Fiery Rednut up to no good

Gallery: Red Shorts in the Balkans

auspep — Sun, 14 Jan 2007 00:59:00 GMT

Gallery: New Years Balkan Road Trip

auspep — Sun, 14 Jan 2007 00:27:00 GMT

New Year's Eve in Macedonia

auspep — Fri, 5 Jan 2007 23:23:00 GMT

After some heavy drinking over Christmas I set off with Colin, an Aussie I met in Bratislava, for new years in Macedonia. No one in Barcelona could understand exactly why I was going there, but I dodged their criticisms and it turned out to be the best new years celebration I have had and one unforgettable road trip.

We landed in Munich on Boxing Day afternoon and Uwe, our chauffer, was waiting at the gate. We caught up over coffee for about an hour until Dorota, another ex Barcelona trainee arrived from Poland. So with all the introductions and reuniting out of the way we packed the boot of the car and set off towards Graz to where we were to meet the last person before continuing on.

What was that saying again? "The best laid plans of mice and men", yeah that was it. It seems as though our haphazard planning of this trip didn't take into account the greasy conditions on the road around Munich airport. So, on the first on ramp to the motorway we careered over the side barrier and into a sign post that was intended to tell us to slow down.

After the police, the "yellow angels" and the storm clouds threatening our road trip had cleared, we found ourselves in quite a nice little hotel in Munich being paid for by Uwe's insurance. So we killed a night and a day in Munich, seeing the sites and sampling the beer and met back at the mechanics around 3pm the next afternoon. The car was totally drivable but just looked like a really fat person had sat on the bonnet. Good enough for us so we headed to Graz to meet Werner who showed us the sights of his city and took us for some beer and that wiener schnitzel I never got to have in Vienna.

Up early the next morning for a brisk walk up the Schlossberg then we were off, with Dubrovnik our target. Those mice must have been nibbling at our plans again over night because when we stopped for petrol just after Zagreb the spanner fell into the cogs. I inhaled a cream doughnut as I hadn't eaten much all day and I perused the pages of a lonely planet guide to the western Balkans. I was previously a little stressed about my needing a visa for passing through countries like Serbia and Bosnia. But I found out it was all clear. I flicked over to Macedonia, which I was sure was fine, but the spanner dropped right there. Aussies need a visa, shit. What was worse, New Zealanders didn't, those bastards.

After some broken English conversations with the service station workers, we explained our predicament and eventually got hold of an address for the Macedonian embassy in Zagreb. We rang the embassy and whittled down their offer of "be here in half an hour", to an hour and ten minutes. Back on the motorway doing 160km/h found us in Zagreb with no map and lots of traffic and one way streets. Eventually got the visa after some calls to Macedonia and we were back on our way.

160km/h is ok for Germans driving BMW's on the autobahn, however we were a very over loaded Opel Astra, the roads were good though and we made good time down to Split. We arrived fairly late and decided to stop there for the night, but dinner seemed more important to us than a bed. Funnily enough they both came from the same place. We ducked into a nice little Croatian restaurant around the corner from where we parked the car. After eating, Uwe asked the waiter if he knew any cheap places to stay. Not long after, we were following him down an alley behind the restaurant and into a nice little private apartment within walking distance of the city centre. We investigated the city but decided to head to bed pretty early because of the long drive ahead of us tomorrow, none of knew quite how long it would turn out to be.

We swayed back and forth down the windy road from Split to Dubrovnik and arrived there for lunch, later than we expected. We sat in the sun on the outside of the city wall away from the wind and had a beer. We were all so relaxed we didn't want to move from Dubrovnik, we also didn't know what to expect after there. A quick swim in the chilly winter waters of the Adriatic woke us up and we headed back to the car to continue on.

We were right to be a little apprehensive about the next part of the journey, the 400kms or so took us 12 hours to cover, but it was a very memorable drive. We pasted so many new things in that drive but there were a few stand outs. Relaxing on the ferry across one of the lakes as we admired the mountains around. Climbing up the mountains away from the sea and into the middle of Montenegro as the sun was setting. Stopping for coffee in the middle of the mountains at a little town with icy streets. Nervously waiting at the UN border post as we tried to enter Kosovo. Seeing our first blue hated UN soldiers standing next to their white tanks. Seeing a big KFOR road block, guarded by guys with big guns. Driving through rubble strewn streets with a large razor wired fence protecting a military base on one side. Arriving in Skopje, at 2.30am, and going straight to a nightclub.

Leaving the nightclub at closing time we headed back to Desi's house, our host for the New Years period. She told us we can't go to sleep because there is a bus coming at seven to take us out to the lake. OK, sweet, so we stayed up and got on the bus rather drunken and promptly feel asleep. There are photos of me awake on that trip, but no memories. We woke up three hours later at Lake Ohrid in the mountains in the south of Macedonia. We couldn't resist another chilly dip in the lake, this time not for quite so long, it was bloody cold. Desi showed us the sites of the city and worked up an appetite for my first taste of cevapcici. Not bad at all.

Once again no rest when we got back to Desi's, hung about talking and polishing off some Albanian brandy I bought duty free in Montenegro. Then off to an awesome restaurant for a traditional Macedonian meal, washed down with beer, wine and rajkia. That was followed by some traditional dancing in the restaurant as the band sparked into life. So we all twirled hand in hand, back and forth around the crowed restaurant until it was time to head out to a night club.

After dealing with the beggar children clinging to our legs in the line, and noticing the "no guns" sign on the front door, we headed into "Betwo". We spent the rest of the night there and polishing off plenty of vodka and Red Bull in own little private area. Not exactly sure what happened that night, but I woke up back at Desi's just in time to see her on Sunday morning TV. So weird seeing someone you know on television, especially because I had seen her not that many hours before dancing and partying like crazy.

Desi returned home and took us all for a tour of the centre of Skopje. We spent half the time trying to change money on a Sunday and ending up doing it at a bakery. The other half was spent admiring the old part of the city as our tour guide explained everything as we went along. We had a late lunch in a nice restaurant near the main square, dusted off a few beers and crashed at Desi's house when we arrived home. After a quick few hours we got up and readied ourselves for what was my best new years celebration to date.

Enter scattered memories here!

The party started early and finished late with different crowds of people sweeping through over the hours. Most had one thing in common, they were all very well boozed. When looking at the mountain of alcoholic liquids before the party started, we thought maybe Desi bought too much. No. At some hour of the morning someone was sent out to acquire another six liters of vodka, only a fraction of that which was already drunk. After that was promptly polished, a huge tub of sangria appeared. Oh my. So the music, strobe lights, sparklers and fireworks continued into the night until I heard the sound of trumpets, drums and other assorted horn instruments bustling through the door.

Around 1.30, I think, the Gypsy band that Desi organized arrived. It was unlike anything I have ever seen, or heard. The music just made you want to dance and shake around. The musicians scattered themselves throughout the room and blasted their music into the wanting ears of all and sundry. After tucking a few hundred dinar into their coat pockets I let the honking of a French horn envelope my face and body and watched the two or three people dancing on chairs in the middle of the room. The party was absolutely unstoppable at this stage, too much fun.

The gypsy band left and the party kept on going into the small hours, fuelled by hard house music and vodka. Eventually the punters thinned out those who hadn't lived in Spain got tired and retired for the night. Those left awake decided it was a good idea to play hockey in the main room with a little soccer ball and foam covered sticks. We figured the room couldn't get any dirtier than it already was.

Eventually there was only the two Aussie left. True to form, we were too drunk to lie down in one spot without the room swimming around us. So we went for a walk. To the closest bar we could find open. They were closing up and counting the money for the night but they were very welcoming and fed us a few more beers. After talking shit with them for an hour or so, the owner decided he would take us to his friends coffee shop and buy us a little wake up. So in the back of his car we screamed across town and made small talk. Coffee was good and I learnt a little about the history of the region from this guy, if only I could remember.

New Year's Day wasn't filled with leftovers, beach and cricket like it is in Aus. More like very hardcore dregging out and one hell of a large clean up mission. It got done but we just couldn't get rid of the dank alcohol smell, meh, time heals all wounds. After a video session we headed out to the last of Desi's organized trips that I would get to take part in.

