Falling Leaves and Short, Grey Days...

The title says it all. It is now late Autumn in England and Winter is so close it surely is just a strong gust of wind away. The sun makes the odd cameo appearance once or twice a week, but apart from those cherished moments the days seem blanketed in a dull, cloud-filtered light.

The flipside of the cooler weather is getting to witness the change of seasons, particularly the changing hues of leaves. In Didsbury it is accentuated by all the parks, wood-land and tree-lined avenues. It has been fun walking through drifts of leaves and seeing great textured carpets of red, yellow and brown scattered across lawns.

Today Kellie and I wandered through Didsbury Park, which four months ago had trees in full bloom like those that grace the banner of this blog. It is rather bare now - the flowers and leaves of the trees have disappeared, leaving a collection of ragged wooden skeletons behind. No wonder badgers hibernate for the winter - there's nothing to see, and neither the light nor time to do so anyway!

Conquering Quinag

It is impossible to visit this part of Scotland and escape views of the iconic mountains that dominate the landscape. Suilven, Stac Pollaidh and Canisp rise steeply from rolling moors of heather and gorse, casting considerable shadows over the many lochs of Assynt. Frequently shrouded in cloud, they are unforgiving environments shaped by thousands of harsh winters and the relentless energy of wind, rain, snow and ice. Walkers and climbers are drawn to the endless views afforded from their summits.

For me though, there was something more appealing about another mountain, Quinag. I liked the changing aspect of its three buttresses, some sheer and others almost gentle. I liked the way the character of the mountain seemed to change as you drove around it; mysterious, inviting, forbidding and aloof. I even liked its name, pronounced Koon-yag in the local Highlands accent. It sounded like a villain from Macbeth, but is in fact a derivative of Cuinneag, the Gaelic word for milking pail (!).

When I asked Andy Somers, a ranger at the Lochinver Visitor Information Centre, about which mountain in the area I should climb, he suggested Quinag. It was his favourite, he said. He shared a story how rustlers once hid an entire herd of cattle in the great bowl of land lying between the peaks of Sail Gharbh and Spidean Coinich. That anecdote sold it for me. With a favourable weather report, I would go the next day.

Rather than a single mountain, Quinag is actually a Y-shaped range of three Corbetts (a Corbett being a Scottish peak between 2,500 and 3,000 feet high). My plan was reach the highest point, the summit of Sail Gharbh at 808m, and then see what else I could cover in the time I had left, weather permitting.

On the day of my walk, Adam dropped me on the eastern side of the mountain and I set off for Lochan Bealach Cornaidh, a small lake at the foot of Quinag (we have plotted this lochan on our research website, visit http://www.assynt.anglingresearch.org.uk/?q=ptf_top30_29). I savoured an hour of solo walking in bright sunshine, first passing the lochan and then ascending to the boulder-strewn heights of Sail Gharbh. The photo below shows the view from Sail Gharbh, looking down toward Lochan Bealach and the ridgeline of Spidean Coinich.

The wind strengthened considerably at this point of the walk, prompting me to wonder how long it would be before bad weather was blown my way. Conditions can change quickly at exposed summits like this, particularly in Scotland. A very strong gust surprised me with its intensity and knocked me to my knees, tearing a hole in my waterproof trousers. It was time to get down off this mountain, I thought, before I ended up halfway to Iceland.

Lurching back down toward the lochan, I had a sudden a change of heart. Now I could see two other walkers up on the wind-blasted ridgeline Spidean Coinich, scrambling along a precarious track that I had written off as being far too dangerous in these conditions. My male Ego suddenly reappeared from whatever distant, dark place that my Logic had banished it to : if those walkers were up there doing it, then I bloody well should too!

It proved to be one of my Ego's better interventions. The wind was manageable, and the scenery was incredibly beautiful. Assynt stretched out below me like a wrinkled green carpet. I even had time to eat my packed sandwiches and swill coffee in the lee of a large stone cairn. There were many of these cairns scattered about the hillside - presumably to assist walkers on those occasions when low cloud rolls in. As a parting gesture, Quinag offered up a pair of superbly camouflaged Rock Ptarmigans. This mountain is indeed a special place, and I can now appreciate why the John Muir Trust paid £600,000 for the right to conserve it (http://www.jmt.org/cuineag-quinag-estate.asp).

Tasmania on Steroids, Part 2

It didn't take long for me to agree to a return trip to Assynt (Scottish Highlands, see earlier blog post Tasmania on Steriods, Part 1) in August this year. The 9-hour car journey from Manchester was the only disincentive I could think of, and it wasn't too hard to take considering the scenery on offer along the way.

