You Can't Ride Around With A Tiger On Your Bike

Photos: Incredible India

wilski — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 16:50:00 GMT

From Mumbai to Kerala in 28 hours

Ex-mas & NYE & NY & The Rest.

wilski — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 12:30:00 GMT

"Two jugs of Sex On The Beach, please"

"How many glasses ye need?"

"Mm? Oh nono, no glasses. I'll just grab two straws"

"........."

Christmas was nice. Spent the season in Englands world-famous London, home of Madame Tussauds, Big Ben, and junkies with afro wigs. Playing Scrabble. No, not the junkies, El and myself played Scrabble. The junkies probably played pin the needle on the junkie. London was quite pretty over Christmas. Lots of shiny lights. Lots of Christmassy junk. Pointy red hats and such. I hate Christmas. But this one was nice because I did nothing Christmassy. Et some festive avocado. Not very Christmassy. Smoked some festive cigarettes out in the cold. Kind of Christmassy. Got drunk on very bad mulled wine. That's quite Christmassy. Wore a tiger-striped onesie and cooked scrambled eggs on an electric wok. Merry Christmas.

Ella and I spent the tiger-tail-end of the year up in Margate, South East England, about a two hour bus ride from London. They had a beach, quite a nice beach by English standards. I wonder where they imported the sand from. There were casinos and amusement parks and even a Primark. It's funny when a small town gets a Primark because everyone ends up dressing in Primark gear and looking the same. The only thing I bought from Primark was my one piece tiger suit, and I still saw someone else wearing one in public. Lucky I opted for my black Levis and racist Clint Eastwood shirt that day. Could have been embarassing for both of us.

So El & I did what any good Australian does when on holiday at the beach. We drank heavily. Ate fish and chips and meat pies. Judged everyone who walked past. The evenings were spent watching documentaries about the Amish and eating msg-laden Chinese food. The mornings were spent watching documentaries about cats that like water, and picking at what was quite possibly the worst English brektus this side of the Mississippi river. The cats, and possibly some side-effects from the msg, convinced me that it'd be a good idea to take a dip in the ocean. So I swam, well, not 'swam', I walked in fully clothed and squealed and smoked a cigarette and posed for a photo and by then I couldn't feel my legs. Gosh, it was cold! Frigid. Brr. But I did it. Good for me, man.

And that was Margate. A boring bus ride back to London, just in time for a quick change of clothes, a quick whiskey shot and then another one before heading down to the river beside Big Ben and the London Eye for the fireworks display. It was packed tighter than a box of um, cats. You can make space for yourself though, if you're the only smoker in that part of the crowd. Some prick got a hole burned in his coat for pushing infront of Ella and blocking her view. Ha. Fireworks were alright, went for about fifteen minutes all up, the ones that shot from Big Ben clocktower were the most impressive but they lasted just the first minute and the rest came from the London Eye wheel ride. There was no pattern to them, I was a little disappointed, mostly because I walked all that way and had to endure the cold and crowds. But once it was over and we were back at The Ship Inn, we drank ourselves better again. Was a good start to the year. Happy New Year :)

Down to business. Tickets for India. I had a partial-wad of cash left after selling my Ural motorcycle, and sadly, only part of my brain left, the part missing was the one that reminds all good travelers of the importance of securing a visa first before purchasing flights overseas. YOU IDIOT, WILSKI! Bloody muppet. I bought a ticket, as cheap as I could find at that time which was still peak season for travel to India. Cost around 800GBP, but that was with an onward flight to Australia. Then I began chasing up a visa. THat was fun. Dealing with official government documents is always fun. Forms and forms and some more forms, don't forget to fill out sections F-6 through F-13, and on top of that there's a special way to post the bloody things that includes doing stuff with a chalk circle and the seventh son of a goat, at midnight when the moon wanes. Fuckin' hell bruv! Up until I got THE call, I was quietly confident all was secured for my India leg. The call was something along the lines of "I'm sorry to inform you but it takes between twenty and thirty days for a tourist visa to be processed so it shan't be available by the date you requested, you nob head, cheerio".... I cried a little into my Irn Bru. And forked out another 220GBP to move my flight date forward. In future, whenever dealing with anything important, it's best to let your parents do it, just like when you were young.

Time between now and my flight out was spent in the standard London fashion, eating toast and scowling at everything. Not sure if I mentioned my fortunate circumstances concering living arrangements. I don't proof-read any of my travel journal by the way, so apologies for the many spelling errors, historical errors, et cetera. So yeah, Ella let me stay with her, she was house-sitting for an old hippie lady who was visiting friends in Australia, I had my own little couch to kip on, a tiny television that I was banned from using unless Ella was watching something, a tiny kitchen where I prepared avocado sammiches and opened the bottles of whiskey, and a tiny shower to wash off the filth and despair of London life. Everything was little, but free, so I couldn't complain. I mean, I could, and I did, quite often, but was always rewarded with a push out the door and five hours trudging about cold, gray London, cursing everything. But it was convenient, and very kind of Ella to let me couch-surf there. Saved a lot of money that way. I spent the last couple of weeks staying at hostels though, back at Clink78, and also Generator Hostel in Russell Square. I got very much into reading books again, burned through about three a week. There was a cute little second-hand book store in a basement in Russell Square that I'd frequent, and would take my new second-hand purchases across the road to an all-ye-can-eat Indian vegetarian restaurant. Toying with the idea of sticking to pure veg dishes when I hit India. Might be a slightly safer option, and very easy to accomplish, as 80% of India is vegetarian. Mmm I'm hungry now.

The visa arrived! With two days to spare! Such a load off my mind it was, now with my ticket, visa, and bag pretty much packed, nothing could stand in the way! NOTHING! Nothing at all. Yep, I was free to leave. Aha. Free. Yeah, nah, nothing did stand in my way, I escaped safely. So don't fret, little ones. It definitely sucked having to say ciao ciao to all the close friends I'd made. I took some time to travel up country and say my farewells to the folk in Middleton Cheney, my motorcycle mechanic, Luke & Holly (who, sadly were out of town at the time, but like I say, there's always FaceBook), young Jamie and family at the New Inn, and old Phil the accountant with his awesome cats. Said my farewells to my darling cousins down in Tidworth. Megan the Canadan and her brilliant housemates Jazz and the other guy whose name I forget, all the staff at Clink78, most of who I don't know, and of course Ella, who was good enough to not cry at departure. Also, she bought me some ace presents to amuse my small mind! Most awesome was a three-dimensional notepad, that you draw on and the drawings become 3D when you put on the ridiculous glasses. Hours of entertainment, fun for the whole family, except grandma and grandpa. Gosh, I'll miss her. And Megan, and everyone else. It'll be doubtful as to whether I return to England though, as much as I like it there it's FUCKING expensive, ridiculously so, and hard to justify, more-so once I travel India and see the difference in the value of money. Hmm. Still, never ever say never, ever.

Photos: New Year, New Country

wilski — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 16:29:00 GMT

The Last I'll See Of England

Photos: So This Is Christmas

wilski — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 22:31:00 GMT

I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself

wilski — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 21:53:00 GMT

My London Itinerary:

---------------------------------------------------------------------

08:00 - Wake up.

09:20 - Get out of bed.

09:30 - Eat a wholesome breakfast of assorted cheeses and condiments.

10:00 - Have a poo and a shower. Not at the same time though.

11:00 - Finish shower, dress in one of my three London outfits.

11:20 - Go back to bed.

12:30 - Go to pub. Have a drink and smoke a cigarette.

19:30 - Sleep.

20:00 - Leave pub. Buy fried chicken wings and consume in bed.

21:00 - Play iPhone games.

00:00 - Sleep.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

It's not always like this though. Only on weekdays. Not that London is lacking fun things to occupy my time, oh nononono. It's just that I've done the things I'd find fun already. I drank bad coffee in all the pretty places, I took the photos and touched the shiny things, burnt through the cobbled streets on the buses and the cabs and once upon a time my motorbike, I went to the museums and exhibits, I did all the touristy shit that appealed to me. In hindsight, I should have gone to the zoo too. And more markets. And not somehow spent as much as I did. Gosh did I blow a lot. I can't have drunken that much cider and mulled wine, or eaten the amount of shitty fried bird necessary to deplete my funds by five grand in two months without dying... It's difficult to convey how expensive England life can be unless you live it for a bit, then it doesn't seem as far-fetched.

By no means was I alone on the tail end of my UK leg. I had Aleksandra from Switzerland to entertain me with her random outbursts for and against London life. And she was great to have around when I couldn't finish my chow due to it being too generous a serve or just plain English shit. It's also nice having someone who knows funny YouTube clips that ye ain't seen before. Many an hour was wisely spent/wasted sitting in front of a fire exit at Clink78 Hostel, on my iPhone giggling at hipster vids, swimming cats, the Swiss version of the Sailor Moon theme song. Yeah, happy memories. Sadly, she went back to her life in Switzerland, with the chocolate and the kittens and the tiny knife-scissor-nailfile thingies. We still keep in touch on FaceBook.

Then there was Megan, one of the first pals I made in London. She moved away from the hostel lifestyle and now shares an apartment with two fantastic Englanders, Jazz and um the other guy whose name escapes me. When you're traveling, it's great to have a friend with a cushy couch and access to all the best zombie movies. AND she knows of a pub that sells pints for a quid fifty. AND she has a cheese-y toastie maker (That I bought her) AND she's Canadian. The downside is that she lives in Greenwich, which is over half an hour from the city and I'm usually far too busy and important to make the trek out there more than once a week.

Then there was Ella. Good ol' El. Miss her. Miss her abuse. We shared an apartment, a drinking problem, and about 200 packs of Marlboro cigs. We played 'Idiot Scrabble' where you make non-words and celebrate with an avocado. We solved all the worlds problems but were too drunk at the time to remember the solutions in the morning. And we walked the streets looking much more handsome than everyone else in London. Sadly, she died. No she didn't, she went back home to Tasmania, which is practically the same thing.

One thing this expensive experience has given me, is a deeper appreciation for the value of money, and a longing for more of it and cheaper countries to blow it all in.

Oh, and a severe dislike for London life.

I know what to do! Quit wasting my fantastic self here and lose myself in India. Will do, will do. Right after the next level of Angry Birds. Ca-CAWWW.

Photos: Life Without The Ural

wilski — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 00:10:00 GMT

Wasting the present while I decide my future

Photos: The Things I Do For Money

wilski — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 21:49:00 GMT

The death of a dream, and the time in between

Photos: Halloween in Banbury

wilski — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 21:09:00 GMT

Facepaint, minesweeping, scaring old ladies at the supermarket

Photos: Animalia

wilski — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 20:14:00 GMT

My visit to a patting zoo

You Can't Ride Around With No Money For Your Bike

wilski — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 23:53:00 GMT

"Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination" ~ Oscar Wilde

In a way, I'm glad I blew my travel budget and cannot afford to keep the Ural. It granted me the opportunity to experience working in England, it forced me to cook for myself more, and awww who am I kidding, this is shit. I sold the bike back to my mechanic on the 15th November. My birthday. Happy birthday, Will. I had to catch the bus to work. Afternoon shift, meaning I finished at 10pm that night. Holly and Luke were kind enough to come give me a lift back to my tent. I had some cheese and a day-old jam donut to celebrate. I'd given notice to my supervisor, Nettie, on Monday that I was quitting my job after Thursdays shift. It was quite a relief to be free again, even if freedom now meant travel via public transport. It took a few days for me to get all the paperwork sorted for handing over the bike back to David Angel, as it was all sent up to my cousins address in Tidworth, South-West England. On Friday of my birthday week I recieved my wad of cash. Seven thousand pounds, which was the equivalent of around eleven thousand Australian dollars. I'd lost £3k on depreciation and selling to a dealer, but them's the breaks, I guess...

I was cashed up again, with nothing to hold me back from the world but my imagination! Sadly, my imagination led only as far as London, and the comfort and familiarity of my London hostel of choice, Clink78. I could actually get used to quitting jobs, it felt good walking away from that place, and it sure felt damn good walking away from my last job in Australia. All I miss is the money. And driving those super-awesome machines around, swinging giant metal boxes around, sitting upstairs on a quiet night and watching movies... For a job I fucking loathed, there sure are a lot of good memories. Left behind a few good friends too. Pat, Dennis, Tonchi. Still, if and when I return to Australia, ain't no way in heck I'll return to that company begging for a job. Never. Forever, ever, forever, ever? I'm sorry Ms. Jackson, but I am for real.

But I digress. Happy birthday, here's your cake, go eat it all up in London. I decided to give myself a few days of R&R in the city to do whatever I wanted to do, eat what I wanted to eat, and just wind down after the difficult couple of weeks of being broke and employed and finally bike-less. Without bike. Sans bike. Absentia motorcycle. Sniffle sniffle. A few days ineritabry turned into a few more. Time and pints, I can't seem to keep either. It was such a strange strange feeling returning to the Clink and seeing old friends Aleks and Ella still there, as if nothing had changed in all the time I'd been gone. Having said that, at the time of writing this (about four days to Christmas) everything is pretty much the same as it was when I last stepped off the overland train from Banbury into this grotty world of concrete and bad coffee. Granted, I have a bit less money, some friends have left my world while others have entered, and I've cut my hair off.

