The Full Monty
Hello to you all out there, Yes, it has been a while but I thought I should do my duty as a friend/pesky-insect-that-won't-go-awway-no-matter-how-hard-you-try-and-squash-it and write again. Actually, my wishes were answered and I'm stuck in another data room for the next 3 weeks so I've got plenty of time to write overly lengthy garbage. No! Wait! Don't delete just yet. First let me apologise. For those of you who are new to the mailing list, let's just say you missed a whopper of an email that I think managed to alienate the majority of my audience due to its sheer length (although it did get one guy through a stint in hospital, hey Clayton). To those of you who tried to read it and just gave up, I'm understand and I am sorry. It seems I have become the P.T. Anderson of group email authors. Everyone seemed to enjoy my first installments, despite their oddball nature (my Boogie Nights), then came the convoluted, character-based epic about Paris (my Magnolia) and now, I guess it is time for m y Punch Drunk Love, which , like the film, critics will love but no one will read. For those of you who just watched Boogie Nights to see Dirk Diggler's pendulous appendage, or Magnolia to witness Tom Cruise prance about in his jocks, or Punch Drunk Love because your favourite film of all time in Big Daddy (don't be ashamed Dan) then just for you, I've devised what I like to call "Sam's Summary for Friends and Family who don't stay in touch because of the guilt that exists from not having the heart to tell him they couldn't be arsed reading his emails". For readers thus inclined, here is the jist of what I'll be writing about: 1. My trip to Brighton with Katie, Normo and Clemmo. In brief - it was really good. 2. Katie and my Haggis bus tour from London to Edinburgh and everywhere in between. The places we went to in chronological order were: Wiltshire (cool Celtic stuff), Marlborough, Avebury (ancient stones), Laycock (abbey), Bath (old town, stayed night - N), Tintern (abbey), Gloucester (cathedral), Ludlow (castle), Llangollen (welsh farm house - N), Snodownia (national park), Caernarfon (castle), Lanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch (town with longest name in the world), Liverpool (Beatles, man), Ambleside (lake district - N), Lake Windermere (waterfall), Hadrian's Wall and Chester's Fort (Roman ruins in North England), the Scottish border and Edingburgh - also really good. 3. Places Katie and I went on second Haggis bus tour around Scottish highlands, including: Stirling (William Wallace Monument), Glen Coe (mountains), Fort William and Ben Nevis (bigger mountains), Eilean Donnan (castle from Highlander), Isle of Skye (amazing mountains - N), Loch Ness (you know- N), Inverness, Culloden (battlefield), Dunkeld (abbey) and back to Edingburgh - awesome. 4. Places Katie and I drove to in Devon and Cornwall, including: Portishead (seaside Bristol), Lydford Gorge in Devon, Tintagel Castle (king arthur's birthplace - N), Lands End, St Michaels Mount in Penzance (island), Boscastle (cliff views of Atlantic), Bath (again) and back to London - spectacular. 5. My teary goodbye to Katie one week and good riddence of Normo the next (hehehe) - emotional. 6. My almost-relocation to Middlesborough with job offer that fell through (ooohhh) - intriguing. 7. Upcoming travel plans - interesting, and 8. Shoutouts - inevitable. So there it is in brief. Quite a bit to get through, isn't it. For those of you who admired Boogie Nights' graphic portrayal of the rise and fall of the porn industry in the late 70's and early 80's, or Magnolia's intricate weaving of plot lines that ultimately affirm the role that chance and coincidence play in our lives, read on... I will be realeasing this bad boy in serialised installments so that it can be digested appropriately. I was considering releasing the following parts on Boxing Day for the next three years but that'd just be excessive and stupid. A special edition including special features and bonus goodies is also in the works with a no release date as yet. For those of you who don't know what the HELL I'm on about... DELETE NOW!!! Episode 1: The Brighton Menace After months of talking about going to Brighton, we finally got the motivation one Saturday morning to hop on a train and head south to see what all the fuss was about. Katie, Normo and myself were joined by the loveable rogue from back home, Andrew Clements and it seemed from the start that we were in for a day of fun, sun and the odd dick joke. Emerging from Brighton train station around midday we decided to do what any ardent traveller would and seek out some local cuisine. With the skankiest �2 fully cooked breakfast you could imagine inside us, all memories of the drunken night before were banished and we were ready to hit the street. We wandered through quaint (I'm keeping tabs on how many times I use that word, ok) little streets with street stalls and funky boutique clothes and music stores aimed at the London youth that escape to Brighton for large weekends. I was in heaven when I stumbled upon on shop that had a t-shirt with Messers David Hasselhoff and Gary Coleman giving the thumbs-up in front of KITT (you know the picture Dave, Matt and John) but was devestated to find they only had stock in XL. Devestated. We made our way via the Taj Mahal-inspired Royal Pavillion and its gardens in full bloom to the seafront and took in the quintessential Brighton view. Bright shop/hotel fronts, hordes of people strolling the promenade between town and water and the long, white and famous Brighton Pier that called out to me with its roller coasters and Luna Park charm. My enthusiasm seemed to fall in deaf ears, but after a lot of cajolling I managed to get the gang all on a rather tame ride but the priceless look of dread and sick on Normo's face was worth it all. ("Hey Wendel buddy, you made it" Huuuuuurrrrrlll - for Simpsons fans out there). Another gem of a moment was the sight of Normo arguing with a token booth attendant who refused to accept his Scottish money (legal tender in England but not often accepted). The determination and resolve and the yound Aussie was commendable who, after two trips to the manager's office, was eventually able to rider the dodgem