After downing a few beverages, singing a few songs and enjoying the view of Skopje from the mountain behind the city, we pilled back in the minibus and headed out towards some hot springs. We found ourselves out in the darkness with a little thermal pool bubbling at our feet. Didn't take long for us to get starkers and jump in, it was bloody freezing. But the warm sulfurous water soon warmed us and soothed the alcohol induced aches and pains. With candles around and plenty of skin to look at, it was the perfect end to 4 days in Macedonia.

The five Opel Astra companions were up early again to hit the road for long but fairly uneventful trip back home. Uneventful the whole way except for my little effort at driving. It being my first time driving on the wrong side of side, with the wheel on the wrong side of the car, I found it a little disconcerting. When the rain started coming down in torrents I suddenly found the roads in southern Serbia a little scary. When I aquaplaned doing 140 km/h I thought it was time to change the driver again.

So we arrived back to Graz and said our goodbyes to Werner and Colin and continued to Munich the next day and jumped a plane back to good old Barcelona.

Such an awesome experience and it was really good to see everyone again, but equally as difficult to say goodbye. Hopefully we can all meet up again for New Years in Brazil to see what Amanda can organize for us.

Big thanks have to go out to Desi, Vlado and everyone in Macedonia who looked after us. Also Uwe for putting his car up for the road trip and also for doing some of the longest driving stretches ever. Werner for sitting on 160 km/h down the motorway. Pretty much love and thanks to everyone. It was an unforgettable experience.

Gallery: A weekend in Roma

auspep — Sun, 17 Dec 2006 04:12:00 GMT

One great weekend in a fantastic city

Gallery: Spain has more than FIESTA!!!

auspep — Sat, 28 Oct 2006 21:18:00 GMT

The best of the rest....

Gallery: FIESTA FIESTA

auspep — Sat, 28 Oct 2006 20:54:00 GMT

Photos from some of the fiestas in Spain

Thumbing it

auspep — Fri, 11 Aug 2006 23:31:00 GMT

I packed my rucksack in tandem with a father and son packing their things for another day mountaineering. We got chatting and I explained what I’ve been doing, where I’m going etc etc and that I was going to try to hitch hike for the first time that morning. They offered me a lift down to the main road, but I had to say goodbye to the Germans. I was hoping that getting a lift would prove that easy later on.

I strolled down the road into Glencoe for the last time and said my goodbyes to the girls. I was nervous. I had never hitch hiked before, but I was keen to see how it would go. After reading Kerouac and chatting on some hitchhiking websites I thought I had a decent idea of how o get a lift. So I found a good spot near the end of town with plenty of room for a car to stop. Plopped my bag down beside me. The girls walked past me and down into Ballahulish and I gave them one last wave before raising my arm and pointing my thumb out.

Definitely weird for me. It’s amazing to watch the people’s faces as they drive past you. You can see them making an assessment of you in that five second flash as they drive past you. I was doing the same. I wasn’t long before I had a grin on my face. Probably because I had only been there for a few minutes. Not being the most patient of people I was wondering how I would be in an hour if hadn’t gotten a lift. No need to worry. Only 15 minutes in and a car pulled over. Shit. What do I do now?

I ran down with my stuff and shook hands with a middle aged blonde woman. Threw my things in the boot and we were off. Sweet. We passed the Germans a little way down the road and I couldn’t resist reaching across the woman and beeping the horn. She looked at me a little strangely but when I waved to the two girls and they waved back she was cool.

So my first lift was a good one. She didn’t look like Ivan Milat so I was happy for that. She talked for about40 minutes non-stop, which was good for me as I’m not the most talkative of characters. She loved Scotland and told me lots of things about the place I didn’t know, and some that I didn’t want to know. She was a single middle aged mother who lived on the Isle of Skye and a really cool woman. But she lost a bit of respect in my books when she told me that for her daughters 14^th birthday she took her on holidays. They went to Prague for a long weekend and she took her daughter out clubbing and then sat around smoking weed for two days. Yeah that’s heaps cool lady. Anyway she was giving me lift so I didn’t say anything.

So after declining her offer to go and stay her on the Isle of Skye I got dropped off at Kyle of Lochalsh. I ambled on down the road and found another spot to stick out my thumb. Had a bite to eat and waited for about 40 minutes this time. Not bad.

Colin the policeman was a nice guy. Father of two, long distance kayaker and at one time in his youth a hitch hiker as well. He told me all about the police force in Scotland and also a lot about long distance kayaking. We also pondered on the myth of the Loch Ness monster as we drove up along the side of the Loch.

We arrived in Inverness just after lunch and he dropped off right at the door of the youth hostel. He gave me his phone number and told me if I wanted some good food to give him a ring and his wife would cook up a nice baked dinner. Ok cheers, see you later. No I am not your long lost son. Nah but he was cool.

Three days later, very, very hungover standing on the side of a main road on the outskirts of Inverness. Around 8 or 9 in the morning, the icy wind blowing in across the harbour seemed to find its way to my skin through every tiny hole in my multiple layers of clothing. Yep I was freezing my tittles off and had been out there for an hour with the only sign of my getting a lift being a car full of teenagers pulling over and then speeding off again. I wasn’t thinking of leaving but I was thinking what I would do if I did leave. Bus? Train? Hang on a second, my saviour had arrived. And he goes by the name of Farquar MacDonald. Yes I was Scotland.

As I threw my stuff into his car I noticed a trend beginning to appear. So far, in my vast experience hitchhiking, all the cars had been dirty. Papers, bags, water bottles, food wrapper etc etc everywhere. I wondered if it was saying something about the type of people that pick up hitchhikers or if it was just my luck.

I looked into the back seat and noted that Farquar was a musician. He had a violin case in the back seat. So we got talking about music, likes and dislikes etc. I found out that he plays the fiddle and the bagpipes, but he produces music that is a blend of traditional Scottish folk with music from across the world. As he reached across me to grab one of his CD’s I noted the large tobacco stain on the end of his finger. We listened to the whole album and it was probably a lot more interesting for me than him, but I loved it. It was the first time I had heard traditional Scottish fiddle lead into a hard breakbeat, nice. We got talking about the history of Scotch whisky as we were driving through the heart of whisky country. Driving through the vast yellow field with large distilleries plopped in the middle kind of reminded me of driving through the vineyards back in the Hunter Valley.

We parted ways at Fochabers as I headed for the coast and Farquar continued down to Aberdeen to play a gig. I wanted to see the Scottish north coast and I wanted to see the ocean again. I had enjoyed the north of Ireland when I was there four years earlier and was hoping to have a similar experience.

I found a quiet place by a river and sat down to have lunch. While spreading nutella on bread with my pocket knife I felt relaxed and enjoyed the sound of the wind through the trees and the water rushing over the rocks. I was also happy that I had no idea where I was, no idea where I was sleeping, no idea how I was getting there but I knew those questions would be answered by the end of the day. And the following day a whole new set of questions would be asked.

Standing outside Fochabers waiting for a lift and it didn’t look good. There were no good spots to wait, there were not many cars coming by, as it was Sunday and the ones that did were old rich people. Some old people are still good value though. As I found out with the guy that stopped to give me a lift. He was just an old codger on his way home from a quick 18 holes. We didn’t talk too much. After introductions and pleasantries we didn’t say another thing until goodbyes and thankyous. Good on him for stopping though.

I got dropped on the corner of two main roads, from which I could look down the hill and out over the ocean. To my left in the distance was the old guys village, the right horizon was dominated by a small town that was my destination. In the middle was the largest pig sty I have ever seen, and ever care to smell again. The thing reeked. Had to be more than a few hundred pigs in there and those suckers really do roll about in the mud and make things stink.

Down the hill was a golf course that ran parallel to the ocean along the shore. I found a seat looking down across the grass and out over the blustery North Sea. Threw my bag down and soaked up the harsh conditions and admired the resilience of the few golfers that were out for a round. Not long before the coastal chill set in and I collected my belongings and set off again.

My only map was one I picked up for free at the last hostel, and it was a map of all the youth hostels in Scotland. So with the vast information to gain from this I packed it deep inside my pack and just followed my nose. It wasn’t long before I found myself on the national cycle way which snaked it’s way around Scotland from village to village along the quieter back roads. It was signposted at each turn with mileages from place to place given. So it was 7 miles to Banff along the cycle way or shorter along the main road, especially if I hitched. But I was feeling good, the sun was shinning and as the route moved away from the coast it was a lot warmer.