Along with my boss Adam and fellow angling researcher Natalie, I spent a week in an A-frame chalet at Inverkirkaig, a small cluster of houses approximately ten kilometres  south of Lochinver, see http://www.kirkaigchalets.co.uk/index.html. The photo above shows Adam looking across Inverkirkaig's picturesque bay. It is quite an idyllic location; when you grow tired of dodging red deer or spotting otters cruising the inlet, you can wander down to the river Kirkaig and see salmon and sea trout leap from the olive-tinted water. For the piddly sum of £100 a day you can try and hook one of those slippery suckers. No prizes for guessing that I politely declined that bargain-basement rate opportunity.

However, well all did go fishing - it would have been a crime not to - but for the much more reasonable price of £5 a day, and for brown trout rather than salmon. My fly-casting definitely improved over the week (it could hardly have got worse), culminating in one memorable late-afternoon cast that presented the fly in such an irresistable fashion a small orange-spotted brown trout just had to swallow it.

The fly I used is rather grandly titled a "Silver Invicta Muddler" - a name which, in any other context, could easily pass for a latin cocktail or new season ride-on lawnmower. In fact, the flies used for fly-fishing have some very intriguing but ultimately rather silly names, ranging from the prosaic and practical (Black Ant) to the bizarre and fanciful (Parmachelle Belle) and the hopelessly stupid (Okey Dokey).  I've included a picture of my own trout-magnet, a delightful melange of duck feather, deer fuzz and metal, for your eternal viewing pleasure.

Whilst staying in the area I discovered the Achiltibuie (Ackh-ill-ta-boo-ee; best pronounced as though you are vigorously clearing your throat) Smokehouse (http://www.summerislesfoods.com/). This was something of a catastrophic development for the fatness of my wallet but a real treat for the tastebuds. Indeed, in the eyes of my lovely wife, the many packets of smoked seafood I purchased there are possibly the greatest contribution I've made to our married life (I promise you, I am not exaggerating). Scoffing down a sample of smoked cheddar on the Smokehouse verandah, I watched with envy as a group of sea-kayakers slid past the craggy offshore lumps that constitute the Summer Isles. This place really is so beautiful, I mused, before the whiff of peat-smoked salmon lured me back indoors...

Tents, Kites & Climbs: A Wet Weekend in Wales

"I think it's time we turned around" spluttered Chris, as a strong gust of wind lashed liquid bullets of rain into his face. Chris's wife Caroline turned to look at us, seemingly nonplussed. With her Scottish heritage, I got the impression she would have been equally happy swanning about in a bikini in this weather.

Chris, Caroline, Kellie and I were about two thirds of the way up Snowdon, the highest peak in Wales, perched on a rocky pathway that was getting increasingly difficult to discern in the mist. Snowdon is certainly no Mount Everest, at a fairly tame 1085m, but this didn't stop Sir Edmund Hillary using it as a training ground for his assault on the Giant of the Himalaya. As we retraced our boggy footsteps back to the car, I consoled myself with the thought that Snowdon must be one tough hombre if it was good enough for Sir Ted. I conveniently overlooked the fact that hundreds of thousands of walkers successfully climb Snowdon every year, and a similar number of people are ferried up by a tourist railway that finishes at a brand new £8.5 million cafe and visitor centre, see video below. Oh, the humiliation!

Kel and I were in Wales for the August bank holiday long weekend, after being invited to go camping at Black Rock Sands beach, Porthmadog, with friends from our touch football team. And yes, I said camping. In Wales. Thankfully our friends were experienced campers and had brought tents large enough to house a 3-Ring Circus - a useful ability given our state after several drinks on Saturday night .

While the weather on the day we tried to climb Snowdon (Sunday) could only be described as grim, we did manage to get out and about the day before (Saturday). On a stretch of sand that looked more like a supermarket carpark than a beach, we had a go flying Rick's kite. With the wind whipping off the Irish Sea, the kite raced across the sky, turning and dipping violently with every tweak of the hand controls. It was great fun that talked directly to your inner child. A dog thought so too, chasing back and forth energetically as I struggled to keep the kite away from its slobbering jaws.

On Saturday we also took a short drive to Portmeirion, described as an "Italianate" resort village. Designed in the 1920s  by English architect Sir Bertram Clough Williams-Ellis - no doubt the bane of his roll-call teacher at school - the village consists of a number of brightly painted buildings set in elaborate gardens with fountains, a smattering of impressive statues and the ubiquitous white balustrading. You have to pay for the privelege of wandering Portmeirion's streets and browsing the many naff boutiques (we paid the half price fare of £3.50 for arriving after 3pm). Kel reckoned it was a bit like Hunter Valley Gardens; I thought it more like stepping into Ken Done's Mediterranean fantasy world. Now there's an rather disturbing idea for a theme park...

