs in schools.  It’s great to see them fostering their language before it is lost.  Quiggs also spoke English (with a university level proficiency) and some French and German – which came in handy as we had people on our tour from France, Italy, Germany, Greece, Turkey, the US and all over.  He set the tone early by laying down the law… he was not going to suffer lolllygaggers and threatened to make any late comers sing if they returned to the bus even one minute late and held up the entire group!  I loved it!  Great idea… more guides should rule their pax’s with the threat of public ridicule, I say.

Quiggs was particularly passionate about sharing his interest in Irish language, he told us all about how Irish speaking Catholics were subjugated and disenfranchised.  Literally kids were beat at school for speaking Irish at school, those that were fortunate enough to attend school, that is.  The children would be given a card to wear around their neck, and every time they were heard to be speaking in Irish, they would get a knot tied in their cord, which resulting in a numbered beating at the end of their school day. 

At one point in the English attempts to quash Irishness, educating Catholics was made illegal entirely and Hedge Schools emerged – as the name suggests, primary aged children were taught informally in the hedgerows.

The plan of course was to destroy Irish identity – it was banned in business, banned in parliament, in legal circles and in courts of laws. To the point where the Irish speaking Catholics were literally unable to defend themselves if accused of a crime.  They would be put on trial, in English, and unable to explain or defend their actions in English, it led to a many wrongful convictions and even wrongful deaths.   In order to maintain this status quo, Catholics were disenfranchised by minimising their voting power.  Good Catholic families would breed prolifically, so outnumbered their Protestant counterparts quite considerably, so in order to suppress their voting power, they legislated that voting was connected to property ownership – one property, one vote.  Thus ten adult Catholics living in one home only got one vote.  One wealthy Protestant who owned multiple properties managed to get as many votes as properties he owned! 

As we neared the border to Northern Ireland, Quiggs told us stories of The Troubles… personal accounts of incidents that happened to his grandfather, his mother and his father – they all had stories of tense face offs with border guards.  His mother nearly got herself shot to pieces going across over the border in the wee hours of the night, when she fell asleep behind the wheel due to extreme fatigue and nearly drove into the guard house.  She apparently woke herself at the last moment and slammed on the bakes; the guards were all standing, pointing at her with their firearms and yelling at her to get out of the car.  It sounds like his poor Mam went into shock, and when the soldiers realised what had happened they took her inside, gave her coffee to wake her up and let her stop shaking before sending her on her way.  His father’s run in-was somewhat more of a ‘fuck you’ student protest type interaction, where he was refusing to provide identification when trying to cross the border.  All up, it sounded scary, tense and totally understandable that Hertz wouldn’t let us take our car into Northern Ireland in 1995!

We learned how political prisoners were treated by the English, and how they protested from their positions of incarceration – work strikes, ‘dirty strikes (refusal to use the toilets because they frequently got beaten for leaving their cells alone – so they took to pissing on the floors of their cells and smearing their shit all over the place), to hunger strikes.  All of which didn’t move the English govt at all.  Eventually the IRA decided to start trying to take over by electing members of their people to parliament and even elected people who were imprisoned, who naturally couldn’t take up their roles.

I’m going to have to do some more reading into how the current peace was reached, but in many ways, Quiggs was painting a situation that conveyed that even though the hard border is gone and most people want to co-exist in peace, there is still a lot of tension between the Irish Catholic part of the country and the Protestant northerners.  The police stations and court houses still have 12’ tall, 3’ wide thick concrete wall around them, and the memory of frequent bombings at the Europa Hotel (The most bombed hotel in the world apparently… the IRA had a habit of setting off bombs in the hotel, as it’s location made it a prime spot for the world’s journalists to stay when they were covering the tensions, so when they wanted a bit of attention, a small bomb at the hotel would wake them up. Literally.) are still very recent.  Quiggs says it wouldn’t take much to set the violence off all over again.

Belfast looks much like Dublin… though slightly fewer visible pubs perhaps?  The name Belfast comes from the Irish words for ‘fast river’… which is neither here nor there at this point in this post. But there you have it.

We passed through Belfast and picked up some pax on our way north to the Giant’s Causeway. On the way we stopped at Dunluce Caste – or rather, what remains of it. Dunluce Castle is a ruin of a medieval castle in Northern Ireland and was/is (?) the seat of the Clan MacDonnel. It hangs out on the edge of a basalt outcrop in County Antrim and is only accessible by a bridge that connects it to the mainland. It is surrounded by incredibly steep slopes on either side and this was probably what made it so defensible for the early Christians when the Vikings were coming to invade. It’s been there for a solid 500 years, and was most recently made famous by being used as a film set in Game of Thrones to represent the Pyke Islands or something, which is where Castle Greyjoy is fantastically located.

