Teacher Tales

Kefalonia Part 1- 4th August- 8th August 2025

We set off in that strange state where time folds in on itself and you're not sure if you should be awake or asleep. Earlier in the day, we had embraced a good Sunday lunch at a Toby Carvery. The queues had been insane but judging by what some folk crammed onto their plate; the wait was worth it. I mean, I feel that some of these people might not need to eat again for a week. It was disgusting, to be honest. It was our first experience with Molly, Kyle’s girlfriend (she was delightful and has an affectionate habit of saying ‘grand’, which I really liked). Unfortunately,  Rachel wasn’t feeling great, and she didn’t really eat, but everyone coped well with the situation and after some attempt at sleep, and, for me, a couple of cheeky beers at the Chezzie Arms,  Kyle took the wheel and safely transported us to Manchester.

I was proud of him.

The airport wait was long and a little shapeless, but Rachel slept through most of it, still suffering a little from anxiety. There was a wild moment where we seemed to have lost our passports and Kyle made some remark about the ‘experienced travellers’. He had a point. I retrieved them from my unchecked pocket and parity, or at least calmness, was restored. The resourceful and reliable Molly took charge of the passports forthwith and slotted them into her zipped bag.

The flight itself was surprisingly easy — both Molly and I slept most of the way. The pilot introduced himself as “Mr Dave Holiday,” which made us all smile, and the Jet2 cabin crew voiceover for the safety announcement was hilarious with the male representative  sounding like a children’s TV presenter. At the other end, Kefalonia airport was astonishingly quick and efficient. Rachel was sick briefly, but it passed and we were able to jump the passport queue. When we all arrived at the baggage carousel, our bags were already in full view.

The car hire was a bit confusing at first — and took some circling around the exterior of the airport to figure out where we were meant to go. Once Molly and I navigated our way to the correct office (just outside the airport) we were able to book ourselves out with an 8-seater van! I had booked a Dobilo 7 seater but this Peugeot was a beast and when you drove it, it snarled like one too. 

The drive to the villa was across the south side of the island and Kyle navigated deftly as we drove the winding southern rode through the valley bottoms and then high up with the coast to one side. Thank fully, everything worked-the code at the gate and keys etc although we did initially have some issues with the internet. A phonecall later and we were on.

It was beautiful. Tucked into the hillside with a pool that caught the light even in the late afternoon. You could see Zakynthos off in the distance and numerous other outcrops of land; the sea was picture postcard blue and we all floated around for a bit to cool off and settle in. Molly and Kyle were laughing and messing about in the pool and something about it pulled me right back to my own youth and when I used to throw Rach around in the waters and giggle innanely. It was lovely to see them having such a great time.

Unfortunately, it was impossible for Kyle and I to completely settle and relax as we needed to grab supplies and then pop back to the airport to collect Georgia and River. Molly was a trooper and said she’d cook up some pasta for everyone. The winding trip back in the dark was exhausting and I was definitely ready for a beer or two when back at the villa. After some very tasty pasta, the conversation flowed easily and the spirits were high. River, Georgia and I ended up in a deep discussion about religion and stayed up until after 2.00am. I slept on the sofa so Rach could get some ‘kip’

The morning was quiet. A supermarket run with Georgia and River followed by watermelon and coffee by the pool. I continued reading The Picture of Dorian Gray — the language! The layers and paradoxes and the the arrogance of the upper classes all equally fascinating.

Later, we picked up snorkels and shoes and headed to a nearby rocky spot by the sea. The snorkelling was unexpectedly great — ancient-looking rock formations like slices of cake and one that looked oddly like a shark’s head. One in particular looked like a millefieux and for a moment I forgot the name of this layered cake and so asked River, who, in typical middle class style immediately said ‘oh millefieux!’ We laughed.

River and I spent quite some time checking out the many different colours and shapes of the fish here as well as the very deep rock pools. The others were warming up in the sun and I think were keen to move off and so once River and I returned, it was back to the van and a trip into Skala. At one point I drove the wrong way down a one-way street (naturally) and there followed the inevitable papping of horns. I had parked and wasn’t moving and I knew we were wrong but everyone still felt the need to tell me!  Eventually, we parked and wandered toward a pastel-painted church. Molly and I stepped inside — a glittering gold interior, dramatic paintings, and a separate bell tower. We found a great restaurant which had a fabulous vegan menu and so our crowd were happy indeed.  The waitress was patient and lovely as we bounced madly around the menu, choosing a wide range of goodies. The stuffed vine leaves were beautiful and Rach and I managed to order our first retsina of the trip. 

Back at the villa, and somewhat hot, Rachel stepped out of the van and in time old Weston fashion, leapt in, fully clothed. We spent the next few hours drifting between sleep, reading, and grazing. Each couple sorted their own dinner and Rach and I showed off with a spread of about 6 or 7 dishes. The younger ones had an early night, while Rachel and I stayed up drinking wine and ouzo, talking into the night — looping back, as we often do, to the questions of why things often seem to land on me. I remember my dad saying the same thing years ago. I guess it is a compliment. Sleeping was ok but it was the sofa for the snorer I’m afraid. 