Stepping out into the street to go somewhere, I miss the feeling of throwing a motorcycle helmet on my head and a leg over my Ural. Now I'm relegated to catching the stinky Tube everywhere. As efficient as it is, it's hot and uncomfortable and everyone who catches it is a pervert. And whinge whinge whinge Will, but it's SO EXPENSIVE! I've fallen back into the trap of eating shitty, convenient, shit-venient food, and as a result I've put on quite a bit of weight. With nothing to do, I wake up after 11am, and usually get to bed around midnight, spending my time watching DVDs on the corridoor floor of the hostel with friends and Ben & Jerrys' ice-cream, walking the streets of London looking at all the ugly people, or just at the pub across the road having a few pints and listening to music on my iPhone. While looking at all the ugly people. Not much of a life for someone supposed to be travelling, but I'm pretty content with the pace of it, after being on the go for the last two months. My only responsibilities since arriving here bikeless, are to take at least one shower a day, eat breakfast, be sociable, and update my online travel journal regularly.

I've definitely failed with the journal. As much as I love London, I bloody well hate it!

Photos: Back To England & Employment

wilski — Wed, 2 Nov 2011 22:09:00 GMT

No Money = No Adventure = No Inspiration

Photos: Edinburgh

wilski — Wed, 2 Nov 2011 21:49:00 GMT

Like London Minus The Tube & The Junkies

Photos: Scotland

wilski — Wed, 2 Nov 2011 21:28:00 GMT

Haggis, Kilts, & Mel Gibson

Photos: The Lake District

wilski — Wed, 2 Nov 2011 20:46:00 GMT

Halfway To Haggis

Get A Job! You F*cking Leech On Society!

wilski — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 21:37:00 GMT

I arrived back in Middleton Cheney around ten o' clock at night, after riding nonstop from York. It was cold, I was tired and sore from being in the saddle most of the day, and I just wanted to nap. I was fortunate in that I'd become good friends with a lovely couple in the village, Holly & Luke, whose house was on the way to my campsite behind the bike mechanics shop, and as their lights were on I hammered down the door and charmed Holly into letting me crash on the couch for the night. One night soon turned into the whole week. They were so incredibly hospitable, sharing their everything with me now that I had very little money to feed myself and my bike. In a way, they saved my life. Thanks, guys..

I spent the week helping out around the house, as Holly had plans to move out soon, in order to save some money. We have it pretty good back in Australia. Everything, especially housing and transport, is ridiculously expensive in the UK. I've had heaps of experience helping friends move house, and was more than happy to give her a hand seeing as she gave me a roof over my head as the English winter approached. Even painted her old bedroom, the third room I've helped a friend paint in two years. Keep this up and I could turn professional. Speaking of jobs, Luke helped me out greatly in this regard, asking around and giving me a kick up the bum when I couldn't be arsed making phone calls for potential gigs listed in job-seeker websites.

With my main work experience being in the transport & logistics industry, I was encouraged by Luke and Holly to apply for a forklift job, as there were many listed and the pay was a lot better than jobs in hospitality. My first call scored me an interview in two days time. POW! It felt as good as getting a guaranteed job, so I stopped looking then and there, and we all went and celebrated at a lovely little pub run by an Australian in the next village. Silly Will. The 'job interview' for a forkie that was advertised and I'd believed I had applied for, well it turned out to be a recruitment scam by a job agency. NOOOOO! It wasn't as bad as it seemed though, they had industry connections and took over the job-seeking for me, guaranteeing me something in the next few days. It was literally two days later that I got a call telling me I had a job, and to report to work that afternoon. I had to supply my own safety gear though, even though the recruitment company promised me they could get it for me. Slimy bastards... Still, I was so relieved to get the job, it was a real load off my mind to finally have some money to tide me over.

(It must be mentioned that in the two weeks after arriving back in England and prior to finding a job, I was forced by my circuimstances to swallow my pride and phone my ace brother, Thomas, back home in Australia and beg for a handout. He was very understanding of my situation and sent me enough to survive, even though he was struggling to make ends meet himself. Thanks, Thomas. Your Team Zissou hat and badge are in the mail)

I was offered a contract with a company called DHL, an international express delivery company. The site I was to work on was a warehouse specialising in packaging and sending out meds to pharmacies across the United Kingdom. My job copnsisted of wheeling around a hand-held pallet trolley and toting a barcode-scanner gun. It held all the information on where in the warehouse I had to find a particular box of meds, and the quantity needed. All I had to do was walk there, scan the product, load the required amount onto my pallet, and continue to the next load of meds until my pallet was stacked head-high with lovely heal-y drugs for the whole family. Then I'd seal all the boxes and wrap the whole lot up in cling-wrap like a huge cube of spaghetti bolognese before dumping my load hahahaha in an aisle haha and repeating the whole process again. Monotonous, to say the least. It was rotating shift work, meaning my first week was working afternoons from 1pm til 11pm, then the next week was days, 6am til 3pm, then back to afternoons. There was the option of working overtime too, which I eagerly accepted.

Getting my first pay was a bit of a kick in the teeth though, only a lousy £180. I quickly did the math and decided that no way could I keep working such a boring job for such little money, even if it promised me the opportunity to fling myself over the seas again with my beloved motorcycle. I had been offered free accommodation with a great gentleman accountant by the name of Phil, who lived about five minutes walk from Holly, as well as a room with Jamies' brother (the New Inn pub in Middleton Cheneys owners son, a real decent chap) but I couldn't justify returning to full-time employment for such a lowly wage, not after having slogged away at it for the last ten years in Oz and earning some pretty decent money from it. After almost three weeks working, I decided to take the easy way out, and sell my motorcycle...

Here are a few excerpts from the text messages my brother sent me in relation to my begging him for some cash..

THOMAS: Fuck nigger, what do you think this is? Nigger pie dream land? U get 499 u piece of shit.

WILL: 400 is more than enough, good brother you are. I'll write it in my journal.

THOMAS: Fuck ya diary ya fag. I want gifts. Get fucked.

THOMAS: Yeah, no worries, thanks for the dosh Thomas. YOU FUCKING RAT CUNT, WHERE'S MY THANKS?

Thanks bro.

My Return To England And A Life Of Poverty

wilski — Tue, 25 Oct 2011 10:14:00 GMT

(Oh boy, I'm almost two months behind with my journal entries, my memories have faded with time, too many late nights and ummm alcohol consumption, but luckily I've kept up regular FaceBook rants. Digging all the way back to a certain post on the 22nd October has reminded me of where I was, and brought a smile to my dial..)

FACEBOOK: William Kendell Ashton is back in England! Scotland was ace, I learned a new phrase while over there, the most common one spoken. It goes "FUCK THE ENGLISH!"

Yeah, the Scots really don't take kindly to their border brethren. I like 'em though. I like their many pubs. I like the accents. I like the countryside. There's a whole bunch of stuff I like about England, the best being the people I've befriended. Oh, and big English breakfasts. But definitely the people I've met here, my mechanic David, my musical pals Luke and Holly, Jamie and his cat from the pub in Middleton Cheney, my cousin and her cousins (who are my cousins too) down in the South-West, and all the crew at my favorite hostel in London, Clink78. Mmm, English breakfast...

Alas, I'm down to well under £200 and all I can afford to eat at present is bread and cheese and cherry tomatoes. It's tasty, but I'm sure it's lacking some extremely essential vitamins. The last week has left me severely low in energy, I just want to lie down under a huge fleecy blanket and sleep for days. I think the gloomy weather is also getting me down. The sun it rises, but I rarely see it through the clouds, and when I do it has no warmth. Vitamin D deficiency, no wonder Englanders look so down. Carp face. I needed cheering up, and at the point I felt the lowest, I zoomed past a sign with a kangaroo silhouette on it. Eh? Roos in the UK?! I had to had to had to take a look, so I pulled a u-turn and followed the signs to an animal park that advertised wallabies. Wow! I jumped at the chance (haha, get it?) to see a northern hemisphere wallaby, hopping-uh-hoping it'd cheer me up. There were so many animals, I felt like a kid again. I was happy. Donkeys and squirrels and ginger cows and tiny ponies and goats and sheeps and swans and more sheeps and even some llamas fucking each other, it was fantastic!

Hit the road again, spirits up, hoping to make it as far as York before the day died and I with it. Set my sights too far though, I only got as far as Wingate, which was a fair effort nonetheless. I passed through Newcastle upon Tyne late afternoon, looking for The Angel of The North, a huge work of art that miss Holly recommended I see while up here, as this was the area she was born and raised. After an hour being stuck in after-work traffic in the city center, and finding a tiny angel statue on a pole that turned out to be the wrong one, I gave up my search and hit the highway again, heading South out of the city to find somewhere to set up camp for the night. As luck would have it, I found the Angel about five miles out of Newcastle. It was hard to miss, looming up over the horizon like a massive... northern.. angel.. statue. I stopped to take a photo and unwind my spinal column. I also called my dear friend Melissa while I was here, because she likes angels and I like her.

I ended up riding for another three hours, as the campsites listed on my iPhone map did not accept tents, only caravans. Oooh, so ANGRY! It was well past eight and the temperature had plummeted along with my mood before I happened upon a campsite that'd take me. Bloody caravan fairies. Still, it was a good day. Started off shit, ended up nice, then shit, then nice, and finally shit, but also nice because I could rest my weary head. Some of the best sleeps are had when you've earned them. I awoke to the sound of ducks. Shiny northern ducks, flying in formation. Not a flying V, other shapes but nothing resembling order. These northern ducks were a lazy, undisciplined bunch. Anyone else would have ordered them shot, had it been the season for it.

I made myself a damn good campfire coffee, before packing up my gear, saying farewell to the campsite owner and the groundskeeper, and heading towards the walled city of York which was but a few hours away. I reached it before midday, it was by far the most touristy of places I'd visited so far. The city centre was packed with sightseers, and rightly so. York was an amazing old town, founded by the Romans, then becoming the capital of the Church of England, and a whole bunch of other boring things too. Today it's known for its university and health services, and for its vibrant tourist industry. Vibrant. I don't know what vibrant means, only that it's a good descriptive word for successful tourist industries. York has one. Swindon does not. I passed the hours wandering around the tiny streets, wearing my dirty riding pants and boots I must have looked like a tramp. Kind of hoped people would give me their spare change. I decided to shout myself a hot meal at a pub, it was vegetarian but it was delicious. Best £7 I'd spent in ages. I watched a few street performers juggling things and being sexist, before jumping on the bike and hitting the road. I wonder how many times I've used the phrase 'hitting the road'... Too much? I ought to change it. Straddling the bike and rolling out? Mm, sounds too man-love-ish. Almost two hundred miles to cover before I reached Middleton Cheney and the bike was due for its second service. By my calculations, after fuel and one more nights accommodation somewhere, I'd be about forty quid short of the money needed to pay for the bikes required maintenance. With this knowledge dampening my spirits, I knew I had only two options left to me: Either find a job within the next few days, or sell the motorcycle and plan my trip around Europe/India without the Ural which seemed and is a damn shame being as this bike has been such a massive part of my original ideas.

But we can't think too far ahead of ourselves now, can we? The past is history, and the future ain't happened yet. Live in the present. The present for me at this time was a five hour ride. Take it on home, Will. You stupid, skint bastard.

Edinburgher-king

wilski — Sat, 22 Oct 2011 01:14:00 GMT

"Scots: Inventors of the modern world. You're welcome." ~ Ewan McGregor, Long Way Round.

(At the time of writing this, I ain't in Scotchland. I'm back in London. I don't own a motorcycle [not counting the scooter I own back home in Australia. Scooters ain't motorcycles anyway, they're engine-bicycles]. I have but a few thousand quid to my name, a one-way ticket to India in my pocket, and no one to spend Christmas with... On the bright side, it ain't snowed yet, I have a roof over my head, Vietnamesian beef-noodle soup in my tum, and the motivation to play catch-up with my journalising. Apologies for being so slack over the last month or so, glad you're still with me) xxo

Rite-o. Ignoring the first paragraph there, I'm back in Edinburgh! Wheee! I miss cities. I miss the easy accessibility to my vices. I've been craving donuts something vicious. Donuts and human contact. Donuts first though. But before donut must come accommodation. I found a YHA in central Edinburgh and booked for three nights. They very kindly allowed me to park my bike out the back in the tiny staff carpark, but I didn't mention to the receptionist how big my bike actually was lest he turn me down. Parking in cities in the UK is such a hassle, even for a motorcycle, and especially for a motorcycle combo like mine, where even the majority of free bike parking spaces have a sign allowing only solo bikes to use them. I met the manager of the hostel while I was busy wheeling my bike into position across a fire exit. He told me to fuck off, but only because he thought I was English. I wasn't so he let me park in front of his car. What a nice man.

After getting my gear sorted, I hit the phones. Had a rather worrying text message from my insurance company while I was wandering the moors up in countryside Scotland, stating that my bike insurance was due to be cancelled for some unknown reason. Eep. I wanted to wait til I was in Edinburgh before I sorted it out, as I was low on phone credit and decent call reception. Turns out that I had to fax them a copy of my international driving license, which I had previously sent by mail but they failed to receive, meaning I had until now been driving an uninsured vehicle, which was illegal, and if caught I faced the possibility of getting my bike siezed by the police, taken away and crushed into a cube.

HOMER:"Morning Mr. Burns, here's your messages."
"You have 30 minutes to move your car."
"You have 10 minutes to move your car."
"Your car has been impounded."
"Your car has been crushed into a cube."
"You have 30 minutes to move your cube."
PHONE RINGS
HOMER: "Yello, Mr.Burns' office?"
BURNS: "Is it about my cube?"