Quiggs, himself.

So on the way out to the Causeway, Quiggs gave us a very Google-able explanation for the rock formations at Giant’s Causeway, but continued on to say that “That is all bollocks.”. Because, the real formation, as legend has it, was due to Northern Irelandw once being home to a giant named Finn McCool (also called Fionn Mac Cumhaill). At that time, there was another giant – Benandonner, across the Irish Sea in Scotland who was threatening Ireland, such that Finn retaliated by tearing up great chunks of the Antrim coastline and hurling them into the sea. The newly-created pathway – the Giant’s Causeway – paved an accessible route over the sea for Finn to reach Benandonner.

However, this turned out to be a bad idea as Benandonner is a massive giant, much bigger than Finn was! So, upon realising this, in order to save himself, Finn retreated to Ireland and disguised himself as a baby, thanks to an idea from his quick-thinking wife. When Benandonner arrives, he sees Finn disguised as a baby and realises that if a mere baby is that big, the father must be far larger than Benandonner himself!

Following this realisation, Benandonner rushes back to Scotland, tearing away as much of the Causeway as he can in his haste to put as much distance between Ireland and himself as possible. And thus, the myth of the Giant’s Causeway was born.

It was great fun rock-hopping around on the basalt at Giant’s Causeway – can’t say my new knee was super appreciative of it though… that or the cold is getting to it, which would be a bitch if it hangs around long term!

Ms Stephola doing her best interpretation of a siren…

Face in the rock face.

The Giant’s Gateway

Giant’s Causeway is a gorgeous area to explore. It was however, rather cold and while thankfully not raining, very windy and cold. They run a neat little electric bus shuttle up and down to the rocks (quiet and unobtrusive, good job) for the grand cost of £1 per person each way. So we availed ourselves of that service to get back to the quaint little pub near our pick up spot – called, would you believe it, “The Nook”..!

On a cold day like today – all I ever want is a cup of port. Sadly, had to settle for a polite glass of port instead.

One of the pax from our bus did the right thing – ordered himself a whiskey with an ‘e’, and a Guinness chaser.

Next stop on our little tour was to a look out point to see the suspension bridge that links this strange wee island to the mainland. And off in the other direction is a headland that was also used in Game of Thrones as ‘Dragonstone’… nope, I have no recollection of Dragonstone at all.

More brief Game of Thrones stops – this time the “Dark Hedges” which Arya is chased by someone through a foreboding looking forest. This was a disappointing stop – not because there has been a huge reduction in the amount of trees lining this avenue, because there has been; but because of the sheer amount of rubbish people have left laying around this area. Gotta say, if it’s a damn tourist spot you want and we are literally stopping by to admire the Nature (TM), you might want to provide more bins or invest in some people to clean up.

This is a Robin Redbreast – obviously – first one I have ever seen. He was super tame and let me take a handful of close photos of him before I accidentally startled him.

After that it was back to Belfast to drop some people to the city centre, while the rest of us went to the Titanic Museum… and what a cool building that turned out to be! The architect here really understood the brief. It’s as though the famously egotistical Bruce Ismay was in charge of the design of the Musuem “I wanted to convey sheer size, and size means stability, luxury, and above all, strength.”. The building is enormous, and starkly sits out beside the dockyards conveying exactly that – size, scale, general hugeness!

The displays inside were a bit too Disney-fied for my liking… by that I mean, I am getting sick and tired of museums that want to create an ‘experience’ to spoon feed the history to the unwilling. I saw it at Ghent Cathedral with their godawful virtual reality tour of the crypts; same with the over stimulating and confusing audio narrative at the museum for the Battle of the Bulge at Bourgogne which was so over the top, it prohibited visitors from reading ANY of the information plaques, and we see it again here with the over videos and 3D experiences and interactive exhibits. I get it! The internet age has seen people’s attention span shrink to that of a hyperactive goldfish – but there has to be some spaces left in-Hollywood’ed where solemn information can be absorbed in a mature and academic manner… doesn’t there?

Perfect example – this exhibit was about the designs and plans for the ship. But we can’t just have some images of extant plans and an explanation of the design principles in use and their various failings – no, we need to have 40’ projected scrolling floor of plans that distract you from absorbing any actual information about the actual plans. It looks cool – but did I learn anything? Nope.

The Arrol Gantry was specially built to construct the Titanic – as Belfast was a very famous ship building yard – but even here, they didn’t have anything large enough to support a build of this scale.