We awoke to the surprising sound of rain the next morning along with thunder, grey skies, and frankly, a real sense of drama. However, by mid-morning it had cleared, and we decided that we were still all good to take a trip out in the van towards Melassani Lake.  The drive there was breathtaking — parts of the landscape looked like Cornwall, others like the American Midwest or even Switzerland. Yet when we arrived, we found ourselves turning into a huge traffic jam. One tour guide with a coach stopped at our van and tipped us off that 8,000 cruise ship tourists were en route. We made a quick exit, though we were disappointed, for sure. 

Nevertheless, Drogarti Caves were close by, so we headed there instead. The descent into the caves was long but worth it — towering stalactites and stalagmites, incredibly eerie and silent, considering the number of visitors.  Rachel, though still not feeling 100%, climbed back up like a trooper. I was very proud of her.

From here, we visited the quirky, Odysseus’ Zoo Land — part animal park, part strange open-air museum with ducks, dogs, cows, and scattered statues.  Molly was full of Odyssey knowledge, so I learned a lot just by listening to her. As we walked the giant models told the story of Homer’s book whilst River and Georgia were in their element with all the animals to stroke and fuss over. From here, we headed off to Sami harbour, where we battled for parking, ate feta and roasted peppers, and tried to agree on the next step — eventually settling on a beach run to Antisamos.

The water there was stunning. Deep blue and inviting. Rachel, Georgia, River and I all swam whilst Kyle and Molly had some mineral water or iced coffees, I can’t remember. There was a brief  tense exchange with the sunbed guy, but it was quickly sorted. In truth, we had been lucky to avoid him and had jumped straight in the sea. When he nabbed us, we stated that we weren’t aware there was a cost and the sign walking down to the beach did say ‘free sunbeds’. He curled a lip and said in a thick Greek accent, ‘Don’t do it again’. We nodded like naughty school children and paid nothing. Later, we stopped at a supermarket in Poros, and that night everyone did their own thing for dinner again. Rachel and I showed off a little with a decent spread, once again. The others went to bed early. I sat in the quiet once more as Rach was nodding and finally drifted off. I do like the quiet nighttimes, a little too much, in truth, especially as I get older. I almost regret the fast time passing afforded by sleep. 

The next morning started with a jolt — I’d had a horrible dream about Georgia. The worst of my life in truth, which involved my mum walking into the conservatory at 47 Linden Road and telling me Georgia had died. I felt the pain viscerally and it took me the whole morning to recover from it although I told no one. The morning was be a planned calm one for Kyle and Molly, who hung around at the villa, waiting nervously for Molly’s bar exam results (not a bar, but you know, lawyer stuff). Georgia and River hiked to a nearby waterfall whilst Rachel and I went into Poros for breakfast. We found a place called Flour and Water right by the sea — gentle waves lapping at the rocks, beers and riganada (a beautiful tomatoes on toast recipe) on the table. Georgia and River bravely walked from the waterfall which was dried up, not surprisingly considering the time of year and made it to the restaurant to join us. This was a quiet pleasant moment of the holiday. We had planned to book a trip to Ithaca from the port but no one was there to take bookings. Fortunately, I was able to book us in online later that evening, from the villa. 

We left the van and walked the incline to the villa, all slightly nervous to hear about Molly’s exam results. I noticed a half smoked cigar in an ashtray on the table outside and knew that was a good sign. My initial hunch was proved correct— Molly had passed. A wave of joy and relief swept through the place. Congratulations came and were richly deserved after all of the effort Molly had put into her studies. That night, I drove Kyle and Molly into Skala so that they could enjoy a celebratory dinner while Rachel and I went to a nearby restaurant. I had a Kefalonian meat pie — which was delicious and we listened to the loudest cicadas we’d heard since our time in Angkor. 

It was the usual chill at the villa and a stint on the sofa overnight to follow.

Our plan in the morning was to head out to Argostoli, the capital and so, getting a relatively quick start we headed off along the south coast of the island. As we were driving along, Georgia and I were thrown into a state of alarm, when my phone started beeping as if we were under nuclear attack. You know those films where an apocalyptic event is about to happen- well, for a moment I thought I was in one. The screen on my phone had a red flashing warning sign and wouldn’t stop blaring. After some time, others received the same message and it was clear there was a problem on the island. River worked out that it was all about a wildfire that had ignited not far from Argostoli and indeed close to the road we were driving. There was a moment of panic in the van as we all debated the best course of action- there was a monastery I was keen on seeing after all. Yet, as we were considering plans, we saw smoke rising in the distance (and too close for fun) so we turned around and headed back the way we had come.