I made my way through vast fields of grazing sheep and cattle and wound my way between old farmhouses. Just as I left a small village after stopping for afternoon tea my phone rang. That is weird I thought, no one has this number. So I picked up and it was the mate I was meant to stay with in Aberdeen. Nice! We chatted for about ten minutes and I got the all clear to stay down at his house anytime in the next week. So my high spirits were bolstered even higher.

I ambled into Banff fairly late, around 7pm, and that chilly wind hit me again as it blew in across the historic harbour. It was a quite old town that was once based around a vibrant sea port, however, it has dwindled into tranquil tourist town. As I walked through slowly looking for signs to accommodation two youngish people did laps of the main street, beeping their horn each time they passed. I’m not sure the purpose of this but did it about 25 times, no joke. Probably looking for something to do in a place where exciting things aren’t really hiding around every corner, could have given me a lift the bastards.

After searching high and low for somewhere cheap to stay, I came to conclusion that it was time for a little urban camping. So I set out to find a quiet out of the way spot where I wouldn’t be disturbed. Not so easy to do when every house looks into the bedroom of the next. I eventually found an old railway that ran under the road, a little bit out of town. So I climbed down and set about making some dinner just as it started to rain.

After a surprisingly comfortable sleep, considering in was the tail end of winter and I slept outside in Scotland, I situated myself near the side of the road and hung my thumb out. And that’s where I stayed for the next two hours. Evidently the Banff locals don’t take to kindly to hitchhikers. It was also a Monday morning and most of them were probably heading to work. So back into town I moped to find a bus out that place. So I waited at a bus stop for another 40 minutes or so until I decided to go right into town and actually find out if buses really come to these bus stops. So to heighten my mood further, as I was halfway between bus stops, my ride screamed past. Awesome!

No worries, a bit more waiting and I was on my way, somewhere. A little disgruntled by this stage I got off in a town with the hope of traveling to another town (which I can’t remember the name of), yes after that day I chose to forget the north east of Scotland. But this other town was marked on my high class map, and it apparently had a youth hostel, this was good news.

Waiting around in un-named town for the bus to come along I began to feel rather apprehensive. After studying the bus timetables, destinations, origins, times etc I came to the conclusion that they were all a crock of shit. I had been sitting at this bus stop for 90 minutes now and this frigging bus isn’t coming. A father and son passing by me for the second time in an hour stopped and asked where I was heading. They informed me that the bus I wanted only came once a week, on a Thursday. Explosions inside my head began to occur, my rage was blowing gauges.

At moments like this it’s good to have mates who are relaxed and welcoming. After a quick call I got the all clear to go to Aberdeen a few days early. So, luckily this festering pimple I was stuck in did have daily connections to Aberdeen, I was on the next. Copious amounts of beer drowned my sorrows in Aberdeen while I contemplated the last few days and waited for my mate to finish work.

Just another monday

auspep — Wed, 26 Jul 2006 21:36:00 GMT

After some drunken and hung-over messaging on Saturday night and Sunday morning, I thought I had my Monday sorted. No.

Even though I went to bed early on Sunday, because I was still recovering from Saturday, I didn’t get much sleep. The thick of summer has arrived in Barcelona and my dog kennel of a room heats up at night enough so that I can’t sleep. Groggily I peeled myself off my sweat drenched sheets to the sound of my phones alarm at 6.30. Yay, time to go to work! It wasn’t as difficult to get going because I knew that after work I was heading to the beach to soak up the days last rays of sun with a beautiful Spanish woman. After that the plan was to have a twilight game of soccer up at La Salle university campus and then have a quiet ale. Not too stressful an afternoon really.

Well that all changed once I read my emails. Being in a big group of trainees here in Barcelona, I get these group emails all the time. Usually about where we are going on the weekend, or what is happening, but today NO. The subject of the fated email was something to the effect of “Two girls from iaeste Valencia need somewhere to stay for the night”. Hmm, two random girls need somewhere to stay. I can oblige, I thought. So after a quick reply my mobile was vibrating its way off my desk and I was talking to said random girls about a meeting place for the afternoon. No worries, the middle of Placa Catalunya, 7.30pm.

Oh, fuck. Hot Spanish woman you’re meant to be going to the beach with. Dickhead!

Luckily the Spaniard is as cool as she is hot and there are no worries changing things about with a few suave emails. Phew!

OK, so, meet randoms at 7.30 then play soccer, sweet.

Hour and a half to kill in the city before randoms. Not a problem. I like walking through the city. There are so many street performers down La Rambla and Passeig de Gracia, killing time is easy. The are two break dancing crews that perform on the different streets pretty much every afternoon, well worth a look. Also the usual hordes of drunken tourists getting about. I usually head down to Port Vell, loose the shirt and just soak up the afternoon sun, people watching and listening to some tunes.

7.45. Where are these bitches? Don’t really want to ring them, because I’m a peasant cheapskate. Oh well, they better be hot. On the phone and the reply was, “oh, we think we can see you”. Well, I think my directions were pretty explicit, i.e., look for a 6’3” rednut, wearing a stripy shirt, standing directly in the middle of the huge square. But no, that was too difficult.

Oh my, all is forgiven, they are both hot, but there is guy with them. Go away boy, go away. One is Macedonian the other is Maltese, the boy has a penis, I don’t care where he comes from.

Spanner!!!

They ask me where is Sarah. No. Why do you want Sarah. Oh, we are meeting her here as well. Uh, OK.

Five minutes. Sarah. Hey what happening.

Long story short, the girls stayed at Sarah’s. No worries, her house is better equipped for it. Nothing lost, nothing gained, except two phone numbers and a place to stay in Valencia. I can handle that.

OK, soccer. It’s near my house, so I’ll go home and get a drink first. It’s damn hot.

At home, ring Pau, what’s happening with the soccer. Oh, we will be finished in half an hour, don’t bother coming. Aaarrggghhh, WHAT! No worries what about the beer. Yep beers are still on. Phew…

So I head back out to buy some beer and dinner. Scoff din dins down and have a relaxing beer in front of the air conditioner watching the Spanish news, the pictures were nice at least.

Get the address of beer town via sms, just about out the door and the phone rings. “Hello is this Peter”. Oh what is this shit? It was three Brazilians from Valencia who must have heard about my generous offer of accommodation. “Can we stay at your house?” Yeah, no worries, but I’m going to have a beer, so I’ll meet you at el Putxet station and we go for a beer, OK. OK was the reply.

So I meet them half an hour later outside the station and I’m confronted three backpack wearing sweaty Brazilian men. Excellent. I was keen to taste amber liquid but these boys wanted to drop their shit off and have a shower. Fair enough.

Trek back to my flat again, uphill. Air-con has been turned off, the place is sauna. The Brazilians are nearly as good at procrastinating as the Spaniards are, so we are a good hour fucking around at home.

Back out on the street at 11.40pm. Last train at the metro is midnight. Time to leg it. Have acquired beer by this point. This makes me mildly happy. Get to the metro just in time.

The boys wanted to go into the city to party on their last night in Barcelona. Not a problem. Gave them my address. They said they would be back at 6.30am. Sweet. All that is left is to find Pau and sit down to a beer.

I get out at the station he told me, but the street numbers are around 330 and he told me 160 Balmes de General Mitre. Fuck it.

Get on the phone. A computerized voice in Spanish says something. Great his phone is turned off. So I walk back up towards home. Shirt comes off soon enough and I start finishing off the rest of my beer.

I couldn’t get too pissed off, the day was weird and random enough for me to see the fun in it. So I arrive home, strip down, get some water and lay down to contemplate what had been accomplished in the day.

Phone rings.

It’s Pau. “So are you coming for a beer or what?” Hahaha. No. He asks me where I am, I tell him my street, Mandri. Perfect he says it’s just around the corner. 160 Ronda del General Mitre. WHAT! You told me 160 Balmes de General Mitre. “Oh yeah sorry I must have told the wrong thing. Oh, haha, yeah you must have, haha, heaps funny.