And then we got funneled onto the Titanic Experience Ride… It took about 8 minutes and I’m not sure what we were supposed to learn from this other than ‘shit be huge, bitches!’. There was no point to this. It talked about people working long hours, in sometimes dark and dangerous conditions in the bowels of the emerging ship. I can only imagine this it to stop iGen kids from getting bored…

They put us in a little car that was hung from these extending arms that lifted and dropped to show you different static projected images. It was soooo Disney, I cann’t describe it any other way.

Once we got past The Ride – there were more informative boards and images that showed how the ship was built, but I noticed, a LOT of people weren’t reading much, they were skipping on past looking for the next fast dopamine hit instead. You train people that they are there – and their attention for steady reading is gone!

Man this thing was huge! But it didn’t have anything on a modern cruise ship – so I am not sure why it still feels so enormous in the imagination.

So – the one thing I did learn was that the ship was actually launched officially nearly a full year before it sunk. I was unaware of this, and initially couldn’t figure out what it had been doing from May 1911 to April 1912 when it sank, until we got a bit further around and discovered that most of that time was the ship being outfitted. They built it on land, then launch it onto the water, and it was only then that the internal fittings – carpentry, furniture, staterooms, recreational facilities etc are all installed.

Literally launched here:

Back on the design of the actual museum – it is a very impressive building! And totally conveys the sense of scale / size / enormity that people associate with the Titanic.

After the section on the build of the ship, there was a few galleries dedicated to the fit out. The White Star Line and their custom crockery remind me of Third Reich crockery – though I don’t know why? Hubris, perhaps?

I have long been amused by cruise ship carpets – they are usually crazy bright bespoke creations that presumably are designed to cover a thousand spilled cocktails… seems this is not a new trend! The carpets on the Titanic were also bespoke designed bright coloured monstrosities.

Wood was used for many parts of Titanic’s internal fitout. Huge quantities of wooden furniture and fittings were made for her public rooms and cabins. Years ago in 2014, Mr K and I stayed at the Waldorf Astoria in New York for a week or so and we were told that the timber work and panelling in the lifts and lobby of that hotel were created by the same carpenters and cabinet makers who created all the timber work for the Titanic. It is literally the same wood and was made by the same highly skilled craftsmen.

Very cool – and you can definitely see the similar artistic influence being carried through from that location to that on the ship.

An extant copy of the luncheon menu from the day the Titanic sunk! 😮

This is where the building, creating and fitting out info for the ship finished and we turned to the disaster of the Titanic sinking in the museum experience. You can feel the turn from explaining the scale and grandeur of the ship to the impending peril on this verandah that you traverse – it is designed to look like a promenade deck, complete with shuffle board, and a HUGE three story projection of roiling seas… suddenly things don’t feel so ‘marvel at our engineering’ anymore.

There were multiple story boards in a number of rooms that lead you through the disaster itself – many of which detailed the comms from the Titanic after it hit the iceberg all taken verbatim from the ship’s logs. Then the displays of the human toll: the survivors, and the not so fortunate.

A two story wall listing the names of all the people on the Titanic – very clearly showing how few were saved.

An extant life jacket – exactly like the ones in the film. It was recovered from an unknown Titanic victim. No records exist of who wore this jacket, it was recovered by the crew of the ‘Mackay-Bennet’ one of the ships that responded to give Titanic aid. Only twelve of the ship’s life jackets are known to remain out of a total of 3,500 that were onboard the ship. This makes it an extremely rare artifact. They were manufactured out of linen and cork of all things.

Downstairs is long gallery listing the changes to maritime safety that were introduced after the Titanic sunk. The new laws enforcing that all ships needed to have at least as many lifeboat spaces as the number of people that could board, as well as laws that required safety drills that included passengers, and laws regulating binoculars for lookouts and maximum speeds in ice fields in the North Atlantic… apparently these things were more ‘guidelines’ prior to the Titanic disaster.

It’s hard to fathom the depths of the ocean – I can’t envisage it. I also can’t imagine why some dedicated their lives to hunting for this ship.

An original deck chair from Titanic – recovered from the surface by the same ship, the ‘Mackay-Bennet’. It has a star on the headrest indicating the White Star Line and a brass name tag on the rear – it is one of only six known to have survived.

This is a ‘loving cup’ made of sterling silver presented to Sir Arthur Henry Royston, the captain of the Carpatia – the first ship to respond to Titanic’s calls for aids. It was given to him by Margaret “Molly” Brown. She also gave his entire crew medals made of gold, silver and bronze depending on their rank and chair a fund-raising committee for survivors.

The Unsinkalbe Molly Borwn and Captain Rostron of the Carpathia.