Having sorted out this kerfuffle (insurance companies, phone companies, banks, would much rather shit in my hands and clap than deal with these companies over the phone), it was time for a stiff drink to calm my growly spirits. The receptionist at the hostel recommended a bar down the road called... Providence, or Prudence, perhaps Premises, I'm not sure anymore. It was a fantastic little place, the walls covered with rockabilly paraphenalia, the bartop pasted with random stupidity cut out from tasteless magazines to amuse the patrons. One stiff drink soon became two, then three. I ended up in the company of a few locals who shouted me drinks and told me how shit they thought the English were. The night ended with me passed out in the corridor of my hostel, where someone stole my half-eaten kebab. Who steals kebabs, honestly!

In the morning, once I had awoken and washed/vomited away the memories of last night, I sat in bed and tallied up my remaining funds. It's darn expensive running a motorcycle in the UK, but until this moment I had tried to ignore how broke I really was. Getting the bike back to Middleton Cheney for its second service would leave me with around a hundred quid, after fuel, food and accommodation had been taken out. It's barely enough to survive a week on, let alone finance a trip across the English Channel to Europe. I'd grossly underestimated my travel budget. It was time to seriously consider settling down and getting a job in England. This was one of the low points of my trip, the realisation that failure was so close. I still don't regret a penny spent on my journey up to this point. Well, perhaps the last two whiskys' I'd downed last night, my head still aches thinking about 'em.

I wandered the streets of Edinburgh that day, not even the donut and chocolate milk I'd been craving could cheer me up. I contacted a friend of a friend, Anna, who was in Edinburgh too, and arranged to hang out for a bit. Ended up booking in for a walking tour of the city the next day which was great as it took my mind off of my shortage of funds. It was a free tour as well, sweet! The tour took in the Royal Mile, so named because it was about a mile long stretch between the Royal Palace and the Royal Castle. It covered a lot of Old Town, so named because it was old. We saw Greyfriars Kirkyard, a very old graveyard, claimed to be the haunting-est in all of the UK, and home to Greyfriars Bobby, a loyal little dog brought to worldwide fame by Walt Disney in the 1961 film, Greyfriars Bobby: The True Story of a Dog, and most recently in an episode of Futurama, titled 'Jurassic Bark'.

The tale of Bobby: Bobby was a Skye Terrier who became known in 19th century Edinburgh for guarding the grave of his owner John Gray (Old Jock) for fourteen years, until he died himself on 14 January, 1872. He was buried just inside the gates of the cemetery, and a lifesize statue was erected at the Southern end of the George IV Bridge to commemorate the most faithful dog in the world. Awww...

The walking tour turned into a bit of a Harry Potter tour, with glimpses around Edinburgh of where the author worked or found inspiration for her books, including The Elephant House cafe where she wrote the first novel, the gravestones she stole characters names from, even the poncey castle-shaped private school she got the idea for Hogwarts from. It was nice having the company of young Anna. It's nice meeting people other people know from back home in Australia, made me a little homesick, made me remeber what I'd left behind.

The next day was to be the last day/night I'd spend in Scotland. I went for long lonely walks, bought some grapes (half of which turned out to be rotten, so I donated them to a bin) and snobbed about six volunteers throughout the city who were collecting cash on behalf of some lovely charity that supports, I dunno, something to do with candles and razor-wire. All I was willing to give was a hug to one of the ginger-haired chaps, because it was freezing out. This was by far the coldest day I'd experienced so far, but at least it wasn't raining.

No, it held off til my day of departure. I left the warmth of the hostel at around nine in the morning, the plan being to get out of Scotland, perhaps as far down as York. Wishful thinking. The rain quit after about an hour of riding but I was already freezing and the windchill kept me miserable. It didn't help that I'd chosen to take the coastal route back to England either. It was pretty but it did nothing to buoy my spirits. Shiver and sigh.

Doing Edinburgh Right Mate?

wilski — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 08:51:00 GMT

Starting by pronouncing it 'Eddin-bra'. And drinking Scotch whisky instead of Irish whisky. And hating the English. That's all Edinburgh asks of you.

I can only appreciate so much beauty in one sitting before it blends into mush and I need a drink or a lie down. I remember going to the Salvador Dali exhibition, it was fascinating up to about the halfway point with the lobster-phone. I thought to myself 'oh, it's just a lobster phone' and that's when I knew I was over the exhibit and not appreciating what I'd paid for. Melty clock you're so booooooring, I want Playstation and crunchy chips. That's art for me. A this stage of the ride from Inverness back to Edinburgh, with perhaps another 180kms to go, beauty for me wasn't another snow-topped crag in a waterfall-strewn valley. Beauty was a double shot of Glenfiddich whisky with two cubes of ice. Beauty was somewhere to lie that had never been shat on by a squirrel. Can't actually guarantee that last one when staying at a hostel in the U of K.

Country road, take me home. I need city because city equals fresh bread loaf and fresh plastic cheese and the company of people who don't want your company, only your monies. It would be another day and a half before Edinburgh smacked me in the head/heart/wallet again. Having left my campy ground at about 9:30am after a relaxing nights kip beside Loch Ness, I followed the A82 slowly down to Loch Linnhe , about a hundred and something kays south. I'm liking setting up camp in the early afternoon, but it means not making much travel progress. I'm okay with that though. I ain't rushin' but my bike is. Ha. Russian. Have I made that pun before?

This was by far the shittiest campsite I'd ever stayed at. Over-charging, rude, smelly pirate hooker who ran the establishment, I couldn't park my bike on the grass, they had the gates locked at ten and ye couldn't leave until eight in the morning, what a cow. Nice view of the sunrise though. What a bitch, I hope she swallows her teeth. I ran into town in the evening for some chow. Grapes and a jar of hotdogs. Gosh that campsite harpy is a fuckhead. What a slapper, I'd like to slap her.

Hurry up morning. I spent my tent time reading that book I'd picked up last night, I tend to read until I fall asleep and drop the book, which wakes me up. Determined to get myself to Edinburgh asap, I was up at 7:30am packing, and sitting on my motorcycle in front of the gate by eight, waiting impatiently for the gates to be unlocked. I ended up leaving at around nine though, after a quick shower and fifteen minutes of brushing my teeth. Jar hotdogs make my mouth feel pickled. Leaving loch territory gave way to flat plains of marsh and swamp, otherwise known as moors. It's where the early Scots came to have picnics and dump dead bodies. Very windy out here. Bad kilt weather.

Northern Scotland was gorgeous, definitely the best sceneries I'd seen in UK so far, well it's kind of a tie with the lakes district back in England, but being here now I'd probably have to pick Scotland. Meh. Seen one fog-covered lake bordered by mossy trees, ya seen 'em all. Never thought I'd think this but I craved a motorway again, needed speed and civilisation. Edinburgh please. This time I'll do it properly.

My Hole At Loch Ness

wilski — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 21:49:00 GMT

I done dug me a hole to poo in. But I didn't use it. Just wanted to test the shovel that came strapped to the sidecar of my bike. I'm sure there'll be ample opportunity to poo into ground holes in India. Heaps. Maybe I ought to start practising my aim here in the UK, where there ain't no scorpios or cobra snakes to pounce on my ass. But no, far too pretty to soil, and it'd probably make the Queen royally pissed off. Give her the shits. Bwahaha.

This isn't about the hole I done dug though, as fine a hole as it was. I probably should haf filled it back in actually, someone will probably step in it and break their cankle. I gladly left the Inverness YHA in the morning at around 10am. The hostel was full of ze Germans, and they didn't like me. P'raps t'was was due to my motorcycles great-grandpappy kicking their ass in World War II. Maybe it was more due to me smelling like wet dog and walking everywhere in bear feet, rahhh. I'd spent the night sitting in bed eating bread and cheese and shredded ham, and listening to Sigur Ros. And sipping at my bottle of port, one of two I had left in the trunk of the sidecar. I really wanted them to last as I couldn't afford such luxuries any more, same with the ham. When £2 of shredded ham is a luxury, you know you're doing it ruff.

I think positive thoughts affect the weather. I was grumpy, because of ze Germans and their doof-doof music keeping me up all last night, so it rained and rained. But once I left Inverness and headed back south for a few klicks, I cheered the heck up and the rain stopped. The scenery was incredible to ride through, if my face wasn't restricted by balaclava and neck-warmer, my jaw would be hanging open. I've never blasphemed so much in such a short timespan, every corner I took the views got better and better, at one stage riding down a road bordered on both sides by lakes, other times passing through dense forest shrouded in mid-morning fog. Pri-ti.

I took a couple of detours off the scenic route road just because I could, and stopped at the official Loch Ness Discovery Centre, where they had an audio-visual tour thingy surrounding the myth of the Loch Ness monster. Worst five quid I spent in Scotland sadly. I mean, the presentation was quite well done, but it completely discredited the mystery of Mr. Monster. It detailed all the efforts over the years to prove the beast existed, including years-long filming of the lake surface, many diving expeditions and the photos took which were all just underwater logs, all the nutters who sighted the monster (they saw logs, or the wake left by boats, or were just drunk), and the hoaxers who kept the lie alive (underwater submersibles with fake monsters poking out of the water, photo-editing, and the earliest being a bearded git who used a hippopotamouse foot ashtray to make imprints in the mud and create plaster casts to wave around at the local pub and score free drinks. What a prick). I'd rather have not heard any of it. Kind of ruined the dream. Grr.

A few hours into my leaving the YHA, I stopped for chow-break. Chow-break! I set up stove under the sidecar to act as a rain/wind break and cooked a pack of tomato pasta, with chunks of bread ripped up and thrown in the mix. With the remaining boiled water I made some coffee (coffee powder, powdered milk and powdered sugar together in the one handy sachet, surprisingly good if you're desperate and like the taste of urine). Lucky spot I picked, there was a clearing between the road and the loch that had previously been camped in on many an occasion, a few stone circles with burnt wood in the centre, and lots of room to dance and vomit. The best part was that there was a small path just wide enough for my bike to make it down off the road, so I took this opportunity to set up camp right next to the lake and pretend that the monster really did exist and I was a world-famous alcoholic who came to drink by the lake and eat hotdogs out of a jar. It's nice to have a place to sleep while the sun is still up, gives me time to relax and explore. I went for a walk up the road, there was a grocery shop selling umm groceries. I bought a book there to read and pass the time, some Tom Clancy novel. T'was very exciting. It got quite cold as the sun set, and a fog rolled up the lake, thick enough that I couldn't see more than about ten meters, even with the motorcycle lights shining out into the night. I was secretly hoping to spot something, or hear something, desperate for an interesting experience to take with me other than the usual 'and I got so drunk there couldn't smell my own face' nonsense. No such luck, the sun came up, I couldn't smell my own face, I done dug me a hole (t'was a good hole), brushed my teef standing on a rock out on the waters of the lake (hoping the mythical beastie was attracted by minty-fresh toothpaste), and headed off south again, following the A82 road that ran down the lochs. The time spent by Loch Ness was one of my highlights, and I really hope for another opportunity someday soon to dig another great hole.

The Part Of The Trip Where I Put A Shopping Bag Down My Pants

wilski — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 22:01:00 GMT

This is the part of the trip where I put a shopping bag down my pants.

It started raining in the morning, I had just enough time to pack away my tent before the skies opened and God unloaded on my head. T'was as if the ocean had decided to reclaim the land via airdrop. I'm glad I made the decision to purchase a second helmet, a full-face helmet, as my goggles when wearing open-face skidlid tend to fog up when my balaclava gets wet and I can't see unless I take off the goggles, which necessitates me riding with one eye open for a few seconds to protect the other from getting stabbed with tiny needle-rain, then alternating. Winking and riding. How YOU doin? Today was full-face helmet day. Don't know why I bothered to have a shower as I knew I'd get soaked through anyway. Before leaving the campsite, I left my iPhone with the receptionists for half an hour to charge up a bit. Felt a damn fool when I returned and proceeded to check the Weather application. "The weather today?" said the reception chap, before turning his head an inch to peer out the window. "It's uhh... it's rainin' son.."

Ah. Right. Ta.

Where to go, where to go, I don't really know. When in doubt, ask. So I did, and he asked back what sort of stuff and things I like. Scottish things, said I. His suggestions included museums of tartan, a palace where the game of tennis was invented, and a whole bunch of castles. At this point my eyes had glazed over with boredom, he took note or this and promptly pointed me in the direction of Loch Ness, just out of the city of Inverness in northern Scotland. Heck yeah, monsters and fog and explosions and shit! He gave me one of those 'feckin tourists' looks, it's very similar to my 'bloody locals' gaze.

Off I rode, into the rain. Passing sign after sign promising black ice and water over the road, a serious problem were my bike not fitted with a training wheel. I have no problem riding in the rain, other than the cold and the wet and the bad visibility. It's kind of peaceful. Like swimming, except that I can't swim. I'll bet this is what it feels like to be a dolofin. Cruising through the water, wind in your hair, chasing tuners, yeah dolofins have it all.

Had I put more forward thought into it, I'd have bought myself some sort of wind deflector screen for the front of the bike. Didn't want it to detract from the whole retro look though. The retro look being a soggy marshmallow man riding a desert camo bike through a rainstorm. The first thing to get soaked is the crotchal region. All the rain comes in horizontally, hits the chest and face area and runs down south of the equator making it uncomfortable for all involved. This had happened once before, on my ride up to the lakes district in north-west England, so fearing a repeat I pulled over and used my initiative. By initiative, I mean plastic shopping bag shoved down the front of my pants. And it worked a treat. Waterproof groin protection. Keep out of reach of children. May cause suffocation.

