Thursday, April 25th .....l

I notice that today is Anzac Day.  There's no hoo-haa here like we find in Australia ; they have their own special days to commemorate.  On the news, there was an item about the death of the last survivor of the raid into Norway in 1942 to sabotage the facility which was producing 'heavy water' for the German nuclear program.  The saboteurs were all Norwegian, trained to live off the land and cause what damage they could.  Their heroic acts put the German program back by many months.

We went out for dinner tonight which got off to a bad start when the waitress spilled a tray of drinks across our table.  I couldn't believe how far the shards of glass travelled cross the floor.  Despite that, the meal was excellent.  I tried something new for my entree; it was called Zebra and was slices of black pudding and buffalo mozzarella.  Unusual but delicious.

It's another early start tomorrow as I want to catch the 9.40 train from Glasgow Central to Blackpool.

Wednesday, April 24th .....

I caught the train this morning to Westerton to meet my school-friend, Eric and his wife, Anne.  The weather was quite nice and we decided we would travel to Ayrshire to see Culzean Castle.  This is regarded as the jewel in the crown of the Scottish National Trust.  It was designed by Robert Adam (who is well-known for his fireplaces) and has a beautiful circular room on the top level, reached by a stunning oval staircase.

In 1945, the current owner, the Marquess of Ailsa, put aside an apartment on the top floor for the exclusive use of General Dwight Eisenhower for his services during WW2.  He stayed three three or four times until he died.  Apparently, you can book the apartment for an overnight stay, if you can afford it.

The castle is built on the edge of a cliff looking out on to the island of Arran and Ailsa Craig.  It certainly was an outstanding visit with so many things to see.

We drove home via Ayr, travelling over the Electric Brae, which seems to defy gravity.  Water seems to run uphill but it is simply an optical illusion.  I had heard about this decades ago but had forgotten all about it until we noticed the sign as Eric drove past, with Anne in the back seat telling him to stop, all to no avail.

It was a great day and it was good to se Eric and Anne again.  Tonight, I am taking Jean (who celebrated her birthday yesterday, and Sandra and Gordon out for dinner tonight at a new Italian restaurant in Hamilton, and tomorrow I leave Scotland and head for Blackpool to meet my cousin, Gavin and his wife, Sheila. 

Tuesday, April 23rd .....

Jean drove me back to Blantyre this morning to visit the David Livingstone Centre.  David Livingstone was born on Blantyre in 1813.  His family worked in a weaving mill and lived in a tenement building called Shuttle Row.  He worked hard to get an education, graduated as a doctor and became a missionary in Africa.

The mill where he worked  has gone but Shuttle Row has been preserved as his memorial.  The building once housed 24 families, each of whom lived and died in one room.  The room where Livingstone was born has been restored to what it would  have been like in those days.  It's about 6m x 4m with a fire on one wall, a single cupboard, two hole-in-the-wall beds and a chest of drawers. The top drawer was the porridge drawer.  Once a week, a large pot of porridge was cooked and poured into the drawer.  Each morning slices would be cut off and eaten cold for breakfast.  In the bottom drawer, the youngest child would sleep. There was no running water and the toilets were out in the yard.

It would have been a hard existence but they were much better off than a lot of others.  One of my ancestors lived there at the same time as Livingstone so I was really interested in seeing the museum again.

On his last trip to Africa, David Livingstone encountered a slaving party.  He had run out of paper and ink so he had to improvise to write down details of this terrible trade.  He made ink from local berries and wrote on an old newspaper, right  across the black printed words.  Of course, it was unreadable until very recently when modern technology made it possible to make the printed words almost invisible, while enhancing the words written in the improvised ink.

It's probably not PC to applaud the work of a Victorian missionary, but David Livingstone was probably not as damaging as many others.  He was first and foremost a doctor and he is fondly remembered in Africa, especially in Malawi where the capital city is named after his birthplace.

Monday, April 22nd .....

I'm sorry the last few posts have been a bit of a mess. They're being written on my iPad but I can't work out how to include photographs. You'll see that I've managed to get one or two in but I really have no idea how it happened.  One problem is that the fiddling around seems to upset the font settings and it looks untidy.  But, no matter.

