The House Husband

Mirinda had book group today so I took the opportunity to go up to the flat to (finally) get the wheels sorted for the coffee table. There was also the urgent issue of the DVD player needing replacing. Her old one (which wasn’t that old but was very cheap) decided to give up the ghost last week and, given the sorry state of ‘live’ television and her need to watch what she wants when she wants it, we had to replace it ASAP. So, yesterday I bought a new one and today I took it to the flat and plugged it in.

The train trip in was uneventfully pleasant – given I had no time restraints, I caught the wonderful 9am 444 which meant I had a table and non-crowded with commuters journey. As we pulled into Waterloo, I checked my London Underground app for the latest tales of woe on the Tube but was very pleased to note that all lines were showing a good service. It’s interesting that the best service is a good one rather than excellent. I guess they never want to boast.

I took myself down to the depths of the Jubilee Line and caught a train almost immediately. It was pleasantly devoid of the usual hordes. I sat back and read some more about the origins of the English language.

I became a bit concerned when the train remained at Southwark for much longer than required. The doors were open and the train was doing nothing. Eventually a platform announcement filtered in declaring that the Jubilee Line was not running at Southwark station. My ears, as well as those others not clogged up with earplugs and headphones, pricked up.

We then had a fairly unintelligible announcement from our driver. I heard this announcement many times over the next 40 minutes and it seemed to say that we were being delayed because a passenger had been on a train at Finchley, causing delays out of London Bridge. This made no sense as one would assume that passengers on trains were more the norm than reasons for delays.

A few of my fellow passengers left the train in disgust. I was on the verge of following them when a new announcement came that the doors were closing and we were about to leave. As the train started pulling out of Southwark, the looks on the faces of the people who had abandoned it showed their disgust had only increased.

We then had a long, stop and start journey to Canary Wharf. A trip that normally (whatever that means) takes 20 minutes was increased two fold (or 200% as Nicktor would undoubtedly claim). At least the train wasn’t in the least bit crowded. I just read. The comatose chap opposite me simply listened to some tinny rubbish living on his phone.

Finally at Canary Wharf, I discovered the reason we were delayed was because someone had been under a train at Finchley rather than on one, which I have to admit is more probable cause for disruption. I’m pretty sure my train was one of the few that managed to get through and I thanked the devilish sprites that haunt the Tube network for sparing me an even worse experience. Clearly it wasn’t my turn this time.

All my bits and pieces ready and waiting

I dumped everything at the flat then headed back out to do Mirinda’s food shopping at Waitrose where the check-out lady took great delight in reading my badges. When she read (out loud) the one that says “Say yes to vodka” she let out a delighted cheer and held up her hand for a high five. I happily obliged, saying “Every time”. Even though my days of neat vodka are well behind me and I’d be more likely to say “no” I didn’t want to disappoint her.

On the way back to the flat I, stupidly as it turned out, stopped at Starbucks for a coffee. The Canary Wharf branch has a new worker. A young guy with very little skill. All he had to do was to take the orders and write them on the cups. He was so incompetent that the barista checked and redid every one. This meant every order took twice as long as it should. Which meant I was there far longer than I should have been. The guy who made my coffee took pity on me and gave me a voucher for a free coffee. Which I’ll never use.

These free coffee vouchers are pointless for me. They entitle the holder to a free tall coffee, which is the standard small drink. Given I drink a grande, triple shot, hazelnut latte, makes them pointless. Nero does the same with their loyalty cards. I have a growing collection of free drinks which I regularly give to the poor.

Eventually, coffee in hand, I returned to the flat and set about putting the wheels on the coffee table. I organised my tools and the replacement bolts then removed the axles and overlong bolts that came with them. All was looking good. I marked out the, now upside down, table and retrieved my cordless drill. I started drilling. After about four revolutions, the drill stopped. The battery was flat.

Rather than throw the drill off the balcony in indignant frustration, I immediately raced down to Robert Dyas and bought a new one. Of course, this had to be charged so, while I waited for the trickle to become a torrent of energy, I had lunch. I then set up the new DVD player, making sure it worked. I also set the set top box off, scanning for the new channels that had all disappeared with the advent of the death of the analogue signals in London. Eventually the battery was sufficiently charged.

A new battery, ideally, needs about six hours for the first charge but I figured with only four holes to drill, that I could get away with a lot less. The first two holes were fine but then I had to put the drill back on to charge for the final two.

Just one of four

Finally I had the coffee table rolling back and forth across the new carpet like a bulldog on a skateboard. It was a great moment. I paused for a moment to glory in the achievement and then cleaned up before packing my bag and leaving.

As usual, I’d wanted to do more but the energy problem forbade such luxury. I headed down to the ferry (not wanting to risk the disappointment that is the Jubilee Line) for a gorgeous trip back down the Thames to Waterloo and home.

A friendly ferry sign

Quite a successful day, really.

200 years ago a very big ship ran into an iceberg and we’ve been talking about it ever since. Today, in unconscious memorial, we caught a boat across to the Isle of Wight to visit with Susanne and Rafi. We weren’t that concerned about icebergs during our 15 minutes crossing.