Water always finds a way though, and two hours later I was fully soaked again, except now I had a bubble of water sloshing about in the plastic bag down my pants. At least it was heated. I say pants, but I mean trousers. UK-ers think pants means underwear, I think pants means trousers or jeans.

The ride up north to Inverness was gorgeous regardless of the weather, in fact it gave me a more authentic feel of what Scotland really is, although I was completely numb from the cold. The countryside soon gave way to bracken-coated hills with hundreds of tiny streams of running water splashing down in a cascade of dripping wetness and gurgling down moistly like a mass of two hydrogen and one oxygen atoms combined to form water that went PSSHHHH SHHHHHHHHHPLASHHH down the hill and it pooled into big running puddles of rain-induced fluid and hang-on-leeme-just-go-toilet flushhhhhed into rivers that flowed down the valley and yeah water water everywhere let's all haf a drink. Hills and rain and rivers, with the road winding through the valleys, constantly going up, up, up, into the highlands. They're called the highlands because they're high lands and because the Scots are really imaginative with their names. I forget how long the ride took, it was long enough that I could sing The Shins song 'New Slang' hundreds of times over. I never get tired of it, it's my mantra for happiness and fashion and anger and shit. But yes, a memorable ride, mist-shrouded hills and rain-slicked bendy roads with steep drops to my left, warm dry people in fast-moving cars overtaking to my right, probably eating toasty cheese sammiches and listening to good tunes on the radio and having some great conversations because they weren't traveling alone and they were probably rich and successful and super pretty but I couldn't see because my FUCKING HELMET VISOR KEPT FOGGING UP THIS IS SHIT I'M COLD AND WET AND IT'S SUMMER IN AUSTRALIoh nononono bike is slowing down, losing power, what the heck?! Riding uphill with a tourbus on my ass, the Urals engine revs started dropping rapidly. I'd ran out of fuel before on a few motorcycles so immediately held the clutch in and killed the power and indicated left to pull over. Luck had it that there was a rest stop only a hundred meters up the road, so I pushed the bike out of the way of traffic, took about three minutes to cuss and scream and dance about, not so much because I was angry, but moreso to get the blood flowing to my limbs and the feeling back in my hands. I can imagine a few passing motorists FaceBook status updates:

WTF soggy marshmallow motorbikeman doing TaiBo on side of the road in rain, LOL!!!

Just passed a freak prancing around in what looked to be some sort of soggy marshmallow suit on the side of the road. LOL! Had a nice bike though. Feckin' tourists. LOL!

I hoped it was something as simple as an empty tank because anything even remotely mechanical and I'd be screwed. The bike has a jerry can strapped to the sidecar, and I'd filled it up at the last petrol station I'd stopped at this morning. Having covered only 160kms since last refueling, and with the bike supposedly being capable of hitting 200kms before running dry, I was kind of worried it may be suffering from something other than no fuel. But having ridden most of the trip uphill, and having opened up the throttle to reach 50-55mph instead of the usual 45mph I preferred to sit on, I was correct in assuming it had burned through enough to run dry. I topped up the tank, which proved difficult due to having nothing to use as a funnel, and the high winds spilling a quarter of the petrol over the tank and my clothes, but knew what I'd given it would be enough to make it the last 50 kilometers to Inverness. I used the kick-start on the side of the bike to get the engine firing, about twenty pumps and I was back in business. Was glad for the opportunity to stop actually, I needed to don an extra pair of gloves and empty my crotch bag. I mean, the wet shopping bag down my pants. It was very uncomfortable.

One thing about riding the Ural, it gets very uncomfortable after about two hours in the saddle, my posture ain't great and the seat is pretty uncomfortable. I always tell myself I'll pull over at the next rest stop to stretch, but when I reach it, I think "nawww, the next one, it's only about five miles down the road," and I carry on this way until I've reached my destination, tired and sore and stiff as a corpse, but at least I'm five minutes early.

Inverness, city of cathedrals! It's early afternoon as I pull in to a petrol station to refuel the bike and my bread/cheese supplies, and check my bearings to find a YHA to crash at. Really should stop using the term 'crash' instead of 'stop' or 'sleep' or 'stay' as my bike has no wood to touch. Touch wood. Tap tap.

Not interested in exploring Inverness today, I just want to dry off and warm up and sleep. Nyny xo

Northin' To It

wilski — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 04:18:00 GMT

So I went up north, saw some stuff, came back, yadda yadda, end of story. I wish the journal was that easy. I need a secretary that i can dictate.

Dictate to. Or a thing that can read my thoughts and convert them to words on the internet. Maybe not, or at least not now, it'd just type 'yum yum yum yum yum yum yum yum yum yum yum yum yum..'

I'm always more focused on leaving a place than I am about where I'm headed. Perhaps if you don't know what's ahead of you, you can't think about it. I certainly can't, as it takes imagination, and once I start using my imagination it takes me to places where I'm incredibly successful and win at everything forever, like art and arson and the moon. So I spent my ride away from Edinburgh missing Edinburgh and all the awesome things that Edinburgh had, like shiny-mouth garbage men and shiny castles and that's about it really because I never properly experienced Edinburgh..

I crossed the Forth Road Bridge, which spans the Firth of Forth (haha, yeah, nah, in Scotlandish it means estuary of the Forth river, which opens into the North Sea), a 2.5 kilometer metal cable suspension bridge, very impressive. I should have taken a photo but like everything that I 'should' have photographed, I spent too much time thinking "hmm shall I pull over and take a pic? It'd look quite nice up on the journal, and I honestly don't take enough pictures of interesting things like this, plus who knows when I will see something like this again on my travels, di di di di..." by which stage I'm already out of sight of the thing worth photographing. Meh, it's just a bridge, a really impressive bridge... damn I should have taken a pic.. Once on the other side I followed the coastal road east along the errr.. the coast. It was nice. Sheeps to the left of me. Ocean to the right. Here I am, stuck in the middle with Ural.

They have nice coastlines in Scotchland. The pebbly beaches are rubbish but the bay is scattered with islands, some of which have castles on them. Not sandcastles, proper ones with kings and stableboys and all that jazz. Medieval jazz.

I want to do something I've rarely done before on my ride, and that's to find a place to camp while there's still light enough to tent up and relax. I headed inland towards some camp place somewhere. My GPS shows points of interest such as fuel stations and campsites and even local tourist attractions. Where to find men in tartan skirts blowing into a sheep tummy spiked with flutes, stuff like that. This particular campsite luckily allowed tents, quite a lot in the UK catered solely to tossers in campy van caravan mobile home things. We're old and cashed up, lets drive around the country towing a big room full of cushions and a poo bucket.

I was the only tenter there and the tenty space was a small grassy patch in the middle of the circle of caravans. I felt like a wild west pioneer circling the wagons to defend against an Indian attack. Actually, it was more like what the term 'circle the wagons' means these days, where you take three or four bunks in a prison cell and arrange them in a circle with sheets blocking what's going on inside. Whats happening inside is that two dozen inmates are raping the hell outta their bitch. Pretty eerie, trying to set up tent while everyone in their rolling tin can peered out through their beige curtains at the strange brown man with the camo cycle...

I spent about an hour in the camp showers, trying to wash my clothes with body wash, but the water was too hard and it didn't lather up properly, my laundry just ended up wet and smelling a little of my socks. Here's a tip: Don't use dirty socks as clothes scrubbing mittens. I decided to rig a clothes line between my bike and a bush tree, try and air dry my clothes as best as I could before night fell. Here's a tip: Don't try air dry clothes in Scotland, their air isn't dry, and there's something bent about their sun, it don't quite reach the earth... Once night hit I decided to use the campsite dryer to dry my damp clothes.

Yeah, here's a tip: Don't waste yer time with campsite dryers, they turn yer damp clothes into warm damp clothes. I spent the night listening to bagpipe music on my lil radio and sipping on port. Bagpipe music sounds much more better in Scotland! Bedtime bedtime, in the morning I head to gosh-knows-where. Norf.

Scotland, & FREEDOOOOMM!! Haha.

wilski — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 10:22:00 GMT

Tom Church, a monument mason, created a statue of Sir William Wallace, the 13th century Scottish hero who was a leader in the Scottish Wars of Independence. He was (Tom Church, not William Wallace) greatly inspired by the film 'Braveheart', starring Mel Gibson as Wallace, so carved a 4 meter 12 tonne statue of Mel Gibsons depiction of Wallace, and had it placed out in the carpark of the National Wallace Monument in Stirling, Scotland. It is one of the most loathed pieces of public art in Scotland, every local I've asked is absolutely disgusted with it. The Mel Gibson statue. A piece of crap, and unfortunately it was removed before I could take a pic and LMFAO.

After my few days rest in Keswick, I decided to make the run up to Scotland, and head North-east to the capital city, Edinburgh. Checking my bank balance at an ATM on my way out, I discovered actually how dangerously low I was. Around £500 which is perhaps $770AUD, it ain't a lot of money to sustain my adventure, even when I cut out the drinking at pubs every night, which is what I had to do now lest I be stranded up North. I had put around 1,100 kilometers on the clock and the next bike service was due at 2,500 so I found my 'adventure without boundaries' to be restricted for the first time. It's not a good feeling at all being held back after having come so far. Still, jumping on the bike cheered me up, as riding motorcycles always has. Except when I crash, or registration is due.

It was a really nice ride up to the border of Scotland, scenic and such, but it was definitely getting noticeably colder. There is no actual border crossing or toll booth, they don't stamp my passport, which is a shame because I want proof of having been there! Maybe i'll bring back a souvenir. The Loch Ness monster, in a bucket in the sidecar. No, better still, some Scotch whisky! Like shampaggin which can only be called shampaggin if made in the Champagne region of France, Scotch whisky is just whisky if made anywhere other than Scotland. Americans spell it 'whiskEy', bloody Americans..

I made it to Edinburgh in the late afternoon, it is an incredible city, immediately stole my heart with its cobblestone lanes and twisty-turny streets and bent buildings and the massive Edinburgh castle which I first saw when I came around a corner and it was immediately above me on a steep cliff-face, in the center of the city. Very impressive. But extremely tourist-y, pesky tourists were everywhere, photographing men in tartan skirts, buying rubbish to send home to people they didn't really like (oh look a spoon with a picture of a castle, wow all my distant relatives would totally appreciate this) and generally ruining my chi. It was getting dark and I hadn't teed up any accommodation so I decided to try my hand at camping in the wilds (they're the green bits on the GPS map) so I hiked it out of Edinburgh to find a patch of grass hidden from the road to set up my kip-station. Alas, fences fences everywhere, private land and private fields that smelled of poo. I tried a few national parks on the outskirts of Edinburgh but there was nowhere off the beaten track, the road just ended in carparks where losers in crummy hatchbacks came to make out or break up or just stare at the strange chap with the strange bike. I ended up driving down a small country lane and pulling over onto the grass by the road, too frustrated to care whether or not it was legal or dangerous. Still to this day I ain't sure if I was allowed to camp there... The UK is pathetic when it comes to keeping the public informed of all the rules and regulations they expect us to follow. Pasta and coffee for dinner, then I called it a night. Don't have coffee for dinner unless you plan to stay up for four hours reading a book. I didn't have a book to read. Yawn.

In the morning after another coffee that tasted like toothpaste (don't understand why people brush their teeth before eating brektus) I rode into town on my white pony to find somewhere to charge phone. A lovely French cafe helped me out here while I sat drinking cups of very decent coffee. It was only once I'd left an hour later that I realised they never turned on the power at the wall so my phone wasn't charged. No wonder the English hate the French. And upon returning to my bike, I found wrapped around the handlebar a yellow piece of paper secured with a rubber band. NOOOOO PARKING TICKET AAAAAARGH DAMNooh nono this ain't a ticket, it was a note left by someone who had the same bike as me and wanted to get in touch. I still have the note with me but every time I think of it I remember how I panicked due to thinking I got a ticket, so I don't call the bastard. What a cruel trick to play on a poor traveler! Honestly, that man is a prick bastard! Ooooh so angry!! >_<

I had to had to had to charge my phone so's I could use map to pinpoint next destination, wherever that may be, and a tiny cafe that reminded me of Melbourne (except for the extremely hot, milky coffee) helped me out with that while I worked on fixing the boot lock of my bike which didn't lock. With my failing finances foremost in my mind, I was feeling really disillusioned with the whole trip and didn't know whether to stay the night in a hostel, or perhaps even limp back to England in defeat and sell the bike which seemed to make so much sense because all my money was tied up in it, and if I had that money, a substantial sum, I could buy a Mini Cooper or a funky VW Combi and travel Europe in comfort with more than enough money left over to do India or perhaps go back home to Ostraya. Gosh I felt so loney and depressed.. It's hard when your path isn't mapped out for you, too many options for someone like me who hates making decisions really ain't healthy.

It was at that moment when I was sitting on the sidecar wheel arch chowing on a bread and cheese sammich, that an old man with more gold than teeth in his head came up to me and started chatting about how much he liked the motorbike. He had a thick Scottish accent, asked where I came from, I said 'England', he said 'Fuck the English', then told me where to go. I mean, not where to go, but places I should head to after Edinburgh. His ancestors had sunk the pillars of the Forth Bridge, that spanned the Firth of Forth (haha, it's the name of the ocean inlet that cuts Edinburgh off from the north of Scotland) and he recommended I cross it and go east towards Kircaldy and St Andrews, villages on the east coast that he promised were very pretty. He lied, I'd seen better. He left me with a newfound sense of purpose which really brightened my spirits. He returned a few minutes later with a map he'd found in the bin, or perhaps bought me as a gift from the coffee shop that don't sell maps, so kind! Now I had direction, I was ready to adventurise again, to hell with the money, I'll worry about the future when it gets here.