I decided I neded to see some more of Hamilton today so I wandered down the street.  Jean had gone to the hairpdressers which made me think I should look at mine.  I passed a shop called The Barber's Chair with two bored-looking women waiting for customers.  Not knowing what to expect, I stepped in.  Terrific haircut, £4 (about $6).

The weather is pretty miserable, what we call a Scotch Mist - not quite raining but enough moisture in the air to get you wet.

Saturday, April 20th .....

I enjoyed a quiet yesterday to draw breath, sort out details for the rest of my trip and do the washing.  Happily, the sun was shining so I got everything dried.

Today, I decided I would have a day in Glasgow.  Jean was off to do some shopping so I walked to the station to get a train.  Easy!  Glasgow Central Station is just what it says - right in the heart of the city.  I really had no idea what I wanted to do so just followed my nose until I found Buchanan Street.  This is really great.  It's been set aside as a mall, four or five blocks long and it's certainly the place to be on a Saturday morning.  It was packed with people, locals and tourists alike. It was the entertainers and street theatre which impressed me.

The first act I saw was a tenor singing Rodrigo's Aranjuez Concerto.  I always remember this piece because it was featured in the film, Brassed Off, where they called it Orange Juice.  The tenor's name was John Innes and he bills himself as The People's Tenor.  He sings in the street a lot and has a pretty neat setup: a little Honda generator powering his microphone, all his backing tracks on an iPod and several baskets strewn around to receive the donations.  He really was good and I ended up buying one of his CDs.

Further on was a piper and two drummers, in full kit, playing some traditional Scottish tunes but also things like Bohemian Rhapsody, and further on again a scruffy mob called Clanedonia, dressed in ancient kilts and playing Celtic-style music.  There was a pop group with a singer who looked to be about 14; they must have been good because they had the bystanders dancing.

In among them were preachers, unembarrassed as they spruiked their message and young kids trying to earn some pocket money.  I had no problem spending the morning immersing myself in the culture of this Scottish city.  

Thursdays April 18th .....

I wanted to catch an early train today so I set the alarm, expecting to wake up to another miserable day, but not so.  The sun is shining and all's right with the world.  I'm taking the long route back to Hamilton heading up in to the highlands and changing at Inverness. The first leg is from Montrose to Aberdeen, and then on to Inverness. There's a young couple sitting opposite having a snack: a baguette and dip and a bag of black grapes.  All the trains seem to have a food trolley if not a dining car but what this couple are having looks a lot more interesting than the snacks on the train's menu.

There are 13 kinds of chips, sweets and drinks, including miniatures of whisky, gin, etc, sandwiches and soup.  You can also get a pot of porridge, but I'm  not tempted.  

Next stop is Inverurie, a good Scottish name.  I'm expecting to find snow at Aviemore and I might get off there for lunch and catch the next train on. At Insch, there was a group of children waiting on the station platform. I noticed they were dressed in old-fashioned clothes and each one was carrying a little square box.  Then the penny dropped; they were dressed as children during WW2 and the box carried their gas mask. I tried to take a picture but I was too busy returning their waves.

Leaving Inverness we travelled over a fantastic viaduct which I've seen in advertisements for Scottish train journeys.  Aviemore was disappointing because most of the snow has gone but it's an interesting journey through a bleak landscape with the only green coming from plantations of pine trees.  The  rivers and 'burns' are swollen with snow-melt but the grass is straw-coloured. There are still blue patches but the clouds dominate the sky.  People say that the sky in Australia seems higher than here and I can understand how you could get that impression.

Every now and again we pass the ruins of an ancient croft, stone-built but tiny and then there will be a grand mansion, home to one the great landlords from feudal times.  Many of them have a flag flying at half-mast in honour of Maggie Thatcher.  She's not universally loved in Scotland and I smiled at the proliferation of hand-written signs carried by demonstrators complaining about the £10 million funeral cost: Iron Lady, rust in peace; Ding-Dong, the witch is dead; and The De'il's Awa' (straight out of Rabbie Burns).

I was supposed to change trains at Perth but I dozed off and find myself in Edinburgh.  No matter, I'm not short of time and my rail pass will cover the extra distance.  As a bonus, this short leg will take me over the Forth Bridge.