Le Tour Toujours (The Tour Forever)

The 2009 Tour de France was supposed to be all about Lance, and if you followed the media coverage, it certainly was. But it was also pretty clear that things didn't pan out the way the 7-time champ had planned. He wound up standing on the third step of the podium in Paris, not the top, and played second fiddle to his own team-mate, Alberto Contador, for most of the race.

The last time Kel and I watched Lance pedal past was in 2003, standing on the side of the road of the Tour's first significant climb, the Col de la Ramaz. As ridiculously stupid as it may sound, waiting for 4 or so hours to watch a professional bike race pass by in a few seconds is actually not a bad way to spend your day. So why not give it another shot?

We watched 4 stages of the 2009 Tour; downhill finishes in the alpine villages of Bourg Saint Maurice and Le Grand Bornand, the individual time trial around Annecy and the final circuit of the Champs Elysee in Paris.

On a hot afternoon at Bourg Saint Maurice we packed a french picnic (baguette, cheese, jambon & other goodies) with our boxing kangaroo flag and walked for about 5 kilometres up the mountain until we found a quiet, shady space (see photo above). This proved to be a masterstroke for collecting the various pieces of crap thrown by the publicity caravan as it drove past.

At Le Grand Bornand we settled for a spot a little closer to the township itself, and as a consequence got friendly with a few of the locals. Bruno, owner of a local boulangerie, took such a shine to our company he ended up searching his shop until he unearthed a suitable gift for us (a Tour de France notebook). After he handed over his present, Bruno assured us that that evening he would be drinking champagne with Tour celebrity Bernard Hinault, as he and Bernard were bestest buddies. Bernard, for those interested in accumulating potentially useless pieces of sporting trivia, is French, a former 5-time winner of the Tour and had the nickname of 'Badger' during his riding days. I'm really not sure why they called him badger, apart from the fact he does seem a bit aloof on the telly.

I think it's not stretching the truth too far to say that you could easily mistake Mr Hinault for a badger if you were visually impaired and had drunk 11 shots of tequila. In other words, it's a ridiculous nickname. Word has it a Tour de France spectator once punched Bernard Hinault in the stomach as he cycled past - probably didn't like badgers, I'd wager. But I digress...

Our next encounter with locals happened soon after. We left Bruno to his Hinault-worshipping ways and wandered up the hill to find a vantage point. Arriving at a suitable location, I soon found myself the focus of attention for two small, curious, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-their-mouths twin girls (see photo, Kellie in white shorts, the twins either side of boy with orange hat). Our efforts at communication were hopeless. The girls thought my command of the French language was hilarious - and rightfully so - so we settled on exchanging greetings (you say bonjour, I say g'day) followed by lame impersonations of a kangaroo. Their parents (in far left of photo) took pity on Kel and I, inviting us in for a coffee, but we declined, having decided to walk further down the road. At this point, about to say 'au revoir', the two girls broke my heart by scurring over to plant a unprompted farewell kiss on my cheek. Priceless moment!

The time trial day in Annecy was a much anticipated showdown between the 'big hitters' in the race, including Armstrong and Contador. The entire town had exploded with people and tour paraphernalia. Determined to get a few autographs from riders, Kellie and I parked ourselves behind the barrier next to the Team Columbia bus and watched the bike mechanics as they prepped each rider's machine. We waited patiently for a glimpse of any of the riders, with a rock band groupie-like obssessiveness. Team Columbia had two Australians in their Tour squad, Michael Rogers (in photo below) and Mark Renshaw, who we thought could be lured over to the barriers provided we: (a) made loud noises in an Aussie drawl; and (b) yelled out the names of their home town (Canberra and Bathurst, respectively). Our strategy worked a treat - they both came over for a chat - most likely because they wanted us to shut up as quickly as possible.

The final stage on the Champs Elysee in Paris was, if I am truthful, a big let-down. The barriers along the famous boulevard were lined about 8-10 deep with fans and it was nigh impossible to get a clear view of the action, much less any spectacle of the Arc de Triomphe looming in the distance. The wall of arms and hands with digital cameras that extended when the peloton passed by was the final straw. We fled the scene to the nearest Metro station before others had the same idea, a disappearance that would have appealed to Cadel Evans given his train-wreck of a Tour performance.

The Venice of The Alps

All of us have a favourite place we like to escape to, right? You know, the sort of place you catch yourself daydreaming about on a mid-week afternoon, wishing you could drop everything and just be there.

For Kel and I, such a place is a mix of natural, coastal vibe with good food and wine - the Noosas and Dunsboroughs of the world are legitimate candidates - if only they weren't so posh and we could afford them. But, ladies and gentlemen, there is now an elephant in our room of dream destinations, and this elephant happens to wear a beret, bites the ends off baguettes and plays a mean accordion. It's Annecy, it's French, and it's very, very beautiful.