Time to head north, find a place to camp before night, and maybe wash my socks, they really really smell. Bad.

Sheeps & Shit

wilski — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 21:15:00 GMT

"It is better to have a lion at the head of an army of sheep, than a sheep at the head of an army of lions" ~ Daniel DeFoe. I'm reading his most well known book at present, Robinson Crusoe. It's about some idiot who ends up stranded in a strange land but he makes do. Eats twigs and stuff.

Just a quick word on sheeps. Staying at the campsite situated on Borrowdale Farm in Grange, near Keswick. I set up my tent and had my dindins (tomato pasta and bread and a cup of coffee and a sip of port, then another few sips of port and a cigarette) in the dark so didn't get a chance to survey my surroundings. Surroundings? Or surrounds? Whatever. Whichever. I went to sleep but was awoken a few hours later by rustling noises around my tent. I at first thought 'Oh no, badgers haf come to hoof me in the neck with their large talons!' so I made a noise I assume bears make to scare off badgers, and whatever was outside my tent scampered off. After a few minutes of not breathing, I summed up the courage to open my tent fly and shine a light (Rolling Stones, 1972, Exile On Main Street) into the darkness (shitty teen horror flick, 2011) to see what I could see. Nothing but forest and field. Spooky. I got out and turned on the bike and rode around the perimeter of the campsite just in case, I dunno, it was a trap or something. Satisfied whatever it was had gone and wouldn't return, I went back to bed, with a pointy stick next to me.

A few hours later, I heard it. A freaky moaning noise coming from the woods behind my tent. M-m-m-m-aaaAAAAHHH!!! Double-you-tee-eff it scared the heck outta me! They say fear is not knowing, and I didn't know WHAT THE FUCK that was. Didn't really get much sleep after that. Once daylight came, I poked my head out to see six or seven sheeps staring at me up in the woods behind my tent. Bloody sheeps, I should have known! I contemplated chasing them, because I've chased squirrel before and they were fun, but there's no actual chance of catching a squirrel so you don't really think past the act of chasing. Whereas, what if I chased a sheep and then caught it? What do you do then? Let it go, after all that effort? Awkward moment passes between sheep and human. Yeah, nah, I decided to go have a hot shower and pay for use of campsite instead. My marmalade cat was up at the farmhouse waiting for me. I liked that cat, it was a bit dumb but super friendly. Reminds me of a lot of friends back home...

The Lake District is home to Herdwick Sheeps, from the Old Norse term herdvyck which means sheep pasturisation. They're seen as the districts gardeners, they roam wild in the forests and um lakes too perhaps. They're much tougher than those stock-standard mimminy-pimminy sheeps. Much prettier too. I didn't say that, it was a quote from a Welshman..

There wasn't much to do around here except take in the scenery and go for walksies, which I was more than happy to do. Needed to stretch and relax after the first couple of stressful weeks I'd had, and since the weather was going to stay nice I decided to stay around for another couple of nights. Castle Cragg was a few miles up into the mountains abouve where I was camped so I wandered up for a quick walk, which turned into five hours of exploration. There were caves and streams and bridges and mountains of pointy shale that I had to scamper up and the views through the fog were incredible. Now Castle Cragg isn't actually a castle, or if it was, it ain't no more. I think it's just the name of the mountain peak which was given to Sir Something-face in recognition of stabbing a Frenchman in the name of King Dick. It afforded a great view of the valleys and lakes, shrouded in fog and mystery and misery, but more neat than that were the piles and piles of shale (it's a type of flat rock, Goggle it if ye don't know) that were used to construct really eerie monument-type things on top of the mountain, there were large pieces stabbed into the ground like gravestones, and little Stonehenge-ish alters scattered about. Either it was scene to some strange midget/goat rituals, or bored tourists put them up as a memento to their boring trip up North. Memento, that's a fun word to say. The thing that most made my hike (hiking is brilliant, all the cool kids do it) was seeing a big pile of shit with someones footprint square in the middle. AHAHAHAHAA YOU STUPID TWAT!! Open yer fookin' eyes, what are they painted on? Ahhh heck.. It's still funny :D

Shit, sheeps, and scenery. Makes me wonder if I'm perhaps mentally ill, finding such stuff interesting.

The Lake District 9

wilski — Thu, 13 Oct 2011 15:19:00 GMT

"Hello little guy! It's the sweetie man coming!" ~ Wikus Van De Merwe, from District 9

Gosh it feels ace hitting the road again. No smartass, I didn't fall over. Heading up North-west-ish to the Lake District in Northern England, a journey of around 300kms from Middleton Cheney to the town of Kendal on the forest boundary. I was slightly delayed, my fault, zoned out in the shower and spent half an hour chatting with my mechanic, Mr Angel. I mean, he wasn't in the shower with me, nonono after I'd showered and changed and was ready to leave... ¬_¬

3:30pm and my first proper road trip on the bike began. No chance of making Kendal by nightfall so I thought I'd aim for Birmingham, or perhaps Manchester, and find a hostel to kip at by around 7pm. The weather looked good as I left, and anyways I have my trusty snowboarding gear on to protect me from the elephants.

Elements.

One thing I was about to learn, and be reminded of time and again, is that snow and rain are two different things. Two hours into my journey the heavens opened, and stayed open until 10am the next day. I was taking winding, scenic back roads to try to avoid the boredom of three-lane traffic, thought it would be better to ditch this option and take the quickest route instead in the hope of finding a place to stop for the night. My gear was soaked through within an hour, and by then I was stuck on a motorway between Birmingham and Manchester with nowhere to hide. Stopped at a service station around 7pm to tip the water out of my shoes and squeeze my socks and shirt dry, and chow on some bread and cheese. By 9pm I had made it as far as the outskirts of Manchester. My first estimates of how far I could travel on the bike were way out. Gosh. Idiot. With a top recommended speed of around 40mph/65kph, and no way of checking my map heading without pulling over constantly in the rain and operating my GPS on iPhone with cold wet paws, it was extremely slow going.

I got off the motorway again to dry off and have a cigarette and a pint at the nearest pub I could find, and try tee up a place to stay. One Guinness later and I was invincible again! I could totally make it to the lake district tonight, rain, hail or shine! Well, not shine, obviously. On the map it was only an hour and a half away, I'd reach Kendal and the Youth Hostel there by 10:30pm, perhaps 11pm at the latest.

Stupid map.

I rolled into the town of Kendal at 12:30am, cold and wet and cold. Everything was shut except for a few pubs but all I wanted to do was kip. I headed out of town and into the countryside til I found a turnoff that led into a small clearing where I set up camp in the rain, stripped off all my damp clothes and dumped them in the sidecar, and sheltered in the tent to towel off.

Stupid tent.

You've all seen pics of my tent, it's tiny. If I lie down in it straight, my head and toes will touch the ends, and if I sit up straight, well I can't because it ain't high enough so I have to slouch. It's a pretty uncomfortable setup but I manage okay. It's fantastically waterproof, but I never counted on condensation inside the tent being an issue, so when I wake up after a cramped nights sleep the inside of the tent is covered in dew and there's usually a small pool of water on the floor at the ends. I always keep a towel inside the entrance to wipe the inside walls and floor dry before I move around to change or eat or listen to BBC Radio 4. Cosy ain't the correct word.

I awoke in the morning, as you do, to the sniff sniff of a police dog outside my tent. Turns out I'd parked my arse in a carpark where the locals all take their dogs for walkies. The cuntstable didn't pay me any heed though, so I took my time getting up, made a campstove coffee and went for a walkie in the surrounding forests before breaking camp and heading back into Kendal to find a Hostel to dry off. The local YHA (Youth Hostel Association) was located in the main street but it had recently been purchased by a 19 year old gal, Kristina, a few weeks prior. It was open for business though so I booked in, but it was just myself and her staying the night. Quite boring really, I do enjoy staying at hostels because of all the people I meet then get drunk with. I ended up helping her paint a room, something I've done a few times before for pals back in Australia but am still rubbish at. Practice makes perfect.

Went for a stroll around the town, it was very pretty. An old castle up on the hill overlooking the surroundings, where everyone from town brought their dogs to train to sit and stay. Kendal is famous for Kendal Mint Cake, the first Mint Cake to be successfully carried to the top of Mount Everest by Sir Edmund Hilary and his slaveboy Sirdar Tensing. I bought some, it tastes like peppermint-y sugar, which is what it is. Rot the teeth outta yer head it will. Came in a nice tin which I now use to carry my tobacco in. There's also a snuff factory in town but I didn't find it. Snuff, ground tobacco that ye put up yer nose and sneeze. Bless you.

The weather was still rubbish the next day so I decided to stay another night. My wet clothes were down in the basement, in a drying room, same as you'd find in a ski resort. Testament to how wet it gets here that they have one. I purchased some waterproofing spray and coated the heck outta my riding gear. Met two girls from Australia who were staying the night as well, and I arranged to give 'em a lift on the bike back to their car the next day. We were all heading up to the town of Keswick then, it promised to be ace weather and of course the weather bureau never lies, so I arranged to pick them up in the afternoon once they'd gone for walkies around lake Derwent. Derwent, like the pencils. No, seriously, the town of Keswick actually has a pencil museum, where the first pencil was made. Cereal! Next to it was the James Bond museum, NO REALLY IT WAS, but they were closed for some reason or other. SEREOUSLY, WHY WOULD I LIE ABOUT IT?! And no, I didn't take a photo to prove it, so if ye don't believe me, get bent. Or Goggle it on the internets.

(For the record, I've been extremely slack in journaling, ain't had much opportunity to get to an Internets facility. At present, I'm back from Scotland and haf landed a job stacking medication onto pallets for a company called DHL, so this will give me time to catch up on where my adventures have taken me.. Be patients)

On the ride from Kendal to Keswick, I passed the museum of Frankenstein, coooooollll!! No, turns out it wasn't that cool, it was just the home of the author of the book, Mary Shelley. I wanted to see Frankensteins lab dammit! Meh, needed to stop for a drink of port anyway, warm my mitts and my spirit. Gets cold up North it does. While the gals went for their hike (who hikes, honestly, how dull..) I contented myself by riding around and around and around Derwent Waters (name of the lake below the town of Keswick, probably named after something to do with watercolor pencils, or maybe the chap who writ that theory on evolution. That was a great movie actually, Evolution. "I think we've established that 'Ca-caw ca-caw' and 'Tookie-tookie' don't work!" Ahahaha..) which has some of the memorable-est road I've ridden on so far, bordered by lake on one side and forest on the other and everything was covered in moss and squirrel and it was just pretty. Mmm. Pretty boring after the first few hours. The area is home to Englands most photographed bridge, a tiny stone archway spanning a little stream, with an old stone cottage in the background. I completely botched the shot for a photographer by parking on said bridge to scratch myself. Didn't photograph said bridge personally though, my fellow Ostrayans were ready for liftsies back to their car. The motorbike handles so fantastically with someone in the sidecar, it's always a pleasure traveling with company, even if they were from Sydney. Had afternoon tea back in Keswick, then we parted ways, never to see each other again, except maybe on BookFace, or if I ever pass through Manchester. Now to find me some accommodation for the night. Both hostels in the district were fully booked so I found a campsite at the South end of the lake to spend the night. Alas, no one was available to take my booking. I waited for an hour, playing with a marmalade cat and counting some sheeps but the owners still didn't show , and God had turned the lights off so I decided to set up camp and worry about it in the morning. Nite nite xxo

North by Northwest

wilski — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 22:54:00 GMT

"No. No, Mother, I have not been drinking. No. No. These two men, they poured a whole bottle of bourbon into me. No, they didn't give me a chaser." Cary Grant, North by Northwest

I don't know whether it's the copious amounts of alcohol I've been consuming, or my furry hat muffling my thoughts, or perhaps that nothing notable has happened this past week, but I can't seem to think of anything to write about. I've found that when you haf writers block, it helps to just write anything, anything at all and eventually something decent will flow forth. Shiv-ing this keyboard in the spleen with a sharpened toothbrush, DIE DAMN YOU! Hmmm... I have the bike, I have a rough plan to head north (is it north or North wif a capital N?) and discover more of this fascinating country, I have some pot noodle and a jailbroken iPhone with half the world mapped onto it by a genius computer dude I met in Middleton Cheney (hey Jamie, ta Jamie, it's bangin', proper lush innit, yeah boiii!) and his barcat Misty (hey Mistykins, meow meow meow innit) but once I hit the road it all becomes kind of... I dunno, it feels the destination is the important bit and the traveling there is just filler. If I can't change my frame of mind, this journey ain't gonna last...

So. Taking the bike back to Middleton Cheney for its first service. 600 and something kilometers on the cock. Haha. Clock. It'll get an oil change, filter change, make sure everything is tight like a tiger. Toit. Ooh, London, while I'm going up to Middleton I may as well take an ever-so-slight detour for a few hours and catch up wif my lovely new friends in the capital. Just for a few hours. As the traffic in London is nuts, ordered insanity, I parked the bike at a train station and caught the overland train to London-Marleybone station and caught the Tube over to Kings Cross. Met Megan, my favorite (uhhh careful with your words here Will) female-Canadian-brunette-met in London at Clink78 hostel-friend and went out for one pint, JUST ONE WILL, FOCUS! Because you haf to catch the train back in an hour and a half so you don't arrive at Middleton Cheney in the dark!