As I ride in this train to Edinburgh, I can't help thinking of another train going to Edinburgh in 1879, crossing the Tay river when the bridge collapsed.  It's still Britain's worst train disaster.  It was immortalised in a poem by Wiliam McGonagall who wrote:

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay!

Alas! I am very sorry to say

That ninety lives have been taken away

On the last Sabbath day of 1879,

Which will be remember’d for a very long time.

It goes on, of course, and you can find it on the Internet but I can't resist giving you the delight of the last two lines:

For the stronger we our houses do build,

The less chance we have of being killed.

Wednesday, April 17th .....

I finally made it to Inverbervie Library this morning. I was a bit disappointed with what information was available but I  spent a couple of hours browsing through their family history resources which was interesting, if not particularly relevant. The librarian said, "you'll hae a guid Gourdon name, then?"  And nodded when I said Christie.  One good thing was that there was a box of home-made 'tablet' on the counter.  Tablet is a healthy Scottish sweet made with condensed milk, sugar and butter.  I bought a piece, purely for nostalgia's sake but was horrified to find that the maker had put vanilla in it.  I can't believe that someone would play havoc with a good  traditional recipe.

The weather was shocking, cold and wet so I caught the bus to Johnshaven to get some pictures.  A woman at the bus stop suggested I knock on a door where one of the local historians lived but I discovered him heading off to a funeral.  

I watched all the cars turning up for the funeral and I have to say that Johnshaven drivers are no better than Australians.  The streets here are narrow and winding so parking is an issue but drivers seem to show no common-sense or skill, leaving their car where it stops with no consideration for others.  Opposite the bus stop was a space where 6 cars could have fitted but there were only 4 there.  Another fellow parked overlapping a corner with his tail sticking out.

This was near the bus stop so, when the double-decker bus arrived, it couldn't get into its normal spot and had to back up the hill until it could reverse into a handy street before it could continue on.  The driver must have been cursing (under his breath, so as not to frighten the old lady passengers).

It's been fantastic to re-visit the place where my father's family lived out their lives.  I was glad the weather wasn't perfect or I might have a rose-coloured view of their existence.  With the cold and the rain I have a clearer picture of the struggles of the fishermen who put to sea in all weathers, and their wives who got up at 4.30 every morning to bait the lines.  It must have been a harsh and unforgiving lifestyle yet they still enjoyed some simple pleasures.  There were dances and ceilidhs and the celebration of weddings and births. The men played football and met in the pubs after work.  The men also volunteered for lifeboat duty and there  was a little extra money to be made here.  On February 16th, 1894, my great-grandfather John Christie, was in the crew of the lifeboat which set out in a storm to rescue sailors from a sinking ship.  He was paid 15 shillings which would have been a very handy addition to the family income.  He went out again on April 15th 1900 and received 10 shillings. On that occasion they simply had to stand by while some sailing ships made it safely into harbour.

There was a Christie - John, George, David or Alexander - in almost of the lifeboat sailings in those days, but I don't think there are any Christies left in the town today.  

Tuesday, April 16th .....

I'm in Inverbervie this morning.  This is the first of the three little villages which have all added to the foundation of my father's family.  In keeping with the solemnity of the occasion, it's a grey day.  The houses are grey granite, many of the streets are cobbled and when I look at the grey sea, I think of my ancestors who had to brave the elements day after day just to survive.  I also think of their wives who had to get up in the middle of the night to bait their lines, their fingers going numb in the icy cold.

It's my mother's birthday today. I wish I could talk to her about where I am and ask her to answer all the questions which are milling around in my head.  Sadly, the time has passed when I could do that.

I wandered round the old cemetery; no sign of the Christie name but many of the gravestone are so badly weathered it's impossible to make out who lies under them.  The library doesn't open until 2pm so I'll get the bus into Gourdon which is only a few minutes away.  In the meantime, I'm having a coffee. There's a group of mums and babies at the next group of tables.  It's the same all over the world.  No matter what the weather, young mums want to take their babies out for an airing, and to meet other friends in the same situation.  The blackboard menu had universal favourites like lasagne and macaroni cheese, but there is also stovies, mince and tatties and skirtie.  I'm not sure what skirtie is but I'm a great fan of the others.  Nostalgia again!