It was, in truth, our second visit to Annecy, which lies an hour south of Geneva in the Haute Savoie province of the French Alps. We had camped there for a few days in the sweltering summer of 2003. I remember leaving our poor little tent to bake in the sun to frolic in the clear waters of the alpine lake that borders the city. This time around we pondered over another bout of camping, but once hotel accommodation in the heart of the historic old town district was secured, the tent never stood a chance.

Our hotel, Le Royal Résidence de Tourisme (http://www.le-royal.fr/), was perfect. It is clean, has a modern fit-out, and while our room was small, it featured a kitchenette for self-catering. Sandra and Elodie, two of the hotel's three concierges, were friendly and immensely helpful - recommending restaurants, a good boulangerie (vital) and laughing politely at French spoken with an Australian twang. In fact, the night we arrived, Kel and I ditched our bags and took a late dinner at La Freti - a 'must' for regional specialties according to Sandra. It didn't disappoint. I ate enough Reblochon cheese (in the fondue and tartiflette) to be constipated for a year. Seriously delicious, as you can tell from our smiles (and I already appear to be sitting uncomfortably).

It is ridiculously easy to fill in a day at Annecy. You can wander the cobbled streets of the old town, crisscrossing a canal that connects to the lake. There's loads of cafes and restaurants, boutiques (that have a bizarre penchant for white linen outfits) and, most importantly for Kel, an assortment of glace artisans (ice creameries). You can stroll around, sunbake by, or jump into, the picturesque lake. If you're feeling adventurous and need to be relieved of large sums of cash, you can hire a pedal boat or motor boat. There are enormous mountains nearby that you can hike to, climb up or ride over the top of. Some words of warning though: don't expect to be able to navigate a vehicle in the city centre's one-way road system (I became trapped in a bus-only zone and almost picked up a group of ticket-waving pensioners), and be prepared to drive halfway to Marseilles before you can find a free carpark.

Annecy had successfully bid for a stage in the 2009 Tour de France - a individual time trial around the lake, no less. The crazy travelling circus that is 'Le Tour' had permeated the atmosphere of the city well ahead of it's actual arrival - shop windows were full of posters and yellow streamers, while laneways were adorned with flags made from replica yellow, green and red-polka dot jerseys signifying the leader, best sprinter and best climber of the race.

While the tour had lured us back to this lovely piece of France, Kellie and I came to the conclusion that there are many more reasons why we should return - including a visit during winter to tackle the snow-covered slopes of the Alps. To paraphrase Arnie "The Governator" Schwarzenegger (and because I couldn't be arsed coming up with something original): "We'll be back".

Fun & Games on French Roads

France is obsessed with roundabouts.

I happen to think the roundabout is a pretty nifty bit of road furniture as well, but not when you tackle it an anti-clockwise direction like your average Frenchie. It's even weirder when you are obliged to reach for the gear-stick on your right hand side mid-roundabout, and then signal to exit the roundabout using an indicator lever to the left of the steering wheel rather than your right.

Therefore I firmly believe it was through some benign Act of God that, over the last 10 days, Kel or I did not wind up stalled in the middle of a French roundabout, peering at a stream of oncoming traffic through a frenzy of windscreen wiper blades.

On Saturday the 18th, about 10.30pm at Charles De Gaulle Airport (Paris), a foolish Budget Rental Car employee gave me the keys of Opel hatchback. I reckon it took me 30 minutes to muster enough courage just to start the engine. On the centre console lay a hand-written list of directions to Troyes, a city 2 hours away and host to our Formula 1 hotel for the night. The list suddenly looked more complex than a quadratic equation. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach. Nervous sweat flooded my t-shirt. Why was I making such a big deal of this?

Out on the road, anxiety was replaced by a growing confidence. Indeed, we made it to the hotel almost on time. Motorway directions were ignored and intuition trusted. I clambered into our bed that night feeling exhausted from an overload of nervous energy, but also secretly proud of myself.

Without doubt though, my crowing moment on French roads came the next morning after Kellie and I left the hotel carpark. Rounding a corner, Kel spotted a Gendarme by the side of road. The Gendarme had just finished speaking to another motorist, and glanced at our vehicle as he stood up. Kel was sure he wanted us to pull over. I wasn't completely convinced, but visions of a high-speed police pursuit followed by 24 hours in a cell with a smelly man called Jean-Pierre encouraged me to follow Kellie's urgings.

I stopped the car and wound down my window. For the next 2 minutes, Mr Gendarme and I went on a wonderful verbal mystery tour together.