So, 2am early Tuesday morning, I finally lay back in peace and a layer sweat and think about the day. Meet hot Spanish girl on the beach. NO. Bring home two random girls from the other side of the Mediterranean. NO. Have a game of soccer with mates. NO. Have a quiet ale with mates. NO. Good nights sleep at the end of it all. NO. Had fun doing it all. YES.

The Amazing Adventures of Ditchgirl

auspep — Wed, 26 Jul 2006 21:34:00 GMT

If you’re on holidays and you start drinking at 6 in the afternoon you should realize that it is not going to end well.

You still do it though.

After a day walking in the hills with Elli and Marion we decided it was time to get drunk. They were both finishing their working holiday in the UK and were heading back to Stuttgart in a few days. I was a rugby playing, Novocastrian engineer. We all had good excuses to drink in excess.

It all started so innocently with a few afternoon drinks in the last hours of twilight. Then we found a deck of cards and the mayhem began. We played drinking games of all variety and before long we had polished off 4 liters of cider and a six pack of beer. I was in good spirits, the girls were in slightly better spirits. It was still early so a decision had to be made, go to the pub now, go to the shop and buy more cider or wait around for a couple of hours then go to the pub. Yeah, more cider. So the twenty minute walk to the shop turned out to be a little longer when you are a little tipsy and recalling all the German you learnt in primary school.

“Eins, Zwei policei, drei, vier officier etc etc”

Memory begins to get a little hazy between opening the next bottle of cider and the morning. But, we walked back to the hostel and polished the rest of the cider. We then felt it was a good time to head up to the pub. Glencoe, where we were, is very small place, and this pub was about half an hours walk up a country road with no light of any description along the way. I hadn’t been to or seen this pub, so I was going on faith that there actually existed a pub. However about 40 mins later we arrived at really cool, country pub out in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t very busy but looked like it did get busy sometimes. There were some other young people there and also a mother and daughter from the hostel were having a beer together in the corner.

The girls grabbed a table and I sauntered up to the bar and ordered three real ales. I had to use that knack that can only be learnt in Australia. No matter how pissed you are somehow you are able to compose yourself enough to walk steadily up to the bar, eloquently order your drinks, pay, and walk away without the bartender knowing that you have been drinking all afternoon. It wasn’t long before he cottoned on.

From here memory becomes really bad. I remember sitting in a corner booth for a while drinking beer. Then I have a flash of memory of Elli and I kicking someone off the pool table and then throwing pool balls at each other.

Another flash of consciousness, and Elli and I were sitting at a different table with all our jackets pilled up on it. I flailed my head about but couldn’t see Marion. For some reason I knew it had been a long time since we had both seen her. After pondering the quandary for awhile we came to the conclusion that she must be in the toilet pagging. Yes, yes she was. We stumbled into the seedy toilets to find one drunken German lying beside the toilet cuddling that porcelain like it was her first teddy bear.

I was pretty pissed but not that bad. Getting up out of the chair and walking around gave me a second wind. We got Marion up and I walked her around a bit and she had a drink of water and seemed OK after her little nap. We went back into the bar to get our jackets and we came back into the toilet and Elli was on all fours investigated just exactly what was that vegetable on her sandwich from lunch. It was lettuce and we were out of there.

So we strolled of down the dark road, still too pissed to feel sorry for ourselves. I got shit talking to Marion as Elli ran ahead yelling something in some language. It is a distinct possibility that I had my iPod and Marion and I were listening to it, that may also be a construction of my hung-over mind the next morning.

So Marion and I strolled into the hostel just before curfew and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. While I was struggling to work the tap Marion went to check on Elli in their room. She came out a little perplexed and asked me if I had seen Elli. “What, I can’t work the tap” was my reply. I soon realized that she wasn’t kidding. Elli was nowhere to be seen and it was the middle of the night in early spring in Scotland, and we were incapable of clear thought.

I went and got my headlamp and steamed off back up towards the pub yelling out “Elli” and other assorted German phrases. Marion somehow found the owner of the hostel and got in his car and drove the other way, thinking she had missed the hostel and kept walking.

Trying to search both sides of the road at once, I swung my head back and forth from side to side, while keeping up a slow jog. I was very drunk. This was not helping the situation. I hadn’t seen Elli when the lights of the pub came into view. Oh, shit where is she? What’s that! I held my light a steady as I could. Yep that’s her, or a dead sheep that didn’t grow back its coat this winter. No no, it’s her. Thank god.

She had run off ahead of Marion and I as soon as we left the pub and it seemed that as soon a ditch appeared on the side of the road, she promptly planted herself into it. Seriously she was within 100 meters of the pub.

By the time I found her she was shivering and blue. Even after giving her my coat and a rub she didn’t warm up. Back at the hostel, Marion was relieved to see her again. But Elli was still shivering and wouldn’t even have a cup of tea. So Marion took her to bed and she finally shook herself to sleep under the covers of those comfy youth hostel blankets.

Ditch girl, as she now will forever be known. Woke in the morning with vague recollections of a camping adventure in the middle of the night and made as little eye contact as possible while she prepared breakfast. No harm done, so we can laugh about it now.

MacDonald Massacre, no not Ronald

auspep — Fri, 21 Jul 2006 21:41:00 GMT

I left Glasgow a little down as I was not to do the thing I was most looking foreword to in Scotland. I had planned to hike the West Highland Way, which is a six or seven day trek through the western highlands of Scotland. It begins in a village outside of Glasgow called Milngavie and winds it’s way up to Fort William at the base of Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in the UK. I was not able to begin the hike because of a four hour blizzard that hit the west of Scotland on Saturday night. Fair enough two feet of snow dropped in that four hours, however these were hardly Himalayan conditions, as I was told. I had counted on a bag carrying service to take the things I didn’t need on the hike from Glasgow to Fort William. When I rang them up I was informed that there were Himalayan conditions and that all the roads were closed. Indeed the roads “were” closed however as I drove the windy road north from Glasgow, the next day, I couldn’t help but notice the freely flowing traffic.

My spirits were lifted as the stop start driving of the city and villages gave way to a slow windy crawl through a thick pine forest. We followed the western side of Loch Lomond north. I looked longingly out the window and across the loch towards the path of the West Highland Way that snaked its way up the Eastern side of the Loch. In the back of mind I was still happy. I was choosing my own way in a new place and I knew I was headed into the mountains to spend an unknown amount of time with two German girls. But my jaw completely hit the floor when the bus steamed down a hill and out of the forest. We had arrived at a breathtaking expanse of swampy land with vast snow capped peaks jutting out, known as the Rannach Moor. It was here that hundreds of years earlier the entire MacDonald clan was massacred by the king of England. I could feel the power of the place as we steamed on through.

The bus twisted and turned its way off the Rannach Moor and down between the highest peaks in the UK. It was an awe inspiring drive and I couldn’t wait to get out of the bus and into the mountains. We stopped out the front of a run down petrol station and the driver growled “Glencoe”. Yep, that is what it said on my ticket, but I wasn’t too sure I was in the right place. The driver promptly opened the bottom of the bus and threw my bag on the ground. As the bus tore off again, in a cloud of dust, I took in my surroundings. Mountains surrounded my existence on all sides. More tangibly there was the petrol station on one side of the dusty road and a police station on the other. If I kept my eyes off the snow capped peaks I felt like I stepped of the bus and into a deserted outback town. Glencoe, the lake, was visible about 200 meters toward Ballahulish but Glencoe the town seemed like it had slipped off the map.

I asked in the petrol station about the whereabouts of the youth hostel. With sketchy directions I strode off down through the “town centre”. Three minutes later I was walking along a narrow road along the base of the Pap of Glencoe. I realized why the town was difficult to see. Other than the petrol station there was one shop and the town had one street. Not too difficult to get lost. Twenty minutes walk up the road and I came to the hostel, dumped my things, got changed and was out the door with a liter of water and an apple.

I tore my own path up the side of the Pap after doing a bit of a jump and run through someone’s back yard. Luckily their dog was overfed and even in my hiking boots I beat it over the back fence. After only fifteen minutes of leg pumping I felt I had gained a bit of altitude and stopped to have a little breather. I turned around to look at the view and I was gob smacked. I felt obliged to take my camera out and take a few snaps. But the further I got up the mountain the better the view got and the more photos I took of the same thing. After only half an hour I had reached the saddle between the Pap of Glencoe and the western end of the Aonach Ridge. During the winter mountaineering season this ridge is fully of activity and has been the training ground for many British mountaineering expeditions. I felt good to be there.