.I caught the bus to Gourdon and was surprised when a modern double-decker came along and held my breath when the driver manoeuvred it through the narrow 'wynds'. The wind was getting up and there was hardly a soul in the streets of the village. The tide was out and there were a few boats sitting on the mud of the harbour.  Nothing more could be achieved today, so I decided to walk to Johnshaven, along the track of the old railway which was closed in the 1950s.  The sign said 2.5 somethings.  I hoped it was kilometres but was prepared for it to be miles, knowing that Sandy and I had walked it with Mum in 1950.

The difference was that there was no headwind on that day.  Still, it was  a good walk and I enjoyed it. On the way, I passed a posh private school in a beautiful old building.  I reckon it would be a bleak place in the winter.  I thought I would recognise more of Johnshaven but a lot has changed in the past 63 years.  I got talking to a couple at the bus stop and they reckon they've never seen winds like it.  When I go back to Johnshaven tomorrow I hope the wind has died down.

Monday, April 15th

Monday

I'm on the train to Montrose to start my few days of research.  Unfortunately, the Inverbervie Library  only opens for two hours each day but I'll just have to do my best.  Today it is open from 6pm until 8, which is a real nuisance as I will then have to get a bus back to Montrose.

Yesterday, we went back to Glasgow to see the Burrell Collection. There were some beautiful pierces but the collection was very eclectic and I skipped over a lot.  Jean asked her deceased husband's brother to drive us and it was good to have someone else to talk to.

So far, the trip has been fantastic.  I'm amused by some things: the Glasgow accent is very droll and I love listening to it.  Scots have a dry and black sense of humour which Billy Connolly explains in this joke: a policeman knocked on the door to tell a woman that her husband had been killed in an accident. "Are you the widow MacDonald?" He asks. "My name's MacDonald, " she says, "but I'm not a widow." "Oh, aye, I've got news for you," says the policeman.

Getting on the tour bus in London, the tour guide asked me where I came from."Australia? You speak English very well." Duh!

Scotland has some very old cities with beautiful sandstone buildings.  A lot of them are in a greyish stone which doesn't weather well.  Many of the shops in these old buildings are dingy and I suppose the National Trust stops shopkeepers from trying to bring them up to date.  We're travelling through Perth at the moment and it's a good example - magnificent architecture but shabby facades.  When plumbing was added to these buildings in Victorian times, cast iron pipes were attached to the outside. Many of these are now rusting through and it's not a good look.

Out of the window I can see a collection of allotments, all with their little wooden sheds and maybe a glasshouse.  Brits love their gardens and there as many pages on gardening in their weekend papers as there are on football. Jean and I went to a Garden Centre on Saturday afternoon for a coffee.  It was enormous, much bigger than anything I have seen in Australia and they sold everything from furniture to jewellery, as well as spades and compost.

The weather had been cold with a bit of rain but the sun is shining today and it's predicted we'll have double figures - that means 11 degrees Celsius.  Oh, joy!

I've arrived in Montrose and headed for the Information Centre to get a map to help me find my way around. But, of course, it's closed on Mondays.  No matter, I'll ask if I get lost. I stumble across Chapel Street which is where my B & B is, but it's closed too.  I ring the doorbell but there's no answer.  I had been warned that Scottish landladies are not always hospitable. No doubt there's an accepted time for checking-in and I'm probably a couple of hours early.  All I wanted was to drop off my bag so I could check out the sights.

There's nothing for it but to get back on the train to Aberdeen, have some lunch there and get back at a more acceptable time. The research will have to wait until tomorrow.

Friday, April 12th again .....

One of the highlights of our visit to Edinburgh was finding the Scottish National Gallery.  It's not large and the collection Is not extensive but they have some extraordinary pieces.  There was a Rembrandt self portrait, and works by Botticelli, Titian, Velasquez and others.

They also had Rodin's The Kiss, on loan. Unbelievable!  

I loved a huge painting in the main gallery which was called something like King Alexander being rescued from the fury of a stag, which was so full if life.  Another quirky little painting caught my eye.  It was The Reverend Robert Walker Skating on Duddingston Loch.

Friday, April 12th......

It had to be an early start this morning because we were catching the train to Edinburgh.  I had heard that snow was forecast so I dressed warmly.  Luckily there was no rain. 