cars with a bunch of kiddies. We headed down to the beach front and wandered amongst the hordes of people who shared the interesting ides that a day on the beach should involve sitting in a deck chair on pebbles where there ought be sand and stare at water that looks inviting but in the knowledge that if you set foot in it you would quickly freeze youf (insert gender-specific body part here) off. The sun was making its presence felt as we scoured the copious bars/restaurants/cafes along the strip before settling for the mankiest fish and chips you could ever hope for, to keep in the spirit of our gastronomical experience of the place. We sat back and watched people enjoy a pleasant Saturday afternoon: the scrawny white guys getting punked out on the basketball court (Englishmen shouldn't play this sport, period), the 12 year old girls hanging out in makeup and minis, the hens parties with individualised tshirts (Clemmo was after "Lesbian in Denial") and the posse of East End gangsters having their annual day out. The day seemed to be fast slipping away from us yet somehow there was still a bit of time before we could experience the famed Brighton nightlife and we had somehow managed to do... everything there was to do. With a couple of hours to kill, we unwisely decided to sit through Jim Carrey's latest attrocity, Bruce Almighty (I was under the false impression that it was about my ex-girlfriends dad. Are you out there Steph? Do you read these emails? Your address is on the list. Drop us a line if you do and let me know what's happening). It managed to suck the life out of us all and by the time it was over, we didn't want to do much else. We wandered around the tiny laneways for a bit and struggled with that age old problem in Britain, which pub to go to? A pint or so later, we were on a London-bound train, heading home after a lovely day out. Until we got home and found... And that's where we'll leave it for now. A small taste to start with and a hook to get you back. The next installment will cover the bus tour from London to Edingburgh were you'll be introduced to new and crazy characters and taken to mystical and faraway places... ....TO BE CONTINUED PART 2: We All Live in a Yellow Tour Bus Previously, in the amazing(-ly lengthy) adventures of Sam, our hero and his cohorts, Katie and Normo, were returning from a day out in Brighton and returned home to FIND... that everything was just as we had left it. Come on, don't tell me you didn't see that coming. Now i've got you all started reading the sequel, please don't stop. We spent the following day relaxing around the house and preparing for our respective big trips that left the next morning. Normo was psyching himself up to test his teetotalling ways to the limit on-board Contiki's whistle-stop sex-romp around Europe (with more countries and derro Aussies per person than any other tour operator) while Katie and I were off around the UK with Haggis Tours. We got to Victoria station before 8am (didn't sleep in this time) and made our way to Haggis HQ were a line of pack-slinging travellers were already waiting in the drizzling rain. A luxury coach with Contiki emblazened on its side rolled up and a bunch of 'beautiful people' got onboard. Then a comfy looking 50-seater arrived and some fun looking people got on. Finally, the most audaciously bright yellow camper van pulled in and I wondered where the American school kids were. Unfortunately it was the Haggis bus, here to pick up the left-overs who were a rag-tag bunch. Now, I must be careful of what I say because we met some genuinely lovely people on our trip (some of whom are reading this, I'm sure - Hello Potter) and I would never want to give a false impression of events. Never. Anyway, perhaps it'd be best if I gave a brief run through of some of the characters we would spend the next 4 days in close confines with. First up was, "Hoy, moy naimz Anne and oim from Ostray-ya. Oiv been waitun for this moi whole loif!" Affectionately referred to as "Dinga" due to her constant use of the bell button above her head to turn the music down, Anne managed to alienate herself immediately from the majority of the group and started what will forever be known as "Ding Wars". Then there was Monique, the Canadian, SWF version of Steve Erkell who was dubbed "Trecker" because of her insatiable desire to always be first off the bus and power walk off with her shorts pulled way up so she could "see everything". And they were just the front-seaters. I'll summarise the rest: 8 more Aussies, 4 more Canadians; a Malaysian student with his parents who spoke no english and hocked up phlem the whole time (delightful); a wierd Kiwi couple I swear were members of a cult; a funky Indian couple who worked for Channel V in Mumbai; a cute little frauline from Germany; 4 quiet girls from Hong Kong (x2), Japan and Switzerland; and Ralph. How does one describe Ralph adequately? Ralph is a 300+ pound Bermudan native who has been travelling the world for 3 years (he's in construction). He sounds like a post-labotomised Chris Farley, with a penchant for uttering bizzarely out-of-context statements. My favourite quip cam eon the second morning in the boys dorm of our Welsh country farm-house when Ben, a 30 y/o Westpac employee from Sydney was dressing after a shower. While mid-stride of putting his underwera on, Ralph sat up and said, "You guys got dat Gay Parade down dere dontcha." So that was our group. Our driver/tour guide/on-board stand up comic was Johnny G (not related to Kenny) who looked like John but sounded like Ringo if he were Scottish (hang on... that doesn't even make sense). He loved a good laugh, especially at his own jokes. He packed us on the bus and proceeded to tell us that English insane asylums use the same vehicles. I made sure to lick the windows anytime someone on the street gave us a funny look. Out of the rain and traffic of London and on to the glorious M4. An hour on the motorway and we peeled off into leafy-green Wiltshire and were in the country. We pulled up near a big green hill with some white lines that supposedly resembled a horse. We climbed the hill listening to stories of ancient Celtic myths (the White Horse), dragon slaying (St George's Mound), devil dumping (Silbury Hill), suicidal rituals (drinking instant coffee with powdered milk) and the like. Grey skies, green and yellow patchwork fields as far as the eye could see, little villages spotted across the landscape, each with its own imposingly old church. Ahh, this was England! We moved on, having lunch in Marlborough, arriving at the village of Avebury soon after. We strolled around the shops and houses built amongst massive ancient stones. John convinced us that it was better than the 'henge because you could touch these stones and although I was disappointed not to see their more famous counterparts, I really liked the place. We continued east, stopping at a 5,000 y/o burial chamber and a small village called Laycock. With the line "they filmed some of Harry Potter here." John had cajolled the female contingent into forgoing the Roman Baths of, well, Bath in favour of standing outside some random abbey because no-one would pay �5 to get in (fucking commercialisation). And to say we had a few J.K. Rowling fans in the group would be understating things. At one point John openly blamed the number of copies of the new novel on board was solely responsible for the bus struggling up hills at 5mph. And so we spluttered into splendid Bath - with its sumptuous Georgian architecture craddled by mountains to the north and the Avon river (latin for River river) to the South - with barely enough time to explore the place before the sun began to drop. We ate at a pub that neighboured the inspiring Bath Cathedral square and jopined the highly recommended Bizzare Bath Walking Tour. It came with the disclaimer that no historical facts, figures or truths would be included. Instead, a funny little man in a purple jacket spent 90 minutes taking a group of about 50 around the quaint (#2) cobbled streets and proceeded to take the piss out of the place and anyone in eyesight. It turned out to be the unexpected highlight of the trip for me. It was followed by a few pints and 20 minutes of everyone's favourite game, "Where's the freaking hostel?" Up, out and on the road early, we crossed the Severn and headed into South Wales, boy-o! The old Malaysian dude's ability to cough up a lung on call made him a natural at correctly pronouncing the names of all the towns we went through. Our route to Tintern was blocked however by a nasty car crash near some place that if you ever met someone from it you'd feel like saying 'Gazuntight' back at them. We finally arrived at what would become known as AFR (another f'ing ruin) and Tintern Abbey again proved too expensive to bother going in, so we admired from afar. Out stay in Wales was short lived as we crossed back over the border to Gloucester - another quaint town with another impressive piece of Protestant architecture in which a Harry Potter movie was filmed - WOOHOO! Straddling the border, we headed NW and back to Ludlow, Wales-boy-o, and spent some time freaking out invery cool castle ruins as the rain came tumbling down - surprisingly, the only rain we had all trip - before traversing a very high, very scenic nearby aquaduct. A quick stop at a Welsh supermarket (words fail me, although it had the greatest '�1 shop' ever) and we were into the wilderness, through the breath-taking peaks of Snowdonia National Park, before arriving at our day's destination, a farm house in Llangollen ("hlan-go-hlen" with appropriate spitting, which translates to "the middle of nowhere"). We dumped the bags, fired up the barbie and got stuck in to celebrating Canada Day! Good enugh excuse for me, eh? If you have ever woke with a sore head, as happens from time to time, it is not often that you have the privillege of tucking into a fully-cooked, country breakfast, where the eggs are so fresh that you meet the chickens that laid them. With the soozing effect of a grease-lined stomach we boarded the yellow bus (I've never seen anything so out of place since Todd Woodbridge joined the ATP instead of the WTA) and headed for the NW'ern most tip of Wales. There was a definite chill in the air when we got off at the walled city of Caernarfon ("Ke-nar-van") and with our trip in Scotland in mind, Katie felt the need to remedy her insufficient wardrobe with the purchase of a warm polar fleece. When she emerged from the shop we had a new contender for most offensive yellow object ever seen. Hey, at least she wouldn't be getting lost in it and a �9 bargain from the kiddies bin is always too good to pass up. We only had time to see 1/3 of what was a really impressive, well-preserved, enormous castle and moved on... to a secret location! With eyes closed, JG counted to 3 and when we opened them we witnessed a sight that defied belief... a car dealership! No, not just any car dealership... a Volvo dealership! No, not just any old Volvo dealership but the one in Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrn-drobwllllantysiliogogogoch (A reasonable attempt at a pronunciation would be "Clan vire pulth gwinn gith gor gerrick win drob uth clan tay see lee oh go go gogch", but stuff that for a joke). Yes, the town with the world's longest name, which translates to "St Mary's Church in the hollow of the white hazel near to the rapid whirlpool of Llantysilio of the Red Cave" is pretty unimpressive bar two things: 1) the sign on the train station platform for sheer length; and 2) the stamp they put in your passport for sheer tackiness. We had lunch on the nearby Isle of Anglesey and then made tracks along the north coast of Wales towards... Liverpool! Yes, home to such luminaries as John Lennon, Paul McCartney, Gerry, his Pacemakers and lets not forget Emile Heskey, we stopped in this down-to-earth, working class town all too briefly to check out the Beatles memorabilia at the Cavern Club. It wasn't that impressive either, however one young Canadian girl, who shall remain nameless, was seen having multiple orgasms while mounting a bronze statue of John (you know you were...). As Scousers from these parts would say, "Carm dann! Carm dann!". With said Cannuck belting out hit after Beatles hit (her remdition of Hard Days Night took me back to an imfamous night in late '95 that 3 people will known full well what I mean), we headed out through the Blue half of town and I only got to