This must be one of the most famous violins in the world. It belonged to one of Titanic’s heroic musicians, Wallace Hartley. It was apparently a gift from his fiancée, Maria Robinson. It was made in Germany, c.1880 and was engraved : “For Wallace on the occasion of our engagement from Maria”. The violin has become an ubiqutious symbol of courage of spirit of those very famous musicians who chose to play until the very end of the Titanic disaster. They are the reason we say, “And the band played on…” to describe bravery in the face of adversity.

The next gallery was full of Titanic paraphernalia in popular culture – bit like the ‘References’ section at the bottom of a Wikipedia page! Most of it was a bit naff.

I’m not sure about this – I know the Jack and Rose thing on the movie made the whole picture on the bow thing famous – but this tableau for tourist to have their photo taken in, felt a little tasteless right at the end of the section of the museum that delved most into the disaster and its impacts. Naturally after this, you exit through the gift shop – and while it was filled with what seemed like really nice quality gifts and souvenirs, it somehow felt a bit unseemly to be buy t-shirts or coffee mugs with Titanic written all over them.

I do love the grand scale of the building.

After the museum, we went back to the city centre and collected some of our group before the long drive back to Dublin. It was a very long day – we were out for about 12 hours, but it was very informative and Quiggs was fantastic throughout.

What is it about transit days?

Invariably, transit days are always a horror show. Angus and I were both flying out today – Angus back to Aust and me heading back to the UK, so we packed ourselves up early, went for a quiet breakfast where we ran into the fabulous Holly who was so absolutely exhausted but had dragged herself out of bed in the hope of running into us. <3


Took an Uber (got a cab, again) to the airport which was uneventful (so long as we ignore that this driver also got up to well over 130 kmph), and then walked into what can only be described as one of the most chaotic airports I’ve ever seen… rivalled only by our arrival in Moscow perhaps at Sheremetyevo Airport in 2018. At least there were some masks in the BA queue.

Anyway… turns out all the One World Airlines were in one section and Angus’ Qatar flight, leaving 30 mins before mine, was happily in the check-in counters right near my British Airways one. The websites for both airlines said that check-in would be available from 3 hours before scheduled departures, so we joined our respective queues. I was about 7th in line to get checked and the check-in was supposed to start in about 5 mins. Angus was about 40 deep in his queue but it was already moving as he joined towards the back. I stood there (*right about now, I can’t remember whether I have mentioned just how much my pain levels were ramped up atm… I literally can not stand for more than about 3 minutes before I find myself shifting from foot to foot, pain shooting from my feet to my hips, my knees feeling like they’re going to collapse out from under me and of course I’m inevitably failing to breathe because pain does that to you), with the understanding our queue would open shortly and I would get checked-in relatively quickly – only problem with my cunning plan was that the British Airways staff didn’t seem to have read the, ‘three hours before scheduled departure’ memo and about 25 mins of standing later, I was starting to feel really fucking desperate. I could see Angus moving up in his queue while mine hadn’t moved. He texted that he’d get his stuff checked in and then come and stand in my queue for me, but I was like ‘holy fuck I better not still be standing by the time he’s checked-in’. But, you know, transit days being nightmarish at the best of times, of course I was still waiting when he got through his queue! He took my space while I limped off to the side looking desperately for somewhere to sit. I was on the side long enough to strike up a conversation with a nice Canadian man on his way to Baghdad who was calmly reading and thinking his Royal Jordanian flight wasn’t open for check-in yet but as soon as I pointed out the queue behind us, he ran off and no doubt discovered he was now running late.

Finally! BA check-in opened at 2hrs 20mins before the scheduled departure (fuckers!), and it was at this point that the generic BA monitors above the check-in counters switched to say “London Heathrow – Checked In Online” and “Business and Priority Customers” queues… and wouldn’t you know it? For some bizarre reason, the One World Sapphire, Emerald and Ruby were showing up as being able to use the Priority Lane and I needn’t have stood in line at all. 🙁 Bees dick from tears and collapse at this point. As predicted though, barely five minutes after the check-in opened, Angus was up the front on the queue and I limped over with my passport.

Got checked in and the woman behind the counter asked me if I was okay (What gave me away… the hunched over pained posture? Or the flushed face with tears forming in the corner of my wincing eyes?). I replied that I needed to rest and now I had two hours before my flight so I’d be fine – which is when she mentioned the stairs. My flight was leaving from a ‘remote terminal’ which is a euphemism for taking a bus to the middle of the tarmac and climbing a steep flight of steps to get on the plane. Oh FFS. I had to say ‘No. I can’t do steps today.’ :/ So she insisted I get an airport assistance person to lead us through to the gate.