Edinburgh Castle dominates the city. Your eye is drawn to it wherever you are.  We decided we would start from there and work our way down, which meant climbing up Cockburn Street which might be the most attractive little street I have ever seen with great little shops.  This brought us to the Royal Mile which  leads up to the castle.  This is a tourist trap with most shops selling Scottish souvenirs.  I could have had a 'party' kilt for £20 or a good quality one (12 yards of material) for £50 but Marilyn had warned me not to bring one home.

As a fan of Ian Rankin books, I was delighted to find Fleshmarket Close and Arthur's Seat, and note that you can get a tour of Mary King's Close.  There's a niche market for someone to do a tour of the areas mentioned in the books.

The Royal Mile is pretty long, as you would expect, but we walked it anyway to see Holyrood Palace, the Queen's Edinburgh flat and the new Scottish Parliament building.  The Parliament building is very interesting but not very sympathetic to the beautiful old buildings which surround it.  The Scottish Parliament itself seems like a waste of resources; they seem to spend their time debating 'no smoking' legislation and so on.  The important stuff is all done in Westminster.

There's a referendum coming up when Scots will vote on whether they should be independent. The tipping is that 65% will vote against it.  That's surprising, but probably sensible.

On the way back up the Royal Mile we stopped at Clarinda's cafe for lunch.  Clarinda was one of Robert Burn's mistresses.  They served great toasted sandwiches and had an array of home- made cakes for anyone who didn't have my willpower.  A few doors away, we found a dealer in old books and I managed to find a copy of The Broons Annual.  When I was seven, we had a holiday in Johnshaven on the East Coast and Mum gave me a copy of The Broons to keep me quiet on the bus journey. I'm getting quite sentimental in my old age.

I loved Edinburgh. It is a beautiful city and I will have to go back for another trip.  I was exhausted when we got home so I was in bed by 8.30 and slept for ten hours.

Thursday, April 11th .....

We went into Glasgow today on the bus.  Jean and Sandra walk everywhere which suits me find but they don't usually stop for a cup of coffee and that's against my nature.  Sandra had booked us on the tourist bus; it was too cold and wet to go upstairs so we huddled on the bottom deck.  Glasgow has some beautiful buildings but there are some  pretty shabby areas too.

I was particularly impressed with Glasgow University which has is spectacular and Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum.  Across the road from Kelvingrove is Kelvin Hall where I remember going as a kid to see a circus. Both these places are named after Lord Kelvin who worked at Glasgow University in the field of thermodynamics.

I'm a fan of Taggart on TV which has a background of the Scottish Exhibition Centre in its opening sequence.  I always think it looks like a poor man's Opera House.  It's not as big as it appears on the screen.  They're building a new, fantastic Concert Hall beside it and they're already taking bookings for performances in September.  It doesn't look to me that it will be finished.

The commentary on the bus was by Neil Oliver who presented the TV series Coast and History of Scotland, but it didn't matter because it stopped working on our section of the bus so we just enjoyed the sights with no explanation.

I had booked in to go to Rotary tonight and I was made very welcome.  The guest speaker, a man of my age, told us about his trip to Everest Base Camp.  He made a fabulous trip seem mundane by his focus on distances, names of places and other trivial details, but what an achievement!

Edinburgh tomorrow.

Wednesday, April 10th .....

After the long flight and my adventures in London, the plan was for a quiet day on Tuesday and, perhaps, doing something a bit more strenuous today.  I needed to stretch my legs so Jean took me up to the grounds of Chatelherault, the hunting lodge of the Dukes of Hamilton.  The trees are still bare, with very little new grass and the air was very cold but it was great to stretch out.

We met Sandra later and visited the Low Parks to see the exhibition of the Cameronian Regiment.  My grandfather, and Jean and Sandra's father served with this extraordinary regiment.  It arose from the Covenanters movement which fought against the appointment of bishops in the Scottish Church and eventually became the only rifle regiment in Scotland.   I won't try to explain the significance of that: I don't suppose I really know and you don't need to know.  The regiment has now been disbanded.

We had a look around Burnbank where my Donachie grandparents lived and Blantyre where I spent the first seven years of my life.  Sadly, almost everything I remember has been changed. My school has been demolished, the street where I lived has disappeared and all the shops I remember are no more.