see Everton's Goodison Park (I will get to elusive Anfield another time, Mick). I will say this about Liverpool, for a place that has more fish'n'chipperies than pubs, it also has a higher ratio, per capita, of people wearining two-piece tracksuits and permed mullets than the Mornington Peninsula! (Sorry Mick. Sorry Dennis.) I am forever amazed at how fast the scenery can change in England. One minute we were ploughing trough the ugly industrial North West (Wigan, Bolton, Preston, et al) and the next, we were scooting around the gorgeous Lake Windermere towards Ambleside in the Lake District. Again, we got there too late to explore the place, well, that's the excuse we used to hit the pub. The copious number of 'beautiful' well-to-do teens in the place was a bit off puting and begged the question, was there a party at Stiffler's Mom's place on the lake? It wasn't our scene so we packed it in after a couple of pints and decided on an early night. What happened on that fateful night however has scarred me for life and although it would be inappropriate to divulge what happened... I will because it involves Ralph. In the nicest possible terms, I was unfortunate to a) be sleeping in the same room as him, and b) be awake to hear him umm... soil himself while in a deep, loud, aroused sleep. I'm sorry, you didn't need to know that but I just had to get it off my chest. The therapist says i'll get over it some day. On a day that heralded the coup d'etat of the front seat from the evil clutches of Trecker by KT and me (purely to piss her off) we headed NE from Ambleside and stopped for a morning stroll at a nearby Lake District waterfall. Before John could point out the best way to the top, we all looked up to see that Trecker was already there. A short drive and we came to the northern-most reaches that the Roman empire ever stretched to... Hadrians Wall. Built to keep the barbaric Scots out, its dilapitated state did not take away from its majesty. Ralph chimed in with, "I done seen sum purtty amay-zin wall roun' da worl'. Nutin' compares tuda Greet Wall-a-china, but dis is purtty cool too." We all posed for photos with the aid of some silly props (swords, wigs, flags and blue face paint) before buying lunch in a local supermarket, still dressed as loons. We ate it in the surrounds of the ancient Roman ruins of Chester's Fort. We weren't back on the road for long when the Proclaimers came blasting out of the speakers ("I WOULD WALK 500 MILES" Ding! "and i would walk 500 more" Ding! Ding!) and John started shouting, "We're here! We made it! Woohoo!" And sure enough, we pulled of the road at a large stone with 'SCOTLAND' emblazened on it. Out came the shortbread and whisky to celebrate as we imbibed in some of the local culture (the taste of it also took me back to that same night in '95. Dan, Kate... make sure Tomos reads this!). Before we reached Edingburgh though, there was time for one last stop. After a brief steep bush walk we came out atop a mountain peak under an imposing 50-foot tall bronze statue of William Wallace looking out over the countryside where Sir Walter Scott had created romantic literary works that captured the highland clans, brave warrior spirit and stunning landscapes that this country was built on. Very moving stuff... until Dinga let rip with, "Coor! You can see up his kilt! <wolf whistle>" And so we finally came into Edingburgh (a place that I had fond memories of from NYE '98-'99 when we'd been there for Hogmonay) and pulled up at the Haggis office on the Royal Mile, right in the heart of the Old Town. For most, it was only halfway of a round trip back to London, but for Katie and me it was farewell as we were due on another 3 day tour around the Scottish Highlands the next morning (Part 3). But we didn't go quietly, oh no, but in rather true Scottish style with a pub crawl down the Mile. Bouyed by the Poo's mighty Wimbledon semi success we spent the night in good spirits, but the highlight had to be the look on the male faces in the hostel bar when our notorious stage-happy little mapple leaf got up to cover a Madonna classic on the karaoke machine. It wasn't just the promiscuous way she played to the drunken, drooling mob as she sung "Like a Virgin", inasmuch as it was that... combined with 2 bright stickers she had found on the street and was wearing cheekishly on either lapel of her jacket. They read, "I'm a virgin" and "I'm just here for a quickie." ....TO BE CONTINUED. Part 3: Skye-ing High Waking up in a sorry state after a night on the Royal Mile, Katie and I managed to get to Haggis on time to join our second tour around the rugged Scottish highlands!! We got aboard an identical yellow bus (so identical that it contained the same �1 soccer ball that I had bought in Wales and left on the last bus) and waited for our guide. To say that Marie was the antithesis of John would be to use a big wanky word when I could just say that they were very different. The fact they were both Scottish, both had an intense hatred of the English and both said "pee pees and poo poos" instead of "going to the toilet" were where the similarities ended. After four days of John's 'no swearing on the bus' rule, you can understand my state of shock when our new driver's first words were, "This fookin' boos is fookin' shite! How the fook are ya, ya wee jessies?" Indeed. Well, she just hooned out of town and in a flash we were in the countryside. Time to asses the makeup of the new group. Bizarrely, they were nearly ALL Americans this time, except for 6 Frenchies ("Say Chow-der!"), 4 Aussies, a Chinese couple, an Italian and a local. No Dinga. No Trecker. No Ralph. They all looked like nice, ordinary people. No material. First stop was the official William Wallace monument just outside of Stirling. We bypassed a statue of Mel Gibson that was caged to protect it from unhappy, locals (its not very popular) and ascended a steep hill (not that easy when you're in such a parlous state), finally arriving at what was an impressive building but an even more impressive view. Now if you think I crapped on about England and Wales being so spectacular then you ain't read nothing yet. The scene of sweeping lowlands coming to an abrupt halt at Stirling Castle, which heralded the