He started by looking down at me in a bemused fashion, blurting out several indecipheral French phrases, and waiting expectantly. Not one to be outdone, I tried to wow him with my best Austro-French, stating confidently that I was from Australia and was going to Annecy. I was genuinely surprised when these two facts failed to impress him. He shot me the sort of look a father might give to a son who has wet himself in public.

With some expansive hand flourishes, Mr Gendarme tried again to communicate to me, rattling through a host of French words that sounded like friendly questions, but to my ears they could have been the rantings of the Swedish chef from The Muppets. I put on my best confused frown and stared at the dashboard. It was apparent that neither of us had any chance of understanding each other, and a small, awkward period of silence followed. Mr Gendarme and I pretended to looked off into the distance, searching for any distraction that might excuse ourselves from an increasingly bizarre situation.

I faked a cough, he smiled thinly, Kellie let out an nervous chuckle. Taking my cue, I fired up the engine and drove off, almost stalling the car in the rush to disappear. What's more, I'm pretty sure the Gendarme didn't even bother to turn and watch us go.

Tasmania on Steroids, Part 1

The title of this post is the only way I can accurately describe my recent trip to Scotland. After visiting the North-West Highlands for a week, I was duly impressed and have etched the evocative landscapes into my memory banks for safekeeping.

The trip was, in an official capacity, classified as ‘work’, but I’d wager that most people would struggle to see it that way. I flew into Inverness with a work colleague who is researching angling and young people, Natalie. We were collected from the airport by Adam, one of the Substance directors and head of the angling project. From there we drove to Perth (that’s the original Perth in Scotland, for those of you playing at home) and spent a couple of days pressing the flesh with angling folk at the Scottish Game Fair, held in the grounds of Scone Palace (http://www.scone-palace.co.uk/content/view/2/3/). As far as a spectacle goes, I can’t think of an Aussie equivalent. Try combining an country agricultural show with the sort of crowd who might cheer for The King’s School at a Head of the River regatta, and sprinkle in the odd bogan attired in camouflage gear and wellies (gumboots). Then add the thumping percussion of shotgun noise from a nearby shooting range, and you’re getting close.

The clear favourite for us, though, was the performing troupe of sheep choreographed by Kiwi shepherd who loved hamming (or should it be lambing?) it up for the crowd. Take a look for yourself.

When we pulled ourselves away from the tweed jackets and deer-antler furniture on display at the fair, it was a four-hour drive to our accommodation north of Lochinver, on the North-West coast (http://www.undiscoveredscotland.co.uk/lochinver/lochinver/; this website is particularly good if you want to see photos of the landscape and villages in the surrounding area). The car trip took us through some delightfully rugged country; bulging rocky crags swirling with low cloud, rushing streams of Highland water and lonely white cottages that the Scots seem to adore. It was a blissful escape from the social claustrophobia I felt amongst Scone’s genteel crowd.

Adam, Natalie and I bunkered down for 5 days at Culkein, in a holiday-letting version of the ubiquitous white cottage (closest building in the photo at left). Small crofts (farms) and views of the sea at Eddrachillis Bay filled our windows. It was beautiful and accessible only by a single lane road. A great place to write a PhD, I thought, but I guess I don’t have to worry about that anymore, do I??

We somehow managed to fit a lot of work and play into each day, an achievement facilitated by the massive amounts of sunlight on offer at this time of the year. We went fishing after dinner most evenings, returning home as the light began to fade around midnight. Adam, pictured below, shows off some mackerel that he caught off rocks about a 30 minute walk from our cottage. I caught plenty of fish too; it’s just that they happened to be either unknown to science (the yet-to-be-named “orange spotty rock fish”), undersized, or a combination of both. In my view I was just keeping the other fish busy so Adam could do his thing, you see...

High Life in the Lanes

I know, I know. It has been a while between posts. I can't think of any legitimate excuses, and I can't blame a lack of material because there's been plenty happening...

Which brings us to this post. As new members of our neighbourhood group, the Didsbury Lanes Association, Kel & I received an invite to the annual Laneway Residents Festival. For the grand sum of £5 a head, we were promised 6 hours of food from local restaurants, wine and beer, music and entertainment. Good deal? You better believe it! As you can see from the photo below, Kel wasted no time securing a glass of vino bianco.

Our fellow festival-goers were a mix of young families, retirees, young professionals and the ubiquitous local Member of Parliament. The 'theme' of the festival was European; but, regrettably, nobody had the foresight to arrange a Eurovision-style song contest. In fact, to my gross disappointment there was very little Euro-kitsch on display anywhere, with the exception of several enterprising young kids who came dressed in their finest Swiss milk-maid and Gerrard Depardieu costumes.

The range of food on offer was astounding, given the meagre entry price. Spanish paella (see accompanying photo), Scottish haggis, Italian fettucini and penne pasta, Irish stew, and...errr...Indian samosas (note to festival organisers: unless I'm horribly mistaken, India is NOT part of the EU).