We did find the house where my grandparents lived, now a little run down but it brought back memories of my last day in Scotland, December, 12th, 1950.  Everything was packed and we were dressed ready to catch the train to Liverpool where we would join the ship. There had been snow but my brother, Sandy, and I were still sent outside to play.  We enjoyed ourselves sliding up and down the footpath in front of the house.  We also had a sled, I remember.  Endless to say, when we were called in, we were grubby and our shoes were saturated.  Mum had to somehow get them dry before we left.

We also started today with a walk, of nearly two hours!  A bit over the top I thought. A last word about the food - dessert last night was clootie dumpling and custard, and tonight's dinner was chicken stuffed with haggis, I kid you not.

Monday, April 8th .....

I was very confused with change of time zones and found myself under the misapprehension that the plane was three hours late.  I didn't work out what the problem was until I saw the proper time on a clock dial, and the first clock I saw in London was Big Ben!

So, I'm in London after a pretty good flight.  I'd recommend Royal Brunei to anyone who is happy to forego the odd drink while they're travelling. And don't take their advice about where is the best place to sit.  59H was rubbish; I was much better off in 49D.

The tour of London was great.  I didn't get off the bus but I saw the famous images and got a feel for the depth and breadth of history.  I was reading the Daily Mail and although it seems to be a much better paper than any in Australia, it's still obsessed with scandal and celebrity and parading the hard-luck story of the week.  When you consider what sort of people the Brits have been through history: nation and empire builders, innovators and adventurers, stalwart in hard times and the world's most powerful nation for three centuries, and then look at them now.  Nuff said!

It's easy to be awe-struck by the beauty of London but the Tube soon brings you back to earth.  Designed when the average Londoner was about 5ft6in, the carriages are so tiny and the tunnels are made to match.  And even Sydney has tried to bring their station into the  21st century by installing lifts.  London still depends on the old stairs worn down by the feet of the Londoners who sheltered there during the Blitz. The doors on the trains are sudden death too.  The train came in and we all rushed for the door. Being the gentleman I am, I let a couple of women go ahead.  As I threw my suitcase on the train, they propped, leaving me in limbo, bag on the train, me still on the platform. 'Keep going, ladies,' I said and

 squeezed up behind them.  They never moved, the doors slammed shut trapping me (just) on the train but my backpack, still attached to my shoulders outside the door. It took two beefy passengers to force the door open enough for me to drag it through.

I had one mishap: I lost my wallet (don't worry, I found it again).  Before I started on the tour, I checked my suitcase and carry-on bag into Left Luggage at Charing Cross Station - 2 pieces at £8.50 per piece.  By the time I got back to collect them, I was starting to feel the results of the long flight and lack of sleep.  Somehow, after paying the ransom for the bags, my wallet must have  fallen out of my pocket.  I didn't't discover the loss until I got to Euston Station.   The brain was working for once and I realised where I had last seen it. I proceeded in a northerly direction (too many police dramas!) until I found the Euston Left Luggage office, asked the man there to ring Charing Cross and see if it had been handed in.  It was.  Not wanting to drag my heavy luggage up and down an endless number of rather dangerous stairs, I checked two pieces in to Euston and shot off to get the train back to Charing Cross.

I'm really getting to know London, I can tell you.  Went to Left Luggage, sent on to Information booth, here's your wallet but I've paid the £135 into the ticket office. Why? I didn't want to take responsibility for it, here's a receipt.  OK, went to the ticket office, no idea what I'm talking about. Here's a receipt, can you ask someone else?  He's on his break and shouldn't be long.  He was.  Do you have the receipt?  I gave it to the other fellow.  I can't give you the money without the receipt.  I gave it to the other fellow.  OK.  Do you have the wallet? Yes, thank- you.  Can I see it? Can I see the inside?  OK, I'll have to give you a voucher.  What do I do with that? (See how calm I am) I'll cash it for you.  Laboriously  he counted out the money, checked it, then counted it out note by note in front of me.  Thank you, I said between gritted teeth.  Now you count it please, he said.  I did.