I took up my seat again and we waited for the assistance person – policy is they won’t just give us a chair and let Angus push me through screening etc, I had to wait for them to have a staff member spare… and nothing about Athens Airport was screaming ‘competence’ or ‘well-staffed’ on this day. There was another young woman waiting for assistance also – she wasn’t in pain, but had her foot in plaster and was hobbling on crutches so they were making her wait for help too due to the stairs. Eventually… like about 45 mins of sitting around… someone turned up with two chairs and attempted to push us BOTH at the same time through customs and security. It was shambolic – he kept running us into people and nearly into walls while Angus was trotting on beside us and could have easily guided one of us. :/ Some policies are just stupid.

To their credit, we found ourselves through security and customs in very quick time, Angus’ gate was off in another direction and I barely got to say a quick goodbye and squeeze his hand before I was being propelled towards my gate where I was unceremonious left 50 mins before my flight… which left one hour late. 😐

It was during this time where I was left twiddling my thumbs that I received a handful of WhapsApp messages that basically told me my driver that I had booked to take me to Aylesbury was ditching the job… oh dear, it’s almost like he had belatedly discovered the planned rail strike (the same one I had a heads up on some two weeks earlier) and decided to ditch my booking in favour or screwing some desperate traveller who suddenly found themselves without options to get home! What the fuck, man? I made the booking days ago, it was fully paid for and now the driver is trying to say I gave them a different postcode? Seriously? The postcode I gave them in Aylesbury is the ONLY damn postcode in the entire UK that I know! So I’m pretty sure I didn’t give them one only 18 miles away and not the 44 miles I needed to travel. So didn’t need this aggravation.

Got onto damage control real quick and made alternative arrangements with Stephola and figured I’d fight it out with the transfer company fora refund later. The motherfucking dodgy personal transport industry strikes again! Le sigh. Eventually got on the plane and, as I said before, our flight left one hour late – most of which we spent sitting in our seats waiting to get a new space in the queue to leave… air travel is definitely not what it was pre-pandemic. So much rolling of eyes, and even more ‘hurry up and wait’ than ever.

My flight was thankfully just how you like them – uneventful. British Airways has slunk the way of Jetstar and other budget airlines though… not even a cup of tea without whipping out your credit card if you happen to be seated in economy; which is kinda sad. They used to be a pretty reliably good airline.

Arrived in Heathrow, and unsurprisingly, no one was there to assist me as I was promised on the other end so I limped my wait through border control, baggage collection, out eventually out through a two minute stop in the duty free to fix my driver up with two bottles of interesting gins (It was the least I could do on such short notice)… out and straight away I received a message from Stephola saying she had just parked. Thankfully my luggage made it, and thank God for Steph – there’s not many I happily pick up at the airport, but Steph will always have a lift from me forever. <3

A quick hug, and out of the city we head to the comfort of the village… ever such a long and painful day. Further reinforcing why, 1) we do NOT sightsee or go touristing on transit days and 2) we always, (always!), travel with our drugs on our person not in our checked luggage!

Life in the Fast Train

I’m awake bright and early this morning to pack my suitcase and get my shit sorted because we are heading to Lyon!  We’ve got to take a train from Leighton Buzzard to London, then a cab from Euston Station to St Pancras, then the Eurostar from there to Lille in France then change to the TGV to Lyon… so we are setting off from ‘the Buzz’ (I’m almost local now so I get to call it that 😉 ) at 0900 and fingers crossed – we should arrive in Lyon at 1900.

Right… let’s skin this cat!

I’m back.  Strangely we will have a bit of time today sitting around on trains and naturally glued to our phones. Got to the train station, and this is totally not connected to anything at all, but there is a cool sprung section of pavement at the Buzz that generates electricity when you walk on it… it’s beta test of some sort to see whether or not larger areas of spung walkways could generate power.  Very cool, I wonder if it’ll become a thing.

However, I digress.  The first segment of our transit went ok… train from the Buzz to London was fine. Met a nice cabbie this time who didn’t make a song and dance or try to rip us off over a short fare from Euston to St Pancras and so for his trouble I gave him £12 for the £8 fare… Take note, Sydney cabbies – it pays not to be a prick!

Once at St Pancras we found we had to wait around until the passengers from previous Eurostar trains had been cleared away before we could be checked though. There was scant little seating but we managed to find somewhere to wait about half hour. The rope lines they have set up are worse than bloody Disneyland and everyone not happy about being directed around like cattle. Anyway, eventually we went in, got scanned out of the UK, went though security and then in through French customs. Was reasonably painless but then we were herded into a large departure lounge with about half as much seating as was required. People were sitting around all over the floor or perched on luggage or coffee tables. But silly really. We managed to snavel a pair of seats and then time completely stopped!  It seemed to take forever for our 12:40 boarding time to roll around. No idea why… it’s a mystery.