infinite mountain ranges on the highlands with the backdrop of clear blue skies was as gorgeous as gazing into Matt Vitins' big dreamy blue eyes and made you feel so fortunate to exist on this planet. Little known fact #1: Matthew Vitins was originally born Allesandro Perdanto Masquenada to peasant farmers in a shanty town outside on Quito, Ecuador in February 1983. He was smuggled across the American border in the anus of a mule in December 1984. This view proved to merely be the start of 3 days of constantly looking out the window and going oooh and ahhh! The further north we went, the more impressive and beautiful the scenery got. We sped NW past Loch Lommond and Loch Garry (which is oddly shaped like a map of Scotland) before passing a helicopter dismantling a set from the new Harry Potter movie on the side of a mountain (I swear that franchise is being flogged more here than LOTR in NZ!). We got out to stretch our legs at Glen Coe and, man, I hate to sound like a broken record, but A-M-A-Z-I-N-G!!! There's not many days in the year when you can enjoy sitting on the grassy slopes of a highland mountain, surrounded by blue skies, running streams and purple heather, in a tshirt. We listened to folk lore about a massacre that took place in the Glen, where the Campbell clan soaked up the local hospitality for a week before slaughtering their hosts in cold blood. It is still custom to spit at the back of a Campbell's head today so if you know someone by that name and you don't really like them... We moved on, through Fort William, home of the UK's highest natural peak Ben Nevis, where traffic slowed us down. Marie told us stories of idiotic tourists (normally English or pasty string-beans from Templestowe) who had died after deciding to climb Nevis on wonderful days such as this, fully unprepared for the dramatic change in climate towards the top. I recalled Normo telling me of his similar predicament only a week earlier, when climbing in shorts, he feared his life may be short lived - if not by hypothermia, then by being bashed for wearing the rude white knit he purchased upon descent. One lucky boy. Little known fact #2: While working his teenage years as a pool cleaner in the Hollywood Hills, Matt Vitins had secret affairs with Elizabeth Taylor, Tina Yothers (of Family Ties fame), Dr Ruth and Phil Donoghue (amongst others). Our next stop was the castle of Eilean Donnan, famous for being the abode of Connor McLeod in 'Highlander' (1984). Quite an impressive sight from the outside although, because people have continued to live in it, the inside looks like something from Better Homes and Gardens 1923. From there it wasn't far to our first night's accomodation in Kyleakin ('Kye-lack-in') on the Isle of Skye. Although it is quite an isolated place, Skye is a very popular destination for English tourists because of its spectacular scenery. The government in London though it would be wise to ease the four-hour queue for the car-ferry in these peak times by building a bridge conecting to the mainland. Unfortunately, budgetary oversights saw the cost of the bridge skyrocket and to recoup their losses, those thinkers in Big Ben had the stroke of genius t oimpose a toll on the bridge at the same time as shutting down the ferry service. What resulted was the most expensive toll bridge in the world (� per mile, $ per km) in the world. No more than 500m long, it cost �42 for our bus to cross (�6 for a car). Just think about the poor Skye locals with their minimal incomes, who work on the mainland and are forced to cross the bridge twice a day and you'll get a sense as to why the English are still disliked in these parts today! Kyleakin is a sleepy little village on the water's edge. It's the kind of place where everyone knows everyone and the fish'n'chip shop doubles as internet cafe, video store, dry cleaners and driving school (it did!) - you know the kind. It's a backwater, in the nicest possible sense. It's not the kind of place you'd expect to bump into someone you know, that's for sure. So it was a big surprise when Katie recognised a friend from university in Saucy Mary's pub. There was a bit of hesitation at first because she hadn't seen Simmo for a while and he did have a twin brother (what's the deal with Med students and tiwns, Sandy? Chan? Explain). A few pints (quiet night) and catching up on old times ensued. I didn't know the guy but Katie's description of "lovely guy... a bit forgettful, but lovely" seemed pretty accurate as a man who was only 12 months from being a doctor recounted a story about playing soccer with the local kids when one fell over and hurt his... his... ummm? (tapping joint in middle of leg) "Knee?" I helped out. "Yeah, that's the one!" We made plans to have dinner with Simmo and his girlfriend in Edingburgh in a few nights time, said our goodbyes and went to the hostel. That was the last we saw of Simmo... Little known fact #3: Matt Vitins' favourite band is the Orange Organics. His favourite films are Runaway Bride and anything with Christopher Lambert. The second day was spent almost entirely on Skye. First we went to an enchanted stream where eternal beauty was yours if you planted you face in the freezing water, well, either that or at least it hured any hangovers. Of course, in the attempt to get a great snapshot, I fell in and had a wet foot for most of the day. Then it was time for "a wee stroll up a wee hill" which was more accurately a bloody long hike up a big fuck-off mountain! Despite a serious lack of fitness, the pain was worth it as we reached the cliff top and were treated to some of the most incredible views of the Atlantic, ever (got a great shot of me hanging off the cliff ledge)! Each time we stopped at a similarly beautiful place I began to notice that I was taking it a bit for granted which was unintentional and unfortunate. However, there was nothing to be taken for granted about the pub we went to for lunch. Hidden between cliff faces, this glorious old building jutted out over the water's edge and was a sensational location for a watering hole, despite the fact you had to be 'in the know' to find the place. We made our way around Skye, stopping to take in various other jaw-dropping panoramas before crossing the evil toll