Back to Euston, mopping my brow.  At Left Luggage, there's another jobsworth at the counter.  Can I help you? I left two bags here when I rushed off to Charing Cross to collect my lost wallet.  Do you have a receipt? He didn't give me one, I was in too much of a rush.  Well, there's no receipt left on the counter.  What do the bags look like? Is the other chap here?  He's on his break.  (Oh, God) Can you, please ask him if he remembers me?  He says that everybody gets a receipt.  Well, I haven't got one.  What do I do now?  Show me some photo ID and pay a penalty of £15.  That's a total of £32 (for looking after your bags for 35 minutes).  Welcome to London!

Sunday 7th (even later)

We're well on the way to Dubai.  We've had another very nice meal, I've seen the end of Jack Reacher and I'm now listening to Adele before I have a snooze.

During the stopover in Brunei, I noticed the bloke who had pinched my seat waiting among those of us going on to London.  I suspected he would be in the same seat for this next leg which would leave me once again in limbo, so I accosted him.  I should have known ... he was a pommie!  There was certainly no way I would share my seat with him so I was faced with two options: fight him for it, or try to get another one.  Being both a pacifist and coward I decided on the latter, so now I am happily seated in 49D. The FPBis down the back with his smelly socks and snores, and good luck to him.

I also noticed a fellow with a flannelette shirt and bib-and-brace overalls.  I thought he might be a maintenance man travelling with us to carry out some running repairs to the plumbing but, no, he was a passenger.  I'm just imagining the conversation with his wife at breakfast.  'What are you going to wear on the flight to London, dear?' 'I'll be going straight from work and I won't have time to get changed so the overalls will have to do.  Anyway they'll be handy if they have trouble with the plumbing.'

Wouldn't you just love to hear the captain ask over the PA, 'ls there a plumber on board?'

Anyway, it's time for a snooze.  This post is getting silly.

Well, we've landed at Dubai and taken off again for a 6 hour 50 minute flight to Heathrow.   It's been pretty painless so far and I don't expect the next few hours to be a problem.  I picked up the London Daily Mail to read on the plane and I'm about to attempt their crossword.  TTFN

Sunday, 7th (later)

I'm on the plane, writing this note and watching Les Miserables on the tiny screen in back of the seat in front.  I had been worried about having enough legroom and there was nowhere on the booking website to request it, so I sent an email to the Royal Brunei office.   They  replied straight away suggesting I take the very back seat 59H.

When I got on, there was another bloke siting in 59G.  That's not what I was expecting especially when there were lots of empty seats; they might have given me the double-seat to myself!  He was clearly settling in: organising a pillow at his back and taking off his shoes.  I didn't fancy snuggling up to him on a long flight so I made a dignified exit, taking up an unoccupied row of three seats elsewhere.

They're starting to bring lunch around so I'll log out for now.

Back again. Good lunch and I've really enjoyed the film.  I haven't read any reviews but I think they're on a winner.  Of course, the music is wonderful.

I've just been for a walk and found the big-hat man sitting in the next cabin; he's fast asleep - and still wearing his hat!  The brim pokes out into the aisle and the hosties have to sway their hips out of the way when they go past.  The bloke who has hijacked my seat is also sleeping, sprawled out as if he owns both seats. What a cheek!

I've started to watch the movie, Quartet which Sandra and Jeff have recommended.  It's started well and I think it's going to be outstanding.  I'll have to stop writing as the film demands my whole attention. Back again. What a feel- good film!  This is one for the list of 'worth-watching again'.  It should be enough just to have Maggie Smith and Billy Connolly in the same movie but add Pauline Collins as well and the sky's the limit.

Now it's time for Jack Reacher.  Back soon!  

I've been enjoying the Reacher books by Lee Child although I'm not really a fan of pugilistic heroes.  Reacher is different.  Although he's a match for any three or four tough guys, his main skill is as  a problem-solver and the books are very cleverly written to keep the reader guessing to the end when all the threads are  masterfully drawn together. In the books, Reacher is 6 ft 4 and big all over.  In the movie, they've cast Tom Cruise.  What a joke!  He's too small to do the role justice.  

However, it's not that bad.  Cruise is too slick and pretty-boy handsome to carry it off but the story-line is so good it will be enjoyable.  I've only seen half as we landed early so I'll have to finish it on the way to Dubai.

Sunday, April 7th .....