Eventually our train was boarding and we settled ourselves onto the Eurostar premier economy seats that Stephola had chosen. Very comfy all round… chairs were good, tables were a useful size and the meal that came with our ticket was quite nice with a wee bottle of rosé to go with it.

The train is incredibly fast and amazingly quiet. Everyone was also abiding by the unwritten rules of being quiet in snooty class travel, which I have to say – I’m really getting used to. I don’t know why economy seats on planes and trains are always so noisy – people playing games and phones not on silent, people just talking too loud… it’s maddening but there’s always a sort of hushed serene atmosphere that comes with more pricey seats. Dammit.

Going through the Chunnel was cool and I honestly had no idea who quick it would be. One minute it’s gone black – the actual tunnel is about 50km long and you’re through it in about 30mins. Before you know it, you’re hurtling through the French countryside which looked beautiful as we passed fields and quaint little villages.

We arrived in Lille to change trains to the TGV much sooner than I expected (possibly because my phone hadn’t automatically changed time zones for me) and then it was a short amount of confusion regarding bathrooms (that were miles away) and platforms (which was the one we had just come up from!) before we were settled on the next train to Lyon.

Another couple of hours in a comfy carriage and next thing we knew we were pulling into Lyon. The Lyon Gare de Part Dieu is being renovated atm so it was a bit of a clusterfuck looking for a bathroom – and ffs France, really?  €1 to use the loo?  Don’t you know that’s really expensive for Antipodeans?! We’ve just paid a small fortune to take a train is it too much to ask that you maintain comfort stops for passengers?  Harumph.

Found our way out to the taxi ranks and met another lovely cabbie (man, I hope that Sydney arsehole got sacked!) who drove us to our hotel… where, oddly enough, every other guest is walking around in black with metal bands on their shirts. Yep. We’re in the right place.

Threw our stuff into our room and went down for a late dinner in the hotel’s restaurant. Discovered my French is way too rusty when we ended up with mineral water we didn’t want and two serves of fries we also didn’t want. Never mind we had a nice meal and took a spare bottle of wine to take up to the room.

Slept like a dead thing. Tomorrow – chill out day and then Rammstein!
Very excited. 🙂 

Verulamium and St Albans Cathedral

Went to visit the Verulamium Museum in St Albans today to check out some Roman mosaics and such.  St Albans is situation on top of what used to be the third largest town in Roman Britain.  Huge areas of the Romany city are not yet excavated being parklands and agricultural lands, so I imagine it’d be the sort of place you could keep coming back to and find they’ve continued to find new objects.Most of exhibits are pretty much self explanatory given all the artefacts here are from around 50AD when Verulamium was granted municipium status.Grave goods found buried with wealthy citizens. Interesting loom weights. Little model replica of a kiln:

Funerary urns and grave goods.Infant grave – apparently if a baby didn’t make it to 40 weeks, it would not receive a burial.Some extant fresco panels which have been reconstructed to show what they would have looked like.Samian pottery originated in parts of Gaul (modern France and Rhineland) and was made in vast quantities.  It was the most common fine tableware in was made in Roman Britain imported from 50AD to around 225AD.  The high glossy finish stems from minerals in the local clays where it was made. It took very particularly skilled potters to fire it to this lovely red colour.  Most of it was thrown, but the heavily decorated bowls are done by mould.   Ivy leaves were applied to some bowls using a bag and nozzle, (like icing cakes).

Pottery oil lamps – these are much smaller than ones I have seen in Italy – about the size of a bar of soap.Coppersmiths’ work:Blacksmiths’ work:This place is well worth a stop for the mosaics alone.  They’re truly stunning – I can’t imagine what else lays around the countryside buried in fields. 

After the museum I went a few miles up the road to visit St Alban’s Cathedral, which is a ‘must see’ in this area. Most of the cathedral dates from Norman times. It was dissolved as an Abbey in the 16th C and became a cathedral in 1877, and while it is technically a cathedral, it is also a Parish church unlike most other cathedrals in England. It has a dean who is the rector with the same responsibilities and authority as any other parish church.

The nave is bloody enormous being about 85m long – from the information plaques, this is the longest nave in England. 

Medieval tiles…Ceilings…Of course a cathedral isn’t a cathedral without a rose window…The shrine to St Alban – Britain’s oldest saint. On a random column close to the Shrine of St Alaban is this random remaining piece of fresco – the figurative style has the typical elongated hands and 3/4 face that was typical of people being depicted in painting and other decorative arts in the 12thC.  Posh people’s seating…

Some modern artworks honouring St Alban’s – also done in the 12th style. Fancy trunk with no information connected to it.

After wandering around St Albans I head back to Whitchurch to figure out dinner and have an early night.  Transit day tomorrow, which should be interesting.