After a moment of daydreaming about the pedigree that has come through this region I snapped back to reality and thought about my prospects of making the top of the Pap. Previous experience in cold, icy conditions? Umm, about half a day, a week ago. No worries, just don’t think about it, is what I told myself. The scramble to the top of the Pap was another step up from my first scramble down in the Lakes District. I just kept thinking of all the times I had jumped from rock to rock back at home. I could usually be found early Saturday mornings bounding across slippery rock platforms with arms full of diving gear looking for a safe entry to the sea. So I told myself that I was experienced at this scrambling capper. It was a slightly different perspective looking down at the water 700m below with clouds whisping overhead. The climb turned out fairly straight foreword after following cairns some of the way up I lost the trail and just headed for the pointy part, the top. I sat in the clouds and enjoyed the grey view at the top for about fifteen minutes until I stressed myself out enough to think a storm was coming. On the way down instead of looking at the view laid out in front of me I couldn’t help looking back up at the rocky Pap with a sense of accomplishment.

I met up with Elli and Marion that afternoon and we had dinner together and talked about what we had seen and done since we last saw each other. The hostel began to fill with actual mountaineers who were just there for the weekend. I think we pissed them off a little staying up late chatting, playing cards and having a few a few quite drinks. We didn’t care. Some of the mountaineers really impressed me though. One father and son duo left at sparrows fart, technically around 6am, and we didn’t see them again until about 8pm. I reckon that is pretty good, especially considering they did it all again the next day. Makes you feel really lazy.

The day after climbing the Pap I decided to take the girls up to the saddle between the Pap and the Aonach Ridge. It was a similar walk if a little slower. It was however pretty funny when we left the hostel. I was waiting outside for them and they came out with big thick ¾ length jackets, scarves and of course handbags. After rolling around on the ground in laughter for a few minutes I composed myself and asked if they were serious. Yes they were. Ok, let’s go. We made the saddle fine and I was a bit clearer than the day before so they got a good view of glen and of all the surrounding mountains. I wanted to climb up on the Aonach Ridge (the easy way) from the saddle. So I parted ways with the girls and told them to send someone if I wasn’t back by nightfall. What a contingency plan, you only learn that from the Duke.

I jogged away up the hill keen to get moving a little bit. I hadn’t yet really warmed up much due to the slow pace of the girls and the chilling wind that was blowing over from the north. I also had no map and didn’t know how far it was to the top, so I wanted to knock over the easy parts quickly. I promptly slowed down as the angle increased and the little specks of the girls disappeared below me. I really wanted to make the top of this hill as it was one Scotland Munroe’s. A Munro is a mountain that is over 3000 feet. This doesn’t seem much, and it isn’t in the big scheme of things, however the Scottish mountains have a reputation for catching people out and they have a long history of fatalities. This is due to a number of factors. Firstly the steepness and exposure of the mountains, secondly the rapidity with which a Scottish storm can engulf you but mostly it is because people don’t give them enough respect. People come for the weekend and want to climb no matter what, they are arrogant and macho and they give the mountain rescue service plenty of work during the winter.

I left the slippery rocks and vegetation below and continued the ascent on fairly hard packed snow. I tried to keep to the southern side of the ridge as the wind coming from the north was a little too chilly for my supple Australian nose. This path went up and down across small gullies but the general direction was up. I thought I could see the top forming ahead of me so I found a rock and had a breather. This was definitely the first time I had had to kick my feet into the snow to form steps to climb. Before stopping my feet were sinking in at least a good twenty centimeters so I had some good purchase and didn’t feel uncomfortable. I left my rock I continued up the steepening slope. As the angle increased my calves burned more with each step but the most distressing thing for me was the snow was getting harder. I got to a point, not too far from the top, I believe, where I only had about 5cm or less under the end off my boots and slope that dropped away below me wasn’t to be scoffed at. So I stood there alone with boots and gloved hands thrust into the snow thinking. I knew if I had crampons I would probably be at the top already, but I didn’t. I thought if I had an ice axe I would probably keep going because I had something to self arrest with if I fell, but I didn’t. But I was so close. So with a mixture of common sense and a lack of balls I turned around, dug my heels in and took the first tentative steps away from the first hill I hadn’t reached the top of. I wasn’t particularly unhappy because I had had a taste of being higher up on a mountain and knew that I could do it with the right equipment. I was happy.

That night Elli, Marion and I had a few drinks, played a few drinking games and walked to the pub. Other than that I have no recollection of what happened between the hours of 7pm and 10am.

Somewhat groggily I dragged myself out of bed the following morning and looked out the window while eating my breakfast. I was trying to decide which mountain the climb. I picked the one straight across the valley from the Pap because I wanted to know what was on the other side. I set off with my first challenge being to run through someone’s paddock and then cross a river without getting wet. I could have taken my boots off and crossed really quickly, but I had only just put them on and I didn’t want to get my feet wet. So I walked back and forth along the river bank trying to decide which rocks were slippery, which ones would move if I stood on them and whether the sheep in these parts were of the attacking kind. Eventually I got to the other side with one dry foot and one boot full of water, oh well.

The mountain wasn’t particularly high but it looked a hell of a lot less steep from the hostel. There was grass almost to the top but that wasn’t a good thing. At least with the snow I could kick my feet in and get some good purchase. With the grass and the steepness of the slope I had to zigzag my way up the hill. There were sheep all around again but they weren’t rabid English sheep so I was safe. I reached the top of the ridge quite quickly and was immediately blasted with the coldest wind I have ever experienced in my life. Up to that point I had just been in a T-shirt but by the time I had gotten out thermals, jacket, gloves and beanie I was shivering. After a quick photo of Ben Nevis off in the distance I was out of there. But my route for the next kilometer or so was along the top of an exposed ridge, so I was buffeted by the cold wind for little more time. Not to worry, it didn’t kill me so that was good. I descended off the ridge and down into a pine forest which I eventually found an exit to and found myself looking down over Ballahulish and, at one time, the UK’s largest slate quarry.

That about wraps up my taste of the mountains in Glencoe. It was a fantastic time and made me want to get out into the mountains more often. That part of Scotland is an excellent place and I suggest it to anyone. If you are going to visit England, make the effort and head a bit further north. You can get a bus from London to Glasgow for £20 and from there it’s easy to get into the mountains. Do it you won’t regret it.

Wordsworth country

auspep — Tue, 11 Jul 2006 22:33:00 GMT

I strolled off the train at Windermere into some more typical English weather. There was no way it could dampen my spirits though. This was the first place so far that I had really wanted to go to. When traveling I have found that I go to a lot of places just because of the name. It’s that “you may as well see it since you here” thing. London was a good example. I am not terribly fond of cities and London is about as big as they come. But I had to go and see all that touristy shit. Don’t get me wrong it was good but when I stepped of the train into Windermere I knew I would enjoy the next few days a lot more than those I spent in London.

I had vague directions to get to the hostel, so I shuffled along with my back pack through the drizzle. It was that rain were you can’t decide whether it is worth the effort to get out a jacket and put the cover over your back pack. Eventually after hiding under an old stone archway for ten minutes waiting for a heavier shower to subside, I donned the wet weather gear. I set off to cover the few kilometers to the hostel and it promptly stopped raining.

Ambling into the hostel before check in time I waited in the lounge for someone to come. It wasn’t long before I had a key and had dumped my things and set off again in search and information centre, a supermarket, and outdoors store and something to occupy the rest of the afternoon. The fresh crisp air made strolling through the small town even more pleasant. I picked up a map and found a little hill overlooking Lake Windermere. I headed on up and got to the top just as the morning fog cleared, about two in the afternoon. The calm lake was quiet at this time of year but during summer this and all the lakes in the Lakes District team with life. I was happy I was here at this time of year.

I got the hot tip on a couple of hikes I could do over the coming days, from the dude at the outdoor store. The hostel I was staying at was situated at the bottom of the Troutbeck valley. From here I did two hikes. The first was nice and easy and only took a few hours. The second was a little more strenuous and took about six or seven. It could have been shorter but I’ll get onto that later.