Sunday, April 7th

It's just after 9 o'clock and I'm sitting in Melbourne Airport waiting to book in for my flight to Bandar Seri Bagawan.  It doesn't slip off the tongue, does it? But it's just a stop on the way to London.  The gate hasn't opened yet so I am just filling in time.

I flew into Melbourne last night and stayed over so that I wouldn't have to suffer the, inconvenience of an early-morning flight from Launceston, so I'm refreshed and ready to go.

We took part in a car rally yesterday and managed to win. This is the third rally organised by one of our Rotarians and Marilyn and I finally got our act together and did most things right. She drives and I keep track of the direction and clues.  It's a good division of labour and plays to our skills.  I was surprised, though, to hear that the standard time for the course was 110 minutes, and we only took 99! And that included some back- tracking to check answers.  Maybe we should look at Targa Tasmania next year.

It's 10.50 and I've managed to make my way through check-in and security.  I used to be bemused when security was dramatically increased after 9-11.  The government-inspired bogeyman of that time was the bearded Muslim terrorist and yet, many of the security personnel had a decidedly middle eastern look.  This morning, though, I felt that there had been some recruiting in Eastern Europe.  The bloke at my gate was about 2m tall, bald, chiselled Slavic face and a menacing glower. (I've always wanted to use that phrase in a sentence: menacing glower, very James Bond).  I'm of that generation which looked to Eastern Europe for villains - think of Dr Blofeldt and Kaos in Maxwell Smart.

Any way this fellow was very polite and there was no sign of thumbscrews or nipple tweakers and I survived the ordeal.

As I walked to Gate 8, there was a raucous voice on the PA system, calling passengers for the Jetstar flight to Singapore.  It was that embarassing Australian accent which really makes you cringe and when she started to mispronounce the names of the passengers I wondered what the multicultural listeners thought.  There are some people who should not be allowed near a microphone.  Apart from that, I love airports.  It's fascinating to watch the people and  wonder here they are all going. Once upon a time, everybody dressed up to catch a plane. The men wore suits or at least jacket and tie and women looked as if they were going to church. It's not that now!  And people make such strange decisions about what to wear.  There's a big fellow waiting for my flight with biggest straw hat I have ever seen.  Where will stow it on board?  It'll get squashed in a locker but maybe he hopes to have a spare seat beside him.  Or maybe he bought a seat for his hat. Who knows.

There's another fellow with a little backpack as carry-on luggage.  That's reasonable but he's got things stuffed into outside pockets and bits hanging off it - camera, passport wallet, raincoat pouch and so on. I expected to see a billy and drinking mug as well.  But it takes all kinds.  Maybe there are people sniggering at me but I can't imagine why.

Tuesday, April 2nd .....

I was reading the other day about a Muslim preacher in UK commenting about why men in Islam wear a beard. This preacher says the practice was established by the Prophet who expected his followers to have facial hair.  The preacher believed that Mohammed deplored women who looked like men and men who looked like women. I think it was John Wayne who agreed, saying, 'I like my women to look like women.'

The preacher went further and suggested that men must have beards so that other men might not look at them and feel desire. Hmmm!  Something being repressed there, I suspect.

The article made me think of beards and how they can tell you so much about the people who hide behind them.  There are too many men who grow unruly, straggly beards with no sense of style.  Clearly these fellows are lazy and insensitive, with no pride in their appearance nor any concern for the feelings of their wives.

Then there are the increasingly-common thick goatees - usually dark hair, just a bit too long, with shaved cheeks and neck.  This is almost a uniform requirement for men who drive log trucks or work for the council - beard as social indicator.

There's a phenomenon here which I call the Tasmanian beard.  It's a long-term decision to have a Tasmanian beard as it takes many years to come to fruition.  Long and shovel-shaped, it is usually grey and well looked after.  I think it's often sported by old hippies who have had plenty of time to cultivate the biblical look.

Men who have luxuriant moustaches, curled at the ends in imitation of a WW2 Spitfire pilot are vain and just a touch insecure.  Like powerful cars, these moustaches can be a compensation.

On the other hand, men who have neat, trimmed beards are indicating that they are trustworthy, intelligent and sincere, especially if the beard is grey. It's no accident that primitive tribes call their most able elders, the Greybeards.

And, by the way, I won a prize the other night for the man in the theatre with the best moustache.