As usual, all of the connections linked up perfectly (a little too perfectly, actually, as they didn’t give us time to visit Costas and South West Trains, clearly not caring about their customers, had a 450 on the Waterloo – Portsmouth run which means no catering on the train) and we arrived happy in Shanklin. Given we’d not had time for Mirinda to grab breakfast (I ate my toast in the car during the drive over to Haslemere) we stopped off at the station cafe for toasted cheese and tomato sandwiches which were delicious, before heading on to Susanne’s.

The day was grey but with little expectation of rain, so we sat and enjoyed a coffee and a chat on the terrace/porch/doorstep, depending on your socio-economic standing. It was here that Rafi introduced us to Mr Gum. Mr Gum is a series of hilarious and surreal books for children and they are very, very funny. Actually, we discovered that they’re funnier for adult males than females. So, maybe they’re just silly. Anyway, Rafi’s quotes made me laugh a lot.

After a sword fight, a bit of a read of Mr Gum and a lovely lunch prepared by Susanne (although the mystery of the spice packet almost denied us an extremely odoriferous meal) we wandered down to the seafront.

Smelling something natural

At one point, Mirinda, Susanne and Rafi knelt down to smell something. By the looks of the photo, they weren’t too sure about whatever it was.

It was Mirinda’s call for where we went so, after a brief diversion so Rafi could go and buy some Jelly Tots (tiny Fruit Pastels), we settled down for a coffee on the terrace of the Ship Inn, where we watched the procession of coaches full of pensioners drive passed, go to the end of the Esplanade, turn around and then drive by again. Clearly it was too cold to get out of the coach so they could only see the sea from behind the safety glass of the windows.

Looking along the beach

There was a bit of a problem on the way back as Rafi wanted to walk home by the cliff but Mirinda (who was in charge of navigation) decided she wanted to go the less direct way. We had some faux tears and an almost tantrum but eventually he calmed down. I rewarded him by letting him travel for the last bit on my shoulders.

And then, a great moment! Rafi actually let me play X-Box with him! This has never happened before. He generally won’t even let me hold the controller, preferring to let me watch his skill through the games. I think the difference today was that Kung Fu Panda has dual game play so we could beat each other up, try and defeat the evil ninja and shoot targets. Amazingly, I actually beat him a few times.

Still, all good things (as indeed must bad things) come to an end and we left for the train and ferry home. Again, it all went smoothly although there was a bit concern at Shanklin due to the huge crowd of celebrating men singing, drinking and being generally boisterous. Not that we were that concerned as they were wearing jackets and ties and looked like rugby fans.

The men all crammed into one of the Tube train carriages, while everyone else had the other, and sang all the way to Ryde. It was more funny than frightening and made the trip back to the ferry rather enjoyable in an odd way.

Once more we survived the rigours of the ferry crossing, ignored by any huge blocks of ice and grabbed the next train back to Haslemere.

The ferry crosses

A lovely day, as usual, on the Isle of Wight.

I have to say that any desire to go and visit the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island (both of which were closed to the public when we were here ten years ago) vanished in a cloud of steam when we saw the queue that stretched for…well a very, very long way. In the sun, out of the sun, across paths, through parks. It just didn’t stop. It’s the sort of queue that people in the middle would probably have no idea what they are queuing for but figured it was a good thing to do.

Before looking at any queues, we left the hotel with the idea of wandering around the bottom of Manhattan Island. Before heading across to where the Twin Towers used to be and which is now called Ground Zero, we found a great place for breakfast called Roxy’s Diner.

Roxy's Diner, New York financial district

I had pancakes and bacon while Mirinda had the French toast and bacon, both with lashings of maple syrup and lovely fresh coffee. It really felt like New York then, and set us up for a good bit of sightseeing walking.

Ground Zero is still a big building site. Behind where the towers stood a new tower is being built though not as big while still very impressive in design. It is about half finished.

1 WTC, New York, near where the towers used to be

When it is complete, it’s going to be one sexy office building. Today there was a group of guys washing the windows while another group stood the other side of the window watching them. This was up about 30 floors. What a bunch of jokers.

Walking along the Battery Park area of Manhattan, dodging joggers and cyclists, we realised how lovely this part of New York is. We didn’t visit this part last time. It was very normal and not very touristy. Families out with their kids, strange people exercising, women running with strollers, the occasional dog on a lead because they are not allowed on the grass.

A big surprise was in store for us at the Irish Hunger Memorial. Imagine a giant dinner plate tilted at a slight angle with a full size stone cottage with walls and wild plants around it. It was very odd band yet, very beautiful. The plants are all natives of Ireland and, therefore, England as well and walking through it, felt like being home.

In all, the site covers half an acre and is the idea and construction of artist, Brian Tolle. It is supposed to highlight the Irish famine 1845-52.

The cottage, which Mirinda thought looked fake, is actually real. It was donated by the Slacks of Attymass and reconstructed on the site. Apparently it was once the cottage of a bunch of farmers who were struck by famine, leaving it to fall into the state we now see it.

Dotted throughout the site are rocks with Irish counties carved into them. Here’s one for Claire.

County carved rock in Irish Hunger Memorial

I haven’t really done it justice. It is a lovely little memorial and very well done. It is truly like some giant has picked up half an acre of Ireland and plonked it down in Manhattan.

The memorial is not mentioned anywhere I’ve seen and is one of those wonderful things you just happen to find by accident.