Before the hikes there is Merlin, Marion and Elli. Two Germans and a pushy rider from Birmingham. I met them in the smoky hostel lounge on the first night. That day they had walked the route I was planning to go the next day. We talked long into the night about this and that, with old Merlin, the excitable type, leading the conversation. He was really engaging and his personality bounced off the walls when he talked. Definitely good fun and I knew the next few nights would provide some good shit talking.

Not knowing how long this walk would take, I got up bright and sparky and tried to pack my bag quietly. I snuck out of the dorm and down into the kitchen to prepare a hearty breakfast of nutella and bread, no time for toasting. During this quick breakfast I had my first encounter with a woman who became known as the weird crystal lady. Not to brand everyone that is into crystals as weird but this one was definitely a few screws loose upstairs. So, before I knew of her vast oddness I greeted her as I would anyone else at a youth hostel. With a polite “Hello, how are you?” She looked at me, didn’t say anything and walked past me to prepare her breakfast. Fair enough, not the talkative type, I thought. No, no, the weird type. More on her later.

With my Boy Scout backpack prepared I burst out the door ready for anything. I got thick fog. Not to worry. I am never disappointed when I go for a walk and miss out on view because of the weather. I think that is because, for me, climbing a mountain isn’t about the view from the top, it’s more about getting there. Anyway I strolled up the narrow village road past the hobby farms with BMW’s and Mercedes’ in the driveways. I was warned to keep an eye out for the track, as it snaked its way between two houses and was poorly signposted. Yes, that was pretty much true. The sign was on the wrong side of the road and it was about 10cm by 10cm.

I found the track and quickly warmed up as I stretched out and headed towards the top. I took of my jacket and thermal-T and continued in only a cotton T-shirt although the thermometer at the hostel read 8 degree when I left not half an hour before. I followed the eroded track to the summit past quite a number of ugly looking sheep. They were British after all. I got to the top in just under an hour and quickly cooled down as I perched on a rock to take in the foggy view. I nibbled my Kendal Mint Cake as I donned my beanie. These mint cakes, if you read the back of the packet, are 95% sugar and 5% mint extract. They taste like minty sugar.

The rest of the hike was fairly uneventful. This part of the Lakes District was criss crossed with old stone walls marking off grazing fields for sheep. These are quite the eyesore if you ask me but they make navigating in a thick fog incredibly easy. I trotted along beside a five foot high stone wall back down towards the road. There was a small group of sheep ahead of me but they cleared as I came closer. That was until the alpha sheep led the rest of the herd over the hill and on a course straight towards me. I thought, no, there is no way they are going to attack me. However when I was a mere 30 meters from the gate and the safety of the road the devil sheep encroached too far into my woolen comfort zone. I pick up the pace and the foaming rabid woolbags countered. No, I am not getting trodden to death and sodomised by a pack of vicious sheep. With a hop skip and a trip I recalled my high school high jump prowess and attempted to clear the stone wall in one leap.

After picking myself up of the ground I naturally began taunting the sheep from the safety of the adjacent paddock. BBBAAAAAAHHHHHIIINNNNGGGG my way past the evil jumper makers I slinked off down the road happy in the knowledge that the farmer who owned those sheep wasn’t there to see that whole thing unfold.

I arrived back at the hostel and the talk of the evening was the weird crystal woman. By now the other three had each had their own encounters with her. At this point we all just thought she was a little kooky and very antisocial. By the follow evening that view was to change.

I got up earlier the next day and set off on a longer hike and set off up the other side of the Troutbeck valley. The plan was to summit Ill Bell and then head past high street and down into the saddle at the top of the valley and to finish the day at a pub I had been told about for a nice cold beer. That is pretty much how the day panned out.

I stretched out on my way up to the top of the ridge. I snuck ahead of two older guys who were out on the same ridge. I stayed ahead of them until the top of Ill Bell where I stopped for a while and had some food and took some photos. I got talking to them as they reached they reached the summit. They were both 50 odd and in training for a long distance race coming up soon. The race took in the three highest peaks in England and covered 42 miles in 24 hours. Not bad for a couple of old fellas. We parted ways not long after leaving Ill Bell. They took a route to the east along high street, which an old road which was cut along the top of the ridge back in Roman times. They told me that the Romans had summer roads and winter roads. The winter roads were down in the valleys however in the summer these roads got too muddy. To remedy this, the Romans built roads higher on the mountains for use during the summer when the snow had melted away. So “High Street” was the remnants of one of these summer roads.

So as the two fit old buggers made their way along the nice road I peered down the cliff that was my route. That is I looked as far as could along the track until it went over what looked like a fairly sharp precipice. I knew that was the path and I knew there was beer at the end of that path, but neither of those things seemed to give me any confidence. Cautiously I placed one foot after the other and found the going OK. The real problem wasn’t the steepness of the track, although it was fairly steep, it was the snow. Most of the snow on the scree slope had melted away. However on the actual path where the scree had fallen away and an eroded path was left, there still remained a good two feet of slushy snow. Nothing much I could do, beer beckoned. I just kept my knees bent and took each step slowly. The clouds that had been enveloping me for the whole downhill episode finally cleared as I reached the clearing at the bottom of the saddle. This was the top of the Troutbeck valley and the view to the south down the valley and onto Lake Windermere was outstanding. Well worth the few hairy moments getting there.

After a break for some photos and more Kendal Mint Cake I looked up the other side of the saddle and swallowed hard. To say there was a path would be lying. There were, however, lots of slippery boulders as it had just started to sprinkle. They were good sized rocks, the type we get along some of the rocky beach headlands at home. It was exciting to be gaining altitude at such a rate. I guess this was my first experience of bouldering. It’s very popular in the UK for those who want something a bit more than hiking but down want all the equipment of rock climbing. As I reached the top of the spur I was enveloped in another cloudy fog, luckily I found the rock wall I was looking for just in time. No need for the compass, I just followed the wall until it came to another wall, then I followed that one. I passed another three people coming the other way with a dog. They were all kitted out in tight leggings with walking poles and all the trimmings. I’m sure they felt good.

I know I felt good when that pub came in to sight. I nearly fell over myself trotting down the hill to that sweet smell. I swaggered through the door with a healthy gleam of sweat over my face. I didn’t realize I had completed the hike so quickly, I strolled right into lunch time. The place was filled middle aged people out for a Friday afternoon lunch. Didn’t bother me, I was pretty stuffed and definitely in need of a beer. So with beer in hand I found myself a nice seat near the window and gazed out at the mountains jutting up around the pub. I contemplated finishing the beer and scampering up the mountain directly across from the pub but I was content to have another beer and imagine what this place would be like in the thick of winter. I got talking to the caretaker of the pub who was sitting near me having a cup of tea and a smoke. He told a bit about the history of the pub and the area. The pub itself is over 600 years old and still has the original beams in the roof. I could tell as soon as I walked in, the roof was about six feet high in the entire building so I had to crouch down everywhere I went. Harking back to the days when the average height of the population was, I guess, well below six foot.

Outside I found that the local bus only runs in summer so I had about five kilometers walk down the road to home. I gave up sticking my thumb out to cars after about twenty minutes. I realized all the cars were really nice and usually occupied by old people. I eventually arrived home and read some Thomas de Quincy until Marion, Elli and Merlin got home. Then we all went out and painted the town red.

No more PASTA

auspep — Fri, 30 Jun 2006 20:55:00 GMT

Might I start this lightly by saying that all Italians must die. Now that is out of the way I can explain my world cup experience thus far in Spain.

Excitement for the world cup has been building since I left home back in February. Traveling from hostel to hostel an easy conversation starter was always the world cup. I remember “talking” to this Korean guy in Vienna for a couple hours about soccer and of course Guuuuuuuuus. That great man who took South Korea to the semi-final at the last world cup. It will be sad day when he parts ways with his new family, Australia. Sad more so for us than him. His reaction when that penalty went in wasn’t really one of utter heartbreak, like that, say of Frank Farina, when Peter Hore, serial pest, tore down the net at the MCG so many years ago. More like, oh well, the´re a lot better than when I started, now I’m off to Russia.