So anywho, I hung out with dear Megs for an hour, then ran into dear Aleks (favorite and only Switzerlander I know) and dear Sean (favorite and only Californicator I know) and dear Ella (favorite Aussie-living-in-London-that-I've-met-so-far except for myself perhaps) and dear dear Didrik (I forget where he's from, he fancies himself from Dublin in Ireland, just picture a handsomer Dylan Moran, like if Moran was a musketeer, that's Didrik) and having met them all I had to stay for another pint, just one Will, focus! Ahh fuck, Sean's leaving for Paris soon so I'll have another for Sean. Ahh drat, can't have an odd number of pints, it's bad luck. Four pints of cider-y yummness and five or so hours later than the latest I said I could stay, and I hopped on the tube (felt like Jack Sparrow, I only swayed unsteadily when the tube was stationary) to the train station to retrieve my bike. Hungry hungry hippo, I thought it would be a fantastic idea to chow on a quarter-pounder from McDonalds (or is it a Royale wif cheese..? No, that's Europe. "You know why they call it that? Because of the metric system? Check out the big brain on Brett! You're a smart motherf*cker!") while waiting for the train. Wrong! This country can't McDonald worth a damn, it can't Burger King properly either. I had half of it, an.. errm... eighth-pounder..? And felt ill. Threw up on the train ride back to my bike, lucky these overlanders have toilets. Comfy trains actually, television screens in the headrests and all. It was a long enough journey back so I managed to nap and felt much more better when I arrived in whatever town I left my bike at. So hard remembering these town/village names, why can't they haf proper names like Coolangatta or Perth? Nup, it's gotta be Barrow In Furnace, or Swadlincotelton or Gloucestershiresharrr-peh. Cough.

Riding back in the dark, it must have been ten-thirty at night instead of four in the p.m like I planned, but this wasn't a bad thing, on the contrary I quite enjoy being the only vehicle out on the road (especially since I can only travel 40mph. Ooh I can't wait for the day I get to overtake something!), the wind in my fur, the thing in my whatever. It was nice. Hit Middleton Cheney after one in the morning just as it began to rain. I hadn't booked a spot at the camping ground behind the motorcycle shop because I assumed I'd be back before the owners were doing whatever it is they do after midnight. Toyed with the idea of setting up camp in the old graveyard of the church in town. Is that wrong of me? I thought it would haf been a brilliant idea. But no, I decided to do the boring thing and set up in the camping ground. Figured I'd pay them in the morning, it's not the first time I've done that. It's hard putting up a tent in the rain, mostly because you have to try and keep the inside dry, which means you have to take your wet stuff off outside while staying dry yourself, which is impossible. Extra towels. It doesn't matter too much, because in the morning there's always water on the inside from condensation. It's science kids, goggle it on your internets.

In the morning, late morning (why does my head hurt so much-oh right, drinking) I left my desert-camo darling in my mechanic David Angels capable mitts and went to my favorite pub in England (but not the world, I've yet to go there) to have a hair-of-dog before going back. Back where? BACK! TO THE FUTURE!

Nah. London. I had to HAD TO have one last proper night out there before I headed up to Scotland. Or maybe west to Ireland. So many options. Back on ze train, chugga-chugga-whoo-whooo, no it wasn't a steam train, but that would've been more fun, no it wouldn't because I needed to charge my iPhone and these new-fangled locomotives haf power ports. London, yaaaay. Went to book a place for the night at my favorite backpackers hostel EVER (guaranteed, nothing could possibly top the Clink) but alas, they were fully booked. Bastards, I hate them! Tried Travelodge down the road, but I didn't haf £77 to spare on a room, tried the Keystone Hostel further down but they were fully booked, tried another one, same story, bastards, and finally gave Clinks dirtier sister Clink 150-something a try but fully booked as well. Foul venereal disease carrying whore. Meh, the God of adventure will be kind to me. Priorities first. DRINKY DRINKS WIF PALS!

Met up outside Clink78, bastards, there was a pub (and still is I think), The Carpenters, just opposite bastards78. Not long after, there was a commotion down the street, some nob-jockey had run out of the hostel with a laptop and iPhone he'd nicked from the internets room. What a nob. He was brought to the ground by a few undercover cops who were eating a kebab just down the street, and a whole bunch of pedestrians pounced on him as well. STACKS ON! Honestly, who steals from an ex-courthouse next to a present-Police-station? Gosh. Idiot. We walked over and it turns out he'd tried to steal Didriks' computer. He got it back, and the nob got charged with thievery. "I grabbed the wrong computer, I swear, it was a mistake!" Hahaha. Nob. This was a good enough excuse for us to drink, not that I've ever needed one before. Ended up back at the Clink later that night, dancing like solid gold dancers. T'was a great night.

Oh yeah, no place for me to sleep. Nooooo!! Megan the Canadan (Canadan? Canadian?) was super-kind and organised for me to crash at her place with housemate Jazz, up in Greenwich. Or Grenich, or Greenwitch, whatever. Just a short tuberide/busride out to zone 2 of London. The O2 Stadium. Pointy. Got woken up by two adorable British Staffy dogs growling and scratching outside the door. Never been a fan of them in Australia, they're scary in Oz, but I think they're quite brilliant now. One of them could say please and yum yum yum, and roll and spin on command, t'was brilliant! Cheese sammich and a pint of cider for brektus and it was back to pick up my bike in Middleton and get tickets to the music festival in Banbury, the Banbury Folk Festival. In Banbury.

Bike was fine, no problems found, and I was blessed to be offered accommodation by Holly and Luke, two lovely musos who were headlining the festival on Friday. In Banbury. Banbury Folk Festival. I love couch-surfing. It's safe, because I can't swim. I can't jump either, there's an interesting fact. Making both feet leave the ground simultaneously is a really difficult task for me. I just take huge steps instead. This was to be a weekend of wine, yay! Cab sav, port, sloe wine, fruit wine, fantastic! But not as much music as I had planned, I made it to the Friday gig which was brilliant. Alas, Luke & Hollys band was on at the same time as AHAB, another great band who were and possibly still are quite famous in the area, so I missed out on AHAB and they stole some of our crowd. Meh, was a good night nontheless, super-hungover the next day so ended up kipping constantly til the evening and staying in with Holly & Luke, chowing on some incredible vegetarian curry and drinking port outside while watching the meteor shower. I think I may've seen just the one actual meteor though, the other six were planes.

I've noticed in England, the sky is always full of vapor trails from high-flying jets (it's science kids, goggle it on your internets), criss-crossing and sometimes spelling words like 'I'... The air is also full of pretty glimmery gossamer spidew webs, floating gently on the breeze like silver beams of moonli-FUCK I HATE SPIDERS! >_< I'm really lucky the weather has been so nice these past couple of weeks. I can't imagine the cold would be that bad, I've prepared for it quite thoroughtly, packing all my snowboarding gear as well as thermal stuff and fluffy things. Not too long to go before the winter hits hard, especially since I'll be heading North on Monday.

Spent Sunday sleeping as well, Holly, Luke & myself were pretty worn from all the wine. Missed out on the Sunday sessions of the music festival in Banbury (the Banbury Folk Festival), but we tried to make in, all piling onto my bike (Holly in the sidecar with my flying bear hat and goggles hehe) and cruising into town. Gosh it's so much fun when I haf pillion passengers, the bike handles a lot differently, it's more grounded, except for a few times I took some left turns at speed on purpose and raised the sidecar off the ground, wheeee! Throwing my weight left brought it back down. Can't wait to be practiced enough to do it at every corner, it's super-fun! The festival was over by 7pm (the Banbury Fo-aaaah shut up Will) so we went to a really nice pub close by, The Reindeer Games, or something, and had ummm more wine, fruity yummy sloe-y wine. Then it was back to The New Inn in Middleton Cheney to meet another friend of theirs, Nick the assistant-photographer, and we had more drinks, then home for more curry and wine and ooh they haf absynthe hmmm...

Monday. Four Nurofen taken with the rest of the wine. Kicking myself for having somehow managed to smoke five pouches of my Australian Port Royal tobacco in only a month (to be fair I did accidentally lose half of one somewhere, I gave some to Jamie as payment for jailbreaking my iPhone (hahaha sucker!)) I headed into Banbury to refuel the bike for my trip up north, visit a tobacconist (mmm cinnamon tobacco, mmm cherry brandy tobacco, I wish I'd brought my pipe. And knew how to use it) and change my STUPID VODAFONE PREPAID! So expensive, I spend ten quid a week and I hardly text or call anyone! (It is purdy expensive texting dear Melissa in the Solomon Islands though, GET INTERNETS AT HOME, WOMAN!) I changed to some free text-y internetty thingy. Happy now, if slightly hung to the over, for shizzle. Dawg.

I miss my dog Elliott! Aww :(

NORTH! I've been recommended to go to York by Holly, it's supposed to be super-pretty. I was recommended against this because I was camping and York is apparently pikey-central. They'll nick anything if it ain't tied down. Is it racist to say that about pikeys? Are they a race? I wanna meet one in real life, but a little one that can't lift my stuff. So I'll head northwest, up to the Lake District, a little town called Kendal (my middle name is Kendall, wow. How about that..No, wait, it's Kendell wif an e, ay) because it's super-pretty up there. Lakes and forests and most importantly, lots of camping! Yayahh! Really excited to be hitting the road again, BAM! My bike is fully serviced and ready to go, but it has to be back by around 2500-3000 kiloeters for its second service.

In any song with the word baby in it, change the word 'baby' with 'matey' to pirate-ise it. Loads of fun. Hit me matey, one last time. Arr.

Bye Middleton Cheney, and all the lovely people in it, I'll be back in a month or there abouts, then haf to get a job for a bit before Europe. Sigh. The road awaits.

I'll be heading into Shakespeare country on the way, so.. ACTING!

"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, or close the wall up with our English dead." King Henry V

Photos: Gear-Up For Scotland!

wilski — Sat, 1 Oct 2011 10:01:00 GMT

The weeks prior to first proper road-trip up north

Training Wheels

wilski — Wed, 28 Sep 2011 14:13:00 GMT

"Ride safe Will! And remember, stay off the M25!" ~ Luke May, giving me some very good advice just before I leave Middleton Cheney for Tidworth. Advice which I ignored.

The M25 is a motorway that circles all of London. Motorways in England are horribly dull but pretty convenient. Unless you're stuck on one, on a bike that isn't allowed to exceed 40mph, and travelling away from your destination instead of towards. Something in my head registered with the huge M25 sign I passed and I thought 'yes, M25, that's where I should be, Luke mentioned it if I recall correctly. M for motorbike, yes yes.' I originally wanted to take the backroads back to Tidworth from Middleton Cheney but ended up getting lost in the countryside (hey, haven't I seen that castle before..?) and running out of daylight, so I hit the big roads to get there quicker. It's a shame I couldn't follow my GPS directions, one too many fare-thee-well drinks at the pub before I hit the road perhaps, because the bike is perfect for tiny English country lanes. On the motorway, sticking to the far left, being overtaken by truck after truck after Fiat 500 really sucks. There ain't many exits either, you'd probably pass five to ten towns before you're given an exit, then have to backtrack on another road to get to them all. It's terrible. What's even terrible-r is that I took the M25 going East, instead of West to where cousin Paulas place in Tidworth was. This led me completely around the outskirts of London, clockwise, adding another two hours to a trip that had already taken me four, when I should have been there in three. I ended up reaching my destination a little after 11pm, after over eight hours in the saddle. My hiney hurts. And my hands are bent into claws, my back is ouchy. And it drinks fuel like a... like a fuel drinky thingy. Bitch moan whine. But the bike is mine! If I stay off motorways I'll enjoy it more, I'm sure.

The area around Tidworth is fantastic, lots of small lanes lined by stone walls covered in ivy and bird shit. Riding through small forests that form an arch over the roads, it's all very pretty. If only every single lane and street and road in England wasn't fenced off or blocked by hedge or cottage or bird-shit-covered stone wall, I'd be able to pull over every once in a while and appreciate the beauty a bit more. Still, there's always a pub just up the road, up every single road probably. I can't afford to spend much time on the Ural unfortunately because my trip down here ate up 350kms of the 500kms that once are on the clock will mean it's time for the bikes first service. While I'm down in Tidworth I have to await the registration & insurance papers to be delivered in the mail, and organise a transfer of my funds in Australia to my bank account with Lloyds Bank, because it seems I've spent almost all of the £800 I brought, about £200 on some motorcycle extras like helmets and badges and lots of fuel, the rest on fuel for me, and accommodation these past 2-3 weeks. It ought not take too long. Because banks, as we know, are very efficient.

"We regret to inform you that your transaction can not go ahead until you receive your verification code in the mail, which should reach you withing two to five working days. Once entered into your online account, the transaction will commence"

Oh for goodness sake! Yup, two days later and it arrived, I entered it in on the Friday morning aaaaaand... got an email that afternoon stating the funds have been transferred, yay! Aaaaand will appear in my account in approximately three working days. Oh good grief Charlie Brown >_<

It was Wednesday when they graciously let me have MY F*CKING MONIES so I could leave this F*CKING DULL ARMY TOWN AAARGH!! So boring! Even worse when I had a gorgeous bike I couldn't ride, it's not fair! I spent most of my time either watching Sky TV (it's like Foxtel, pay tv innit) or cooking some remarkably good food (remarkable because as everyone knows, I'm rubbish in the kitchen) or sitting on a wall in the sun and drinking fruit cocktails. No, really, I did! I took the bike here and there on short jaunts some evenings, and got a bit of practice ferrying my cousins (I found some more cousins while there, so many Fijians in the British Army, what's wif that?!) around in the sidecar. The bike handles so much better with more weight, becomes more stable. Having said that, it is great fun with less ballast in the sidecar, I still don't have the skill to bring it onto two wheels at every left turn but I am getting less fearful about it.