The sun was getting stronger as we walked on. According to my Aunty Jan, New York in July is awful, weather wise. In fact, the guidebook I have claims that most New Yorkers leave the city in July because the weather is so awful.

We stopped at a Starbucks which had a nice shady area outside where we could watch the crazy people and listen to the mediocre gospel singers.

I’m not that keen on the concept of clone towns – everything looking exactly like everywhere else is anathema to me. But…and it’s a big but…I do love the fact that I can walk into any Starbucks and ask for my usual (grande, triple shot, hazelnut, latte) and they not only just take the order and make it, it also tastes exactly the same. It is a lovely, warm, squishy bit of security that keeps me happy.

All coffee-d up, we kept wandering until we hit the queue I mentioned earlier. I couldn’t believe how long it was. OK, it’s summer, it’s a Saturday and the weather is fantastic but, really, do all those people honestly enjoy standing around in the heat waiting for the people in front of them to move forward a few feet every hour?

A little distance beyond the queue is a war memorial consisting of huge slabs of concrete (and they are massive) with names carved in them, standing on edge, like playing cards, with a very big bronze eagle at the end. It’s quite an amazing sight and quite difficult to put into a picture.

What wasn’t difficult was the ferry full of people that was rocked scarily by the wake of another boat. We stood and watched as the ferry full of people expecting to leave for Ellis Island at any moment were broadsided with heaving waves.

It was more like a funfair from hell than a docked ferry. The screams and squeals were very loud as the ferry came very close to turning completely over. It was like when you’re on a swing and trying to get it to spin over the cross bar. Except it was a ferry, in the water and I really don’t think anyone really wanted it to go right over.

But, all was well, no-one fell over board, no-one needed rescuing by Superman or someone similar. Actually this is what I expect in New York. A caped crusader to suddenly appear out of the clear blue sky, standing on the end of the ferry, steadying it with his super hero feet. It sort of matches the skyline.

After almost giving up out of despair, we found the terminal for the Staten Island Ferry. Now I was assured by a guide from the Red Circle ferry ten years ago that the Staten Island ferry was the brainchild of a very wealthy philanthropist who set it up as a charity in order for New Yorkers to travel in and out of Manhattan for free every day.

All very nice and a lovely fairy story but so not true! The liar! It was actually 25 cents to travel on the ferry back in 1817 aboard the Nautilus. The price dropped in 1897 to 5c but then steadily rose until, in 1997, it was made free for all foot passengers.

The amazing thing is the sheer volume of people waiting for it on a lovely Saturday at 12:30. It looked like a thousand people to me but Mirinda claims it was merely hundreds. It was enough to almost put you off. Oddly though, once you get on the ferry, as long as you don’t want to sit outside, there is a lot of room inside. All of the crowds merely disperse into…well, nothing.

So we had a very comfortable 25 minute journey across to the Island where we wandered around, looking for somewhere for lunch before settling on the Gavel Grill where we had a delicious cheese and bacon burger each. Really, they were fantastic burgers. Like burgers used to be. I truly recommend this place to anyone wanting lunch on Staten Island. They have a website if anyone’s interested. It’s here. Ten stars from me.

The Gavel Grill, Staten Island

We were tempted to go and see a few touristy things on Staten Island but it was too hot and we were feeling a bit drowsy so we just hopped on the next ferry back to Manhattan and made the gradual trip back to the room for our afternoon nap. Well, Mirinda’s nap. I wandered up to Duane Reade for supplies before retiring to the bar for a few Peroni’s. I love New York.

Apart from the half term crowds (it seems to me that there are far too many half term periods in England; when do the kids learn anything?) it was the perfect day to visit London. Even the train journey into Waterloo was enjoyable. Well, apart from guard who insisted on telling us that the arrival time into Waterloo was “oh nine fifty nine”. While that was tiresome, I’m the first to acknowledge he was 100% correct – as I left the train, the station clocked over to 09:59. Impressive!

I didn’t have long to wait for a Jubilee line tube either. I arrived at Canary Wharf 20 minutes later (10:19). When I emerged from the bowels of the earth, the first thing that struck me was the extreme blue of the sky and the skyscrapers glinting into it. Everything looked absolutely stunning.

Halfway across the sexy bridge at Canary Wharf

I was so struck, I blipped the impressive HSBC building and its sexy curved corners. But I had a mission before meeting Mirinda at the flat. I was searching for ODHs. I didn’t know they were called ODHs. I was looking for those sets of hooks that go over doors. Eventually, at John Dyas (which is what I call Robert Dyas…or the other way around) I found what I was looking for. Four glinting ODHs, made specifically for the most common of door widths.

This harks back to my attempt to purchase door hooks for the flat at Poirot’s place. The ‘common size’ hooks didn’t fit. I assumed that was because the Poirot flat was built in the 1920s and, therefore, was of an older, thicker commonality. Modern doors are clearly thinner (40 mm according to ODH literature). I managed to bodge the hooks a bit – not easy without a vice, dolly and ball-pin hammer but I sort of managed, though the door had to stay open.

The flat at Canary Wharf, however, was built in 2005 and so the doors (you’d think) would conform to a more modern standard; particularly as there appears to be well over a hundred flats in the complex, each with at least four internal doors. You’d think so, wouldn’t you. Well, you’d be wrong.