True to form, I was roped into organising and running an activity - boules (or petanque, or bocce, depending on your euro-perspective). To my complete astonishment the boule tournament, played in the backyard of nearby resident, was a hit with the locals and gobbled up at least 2 hours of festivities. It was a divine miracle that I happened to coordinate semi-intoxicated people hurling heavy metal balls into the air without any property damage or minor flesh wounds occurring.

It stands to reason that next year the theme will be Australian and I will be asked to stage-manage the entire event, write funding applications and convince Peter-Russell Clarke to come out of retirement and whip up a pavlova or two. Watch this space.

More of the Moors, Please...

After a day walking about the Dark Peak section of the Pennine Ranges, I have come to the conclusion that Heathcliff of Wuthering Heights fame was on to a good thing: to wander about the moors is actually a pretty nice occupation, thank you very much. While Emily Bronte scripted Heathcliff and the moors as having brooding and mysterious qualities, our experience was quite the opposite. Bathed in brilliant sunshine, the upland moors between Manchester and Sheffield were a canvas for all things green, lush and earthy.

A train from Manchester ferried us up to Edale, a tiny hamlet of stone buildings with a church and a few pubs. A myriad of walks, strolls, hikes and rambles emanate from Edale - it was just a matter of us deciding how energetic and adventurous we felt. True to form, Kel and I settled on the 'ridiculously-fit-and-overly-ambitious" option, a 19-kilometre epic that nearly circumnavigated the entire valley and, fittingly, ended in a beergarden.

Our walk included a scramble up a narrow rocky gully, an encounter with a pair of red-grouse (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_Grouse) and the spectacle of a nervous mountain biker flipping over his handle bars during a tricky descent. After a week working in the urban jigsaw of the city, the sensation of open space was delicious. Although we were by no means alone in our wanderings, there were a few moments of solitude which have been burned into the memory banks.

The Edale area sits within the Peak District National Park, which itself is about 30 minutes drive for millions of Northerners. You'd expect the place to be overrun with people, given its location, but I felt much more at ease here than in Chester. The landscape is not as physically imposing as the Blue Mountains or the Barrington Tops, but shares some of the 'rounded' hilltop characteristics that can be found in the Snowy Mountains. The dry stone walls are a treat, and the farm pastures particularly verdant for anyone who has grown up in an arid climate. To paraphrase Arnie Schwartznegger: "we'll be back".

Patrick the Perfect Kid!

Hey, it's Kel here...well I thought it was finally time to push Stolky aside and take some ownership of this blog!

Life for me has been quite relaxing, to say the least. I've feathered the nest (see pics of our basic home), read numerous books, had the luxury of many lie-ins, and run along the river Mersey most days, greeting fellow runners and dog walkers. All this pleasure has been the result of a delay in the processing of my teaching registration here in the UK. After a month of rest and recovery, I never thought I would say the words..."I want to get back to work"! Of course, if I were at home surrounded by family and friends, I don't think I would ever wish for this, but more £ means more travel!

Anyway, in my search for alternatives to earn money, I thought I would try my luck in the waitressing department, and was lucky to score a few stints in the upmarket 'Loch Fyne' seafood resturant. I also registered myself on the UK website 'Gumtree' for some work as a nanny during the school holidays.

After a few stints at the 'Loch Fyne', I realised that it was not the greatest pay and it also meant working late on weekend evenings...all of which are not conducive for weekend getaways with my husband!

As for the nannying work...that was a winner! I had the pleasure of spending a few nights and days during the mid-term school holidays hanging with Patrick the 11-year old British-born/Australian/Czech cricket fan and chef! We had a ball together. We filled our days playing cricket, Aussie rules, frisbee, and football (see pics). We also enjoyed bike riding along the canals and stopping off for a picnic in the park (see pics) and challenging each other to 'synchronised swimming' events in the local pool. I didn't find it necessary to include any pictures of my uncoordinated legs exiting the water in an attempt to perform an 'underwater handstand with a triple scissor kick manoeuvre'.

When the weather turned feral, which is rather common here in Manchester, we resorted to playing 'Manchester Monopoly' and 'Go Fish' cards....all of which I was annihilated by an 11 year old. Despite this, my biggest joy of the whole experience, was Patrick's passion for culinary delights. We baked mars bar cheese cakes, and in the words of Patrick,"fancied omelettes for lunch" and ate "gorgeous cheese". We shared cooking duties...I a basic chicken/tomato bake and Patrick a "potato gratin"! Who would have ever thought an 11 year old would love eating olives, anchovies, sardines and VEGETABLES! ...he does aspire to be the next Jamie Oliver, so look out.