Cute high speed landscape pic of fields near Whitchurch as the sun goes down…

 

 

 

 

 

 

West Wycombe and Hellfire Caves

During the late 1740s, after a series of failed harvest seasons, some wealthy plonker by the name of Sir Francis Dashwood (11th Baron le Despencer) commissioned an ambitious project to dig a series of caves into the mountain side to keep the local farm workers employed.  At one shilling a day (enough to support a family) these farm labourers were put to work digging deep into the chalk mountain to create what is effectively a secret playground for the rich and possibly sadistic.

The caves are near the village of West Wycombe and extend 260m underground to be directly beneath the St Lawrence’s church and the Dashwood family mausoleum, which are located high on the hill above.  Said to have been constructed to represent, ‘heaven’ with the church above and ‘hell’ with the caves directly below; the caves came by their name, “Hellfire Caves” as this is where the original Hellfire Club is said to have met and carried out many pagan rituals, orgies, bacchanalian feasts and who knows what?  There is plenty of speculation of what went on in these caves, but not a lot of solid evidence seems to have survived. The caves are well made and easy to navigate, the tunnels veer off and return to each other in such a way that you can not get lost – if you want to go deeper into the caves, you just go down the sloping pathway, if you wish to return to the surface, make sure you’re taking a path (any path) upwards. Towards the very deepest part of the cave is a man made underground river called the River Styx (of course it is), which is just outside the inner chamber where guests are said to have held their ‘parties’. The meetings were said to be notorious, pagan, full of debauchery and occult rituals where copious amounts of alcohol were consumed.The Hellfire Club is known to have been founded by Sir Francis Dashwood and unsurprisingly, included many various politically and socially important 18th-century people.  Mostly men, such as William Hogarth, John Wilkes, Thomas Potter, John Montagu (Earl of Sandwich) and while there’s nothing definitive around to say he was a member – Benjamin Franklin (yes, that one…) was a close friend of Sir Francis Dashwood and was known to have visited the caves several times. His letters and connection to the group and Lord Dashwood figure quite prominently on the information plaques throughout.

The men at these gatherings referred to themselves as ‘monks’ and they did have female guests who were said to have dressed up as ‘nuns’ – mostly prostitutes, local girls, wives, sisters, and even some ladies of society would join them. They were rumoured to have dabbled with the occult and performed black magic, but I dare say they largely just behaved very drunkenly and lewdly away from society’s prying eyes.

The club motto was Fais ce que tu voudras (“Do what thou wilt”)… which certainly does make you fearful for the young women and clueless maids that no doubt found themselves encouraged into these tunnels with rich and powerful men  :/  There is a couple of mentions of a young local barmaid named Sukie (for Susan) who was accidentally killed in the caves when some local lads sent her a letter pretending to be from an aristocratic beau, that told her to come to the caves dressed in white (so as to be like a wedding gown). When she arrived, the local lads teased her, and she threw rocks at them, one threw a rock back that struck her head and she died from this injury. She is now said to haunt the caves dressed in white – because of course she does.

The only thing that spoiled this slightly spooky visit into the Hellfire Caves was their propensity for lacklustre mannequins placed in variously carved out niches… made the experience somewhat Madame Tussaud’s tacky rather than being eerily quiet and still and cold…  

After wandering down through the caves, I headed up the top of the hill to ‘heaven’ to see St Lawrence’s Church. Unfortunately the church was locked up and I was unable to visit inside, but the location of this church is stunning – the views across West Wycombe Village and the Park are gorgeous.

The golden ball atop the church’s tower is a familiar symbol of West Wycombe village.  It is constructed from timber and was covered in gold leaf.  Apparently you used to be able to go into it (it’s about 8 foot in diameter) and it has what must be super cosy seating for up to six people.  Sir Francis Dashwood and his friends were rumoured to have met there (probably to smoke opium and get high and close toheaven!) but the public is no longer allowed in because of vandalism.

The nearby Dashwood Mausoleum is another notable West Wycombe fixture… it’s a huge hexagonal building containing the remains of Dashwoods and people connected to them, going back for centuries.

It’s enormous and a very impressive monument that stands out quite strikingly atop the hill. After a wander around the church, the old cemetery and the mausoleum I made my way over to West Wycombe Park to see the house and the estate.  The house is only open from 2-4pm in the summer, so I was in luck and took (what was supposed to be) a little 40minute tour through the house.  There is so much to be said about this place, that I’m not even going to try… click here for more info on West Wycombe Park If you want to know who built it and how.