Either the builder decided to buy a few thousand non-standard doors or the ODH people have no idea what they’re talking about. None of them fitted. The doors are thicker than 40mm. They are the same as the doors at Poirot’s flat. Perhaps the builder bought a job lot from a stripped out building from the 1920s. That seems far more likely than the fact that the ODHs are not of a standard size. Surely.

Anyway, casting aside the disappointment of the ODH fiasco, we eventually left for lunch at the Turkish place (Tavez café/deli) not far from the flat where we had a delicious pide each, some Turkish salad and coffee.

Actually, Mirinda had a latte while I had a real, sludgy Turkish coffee. It instantly took me back to James Balian and his week old brew of splodge sat atop his hob, bubbling away like a New Zealand mud pool. Sweet, thick, black and with a layer of something almost living at the bottom of the cup. This layer is not for drinking as it constantly releases more and more flavour throughout the life of the drink. It is also not a good idea to drink immediately after stirring Turkish coffee. Fortunately this is a lesson I learned many years ago. It was delicious.

From the café we strolled slowly down to the Canary Wharf dock to catch the ferry. This is Mirinda’s usual mode of commuting and is wonderful on a day like today. Though at this time of day, you are wrestling with tourists for the right to sit outside. Fortunately we won today and I took some video in order to show what a lovely journey to work she has.

It seems that youtube is now chucking ads into the videos! Just click the tiny ‘x’ if an ad appears. The music is Clannad singing Many Roads.

The train ride home was interesting.

A few phone calls…I had a guy having a conference call regarding a new computer install and the inherent problems associated with that. Five times he asked for a password to access something but they never let him have it. Another guy was having an argument with an associate about another person who never turns up for meetings. And a third guy who is in training and made about 30 calls trying to organise a training day.

A few chavs…an entire family of spotty, tattoo marked, feet on the seats, noisy, horrid chavs who I thought would leave the train at Aldershot but stayed on till Farnham and then couldn’t work out how to get their stroller out of the carriage.

That makes it sound quite unbearable when it was actually not too bad – I was typing this post and hardly noticed them!

Oh, and I noticed at 7pm that the pips are back. I need to find out more…

I popped out in the morning, leaving Mirinda to work on her latest essay, and visited the Como Archaeological Museum. Interestingly, before I found the building, I was caught up in some sort of demo. It seemed to have something to do with motor racing…but I could be wrong. My Italian is pretty rubbish.

I managed to avoid the police (they outnumbered the protesters and may have had a photofit image of me on coffee charges) and found the museum just the other side of what I concluded was the original Roman wall of the city.

While the museum starts at the very beginning of Italian prehistory – in fact it has a few artefacts from other countries like an Australipithecine skull from Tanzania and a Homo erectus skull from Turkey – it progresses through mostly Como archaeological finds, giving a historical picture of the development of civilisation in the region. As you’d expect, the array of complete Roman finds is extraordinary.

My favourite exhibit, however, was the Prestino stele. This is a slab of stone with writing on it dating to 480-450 BC. While the words cannot be translated at present, there is enough text to show how this went some way to developing into Etruscan and then Latin. Here’s a section of it:

Prestino Stele from Como Museum

It reads from right to left and is probably some sort of exhortation to a god or gods. This bit is just a third of it. It’s a long, low slab.

Crossing little glass walled bridge, the visitor enters the Roman part of the museum. There’s some amazing stuff there. Whole pottery, unmarked jewellery and buckles. Amazing. I loved it all. Here’s a section of a marble relief.

A section of a Roman relief in Como Museum

OK, that’s all. I’m not going to bore you by going on and on about the archaeology and proto-chariot and…rather, let’s just say I had a wonderful time but all too soon it was time to head back to the apartment for lunch.

Today was our last day on the lake so we decided to set sail for Villa Carlotta, a big house overlooking the lake at Tremezzo. The day was a bit hazy but still promised to be warm and lived up to that promise. We bought our ticket and boarded the ferry.

It’s funny that we’re getting quite expert at it all now. We don’t need to get down to the wharf half an hour before the ferry leaves and know where to sit. It’s all much more relaxed than the first day. Pity we’re leaving tomorrow!

We took the fast boat to Tremezzo where you walk around to the Villa Carlotta which has its own dock but the fast ferries do not stop there. I have no idea why not. But, of course, having to walk means you get to experience the wonderful Italian driving at very close quarters. Always a pleasure.

The highlight of the (short) walk is the Grand Hotel. Quite an impressive pile sitting on the lakes edge. Well, it would be at the lakes edge if the road wasn’t there. Why do they do that? Surely the road doesn’t have to be all scenic. Couldn’t it have gone behind the Grand Hotel and the footpath run along the edge of the lake? That makes it sounds like the footpath didn’t when it actually did. It was the last thing betwixt water and road.

The Grand Hotel, Tremezzo

On and on we walked until we reached the relative solitude of the Villa Carlotta. I say relative because we arrived just as a big crowd of gardening grannies turned up for their tour. They weren’t as bad as the horde of school, girls we later encountered as they followed us from room to room in the Villa itself.

The villa has had an interesting past. Originally it was built for a powerful Milanese family, the Clerics who wanted a house that was both strong and sober. They had lots of sculptures dotted around the terraced gardens, giving it all a very formal feel.