bridge again and headed east over the mainland towards Loch Ness. We pulled into Fort Augustus, bordering the SE tip of the famous body of water, listened to a certifiably insane guy demonstrate the life and costume of a highlander and then checked into the hostel. After dinner, a group of us took a boat cruise and listened to another very very scary individual put forth his convincing case for the existence of some mysterious species inhabiting the Loch with the aid of sonar printouts and blurry photos. I dared not disagree. Little known fact #4: Matt Vitins made a brief, uncredited cameo appearance in Channces (1993). Producers were unaware he was underage when his naked posterior was beamed into Australian, Madagascan and Bulgarian living rooms. We spent the evening in the hostel bar drinking to spite the NZ barmaid/receptionist/door bitch (a noticeable inhabitant of nearly any British hostel) who had been quite rude to us upon arrival when she bluntly said she'd close the bar at 9.30pm if there was noone in it. She must have heard me mutter "no worries you lazy, sheep-shagging wench" under my breath because I was singled out for some nasty treatment as the night progressed: fixed looks that went beyond hatred if I disturbed her book to order a drink; beers that were half head; �8 change in small change; etc. Needless to say, no tip was forthcoming. After the bar had been locked and the barmaid had returned to the cave from whence she came, I encouraged a couple of loud, drunk Americans that it'd be an idea to break into it, which they were all for at first before deciding it'd be a better idea to go and swim in the Loch - that doesn't change from 4 degrees C all year round, that we were warned not to swim in, that may be inhabitied by a large monsterous creature - at 1.30am in the morning. I went to bed... We spent our final day scooting around Loch Ness, stopping for tacky souvenirs (which no doubt some of you were fortunate to score from KT) and photos of people touching the famed waters. We arrived shortly after in Inverness, capital of the Highlands and a vibrant town which, according to Marie, had the unfortunate distinction of being home to the ugliest people in the world. Now I know at least one person on this mailing list who is seeing someone from this particular place, and Ken, let me just say that in no way does Jen fit into this unwarranted sweeping generalisation. Marie did manage to spot a few people who's faces made you realise God does have a sense of humour though. We moved on to the Battlefield of Culloden, the final scene of Scottish resistance to English advances, which, as I was reliably informed by a local at a later date, wasn't even where it happened. Heading south back to Edinburgh we stopped in Dunkeld, a quaint (#3) little town complete with AFR abbey where Katie jokingly decreed she would one day be married ( a joke that was until she became aware that the church's organist was infact the aunty of another memeber of this mailing list). And so, as we crossed the Firth of Forth and headed back into Edingburgh, it was time to draw a curtain on our Haggis experience. However, it was neither the end of our time in Scotland, nor our travels, nor this overly lengthy email... not just yet, sorry. Little known fact #5: Matt V likes pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. We spent the evening dining with some of the guys from the trip and were about to check into a hostel when an old friend and local, Scott (yes, the Scot), who me had met a while back in Oz, called and invited us to stay... saving me from another runin with a cranky Kiwi bitch I'm sure. We spent the next 2 days lapping up Scott's gracious highland hospitality (before realising Katie actually hailed from the Campbell clan) and leisurely strolled the streets at our own pace (which compares unfavourably to that of a snail when Katie's about... sorry sweetie, two in the one sentance!). The town was gearing up for August's Fringe Festival and was quite lively. We made our way through the maze of cobbled Old Town streets, past shops along Princes St in the New Town, by the Walter Scott monument that resembled a set piece from the Thunderbirds, through church graveyards and parks, over bridges and around castles. Twice we indulged in the local Tesco supermarket's fully cooked breakfast (not since a bright-eyed, bulky White House intern had anything so cheap and skanky been so satisfying). Speaking of putting questionable substances in one's mouth, I managed to order, eat and even ENJOY the local dish of Haggis, Neeps and Tatties (parsnips and potatoes) which I will go as far as describing as delicious, if not a little spicy. We headed to the airport and were back in the swinging South London hub of Brixton after a plane delay, tube delay, bus delay... what's new? An early noght was on the cards with the prospect of driving out of London looming on the next day's agenda... ....TO BE CONCLUDED. Little known fact #6: Everyone's favourite metrasexual, Matt Vitins, specifically requested that I make mention of him on more than one occasion in this email. I feel I've gone beyond the call of duty and made sufficient reference to soothe his ego's insatiable appetite... do you, Matt? Part 4: Pirates, Pasties and Parting Ways Despite Freshfields' recent firewalling of ninemsn.com.au (my backdoor to hotmail in the office) I am determined to complete this epic tale before heading to Ireland this Sunday. And so the concluding chapter begins. After a restful night back in London, Katie and I ditched the suitcase (overflowing with fluffy green monsters) for a day pack and headed to the easyRentacar office at Victoria station. No strangers to travelling around in eye-sores, we took possession of keys to our very own Sneaker-on-Wheels (a green Mercedes A Class repleat with orange advertisements) and breathed a sigh of relief upon discovering it was an auto (yeah, yeah... we're soft, ok). Our destination was the SW Coast, Devon and Cornwall, pirate country, where beaches qualify to be thusly named (i.e. sand not pebbles) and the locals presumably ate pasties for breakfast, lunch and tea. With a caucophony of maps, guides, brochures and the like in my lap I attempted to navigate Katie