Another bonus to stem from this fabulous job, was that Stolky and I were then invited back a week later to enjoy a family BBQ with the whole family. We learnt that they are actually heading to Sydney to live and work this September, and we may just buy their car for cheap. So all in all, Perfect Patrick turned out to be a good gig...money, food, friends and perhaps a set of wheels.

Ain't No Roman Wall High Enough

Chester might have the most complete city walls in all of Britain, but when the Romans constructed them they sure as heck weren't counting on an invasion by thirsty, sun-loving Scousers (Liverpudlians). Then again, neither were we.

Our first overnight excursion from Didsbury took us through rural Cheshire to this former Roman fortress (known as Deva Victrix), close to the Welsh border. It is very much a tourist town nowadays, a fact we naively brushed aside given that we had arrived on a bank holiday long weekend. Our trip coincided with a burst of English sunshine that sparked locals and visitors alike into a manic, irrational contest for the nearest outdoor table on the banks of the River Dee - seemingly to guzzle lager and bask like albino seals. I was terrified; the photo shows me rapidly searching our guidebook for clues to avoiding crowds of sunburnt Brits.

When we eventually escaped the riverside masses, I quite enjoyed our tour of the city's attractions. We wandered along sections of the wall and through a historic cobbled shopping district called 'The Rows', watched re-creations of Roman patrols and marvelled at the Chester Cathedral (see below). Just don't ask me to go back there on a public holiday...

Didsbury's Tribute to Peter Cundall

The flier we'd received in our mailbox said the day's planting activity was to commence at 10am. Curious to see the 'Didsbury Lanes Association' in action, Kel and I wandered the streets near our place around 11am one Sunday morning. We rounded a corner and there they were in all their glory: a handful of 50- and 60-something ladies wielding pot plants and wheelbarrows whilst barking orders to an odd assortment of small children, attentive mothers and several men who seemed pretty unsure about their role in the whole thing. If Peter Cundall was still doing his thing on the ABC's Gardening Australia show, he would have undoubtedly described the scene as "bloomin' marvellous".

In an unlikely twist, when doing some research for this post I discovered Mr Cundall is, in fact, a former Mancunian (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Cundall for his bio). And yes, I confess I do not have a life and actually devote time 'researching' for my blog...

We said g'day to all and sundry, the ladies sized us up, and within minutes Kellie and I were given hanging baskets and a set of directions. Happy planting! According to Anton, the current president of the Lanes Association, Manchester City Council supplies the soil, seedlings and various paraphernalia. Volunteers (like us) do the 'donkey work' of planting and watering...and hey presto, you have a floral mardi gras in the making. See picture at left of a donkey about to be put to work.

We met loads of people on the day, with Kellie befriending a retired primary school teacher named Sylvie. We dropped in just last night to say hello and ended up leaving 3 1/2 hours (and 3 bottles of red wine) later. She practically pushed us out the door with a trio of rainbow trout that her husband Mike had caught plus a Bill Bryson novel for me to read. The generosity of people in the North really can be astounding - although having an Australian accent certainly helps.

No Fish-Kissing Please, We're British

Several weekends ago (yes, I know, I'm getting behind in this blogging thing) I was introduced to another quirky past-time here in the Old Blighty: coarse fishing competitions.

For unenlightened folk, which until recently included me, coarse fishing comprises fresh water-based fishing that aims to catch fish species which are, well, 'coarse'. If you think of coarse as meaning rough, or perhaps unsophisticated, you're getting warm. Carp happens to be at the top of many a coarse fishermen's list, which says a lot about the activity, if you ask me...

My mission was to travel down to a man-made lake near Birmingham and observe the creme-de la-creme of British coarse fishers as they endeavoured to catch as many fish as they could over a 4 hour period. I found it hilarious that the lake is sited in the middle of a golf course, envisaging fish and fishermen being peppered with errant drives off the 18th tee. In fact, there is a golf green positioned on the lake's island (see photo). I wonder if they issue fishermen with helmets?

The press release I received had promoted the event as:

"the greatest spectacle of international angling ever seen"

Suitably impressed by this glowing endorsement, I was rather excited about being part of a "spectacle", expecting an extravaganza of baited hooks and quivering rods. See the video footage of me below:

Sadly, I have to report that there was a vast gulf between my expectations and the reality of the day. The Gulf of Carpentaria would be a good size approximation. I think I spotted 3 fish being caught in 2 hours. Instead of being proudly shown off to an adoring crowd, when fish were landed they were furtively stuffed into holding nets, with 1 or 2 passers-by feigning some interest in proceedings. Here's a photo of the fishers in action, with absolutely no emphasis on the word 'action' whatsoever. And yes, your eyes are not failing you, they are using poles, not rod and reels...