Then, in 1801 the villa was purchased by a politician who also happened to be wealthy and a keen patron of the arts. He created the building and garden we see today, making it a must-see stop on the Grand Tour. This was not just because of the gardens but also the wonderful sculptures and paintings inside the villa.

In the late 1800s, the villa was purchased by Princess Marianne of Nassau who then gave it to her daughter, Carlotta (unbelievable but true) as a wedding present when she married Georg II of Saxe-Meiningen. Georg was dead keen on botany and would spend hours reading about flowers and all sorts of garden stuff in his library of hundreds of gardening volumes.

That’s all I can find out from the guidebook so I have no idea how we can all walk through it now. Clearly no-one lives there anymore. At some stage it must have been given to a trust or the government or some crazy person with too much money because now it’s a famous tourist highlight.

Looking down from the top floor balcony of the Villa Carlotta

So we wandered all around, trying to approach the front of the villa by a circuitous route that didn’t involve going straight up any stairs. This part of our holiday has involved an awful lot of stairs! Lake Como is dominated by very high staircases and narrow streets. And that includes the flat!

Well, we managed it as far as the last set of steps but then there was nothing for it but to start climbing again. Once in the villa we were greeted by room after room of wonderful sculptures (some plaster, some marble). My favourite was a wonderful Eros and Psyche carved by Antonio Tadolini from a single block of marble in the early 1800s. Sadly no photos were allowed in the villa but I’ve managed to find this not very good one on a website which discusses the story rather than the sculpture.

Tadolini's Eros & Psyche

I understand why artworks shouldn’t be subjected to flash photography plus it’s really annoying when cameras are flashing all around you but non-flash photography is such a an excellent form of free advertising I’m always surprised when places forbid it. Oh well. The above image is not very good so you’ll just have to believe me when I say how marvellous it was.

Finishing up in the villa, we wandered a lot more of the gardens (amazing camellias, azaleas, busy lizzie, and many, many roses) finally ending up at the cafe for a much needed espresso and milkshake before heading back to the ferry.

Mirinda and her iPhone at the Villa Carlotta

When I asked the ferry guy at the ticket booth for a ticket to Como he informed me that there was possibly a strike and therefore he didn’t know whether there’d be a ferry back to Como from there. This was rather odd but we figured we could just walk back to the other dock and try for there. Mirinda claimed they may have gone on strike because of my criminal activities of yesterday and the ticket guy maybe recognised me.

At the other dock, the guy clearly hadn’t heard about any strike or failure to pay for coffee. He sold me two tickets and we sat and waited for the slow boat to Como.

For the first bit, the ride was wonderful. There were just six f us up the top, enjoying the leisurely pace of life on the lake. Then we stopped at the the Isle of Comacina. A great swarm of teenage kids decided they’d join us upstairs.

Actually they weren’t too bad (although the other couples vanished downstairs pretty quickly) and the rest of the trip was lovely too.

Back at the apartment we rested up before heading out to dinner at a mushroom place we’d lost last night but found again tonight. A sweet but odd place that felt like you were in someone’s house. We both ordered the same entree and were perturbed to find we were given, without rhyme or reason, sliced ham, coleslaw and shredded lettuce. This was a bit odd but we figured it was about time we had some odd on this holiday.

Sadly that was it. The rest of the food was lovely, the wine was good (though it could have been put in an ice bucket) and we left lighter of wallet but fuller of tummy.

We had a final wander around the old town of Como, stopping off for a last ice cream at a local gelatto place before dragging ourselves up the four flights of stairs for the final time.

If Farelli had told me 20 years ago that I would be sitting in a fantastic restaurant on the edge of Lake Como, enjoying a wonderful Italian white wine and three course feast with my wife of 20 years I’m not sure I’d have believed her. But here we were, exactly as she predicted.

View from the restaurant where we had lunch

And what a glorious day we’ve had to celebrate our 20 years together. A trip on Lake Como to Bellagio and back for starters was excellent. It takes two hours each way but the time just sails by when you’re on a boat. Literally. Except without the sails.

At 10am we boarded the Giglio (after watching the oddly named Bat Spaz clean up the inner harbour for us) along with numerous other Australians (including the four from yesterday who Mirinda overheard discussing the possibility of making the trip) and a few other nationalities.

Bat Spaz dredges the harbour

The morning had started with some pretty threatening clouds but as soon as we hit the water they beat a hasty retreat to be replaced by mountain peak to mountain peak blue with a big shiny sun in the middle. It was just beautiful.

Our destination was a place called Bellagio. It is described as the most beautiful town in Italy, a statement I can’t agree with. Amalfi beats it easily. Even so, it is very lovely and designed specifically for the tourist. There are lots of souvenir shops selling all sorts of tat and a lot of Italian restaurants selling a lot Italian food.

We had decided, as we would be spending all day out and about that we would have our anniversary meal at lunch time so we wandered along the waterfront looking for a likely place. Mirinda found it.

We walked into the reception area of the Grand Hotel Villa Serbelloni and immediately fell in love. We reserved a table on the terrace and waited for ten minutes before being served to within an inch of our lives. Honestly, the service was fab, the waiters just the right amount of fussy and the food…BRILLIANT. I managed to sneak a photo of my dessert.

Dessert: Strawberry ice cream, raspberries, fruit tartlette

It was delicious but not the highlight. That honour goes to the egg cooked at 65° on a bed of baby leeks and surrounded by long, raisin-like mushrooms (they looked like raisins, they didn’t taste like raisins). This was truly delish. The perfect dish, both simple yet perfectly balanced.