Apart from Guus´s international prostituting Australia’s effort was very commendable. Although, when walking back up La Rambla I couldn’t help but feel a little disheartened that we didn’t go any further. However the spirit of football in Spain lives on. I don’t think I will change to the local team, Spain, for two reasons, both to do with my health. Firstly I don’t want to suffer the inevitable heartbreak that will no doubt come when Spain eventually looses to Brazil. Secondly, here in Catalunya most people follow Poland instead of Spain. Because they say they are not Spanish, they are Catalan. The rest of Spain burns them by calling them Polish. Thus for me to support Spain could brand me as a non Catalan and risk violent bouts of Mediterranean patriotism of the highest degree. I’m not sure who to support now, maybe I’ll just kick back and enjoy the spectacle without the stress of my own team competing. Or maybe I’ll support Argentina.

Game 1 – Australia vs Japan. I was enjoying my first day of work when this game was played. I’m not sure what time it was in Aus, but here it was 3 in the arvo and my first day was drawing to a close. The guy that was looking after me made sure we checked the live feed from the fifa website every five minutes. I left work about 75 minutes into the game to catch the bus back to Barcelona. With no radio or TV in the bus I was left in the dark as to the last minutes of the game. With only the knowledge that we were down 1-0 to comfort me, I fretted all the way home. I tripped over myself running from my metro station to the closest bar. A huge plasma screen was playing the following match to no one. I blurted out Australia and pointed to the screen. The Asian bartender, being the sole inhabitant, looked at me blankly and shook his head. Tears began to well, before he said, no, no USA something, something about the game that was currently on the screen. Oh my god mate this is life and death, tell me what the hell happened in the Australia match, I’m well aware that they are not playing now. Finally he held up two hands. On one he had three finger extended and on the other only one. Holy shit we lost 3-1 was my thought, bloody Japs. Until he qualified his gesture by saying Australia and shaking the three hand. To which I mirrored his two handed gesture with one of my own. Thrusting my clenched fists in the air and letting out a cheer I walked out of the bar contented.

Game 2 - Australia vs. Brazil. Hope of winning. Slim. By this time in Barcelona I had tracked down an Aussie bar on La Rambla. Evidently one of the girls at work has the hots for one of the bartenders. That’s another story. So I made my way down to this place and found the name above the door was “Hogan’s”. Nice and cheesy, I like it. Pretty cramped but there were plenty of screens on the walls, propped up beside the plaster cast crocodiles. Hogan’s wasn’t too full at the start of the match but slowly filled to shoulder to shoulder standing room by the end of the first half. I was joined in my viewing by a fellow trainee from Canada, a lonesome Aussie traveler and a couple working on a cruise ship who were in port for the weekend. Alright for a chat in the slow bits but most of the time my jaw was slightly ajar and eyes were wide open glued to the spectacle laid out before me. No there weren’t strippers. The game was a great showing of aussie grit but unfortunately grit wasn’t enough against the five time winners. The rest is history, other than the game being marred by outrageous beer prices. If this “Hogan’s” was truly an aussie bar, ie. a bar in Australia, it would promptly go out of business. Firstly they had no local beer at all. Thus I was forced to select from the best of the rest, Guiness or Forsters. Guiness please. Over comes my beer with a little receipt stuck to the side by the condensation. Oh that’s novel I thought. Peeling of the moist bomb my eyes flared enough to show I wasn’t impressed. €5 for a glass of beer is ludicrous in Barcelona. But I didn’t let that spoil the game. I just wasn’t as pissed as the British hooligans that were lining the walls.

Game 3 – Australia vs. Croatia. Problems, big problems. Yes big problems indeed. It seems the big wigs of German world cup organization thought it would be a good idea to show off how efficient they can be. Instead of playing all the games at different times as they had done for the previous two rounds, it was decided they both games from the group should be played at the same time. Fabulous. So my challenge for that afternoon was to find a pub in Barcelona that wasn’t showing the Brazil vs. Japan game and was showing the Aussie game. One problem it had to not be that same Aussie bar. Easier said than done. Yes I ended up back at the Aussie bar, unfortunately I didn’t get a seat this time. So I stood, with my one beer, for two hours crammed in with poms on my left and Croatians on my right. This turned out to be a very exciting match, with both teams striving for that second spot to make it through to the second round. It was an end to encounter with many shots from both teams. It would have been a far less stressful day if Guus had have left the Spider on the bench. But no, Australia’s favorite son, Mark Schwarzer looked on in despair from the sideline as lanky spider Kalac had a disastrous day. He fumbled and swatted at the ball all day which filled the bar with gasps of down under heartbreak and cheers of Croatian fortune. Luckily our fullbacks had a good day and left everything out on the park to secure a place in the second round for the green and gold.

Second Round – Australia vs. Italy I think this game was more anticipated by my co-workers than it was by me. That says a lot as I couldn’t stop talking about it since the Croatia game finished. There was definitely an Aussie buzz going around the lab that Monday. Everyone came up and said something to me. Even if they didn’t speak English. Usually something like “oh Italia, very hard, si, si”. It was good and I didn’t much encourage them by wearing the brightest green and gold aussie supporters shirt I could muster. I will admit not much work got completed that day but I did sit at the computer for long periods and read all the stats and stories from the world cup and football Australia websites. Definitely got me very excited, excited enough even to forget that the game started at 5pm and I wouldn’t get back to the city till 5.45. It was OK the bus made good time through the post siesta traffic and I got into the city with about twenty minutes still to play in the first half. Again the bar was half filled with Aussie and half with Italians and there was a good atmosphere. And again the place slowly got more full towards half time. There were definitely some nervous moments but when the Italian lost a player only minutes into the second half the socceroos looked dominant. I agree with the jeers of the Italian crowd, the guy shouldn’t have been sent off but if your going to complain about shit referees go and play a season at Lake Macquarie Rugby Club and you’ll see what really shitty refereeing is. So the came in waves at the Italians for the following thirty five minutes. However that famous Italian defense held solid throughout the barrage. It was good and bad to watch. The aussies carved through the midfield time after time but that was because the Italians had about six players in their defensive line. So the aussies would work it up to penalty area get hassled off the ball then the Italians would just boot it down the field and it would happen again. We got closer and closer but really didn’t look that much like scoring although I kept telling myself we would. And then the typical Italian game plan came into play. A quick break, a couple of sloppy tackles beaten to get into the box then falling over at the first opportunity. The Italians are masters at this and especially in the last minutes of a game. It was just too cruel for it to happen to us with five seconds to go until extra time. So the bar erupted with chants of Italian victory as Totti stepped up to take the kick. This is a player who doesn’t miss these kicks. The ball sailed passed the valiantly diving palms of our son Mark and kicked Australia out of our second world cup. After hanging my head for moment silence. I looked up to find the bar half empty as the Italians had made a hasty retreat, knowing they just had a very lucky break.

Thus ends Australia’s world cup 06’ campaign and also much deflates my excitement toward the rest of the tournament. Hopefully in South Africa in 2010 we can match the awesome effort that was displayed over the last few weeks. And between now and then hopefully the standard and support of football in Australia continues to rise back at home. I leave you all now to enjoy the Spanish summer and hopefully I can write another story about my first F.C. Barcelona match later in the year.

Gallery: Holiday at Home

auspep — Mon, 5 Jun 2006 20:11:00 GMT

Gallery: Vienna

auspep — Mon, 8 May 2006 01:43:00 GMT

Gallery: Vysoke Tatry and Bratislava

auspep — Mon, 8 May 2006 01:38:00 GMT

Gallery: Touring Southern Bohemia

auspep — Mon, 8 May 2006 01:24:00 GMT

Gallery: Chilling with family in the Czech Republic

auspep — Mon, 8 May 2006 01:04:00 GMT

Tea and Biscuits

auspep — Sat, 15 Apr 2006 00:52:00 GMT

The British weather really turned it on for the bus trip to Manchester. Cold and rainy again, yes! And, as usual I'm a mixture of emotions. Happy that I'm heading somewhere new and meeting some new people. A bit scared that these people will hate me or more likely that I will offend them in some way. Depressed that I have to spend the next two or so hours festering in public transport. But on the whole floating along just on the happy side of neutral as usual, with a little grin on the inside still.