out of inner London and on to the east-bound M4. After circling Victoria 3 times and going nowhere fast I gave up in a huff and let Katie's intuition take over. Since a lot of her time here had been spent round these parts she managed to guide us down the Kings Rd, Chelsea, past her hospital, beyond the ring road that binds the city together and on to the motorway. We were on our way. As I write this email, Britain (indeed, the whole of Europe) is being gripped by one of the worst heat waves ever. When London is hot (and by hot I mean anything in excess of 25 degrees celcius) it is unbearable. As one journalist in yesterday's Times so aptly put it, "The streets are choked with fumes and after walking just a couple of blocks it feels as if the clothes are rotting on you body. The Tube is about as pleasant as the inside of a sumo wrestler's belt. The whole city stinnks of decomposing rubbish." This pretty much sums up the weather conditions experienced on this particular day. Cars in this country, much like buildings, are not adequately designed to cope with these conditions as we sped along the motorway, windows wound down, inhaling some of the worst exhuast fumes imaginable, and dreaming of wintery Melbourne. We pulled into the tourist Mecca that is the Moto Service Centre near Reading (depressing place but it had air con) to stock up on supplies and change roles. My first taste behind the wheel on foreign soil (although no different to home) was hampered by the fact I had no idea what the speed limit was. A quick call to local-in-the-know, (Hello) Dean "you're a stupid head" Senior, upped it to 70mph and we were no longer being overtaken by grannies in '67 Fiats or lorries hauling entire homes. I wasn't long before I was zipping in and out of lanes at 80-85mph with one eye on my watch and the other on 3-wheeled Skodas doing 60 that were about to take it up the bum. Two and a half hours after leaving London we jumped from the M4 to the south-bound M5 near Bristol. As it was about lunchtime, I decided to give in to curiosity and pull over at the seaside town of Portishead. An avid fan of its namesake trip-hop act, I wanted to know what was so special about the place that Geoff Barrow and Beth Gibbons would want to be known by it. With a sewerage-covered foreshore and a hazy brown fog impeding the view of South Wales across the water to speak of, I am still stumped. Although not yet in Cornwall, we jumped the gun and had pasties for lunch anyway. M roads became A roads (smaller) which became B roads (smaller still) and we were soon in the heart of beautiful Devon. It was late in the afternoon when we stopped at the magnificent Lydford Gorge. The dense rainforest was reminiscent of the Daintree and it provided welcome relief from the heat as we wandered around ferns, rapids and waterfall while basking in the glory of being out of the car, if only for a moment. It wasn't much further to Cornwall and the northern coastal town of Tintage, where we were headed. However, it required driving along country B roads which are notorious, hedged-in, narrow strips of gravel where you zip along at 60mph praying that there's noone coming the other way around the bend or slam on the breaks to avoid hitting a tractor doing 15mph every mile or so. Before long we arrived in Tintagel, where houses have names instead of numbers, and we searched for our destination with the directions to look for "Poll Pen", 50 yards past the school and next to the house with the sail board. After much wailing and knashing of teeth, Katie got out and asked a lady at "Pen Poll" what we were looking for and sure enough, right where it was suposed to be, was "poll Pen", 50 yards past the school and next to the house with the "For Sale" board. This was the residence of John and Eve Stratton, distant relatives of Katie's who had demanded we stay with them when told of our plans. I lost track as to how they were actually related - step great uncle, lost third cousin by marriage, John's brother once had a pizza delivered by a guy who's sister's boyfriend is a cabbie who once drove Katie's grandma somewhere, or something like that - but it didn't matter as we were welcomed as close family memebers. After warm introductions we were shown to our room where I proceeded to stare agog with tear in corner of eye, at the most amazing bedroom-window view I'd ever seen. A kilometre of green fields came to an abrupt halt where cliff edge met blue-green sea, which met pink-orange sky, with the lonely figure of a 10th century church standing solitary on the horizon. After a suptuous feast, we were driven around town and out to the church where we walked along the breathtaking cliff face and down to a large rocky outcrop that sat just detatched from the mainland. Vague stone ruins of a medievil castle lay visible atop the island which is thought to be the birthplace of King Arthur. I was gonna enjoy this place, I thought to myself. It was then off to a pub that blew the place in Skye away for 'most scenic location to have a drink, EVER' before a well earned sleep in a nice, warm, turned-down bed. Ahhh. An early start proceeded the next morning as we had a lot to do and see in our only full day in Cornwall. The fact that we had already used all allotted 225 miles of our 3-day hire on just getting to Tintagel meant that every mile we went was costing us 20p did not hold us back as we headed to where all tourists go, Lands End, which (like its northern counterpart, John O'Groats) is the advertised, although not geographically correct, furthermost tip of the island. I had been warned by my Lonely Planet that Lands End had unfortunately been commercialised in recent years with the construction of a theme park, so with trepidation we passed the point of no return (paying the car park fee) and decided to investigate. And I thought EPCOT was bad. We were greeted by the crappiest collection of overpriced, univiting attractions this side of Wobbies World. Even a photograph with the famed signpost pointing to famous places cost �5! It was a real shame because the scenery was amazing and the history fascinating. I was determined to do at least one of the attractions to see how it compared to others that I'd experienced while researching my