This was offset by the American couple sitting near us who, while married, had nothing to say except on the phone to their daughter Ann. Very sad. Mirinda’s conjecture was that he had had an affair and Ann had discovered it. Her idea, to bring her parents back together was to send them on a romantic holiday in Italy. Well, Ann, it didn’t work.

After our perfect lunch (which was washed down with an equally perfect Tuscan wine from San Gimignano) we strolled around the narrow lanes, dodging the ridiculous traffic that only sometimes managed to fit. The lanes, as well as being very narrow, made possibly for a donkey with pannikins, were full of tourists, making any mode of transport extremely slow and painful. The Romans had it right. Ban the cars during daylight hours!

Still, smelly cars aside, the town is lovely and very Italian. It abounds with steep stairs leading to and from the harbour. Here’s Mirinda about to run up one set.

It's a long way to the top...

We made our way to the Villa Melzi (via a lovely little chapel dedicated to St George) and wandered around the magnificent gardens created for Francesco Melzi between 1808 & 1810 by architect Luigi Canonica and botanist Luigi Villoresi. While we’ve seen some wonderful gardens in our time, few have such an incredible backdrop as the mountains surrounding Lake Como.

The garden is awash with colour from the azaleas blooming everywhere in every conceivable colour. The garden is simply breathtaking. This is one section along the path.

Azaleas at Villa Melzi, Bellagio

The run back to Como was lovely and unhurried, enlivened by the sight of a young girl in red standing on the edge of a stone bridge being photographed by a friend as we docked then left Nesso.

Apart from popping into the market for some typically Italian sweet delights, we returned to the flat for a well earned rest.

Us in Bellagio

It’s tough getting by in Zurich. Actually, can I rephrase that? It’s quite easy because you never know what language someone is going to use. So I just stick to English which seems pretty universal. It’s quite fortunate that beer sounds the same no matter what language you use (luckily there’s no obvious Spanish speakers).

Our hotel is in a great spot for wandering from and wander we did this morning. After a massive breakfast – I had the William Tell breakfast which is basically a big plate full of shredded then fried potato with two eggs and two bits of bacon resting on top. Don’t get me wrong, it was delicious but just a bit too much potato for the beginning of the day. Mirinda was much smarter and had the healthy option of cereal and fruit. Not sure why these places can’t just do toast and Vegemite.

So completely fortified (or stuffed, which is how I felt) we set off from the hotel, striding down Stampfenbachstrasse towards the river. Then Mirinda had a little ‘umm’ and a little ‘ahh’ and decided she should have brought her fleece with her. I was sent back for it. Back UP the hill. Then back down Stampfenbachstrasse.

I do like the name of this street but can’t help but wonder what drunks do if they need to get back to it and have to ask directions or answer a police officer. The German language never ceases to amaze me. Rather than make up new ones, they just keep sticking bits on the end of each existing word.

Zurich is on a river which flows not far from Stampfenbachstrasse. The river Limmat flows into (or out of) Lake Zurich and has to be one of the cleanest rivers I’ve ever seen. Amazingly, you can see the bottom from anywhere along it. This is a shot of the river taken from the tower at the Grossmunster and you can see the bottom!

The river Limmat from the Zurich Grossmunster

In fact, it was so clean that we could see a bicycle lying on the bottom. And it continued on into the lake. This was also very clean. I think it must be the Swiss thing for perfection. I quite like it. The water looked like you could drink it.

Speaking of water, I forgot to talk about the shower in our room. It’s excellent and so nice to have soft water again – I was a bit spoiled in Australia. The heat and pressure are both excellent and it’s all very easy to use. Shame…I do like to have a good moan about the bathrooms but just not possible here.

One thing that had completely escaped us was that today was May day and something we didn’t know anything about at all was the annual May day march through Zurich. This was rather fortunate because these things have been known to kick off in the past and it may have deterred us somewhat from joining in with the festivities.

It wasn’t until we crossed the river that we spotted the riot police and water cannon waiting for any eruptions or ructions from the crowd. Apart from lots of yelling about international solidarity and a hearty version of the Internationale a bit later, it went off very well and the riot police were not required.

Waiting for any problems from the socialist hordes

We wanted to go for a ferry ride around the lake but rather than plough through the slowly gathering crowds of marchers (the end of the march was at the quay) we decided to set up camp at a nearby beer garden. And what a wonderful piece of serendipity it was.

We sat for a good hour, enjoying a couple of beers and a pretzel – just like the pretzels I had in Munich – and salad and chicken for lunch and were royally entertained by the Bauchnuschti Stompers. They were excellent and here’s a little taste of them playing Always. We were quite close so it’s a bit loud.

The drummer was a cheery chap who would pop up for a swig of wine between songs. He announced at one stage that they were playing a particular song in honour of the fact that Nicco Cunningham from New Orleans was in the audience. I have no idea who this was as no-one seemed to indicate any sort of recognition. Still, it was very good.

A pretzel and not a bretzel

We then ended up at the quay, amazed that the stage had gone, the demonstrators had all disappeared and the riot police gone home. You would never have known anything had been going on and yet only an hour before there was a crowd of thousands with flags and speeches and megaphones. Very Swiss for all trace to be removed within moments of the end. There wasn’t even any rubbish!