Arriving at Manchester bus station I fumbled around with my enormous bag for five mintues until I composed myself. OK, I have to get from the bus station to the train station in a city I've never been to. No worries, just ask the person behind the ticket window. She says there are three main stations in Manchester. OK. I took a punt and caught the #1 bus from the bus station to the train station. It seemed loigical and it was free.

Arriving at the the train station and staring up at the arrivals and departures board I can't help but think how screwed I would be if I were at moscow train station or something similar. After gettingmy ticket and the most filling but cheapest lunch possible from the trian station I stood on the platform which seemed like it was in france I had to walk so far. I was becoming more depressed as I waited for the train. I was hungry again, getting wetter and colder by the minute. But then my saviour, Richard Branson. His train swept into the station like lightning bolt from heaven. I was soon on my way and the only thing playing on my mind was what the hell did these relatives look like.

I ambled down the platform at Southport and my eyes darted from left left to right right quicker than a buck in hunting season. Who was picking me up, man or woman? How old were they? And then our eyes met. I knew it was him. Tweed from head to toe. Awesome. Slightly boweyed, thick glasses, tie and vest. Oh, yes. Thats my lift. His name was Robert but everyone calls him Fraser. So the conversation begins as always with plesantries and polite discussion about the nature of the journey. I only hope this can suffice until we get 'home'. It does, thankgod, I was not in the mood to have to actually talk about something that requires brain function.

We arrive at the house and I'm happy. It is a stereotypical english house and I am keen to experience the wonder it holds. The first of these wonders is Gladys, Fraser's wife. She is your grandma in a different costume and she has a constant supply of tea and biscuits. I am sampling the deligthts of tea and shortbread within five minutes of entering the house. They're good.

So following an afternoon of tea and chatting I embark on my first homecooked english meal. There is so much food on the table it's ridiculous. And then there is the food over on the kitchen bench that doesn't fit on the table and of course the toast that is had with every dinner. So I dig in, as I am pretty hungry. There is about five slices of some mytery cold meat staring back at me enticing me to digest it. I do. The first slice is a new taste for me. Yeah I deffinately haven't had this before. The second slice intrigues me enough to ask Gladys what the mytery meat is. As I close my lips around the third piece Glagys answers. I'm not sure if was my loud chewing or Gladys' quiet nature, but I didn't catch the name. The third piece leaves my mouth and I ask again. The answer comes back loud and clear. "Lamb's Tongue." "Mmmmm, it's great I've not had it before", was my prompt reply.

Fraser and Gladys are scottish ex-pats who have lived in England for most of thier lives. Fraser used to be a civil engineer so there were a few conversations about what I want to do with my future and engineering in general. Conversation is a term used lightly however. Fraser is first and foremost, Scottish. His accent is still very thick and he is very proud of that fact. I found his accent and general style of conversation akin to Billy Connelly. In that he can ramble seemingly about nothing for a good ten minutes without so much time as to take a breath. He will then end with a somewhat rethorical question about the local area which he cannot answer, nor can I. Thus we sit in silence for as long as it takes for one of us to produce a new topic of conversation and the cycle repeats. I don't mind however. Old people can be an excellent source of information if ones has the time to let the ramble on. Time I had and experience was cerntainly in the bag of Gladys and Fraser. They are a very well travelled couple, having seen many countries throughout europe, so I got some good stuff from them.

Southport is on the west coast of England just north of Liverpool. It a little over 200 years old and served mainly as a beachside holiday town for most of it's history. Not far from Liverpool and Manchester it is now famous in England for it's main street, Lord street. The main section of this street runs for about one km and is said to be some of the best shopping in the UK, or so Faser says. Other than holidaying and shopping, the town has a proud prawning culture. The beach, and I use the term lightly, consists of large silt flats on which prawning trucks drive across. Yes thats right trucks. Really odd looking things, believe me.

To my eyes, despite the beach, shops and prawns, Southport is little more than a glorified retirement village. Thus if you ever visit be ready to drive at 5 kph below the speed limit the whole time. It kind of has that run down feeling about it and this was amplified ten fold when I vistised Blackpool. This is the next major beachside town north of Southport. Fair enough I was there on a Monday and it wasn't in summer, but come on. A coat of paint once every twenty years could be helpful. The foreshore at Blackpool looks the same as it did forty or fifty years ago. It didn't inspire a feeling of riotous joy within my bowels. So I went the the movies after having my first full english breakfast and midday. The breakfast and movie were good. Blackpool was cold, rainy and forty years out of date. I think the Brits should leave the whole beachside holiday town thing to those countries who have real beachs and sunny weather.

On the whole my experience in Southport was a good one. The hospitality of Fraser and Gladys was amazing and it was good to sleep in a bed again.

Gallery: United Kingdom

auspep — Sun, 5 Mar 2006 00:56:00 GMT

31 and 4

auspep — Sun, 5 Mar 2006 00:16:00 GMT

After the noted lack of drinking in London, I jumped at the offer of a beer from Ian. I am staying with some relatives in Soutport. It's a coastal town just north of Liverpool and Manchester. A really nice place that serves as a a bit of a holiday town for the people of the bigger cities nearby. It's on the coast of the Irish Sea and it was really good to see the water again. I don't knwo what it is about the ocean but it feel so right right for me to be near it and I always love sitting by the shore a looking out, dreaming of sailing away to somewhere exotic.

After some excellent home cooked meals, that were quiet a change from the cheese on toast in London, it was deffinately time to see the nightlife of this sleepy little town. Little did I know, this town had more pubs than we do back home in Newcastle. So the pub crawl and and town tour that Ian took me on had plenty of flavour. We went from the black clothed rock pub, wooden floorboarded metro bar, to the sticky carpeted R&B pub, to the traditional english real ale pub, to the 'Aussie' bar called the springbok traveller. After sampling many local brews I decided to get the men to work. Yes thats right I danced solo in a bit of a dive to ' I come from a land down under'. Great stuff.

Then she spotted me. I knew she was checking me out, so I sat back and did some detective work from across the bar. While engaging Ian in typical pissed shit talk I peered over the rim of my pint of Becks. She seemed to be dancing with her best friend, or she was a lesbian. No, No best friend, definately best friend. Who else was she with. Older people, a largish group. Ten or so. Celebrating something. That's got to be her mum. Yeah shes out with her mum. What to do, what to do. Keep boozing and carry on with the tour or dig the heels in and have a go. Yeah, she is hot enough and I'm pissed enough.

After catching her eye and a flash of the pearly whites, I knew she was keen. So I danced with her for a bit and we chatted a bit although it was too loud for anything deep and meaningful. She did however forget to mention a few glaring fact. Not to wory I wouldn't be announcing it either.

So Ian wants to get on with the tour and meet up with some friends. I'm keen for a snog. So I write Ian's mobile number on my arm and we part ways for the moment. I sat back down at the table and get chatting to the girls brother, who is a spitting image of Ben Shaw. Please note I clearly can't remember any names. So the shawsy lookalike is an alright bloke. We shit talk for a bit about backpacking and Australia and what not. I then started talking to the girls mum's friend. Another older woman of 50 or so. She was also a really nice lady until she dropped the bombshell.

Imagine all of this that Liverpool accent, the beatles accent.

Old lady: 'you know that girl you dancing with?'

Me: ' yeah, yeah she's nice isn't she.'

Old lady: 'yeah she is. she also has fours kids.'

Me: 'Um, four children?'

Old Lady: 'Yeah four'

Me: Silence....

About this time I realised how pissed I was. I tried to continue talking to the old lady about children and how it was good that the girl had four children. All the time assesing the fastest way out of the pub. I turned back to Ben Shaw and asked how old she was.

Ben Shaw: 'I'm 25 and shes older than me. How old are you. 18, 19.'

Me: 'Um, I'm 21'

Ben Shaw: 'Yeah she's ten years older than you. 31'

Me: Silence....

I turned and faced foreward looking at the girl, nah fuck this shit. Ian wlaked back in. Don't talk Ian, lets go.

We caught a cab home and Ian warmed some sake on the stove. After our little night cap we went to bed. My head spun as I lay down. No way that is staying down. Nothing like a chunder to put you to bed. Lessons learned: Pints are considerably larger than schooners, sake is actually very nice, southport has some great pubs ans stay away Ben Shaw's sister.