Cinema Studies thesis. A "state-of-the-art, multi-sensory, revolutionary voyage into the mysteries and myths of Lands End" sounded interesting. Sure I've been on some amazing rides in my time and the bar is set quite high to impress me, but I felt the promoters were misleading and deceptive when they ommitted the fact it was ground-breaking when it debuted at Expo '88. There was no collapse of the frame. No neo-baroque ocular regime in play. It was just utter crap. Even the kids it was designed to impress and scare were snickering at its lameness. Promptly leaving, we headed along the peninsula tip (hehehe, he said peninsula tip) to Penzance and the seaside town of Marzion. Here we had a REAL Cornish pastie before jumping a boat and heading out to St Michael's mount. A half-mile off the coast, this island is an amazing sight: a walled bay housing a small fleet of sail boats; a village front on water's edge; an expansive, multi-coloured mixture of gardens, forest, beach and cliffs lead upwards to a magnificent castle fortress that crowned the hill. We wandered through room after immaculately preserved room, learning about the location's storied history, while rapidly using up any and all available film in the camera. With the day fast getting away from us we zoomed back up the A39 and got to Tintagel Castle with 30 minutes to spare before closing time. Following a guide's advice, we started from the far side of the island and worked our way back. The fact we were too stingy to buy a guide, and hence, had no clue what we were looking at, didn't matter as I was content to roam around medievil ruins and soak up the amazing view from every available vantage point. We then descended to the beach below and were fortunate that it was low tide, which enabled us to venture into Merlin's Cave, a hollowed-out cavern through the outcrop. After posing for some flash photos one minute we came out the next to find we could barely see past our noses as the town had been blanketed by a sudden thick sea mist. Natural occurrence or had I upset a grumpy old wizard? By the time we got back to the house the mist had cleared completely and we headed with John and Eve to nearby Boscastle for a pub meal at the Cobweb - now in name only after the Health Board demanded some redecorating be done - before venturing out to the headland to watch the sun set. An apt end to a spectacular day. Friday morning and it was time to head back to London. The car was due back before six so we made tracks with the plan of going back via Bath for lunch so we could actually see the Roman Baths. My idea to pull off the motorway in favour of a more scenic route through Glastonbury was ill-advised as we spluttered along in a congestion of traffic that kept slowing to 30 with every village we went through. We got to Bath latter than planned as a result and boy was the place heaving with people. Any desire to see the Baths vanished when we saw a queue of fat, sweaty American tourists vanished (hate to generalise but they were eveywhere) so we grabbed some lunch, took some snaps and were outta there. Fatigue set in on the home stretch and after a couple of hours of manouvering through heavy traffic in sweltering conditions we were unrecognisable as humans. The frustration was nothing though when compared with trying to get back to Victoria Station. Time after time, street after street, my directions were thwarted tby one way streets and blocked off roads. I almost felt like crying. We finally managed to find a way in, but not before we'd disobeyed 20 road rules, narrowly avoided the congestion charge zone and sent one copy of "London A-Z" flying out the car window (not quite a mix tape, Normo, but it had a similar dramatic effect). Sweaty, tired and miserable, we handed back the keys only to be informed that we'd exceeded our limit by 500 miles (ouch!). Saturday was spent shopping, chilling out and making poor decisions, like order #67 from the local noodle bar, which translated into English probably meant "you're gonna be so sorry you ate this tomorrow". Katie was none the wiser though and so it was, on the sad day of her farewell, that she spent most of it in the bathroom saying hello to noodle fragments instead of goodbye to me. We struggled on to the Tube and changing lines at Green Park, Katie left a little present in a plastic bag for the station attendant (serves them right for not having any bins, I say). Arriving at Heathrow we were greeted with the single longest queue known to man to check in. We lined up for an hour, moving 4 inches, when Chantal (Katie's uni colleague and flight-home companion) showed up. Also on the verge of becoming a doctor, Chan was adamant that Katie required medical attention and was too ill to queue up. Katie concurred not so much in words but by hurling half into and half out of another bag. Whisked to a priority queue, the girls had their boarding passes and were ready to go find a doctor. This was where we parted ways, destined not to see each other again until Christmas, with my lasting memory being her with tears pouring and sick dribbling down her face. A very sad was to go indeed. I found out later that there wasn't a doctor available in the whole airport which made me wonder about where the phrase "Heathrow Injection" actually came from... I moped about for a week and got back into working life to keep me occuppied. Normo returned from COntiki one day and was back in Oz a couple later, my housemates departed for distant shores on holiday and I was all alone for a while. AWWWHHH... "Where's the happy ending?" I hear you all ask. Well, put simply, it ain't ending, it's only just beginning. I am off to Ireland this Sunday for an 8 day extravaganza (although I will miss the Socceroo friendly, d'ohh) before 3 more weeks of working/living in London, after which I'm heading to Spain and Portugal for a month. Then I'm off to explore Egypt for 16 days before heading to New York for 2 weeks and Contiki West Coast (where I'll be joined by the incomparable Ms Libby Avram for some sun and fun), finally making it home for Birthday/Christmas combo. It's all booked and I'm raring to go. My only problem is... where am I going to find time to write about it all? Signing off... for now, Sam.