Good for us though as we managed to buy a ticket for the short round trip around Lake Zurich. It was all very lovely – we even caught a glimpse of snow capped mountains when the clouds cleared for a bit. It did rain for a while – big, splashy drops that chased us inside for a coffee/tea – but it didn’t spoil anything. In fact, Mirinda sat on a wet chair just so we’d have somewhere dry to sit. Here’s our ferry:

The ferry we took around Lake Zurich

We then wandered up to the Grossmunster, the famous Zurich cathedral which is awfully bland because this guy called Zwingli decided to get rid of anything that looked lovely (statues, paintings, icons, etc) because God didn’t like it. This was during the reformation when God only liked things that were without colour. So the church is very, very dull inside. However, you climb the tower and the beauty of man is spread out before you.

You might think that Zwingli missed a trick with the towers but, to be fair, they weren’t built until 1786 and he was doing his thing during the 16th century.

The view towards Lake Zurich from the tower of the Grossmunster

If you ask me, Zwingli was a bit dull. If you believe in God and wonder at his creations then surely wanting to decorate a church with scenes depicting God’s wonders would be de rigeur. If you believe in him then you must believe he created all the colours and the rich tapestry of life. I’m not that keen on a church that decides it’s not nice to look at lovely things. To be fair, I’m not the best judge anyway. Moving on, then…

The church was founded by Charlemagne after his horse tripped over a couple of graves. These graves were dedicated to the martyrs Felix and Regula who, having had their heads cut off, carried them to the place where the church eventually was built. Typically weird but wonderful fairy stories as most of these big churches have.

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We did have these wonderful plans to go down into the town for dinner but, after a couple of hours chilling in the hotel (and, it should be admitted, a little snooze) we decided to order room service instead.

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I just heard on the snooker that whispering Ted Lowe died today. Sadly missed and fondly remembered from Pot Black. You were great, Ted.

We spent a delightful Sunday this week. We had already planned for Mirinda to spend the night at the flat because of her first week at the new job, which included a conference which, while being the low point at the end, we decided to make as pleasant as possible.

After the usual trip into Farnham for lunch and other requirements as well as a Bob report on Claire’s latest progress, we set off for Hankley Common for a walk with the poodles.

It really is one of our favourite places. Apart from the beauty of the heathland, it is generally pretty much deserted and, on a fine day, glorious in the sunshine. And the day was beautifully blue. Hankley was as lovely as ever.

Hankley Common

The amazing thing is that, even though the heather is wearing its drab winter foliage, it’s still beautiful. It also helps mask the burnt bits by blending in perfectly.

True to form, there were only isolated pockets of dog walkers and walkers and a couple of girls on horses as we walked our usual route. It is so delightfully quiet – possibly one of the only places in Surrey where this happens with such regularity!

Back home, we had lunch and watched a few delightful episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm (we love Larry) before getting ready to head into town.

I was amazed that, for the first time in I don’t how long, the Jubilee Line was running a normal service on a Sunday. It would be a first for me. And then, it happened. A train or two broke down at London Bridge and the entire line was struck dumb. By the time we reached the barriers, it was suffering ‘severe delays’. We made a quick considered decision to donate a couple of fairs to Transport for London via our Oyster cards and headed back out and down to the ferry instead.

Of course, the sun was nearly down and the South Bank was as crowded as ever. The wheel looked lovely in the dying rays with a few contrails seeming to cut through it. I couldn’t resist taking a picture.

London Eye at sunset

The ferry ride was far more enjoyable than a sucky old tube train! Well, if you ignore the less than tepid coffee. According to Mirinda this is not generally the case so I can only blame the girl behind the bar. But, you can overlook such awful things when the view is so wonderful as the ferry chugs along the Thames. As we moved under Tower Bridge, all the tourists leapt forward to get photographs. It’s a lovely bridge, even with the scaffolding under it – I think they’re painting it.

We left the ferry at Canary Wharf and walked up to Waitrose so Mirinda could do her week’s shopping. On the way I stopped to get a photo of the tall illuminated buildings and their reflections in the water.

Canary Wharf on a Sunday night

Shopping at Waitrose in Farnham on a Sunday, means getting it all done by 4pm. I always thought it was a law that big shops had to close at 4pm. If this is the case, it clearly does not apply to Waitrose in Canary Wharf! Not only is it open till 6pm, it is also crowded with shoppers! In fact, the whole mall of shops below Canary Wharf was buzzing with activity. It could have been any day at any time. It felt alive. Like New York feels alive. Wonderful.

We dropped the shopping at the flat then, after settin’ a spell, we wandered down to Cafe Rouge for dinner. It was my choice and I fancied the duck. It was, as usual, delicious. Mirinda wondered what happened to the rest of the duck as Cafe Rouge only serve up a leg and thigh. I reckon they attach aluminium legs to the bodies and have Robot Duck Wars in the abattoir.

We also noticed they were offering a syllabub as a special dessert. Now, I make syllabub every now and then and it’s not normally available at restaurants (not that we’ve seen, anyway) so we thought we’d try it. We both wished we hadn’t. My tummy was still complaining by the time I made it home.