I did love staying with my cousin and my other cousin and meeting another cousin as well, but until I get the bike through its first 500 kilometer service, I won't be able to explore the rest of the world. So once I cashed myself up and fueled the tank to the brim with fuel (and nicked a bottle of cousin Paulas port to keep in the trunk, THANKS CUZ!) I was off again, back to Middleton Cheney. I'm beginning to really like that village, everyone is so friendly and giving, the New Inn pub there is fantastic to hang out in (yay for bar cats!) and they have a Folk Festival on the 7th October that I really want to see. Also my bike was from there, my awesome mechanic lives there, I've had some very life-changing experiences there, hehehe, and it's the only place in England I have a sense of familiarity and comfortability with.

Still, I pictured myself riding through Germany or Portugal now, not puttering back and forth from Tidworth to London to Middleton and back. I'm really yearning to see more of this wide brow... uh.. small green land, feel like I'm wasting my time even though I'm enjoying every minute of it. I'm certainly wasting my money though, it's definitely time to consider getting a job and settling down for a few months, or else I won't be able to truly enjoy Europe.

Scary thought, holding a job. I'd have hoped to have escaped that part of my life for at least half a year....

The things we do for money. Or is it, the things money does for us..?

The Bike!

wilski — Sat, 24 Sep 2011 11:00:00 GMT

"I've got a fox on a motorcycle with a littler fox and, uh... what looks to be an o-possum in the sidecar riding north on farm lane 7. Does that sound like anything to anybody?" ~ From 'Fantastic Mr Fox'

Well, it finally happened. Inevitable. Quite a shame really. REM split up. On the bright side, those crazy physicists detected neutrinos that traveled FASTER than light, a feat forbidden by Einstein's theory of special relativity! Wow!

Also, the rego papers came back, the bike's finally mine! She's finally legal, and I'm gonna ride her hard.

....

Aw. I can't yet! Slight problem >_<

Allow me to tell you a bit about the motorcycle. In 1940, the Soviet Onion 'acquired' the design and production techniques from BMW for making sidecar motorcycles. Yesterday I 'acquired' some apples, and a cigarette lighter. They reverse-engineered the German-built BMW R71 sidecar bike with the goal of mass-producing something mobile that could withstand the harsh Russian climate, terrain, food and gypsies. They came up with the M-72, and a total of 9,799 were built during World War II, and by 1950 30,000 had been produced, in a brewery (yay) converted to a factory in the town of Irbit, located on the fringe of Siberia in the Ural mountains. Hence the name, Ural. Or IMZ-Ural (Irbitskiy Mototsiketniy Zavod which is Russki for Invincible Magic Zinvincible perhaps)

Initially built for military use only, in 1951 they shifted to production for common people like you. Because there's no money to be made in war. There's been around 3.2 million of these built since the factory first opened, and I own one of 'em. Woop woop.

It's heavy. Steel everything. Sign of reliability. Fully laden with a rider, pillion passenger and all their gear, it would weigh around half a ton. It ain't the quickest thing on two wheels, 'cos it has three, but it WILL get you where you have to go, over the toughest terrains, offroad, snow, river crossings.. Unless it rusts. Four wheels, sorry, forgot ze spare.

Suspension on all wheels (not the spare..), electric & kick-start start, hyoooooge battery filled with Chernobyl-juice so it'll never run out, a lockable trunk (or boot), massive space in the sidecar, a spotight on the sidecar, a handbrake, it has it all. Except speed, good fuel economy, or a comfy seat. But I ain't in a rush, the bike has a jerry-can attached, and my ass is well-padded.

Steering it is fun! I've been conditioned for ten years to leaning into corners on a motorbike. You wish to go left on a solo (two-wheeled bike), you push the bars to the right, the wheel turns slightly to the right and the bike will lean over to the left. Now with a combo (sidecar bike) you have to point the wheel where you want to go. It's kind of backwards to what I'm used to, but it'll be an interesting challenge. I like challenges, so long as they're easy or I can cheat. The bike curves left when you accelerate, and right when you decelerate, due to the sidecar wheel being around a foot forward of the back bike wheel. You can use this to turn better, accelerating and taking the bike around the sidecar when ye go left, or slowing down and letting the sidecar curve round the bike when going right.

Turning left is super-fun, if you do it too sharp or fast the sidecar will lift off the ground. As it's best to accelerate when turning left, this can happen quite a bit. I've started my training with around 16 kilograms of ballast (in the form of four 4L bottles filled with yucky English drinking water) in the sidecar to keep it stable, at least until I can find a small child who wants to travel Europe with me. Or until I improve my technique. Whenever it feels like lifting I throw my weight over to the left to keep the sidecar wheel grounded. Wheee!

The real problem, which ain't really an issue because I ain't rushing (but my bike is. Haha, Russian! ^_^) is that it's a 2011 model, hand-built this year with only 10kms on the speedo. This means that the engine has to be run in, limiting my top cruising speed to a maximum of about 60-70kph for the first thousand kilometers. Then 75-80kph for the next thousand. A bit scary on highways, or motorways as they calls them here, but I'll just stay off them and take the scenic route.

Just have to take it slow. No choice really. Foreign vehicle, foreign traffic, foreign roadsigns (gosh they're strange! So a white circle with a red outline and a picture of Evil Knievel jumping a car means.. what?), foreign roads (so tiny in the countryside! Cute, real purdy. Until a double-decker bears towards you and ye both haf to skim the hedges so as not to collide) and a foreign country. It's what I signed up for though. ADVENTURE!

Photos: The Motorcycle

wilski — Fri, 23 Sep 2011 22:01:00 GMT

URAL Tourist Gear-Up

Photos: English Countryside

wilski — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 22:35:00 GMT

The errmm... English countryside. Hedges and such.

The Bike?

wilski — Tue, 20 Sep 2011 17:35:00 GMT

Sonofabitch! Y'know how you have a great idea for something, and it's so fantastic that you think to yerself 'How could I possibly forget this, it's so great!' and so you don't write it down, then you end up forgetting what the idea was, only that it was brilliant. I just had one of those moments, it proper sucks, but the moment is good enough for me to start my next journal entry with.

Took the bus to catch a train to catch the tube to catch a train to catch a bus to see a man about a motorcycle. Hi London, bye London. I'm extremely low on cash, so had to walk through the city streets with eyes to the pavement lest the irresistable lure of booze ensnare me in its cold, creamy mmmm... I made it though. Better to be rich and unhappy than poor and content huh? Mm, whoever said that alcohol was a depressant has never been Wilski-drunk.

The train journey to Banbury was nice, it gave me some time to write a few more postcards to my friends and family overseas. Hehe, I can't believe I'm overseas! Alas, I got to Banbury a tad too late, it was raining cats n' kittens, no time for sight-seeing or whatever, and the bike store had closed for the night so I set up camp in the field behind (it was actually a proper campsite, luckily enough) and waited til morning. Lying curled up in my tiny tent, in the rain. Biding my time. Patient, like a tiger waiting for... Yep. Screw this, I need a drink.

Fantastically, there's a lovely lil English pub seven minutes walk away (and fifteen minutes back) that a fellow camp chap (camp as in tent camp, not man-love camp) told me about. I made it there in three. I wonder if they have English pubs in Ireland... Mm, food for thought. I had the BEST English brektus I've ever had (in England of course, no one does proper English brektuses like the Aussies), made friends with some of the locals, drank about five pints of cider, forgot all my new friends names, then stumbled into town to sleep. Then stumbled back the other way where my tent was parked. To sleep.

Waking up in the morning, in a tent surrounded by lush green grass, it's a great feeling. The smell of sheeps and cow poo, the rumble of traffic on the motorway just over the hedge, and the English hangover I got, ruined the moment. Nothing could possibly make me feel better! Except perhaps a half-hour shower (one thing I love about this country, no water restrictions! Not that this ever stopped me back home...) and getting to see my motorcycle for the first time. And coffee. Coffee and cigarette. And maybe a Bloody Mary, but that'll never happen, not in England.

My bike, my beautiful desert-camo, 380kg, £9995 bike! I'm so HAPPY!! Gosh. I couldn't stop grinning. Wasn't a great first impression for David Angel, the bike store owner. Unshaven, hungover, terrorist-y looking man-cub swaying gently at the doorway. I probably smelled too. Dave was an ace chap though, spent the better part of the morning chatting about bikes and electronic cigarettes and English wildlife. Nothing in England that could really harm you. They have adders here but no one has ever seen one.

"A badger could give you a nasty nip. Two hedgehogs, feasting on honey, could fall in your eyes" ~ Bill Bailey :)

Dave made me a coffee, a proper plunger coffee, not that freeze-dried crap. Why extract all the water and flavour out of it, only to put water back in again and ugh yuck. He'll also hook me up with a helmet. Safety first. So I've seen my bike, all that remains is for me to wait for the rego papers to arrive. Hopefully by Monday. Lots do do here in the village til then though. Like umm drink. Or umm walk. But never both at the same time. It's been many a mans downfall. Haha.

Crumbs, it's pretty here! I mean, gosh, my word it's pretty. Everything's thatched and stoned. Went for a bit of a walk to the outskirts of town, sorry, village, through a field (there are signposts saying 'footpath' and they point off the roads across field and grass and... everywhere but a path. Make yer own way I guess) that led into a little forest, that crossed over a small stream, then around a pond with an island in the middle, then through a tunnel of trees to a small stone-walled alley way to a gate at the end that I climbed over, and ended up behind an ancient church. It was all really serene, really lovely. If I actually appreciated this sorta shit, I'd be in heaven.

Haha, naw, it was great :) The town of Middleton Cheney, sorry, village, looks like it did four hundred years ago. But probably a few more teenage mums pushing babies about in prams these days. The houses all have charming names, like Manor Cottage, Fair View Cottage, Private Drive No Parking Cottage.. My favorite is definitely New Inn Pub Cottage. In fact, I'll end this now and go over to bask in the errm history of the place. Mmm, history...

Grrr, it was some sort of song reference I wanted to start the journal entry with... It'll come to me eventually. Good things come to those who pay for it.

Moving To The Country

wilski — Sat, 17 Sep 2011 08:02:00 GMT

Gonna eat me a lotta peaches. Or so the song goes. No peaches here, no ninjas either. Mini apples. Maybe because they're not ripe yet. I et 'em anyways, they were delicious, everything tastes better when it's pinched from an orchard at one in the morning. Shhh...

So I ran from London, back to cousins house in Tidworth, Andover. It's fun (cheap) staying with her, really really fun (cheap). I cooked, for the first time in my life, spaghetti bolognese, cheese-y meatballs and lasagne. Yes! Me! Cooked! Double you tee eff. In return for the under-cooked, over-salted chow, cousin took me to her workplace, the British Army barracks. I saw some huge fuck-off trucks, a couple of tanks rolling through (but I didn't photograph any because y'know, if a man in a tank objects to being snapped, he'd retaliate purdy hard) and a whole bunch of soldiers (the term used was 'squadies') who made me uneasy with that traditional English greeting. "You awrite mate? You rite?" Having a man in uniform ask me that, it makes me feel like I've just done something wrong. But I was awrite, mate, and and they let me off with a warning.

Aparrently REM are splitting up.

The nightlife in Tidworth consists of Tesco's, which is a supermarket so doesn't really count. I'm pining for London again. Something very attractive about having a pub next door to the pub you're drinking at. I'll stay here til Monday the 19st, then go to the country. I mean, the proper country, where they grow the cows for my burger.

.......

Heyyy, it's Monday! Amazing how time flies oon the internet. Off to a little town, sorry, village (pronounced vii-ladge) called Middleton Cheney, to see my motorcycle (pronounced motor-sickle). Yay, the fruits of my labour are nearly ready to be sat on :] Til then I'll survive on stolen fruit of other peoples labour. And some lovely Australian wine that I bought at a post office.

I Heart London

wilski — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 21:24:00 GMT

I'm back, did you miss me? Ahhh London, how much for your strongest hangover? Yes please, I'll take three.

I feel so very at home here. It's a dangerous thing for someone who set out in search of adventure. But I have to stay somewhere, the thing holding this whole adventure back is the processing time to register my motorbike. Three weeks or so, many forms to fill, grrr. Bureaucracy. A form of government, the authority of which is not so much to accomplish anything, but to obstruct accomplishment by anyone else.

Just found out that the bike store where I'll be purchasing from has closed for a few days, gone fishing or something, so I'll have to wait wait wait a few more days before hiking down there and pitching my tent for the first time. I sure hope they ain't taking my money and running, I did deal with them entirely by internet... Nahhh, that couldn't happen to me! Making the most of hot showers and good conversation, before I have to leave for the country again. Country. Why would you go?! It's a disgusting place, it's always wet, even when it's dry. There's nothing there. Farmers aren't really people, you know this. They're just necessary, we need somebody to kill cows. Haha, Dylan Moran :)

Hanging out with some lovely lovely people, saw a few live bands, drunk at a Cuban bar (had my first Negroni overseas, my fave cocktail. Haha, Cockfosters!), et Thai and Indian and something that squeaked when I bit it, really trying to enjoy every cent I spend. Still, this ain't my adventure, this is just filler. Padding. Fluff.