If I was in any doubt about taking an early mark from this pure riot of colour and movement, the fickle English weather sealed the deal. I arrived hopelessly underprepared for the squalls that were skidding across a darkening sky, thus it wasn't long before I was wet, cold and at the wrong end of the lake to get a cab back into town. So, I did what any self-respecting Aussie would do when the chips are down, and promptly legged it across the nearest muddy field in the general direction of home...

Cool for Dogs, Too...

In the wake of my last post and the interests of balanced reporting, I should point out that Didsbury is also a haven for dog enthusiasts. The open banks of the River Mersey (see photos below) and nearby Fletcher Moss public gardens are the most popular pooch hang-outs.

So far we've dodged slobbering Flat-Coated Retrievers, struck up conversation with the golf-loving owner of an ageing West Highland Terrier and been partially mounted by a dog of questionable bloodlines. But the other day Kel and I witnessed our most impressive canine performance yet.

We were jogging along the river when we noticed a man throwing a stick into the water for his mutt to fetch. Nothing out of the ordinary there, you might say, except the 'stick' in question had more in common with a small tree. The dog, undaunted by the task at hand, would dive into the river, open his jaws wide enough to grasp the log and then somehow haul it up the steep bank to his master. This process was repeated about half a dozen times, with the dog showing no signs of weariness or flagging enthusiasm. I am convinced the dog is either insanely strong or insanely stupid; perhaps both in equal doses.

The photos below show our 'special' dog doing his thing in the River Mersey.

Cool for Cats

They mince, they mooch and they're everywhere.

The laneways of Didsbury where Kel and I live appear to be one big funpark for the many moggies we've spotted since moving in to Whitechapel Street. The fellow on the left regularly ventures out on to the first floor window sill of a house across the road. He keeps a close watch on pedestrians from his perch, but didn't seem to keen to be snapped by the passing paparazzi.

'Cat-spotting' has become something a hobby for us, but it may now be bordering on mild obsession in my case - given that I tend to scramble for the camera every time a flickering tail or twitching whisker comes into view...

A Green That Hurts Your Eyes

You can't half tell that summer is just around the corner here. The deciduous trees are a crazy shade green and in full bloom. It certainly helps that Didsbury has some lovely tracts of green space - from formal parks and gardens to sports fields to pockets of woodlands. In addition to this, the River Mersey (as in the Beatles song) actually runs behind the village itself, and has loads of walking tracks. This far inland, the river is just a fraction of its size at Liverpool - you don't need a ferry to cross it!

The photo on the left was taken at Fletcher Moss, a beautiful formal garden just around the corner from our place. The entrance to the garden is, in typical English style, wedged between two pubs!

Last weekend Kel actually did a waitressing trial at a restaurant housed in one of the pubs. It is called the Loch Fyne and is a rather posh seafood restaurant. The wages, however, are a throwback to Manchester's 19th century cotton mills, so I'm guessing she'll drop any commitment to the job once teaching work is available. But I'll let her tell you all about it in her own posting soon.

On the right is a pic of the Didsbury Presbyterian Church, which is also close to our apartment. While I don't know the architectural influence (I'm guessing Gothic?), it's definitely an impressive structure.

In an upcoming blog: "The Cats of Didsbury". A must for feline lovers and haters alike. Bet you can't wait for that one...

Abu Dhabi Mosaics and Putney Pints

Now I'm a little more savvy with this whole blog set-up, I thought I might post a few pics that look back at our arrival several weeks ago.

The first leg of our trip to the UK involved a 14 hour flight to Abu Dhabi, capital of the UAE (and just down the road from the Middle East's version of Surfers Paradise, Dubai). We had a stop-over in the rather small airport terminal, which, on the positive side, featured some lovely blue and green tiled arches.

After a noisy and restless 6 hours in this terminal waiting for our plane to Heathrow, we walked to our departure gate...only to find that, to our chagrin, Etihad (our carrier) had recently completed an enormous new (and blissfully peaceful) terminal a short walk away. Quite bizzarely the walkway to this mecca for weary travellers was not signposted, and was well-hidden behind an inconspicuous door. Religious symbolism in the Middle East - who would have thought?

Our arrival in London, and subsequent tube transfer to Brixton (South London) was smooth. Dean, our mate from Dixon Park SLSC, met us at the station and chaperoned us onto the correct bus to his place at Streatham Heath. Once all our bags were safely inside, Nerida (Dean's partner), let out excited yelps that threatened the integrity of house's double-glazed windows.

The following day, Anzac Day, we did what every self-respecting Australian does on this important occasion and, err, had a beer (there was some intention of attending the dawn service, but suspicions of impending jet-lag quickly ended the thought).

Photos below show us enjoying the sun, a view of the Thames at Putney, and a good old catch-up.