Anyway, we said our goodbyes outside the Tube station and, while Mirinda returned to her flat, I made my way back to Waterloo. Surprisingly, I made the train by about a minute. Talk about lucky.

After a long, lonely ride and chilly walk home, I managed to calm the poodles down before ringing Mirinda to say good night. What a lovely day…apart from leaving Mirinda in town, of course.

Watching Kirstie and Phil this morning in Relocation, Relocation, they kept talking about pre-renovation hovels being a blank canvas for prospective home decorators. I took them to task, thinking that a ‘blank canvas’ was starting from nothing whereas a hovel always has something to start with.

Which leads me quite nicely into the fact that my camera died this afternoon. I’m hoping it’s just the lithium battery which I was unaware it used, because this can be replaced (though I didn’t have a lot of luck at Glenorie), otherwise I’ll have to buy another camera. The only reason I mention this is because I’ve grown quite used to including images in my blog posts but, sadly, will have stop for a bit.

Apart from the camera dying, we took a lovely long drive today before visiting Claire in the hospital. Our drive took us all around the Pitt Town (named after William Pitt, the Younger, the Prime Minister), Ebenezer and Maroota. We had a ride across the car ferry at Sackville and enjoyed lots of Australian bush.

We popped into the pub in Pitt Town and Mirinda had a cider. She was shocked that they served cider. In fact, according to one of the pub’s regulars, the pub sold more cider than beer! They had many sorts, including a nice Tasmanian cider called Mercury. Mirinda said it was very nice. Obviously I had a beer.

Mirinda, the only woman in the pub at Pitt Town

Having walked across the most wonderful bridge in the world, over the most wonderful harbour, I wandered down to the Rocks to re-acquaint myself with The Observer.

When I left Baker’s, a few of us ended up having a few (read lots of) beers in The Observer. I remember it vividly because there was a jukebox which had Mott the Hoople on it. I said how much I liked All the Young Dudes so it was played over and over. After about the fifth time, the barman told us to stop playing the same song. My mind is blank after that so I have no idea what happened next. Suffice to say, I’ll never forget the song.

This was about 20 years ago so one would expect some changes. Where we sat that night is now a wall full of fruit machines. The jukebox has been replaced with flat screen TVs showing music videos. They have a large variety of very tasty beers and they also serve pints as well as schooners. The main thing the place has lost is the atmosphere. It used to be a pretty good pub – noisy, crowded, well-used. It now appears to be something for the tourists. Hey ho, these things happen.

I had a pint of way too cold summer ale then wandered down to Circular Quay. I had decided to take a ferry to Manly, seeing as it was a glorious day and since I used to do this a lot when I lived in Manly.

As I sat on the ferry, I was reminded of how commuters would all line up along the side of the ferry as it came alongside the Quay and leap off before it was tied up. It used to be mayhem, a reckless race for the train or the office. It is very similar to the sort of shortcuts we used to make with the slam door trains in England.

Sadly this bravado has been rendered impossible. Health and Safety has raised its ugly mug and put barriers in place, as usual. It could prove the end of evolution as we know it if we’re not careful. How can a species survive if there isn’t some sort of rate of attrition; an effective cull of those not fit? One thing I was VERY glad to see, however, was the deck hands in their polo neck shirts and shorts and no sign of those pathetic little floatation devices they are forced to wear on the Thames. At least the Sydney staff can look capable and tough.

The journey was a delight. While the day was quite hot, the almost constant breeze afforded by sitting along the side of the ferry, eased the temperature enough. I sat and watched the tourists ‘ooh-in’ and ‘ah-ing’ as we passed the many sights. I loved the familiarity of it all as well as the beauty which, hopefully, will never change.

At Manly, 30 minutes later, I had time to pop across the traffic lights to the beginning of the Corso and grab a maple/macadamia ice-cream from the parlour I just knew would still be there, before hopping back onto the same ferry for the trip back.

The ferry at Manly Wharf waiting to leave

Back at Circular Quay, I slowly wandered up to Wynyard, passing a massive Starbucks on the way, realising with some annoyance, that I was slap dab in the middle of rush hour. To be fair, rush hour in Sydney is not quite as crowded as in London – the footpaths are wider for a start – but even so, I felt I shouldn’t be there.

I had a bit of time before my bus ride back so I bought a Starbucks and sat in the park watching the never ending queues for buses and remembering when I was caught in them every day.

From where I sat, I had a splendid view of the AWA radio tower. I remember Old Bill telling me he worked on it when it was the highest thing on the Sydney skyline. He told me about 35 years ago and the Qantas building was far higher already; not to mention the Australia Square building. Now the poor old tower is hidden away. But from the right spot, in the right light, it still stands like a beacon of history.

The AWA Tower, York Street, Sydney

I eventually joined a queue, tutted at the tourists who didn’t know where they were going and didn’t have the correct change for the journey anyway, hopped on the bus and was back at Round Corner an hour later.

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My wife was somewhat confused over my comment yesterday regarding round and square corners so I feel I should explain myself. I was thinking of wheels, which are round, and curves in roads which are also round. Corners, of course, are generally square and NOT round. So, when I said the roundness of corners is generally assumed, I was completely wrong and should have said the squareness is assumed.

Actually, I was just trying to be clever and fell on my nose. So, I’m just going to forget it and move on. Of course I could change history and delete all mentions of it but I feel it’s good to have some balance in my life.