I don't know, this doesn't seem like how I'd envisioned my trip...

Meh.

My motto: When in doubt, drink.

My other motto: When in doubt, run.

Photos: London

wilski — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 19:41:00 GMT

City of Cathedrals

Photos: AUSTRALIA to UK, then a bit of UK

wilski — Wed, 14 Sep 2011 17:50:00 GMT

My First Week in England

Huge Fuck-off Stones

wilski — Mon, 12 Sep 2011 17:29:00 GMT

Took the overland train then a bus to Andover, Hampshire. Or something starting with H. Who names these places, I know not. But a huge thank you to the lad (had to be a guy) who named the last Tube stop on the Piccadilly line. Cockfosters, yeah!

Hahaha hee hee hoooo.

Cousin Po works for the British Army. I knew I was getting close when the bus passed a 'Beware: Tanks Crossing' sign by the side of the road. I guess it's about a hundred kilometers to the west of London, a little village (or town, I'm not sure what they call 'em) full of army barracks, soldiers, their families, not much else really. Ooh, and Stonehenge.

The stones, shrouded in mystery, obscured by a hefty £7 viewing fee (should haf brought my binoculars [thanks Anthony!] and stood outside the fence like all the other smart people) were put there between ten and billions of years ago by some guys with huge beards, probably, who played hide and seek around them, probably not. No one actually knows why they're there, except historians, and anyone who read the brochure or listened to the audio guides. How very mysterious...

We left just before the heavens opened and it rained cats n' kittens. Finally, some proper English weather. A few days with cousin Po watching pay tv and eating bad food from lousy restaurants, I caught a bit of a cold, probably a combo of jetlag, too many cigs and too much alcohol (yes there really is such a thing, Will) but the downtime there was greatly needed. Time to hit London again, I'm sure she misses me.

Time Is Money & London Life Takes Time

wilski — Sat, 10 Sep 2011 12:15:00 GMT

Welcome indeed. My days here consist of 8am wakeups, half-hour showers, toast and marmalade and hot chocolate and cig for brektus, followed by two hours in the internets room typing this blog. Too busy posting the past on the net to live in the future.. Once I catch up and can keep on top, I'll be right. She'll be right, mate.

I'm never sure what day it is. Staying at a hostel, you see the same faces, have the same fantastic conversations, spend increasingly more on drinks as the day wears on, it all gets a bit blurry. Which reminds me, I haf to go to Boots (it's a big-name pharmacy here. Ha, boots!) to purchase a microfibre cleaning cloth for my specs.

So what IS there to do in London?! Well now! You can drink, you can walk, you can do both at the same time (depending how much you've had), you can buy anything your heart desires (providing, of course, you have the £), the world is your oyster. Providing, of course, you have the £. I bought my first oyster card yesterday, it's a public transport card, you go to station and 'beep' and you catch the tube and get off and 'beep' and you're where you wanna be, so simple. Banks here have no bank fees! Wow! So many fantastic pubs and beers and ciders and gosh the weather here is incredible! Flip-flops and shorts weather. Of which I packed none. Aaaahhh cock, I packed all my adventure clothes, I'm so upset! The nightlife here calls for my captains jackets and vests and boots, I'm seriously considering sending for them.

I went to a park in 'beep' Fulham 'beep' and lay in the sun writing postcards for my dear friends back in Australia. That was the first proper relaxing thing I've done since I came here. Looking forward to the next such moment when I can dump my bag (hell did I overpack or what! Grrr.. huff huff huff) and aaaaaahhhh.... relax... zzz zzz..

Lugging my bag across London, looking for simcards, an average coffee (I've almost given up on ever finding a place that knows what a flat white is..) or 2 minute noodles to cook back at hostel and save a bit of money for more drinky-drinks, it's really hard work. My shoulders hurt just thinking about it. Drinking here is also hard work. Guinness is a heavy fricken drink. I should alternate hands..

My money is disappearing faster than I believed possible, it's time for a little holiday to the country to hang with my cousin Po. Heck, even that is pricey, a one-way train ticket (under an hour journey) is over £20. It makes me pretty sad to think how I'm spending my time and money on everything but myself. Ah well, they can't take my alcohol from me :)

"I told you before, you cannot drink outside in the smoking area, I don't care if it's in a plastic cup. I'm sorry, but you know the rules and you broke them." ~ George the Romanian, just before he took my pint of cider and poured it down the drain.

Dear London. I think we should take a break from each other. I love you, and you'll always have a place in my heart, but I don't have the energy to keep doing this. Sorry.

Bye London, I'm off to 'beep' Andover 'beep'

London, England. Innit!

wilski — Thu, 8 Sep 2011 19:30:00 GMT

I made it! The plane landed and I didn't die, haHA! I won that bet... against mySELF!!!!!!

.... ....

Yeah, sorry. I've been in this internets type type room for hours, it's hot and muggy and um English. Sitting in the Judges chair of the courtroom-turned-internet chatroom, eating doritos. The hostel I'm staying at is an old refurbished courthouse, where Charles Dickens worked while he wrote and immortalised the adventures of Oliver Twist. More recent residents include rock legends The Clash, who were held in the cells in 1978 for shooting at pigeons. As you do.

Yeah whatevs. The fright from Shanghai Airport (yup, the intercom lass at the airport really did say "Wish you have a present fright") started off nice. I scored an aisle seat, great for getting up and walking whenever I wanted, they handed out hot towels (I'm not sure what these are for though. I now have three cold damp towels in my backpack). There was bungee-jumping on the telly, and I found a station on the in-fLight radio that played some awesome French music.

It all went down-hill with the first meal. Thought I'd get fish again, since it worked out so well the first leg of the trip. Nup, I got served a strip of vulcanised lizards cock from the moon. The gentleman next to me got drunk from one glass of wine (decent South Australian Shiraz surprisingly) and proceeded to have a conversation AT me. You know someone ain't a real drinker when they insist on swirling their economy-class airline wine around and around in their plastic airline cup and sniffing at it.

The flight over Russia and Afghanistan afforded some fantastic views of desert and snow-capped mountain, that was nice. The view of England (I think the 'Eng' in England means 'hedge') was lovely. And London looks real purdy from the air. Very um.. green and old and lots of pointy bits.

Woooo, Heathrow Airport! Noooo, Heathrow Customs & Immigration :(

The line was long, like proper long. One queue for three separate flights, India and Dubai I believe. Lots of angry sweaty people, much use of the F word. Finances. Nono, I mean fuck. Of course. I have to admit I was quite worried about getting through, I've heard they don't take kindly to my type round there (Aussie work-visa types, not sleepy side-burn-toting gentlemen of leisure) but I said the magic words and they let me in instantly. "Gosh I love your accent!"

Spent an hour wandering aimlessly, without aim, trying to find my bearings. Asked a rozzer (English slang for Police Officer, innit) for directions to the hostel I'd booked for the first two nights, but was too fascinated with his accent and funny hat to remember what he'd said. Haha, funny funny hat, eeeee!!

Found my way, finally (thanks for the map, Mel) to Clink78, a fantastic backpackers hostel in Kings Cross, London. Ten minutes from the Underground, a brilliantly efficient subway system ('Mind The Gap') which connects me with everything this city has to offer. MUCH EXCITEMENT! Step one though is of course to get some rest, I've been in transit for almost two whole days. Time diff is nine hours behind Melbourne, Australia. In hindsight, it was a silly silly decision for me to wander down to the bar for "a quick drink before bed."

Four hours, £20 of cider, and many lovely new friends later, and I went to bed. Unfortunately, some lovely young thing had decided to thieve it from me. George the Romanian, the one-man security chap here (he looks like Bono! A huge trench-coated don't-fuck-wif-me Bono) was kind enough to sort her out. Never found out why they called him George The Romanian.

Only got four hours of sleep. It'll take a few days to get over the jetlag, hoping I can just drink straight through it. Welcome to London, Wilski :)

Shanghai (Airport)

wilski — Wed, 7 Sep 2011 22:30:00 GMT

Melbourne to UK via Shanghai Pudong Airport. Haha, dong! I was to stay at airport for around sixteen hours, couldn't leave to explore Shanghai unfortunately as I hadn't teed up a transit visa. Meh.

Arrived Shanghai airport at some ungodly hour. Maybe 6:66, I dunno. So very tired, ten hours in the air. Ten hours is a long time to spend in a wing-ed tube. The plane is made of metal, the wings are made of metal, we're all eating, I'm the only non-terrorist on board, we're all going to die. The food though was fantastic. I hate fish, but I ordered fish, and it was so good I ordered it again. Two meals served, all the wine and tomaytoe tomartoe juice I could sup, yay China Eastern Airways!

My most memorable moment was watching the in-fright safety video presentation thingy. "Pull out the artificial gas tubes, and huff them with your mouth," said the stewardess. Everything else shown on the screens was rubbish, four very bad Chinese movies, terrible subtitles (learn from SBS and change the subtitle colour from white to yellow, dammit), lucky I'd scored three middle seats all to myself so I stretched out and kipped for most of the trip. The staff were kind enough to wake me with a gentle tap from the airline meal and drink trolleys. Hangovers ain't the only pain alcohol inflicts to yer head.

Getting through customs at Shanghai was fun, everyone was super-friendly. I think. A lot of gesturing towards me and laughing. Wandered around the terminal for about an hour (huge fuck-off terminal, would haf been very impressive was I not so tired), looking for a place to nap. Summed up the courage to take the lifts to a place that offered lots of questionable massage but it turned out to be two pretty neat airport hotels.

Had my first cigarette in seventeen hours, aaaaahhh, then checked in to errrmm.. lemme check the receipt.... Dazhong Merrylin Konggang Hotel. Mm yes, something like that. About $70AUD for a night, in their most expensive suite available. Only the best for me. Well, I wanted their cheapest, the 'special' suite, but everything was booked out. How convenient eh :)

I watched some fun fun gameshows on my huge flat-screen (the usual Chinese stuff where contestants push each other over then laugh and group-hug), had a shower for half an hour (no Melbourne water-restrictions here!) then napped for about six hours. Up at 9am to pack and check in for my midday flight.

Waited at the waity place, whatever you call it, I'm not sure because I'm drunk. Tiger beer, mmm. That's Malaysian right? I also had Corona. Mexican. My three favorite beers. It was at 11:30, half an hour before boarding, that I realised I didn't turn my clock back two hours. Aw poo. 9:30, I'm intoxicated, three hours to burn before departure, have about a hundred Yuan in my wallet and am surrounded by stores selling one of my biggest vices. Cute fluffy panda accessories, tiiii!! But I behaved, I saved my monies for bear (ahahaha shut up Will) necessities, like vegetable noodle soup (was I to know this was to be my last awesome meal for the next few days, I'd have ordered seconds) and more beer.

Flight boarding in half an hour, I'm a tad restless and stiff so I wander around to an empty part of the terminal and exercise. Sit-ups, push-ups, stretchy stretchy. Two security cameras turn to watch me, so I stop this abhorrent behavior and take a seat to flip through a Chinese newspaper upside-down.

Bye Shanghai, I wish I could haf seen more of you. Alas, too much smog in the air.

The Beginning Of The End

wilski — Wed, 7 Sep 2011 11:00:00 GMT

The plan is to travel to the UK, jolly olde England, and purchase meself a motorcycle to tour the European countryside with, see some castles and history and shit. Once I run outta dosh, which in my case usually happens sooner than later, I shall sell said motorcycle and fly to India, buy a motorcycle and tour the Indian countryside, see some castes and misery and shit.

The 'original plan' was to travel from England to India overland, but that fell through due to the dreaded F word. Yep, fuck. Haha, nono, it was finances. Finances, and also fear. Fear is good in small manageable doses. I have all confidence I can manage anything Europe and the UK can throw at me, India too, but not Russia. Travelling up north through Russia, Siberia, then down through China, Mongolia and across the Himalayas to India, too much could go wrong. Also it's a bloody boring ride I'd imagine. And another thing, winter is on ze corner. Napoleon lost a war for underestimating the fierce Russki winter. Hitler too.

The other alternative, riding south through Iran, Afghanistan, then trying to charm my way through the Pakistani border crossing into India, that's also a tad much for timid lil moi. What with the turmoil and politicky stuffs going on, I'm far too busy and important to bother with it.

So here I find myself, packed with only the barest of necessities (only 30kg). Sitting in the back seat of step-dads car (lovely man, terrible driver) with mum (busy texting/crying), on the way to Melbourne International Airport. There ain't no stopping this trip now. The motorcycle has already been purchased, I've got my visa, passport, e-ticket confirmation (lemme just double-check, visa, passport, e-ticket, yep, whew), all that needs be done is get on the plane. Easy.

And it WAS easy, after luggage check-in, money exchange, customs, duty-free shopping, saying bye to ma and step-pa and everything I know and love and GOSH it was hard. But I made it. Yay. Scary scary so much can go wrong I shouldn't be here I miss couch and Scooby Doo pillow and van and my brothers spaghetti bolognaise and staying up til four in the morning drinking green stuff from tiny glasses and REALLY GOOD COFFEE, nervous nervous I don't know what I'm doing here. Thank God for airlines serving wine, that helped with the anxiety. Ahh booze, the cause of, and solution to, all lifes problems :)