The TL;DR is that a wealthy spoiled tradesman’s son took the Grand Tour to polish of his education and came back enamoured with all things Italian, Roman, Ottoman and Byzantine.  He brought back some exceptional fresco artists in the form of Giuseppe Mattia Borgnis and his son who painted copies of many famous frescos from villas in Rome and Venice that the young Lord Dashwood so admired. Every ceiling and many walls in the staircases are covered in their works.

Northside of the building looks out over the grounds and the man made lake. Turns out this property has featured in Downton Abbey several times as Lady Rosamund’s London home and several other outdoor scenes. Most of the artworks were themed around Bacchus, Venus, Cupid, and other gods and myths, as was the fashion of the time.  Drunken Bacchus with his grapes and laurel coronet feature throughout the house along with the occasional bawdy or lascivious scene which is probably why several of the artworks were covered over (possibly by the straight laced Victorians who followed) and have since been restored. 

There was no photography allowed on my 40 minute tour (which turned into a 1hr 20 mins of standing way too long and being told the same thing over and over about whether the marble was genuine or a clever fabrication to look like marble – yes, we got it after the first two rooms, the fireplaces are real marble, most everything else that looks like marble, is not), and they did not have a book to purchase at the end.  So I have unapologetically borrowed some images from their website and tbh if you’re not gonna flog the tourists a book, they’re lucky these pics aren’t hot-linked!

The entrance is an impressive hall which has frescoed ceilings copied from a Roman villa somewhere.  Many of the busts were brought back from Europe whilst the young Lord Dashwood was on Tour, and some are weird copies made of long dead family members.  The columned are not real marble, but rather a timber centre with a reconstituted highly polished crushed stone method of construction.

 The Palmyra Dining Room, which if memory serves the guide, is based on a palace ‘somewhere in modern Syria’. Again the columns are not real marble, but the fireplace to the right is genuine marble.  The Rococo mirrors are some of the finest to be found…  Apparently.  The dining suite however, not so authentic, Sir Francis Dashwood (the one who died in 2000 not the one who built the house) saw it in a movie set and picked it up when they were refurbishing. The aptly named ‘Yellow Drawing Room’  Has one of the largest and oldest Axminster carpets still in use and has lovey views down over the lake.  More Rococo mirrors, and ‘What else can I tell you about this room? Oh yes, the fireplace is genuine marble but the elaborate doorway and the plinths that hold up statues of the Four Seasons are made with the same faux techniques from the Entrance Hall.’The Tapestry Room – where I nearly had a heart attack was lined with genuine 18thC Flemish tapestries that were a gift from the Earl of Westmorland.  These genuine Flemish tapestries covered in delightful pastoral scenes have been cut and hacked to fit around the doorways, windows and fireplace in a way that made my heart just sink.  With little or no regard for them, they were ruined to fit into a room that is way too tiny to hold them.  ‘Oh and what else can I tell you about this room?  The fireplace is genuine marble, but the decorative archway around the door is not.’You guessed it:  The Red Drawing Room which is beautifully appointed and has a fabulous cabinet in the corner and an amazing 17thC travelling trunk which we weren’t allowed to photograph. ‘Oh and what else can I tell you about this room? The fireplaces are marble, but the doorway and….’ Fuck it.  You get the idea.

The Music Room which was used to host parties and balls.  The frescos are full of Bacchanalian iconography and symbolism.  Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II and her sister were entertained here with a small circus as children, complete with ponies in the house… and of course the fireplaces are genuine marble but the plinths and doorways are not.

I know not everyone who comes through these sorts of places has a degree in Art History and/or Visual Arts, but I swear (minus the family history bits, with which I was not familiar) I could have given a better reading of the visual in that house completely cold and unprepared.  Never mind, I got to see some beautiful things – the guide was just too slow and repetitive for words. By the end of it, several of us were obviously over-done from being on our feet too long and unlike every other country house in the entire United Kingdom… this one does not have a tearoom or cafe. That being the case, I felt a short stroll through the gardens on the way back to the car park was in order.

“Have you ever seen a place so happily situated, sister?”

Drove back to Whitchurch – can I say how much I love the roundabouts that keep the traffic moving on the A roads?  I know lots of people driving in the UK hate them, but seeing as how I am driving on the proper (left) side of the road and we do use roundabouts in Australia, I find them easy to navigate and saves so much time on stopping constantly for lights.

Once back at Whitchurch, we spent the evening with a few quiet G&Ts, while Stephola’s Beloved chased the ‘chippie van’ (yes, that is like an ice cream truck but it dispenses fish and chips on the side of the road when it rings a bell to draw in hungry people who don’t feel like cooking)… and as entertainment for the night, we got to slowly watch as Boris Johnson tries to desperately hold onto government by a thread as 43 members of his parliament resigned citing no confidence in the wanker!

Fucking good wholesome fun all round. 🙂