River found a beach nearby where we could regroup and there were turtles here which he and Georgia found. Rach and I swam while Kyle and Molly waited at the beach bar. Rach and I had a mad moment when our sunscreen brolly was blown down the beach. A chap tried his best to save it for us, which was nice but it was busted completely, by the time we got it back. Cheap rubbish. Funny to watch him racing rather unglamorously across the sands though. 

Back at the villa, I felt oddly unsettled as if we had wasted a day. I decided to go for a run in the heat which I found really difficult, especially as I had done nothing but eat, drink and be merry for a number of weeks. I stopped briefly at the tiny but well kept Saint George’s church, which was built in 1812 just after the discovery of the temple of Apollo, which it now stands adjacent to. This Doric temple dates back from the 6th century but little remains now save the supporting bases of the walls and a few scattered stone blocks. Nevertheless, it is unique, as it is the only site from this period to be found anywhere on the island. I did a little circumnavigation of the site and enjoyed the breather. I ran further down the hill- in what must have looked like a clumsy slow fall, frankly. Fortunately there was a restaurant called the Nautical, which is shaped like a boat and hangs over the cliffs, just outside the centre of Skala. I ordered a quiet but much needed beer from a chap who looked oddly french (you know what I mean). At first, I thought I had annoyed him by arriving, but it might have been the sweaty mess that I was, to be fair. He refilled my bottle of water for the walk back (a 3 kilometre walk uphill). 

Later, Kyle and Molly attempted a pasta dish. Something went wrong judging by the commotion in the kitchen, but they salvaged it with good humour. We ended up deep in conversation again — religion, politics, the usual suspects — until after midnight but this time it was me, Molly and Kyle. 

Eventually the sofa was waiting and begrudgingly, I flopped down and went to sleep- would have loved some aircon in the lounge mind. 

Kefalonia 2- 9th to 11th August 2025

We spend the early morning, eating brekkie and checking out the facts on the fires that were apparently rampaging through the undergrowth in Kefalonia and Athens, on the mainland.  We decided that a trip North away from the southern fires was prudent and so we headed towards Assos, a destination my sister had told us was stunning. She is not wrong but more on that story later. The drive was windy as before and some pretty steep climbs too. I was beginning to get a hang of the van thankfully. On our way, we passed the stunningly picturesque Myrtos beach, often voted the most beautiful beach in Greece- quite some accolade. We saw it from possibly the best place- the mountains above and astride the famous Harakas bridge. Here you could see everything-the curvature of the land, the drama of the rocky backdrop and the colours- white pebbles, turquoise sea lapping up on to perfect sand.

From here, we drove over the high mountains and sloped our way back down towards the stunning Assos- a charming, pastel-coloured town,  like something from a fairytale or dream. The land narrows where the centre of the village is and takes you to what is effectively, another smaller island know as the Erissos Penisula. There is a stunning Venetian castle here called ‘Assos castle’, although we didn’t have time to get up to it. The three couples divided up and wandered around this picture postcard town with a local population of less than 100. The tourists more than made up for that, and most were sat at the only restaurant open, when we arrived. Rach and I sat in the square with a couple of cans of beer, where we were able to watch the world go by and marvel at the pastel-coloured houses and look upon the turquoise Ionian sea.

We had a lovely lunch in Assos once the lazier, or more likely, laissez faire owners decided to take on customers. 

I paid. 

Kyle was flagging in the heat a little and soon after lunch, we strolled back to the van and headed south and back towards the villa. We weren't done yet however and decided to take another punt on Melassani Lake. This time there were no queues and all curious, we walked down the slight decline housed in a tunnel, to the lake itself. Above, open air, as the roof had fallen thousands of years ago revealing this cavernous lake to the sky, letting sunlight stream in. We hopped into a boat and the captain rowed us out across the lake, sometimes singing, a little like the old Cornetto advert but he was trying to show us the echo effect as we went into what remained of the cave. He also told us that in places the water was 39 metres deep.  

After Melassani, we headed home. Georgia and River made a lovely spread for the evening meal with lemony potatoes and some stunning roasted peaches with salt. Gorgeous. There was an odd and frankly nonsensical tense moment over a towel between Rach and Georgia but it passed soon enough. I ended up on the sofa again.

We were all up early the next morning to catch the boat to Ithaca. We were all quite excited as the land of Odysseus beckoned. I drove everyone down to the port at Poros and we found our vessel easily enough. Thankfully, we managed to grab some great seats on the upper deck and the views from there were wonderful as we bobbed along the calm waters- perhaps the clearest I have ever seen. The sun was beaming down but we had shade and in the distance we could see the headland of various islands and even mainland Greece. After a short and very calm, relaxed boat ride we reached a quiet bay where we were allowed to swim in unexpectedly cold water. It didn’t take long to get used to it and there were random and odd pockets of very warm water which I couldn’t quite explain. I was very happy that Rach jumped in and I was even happier when Kyle took the plunge. I think he really enjoyed himself and Molly in particular, had a lot of fun. Once back on the boat, we were warm again soon enough and Kyle made us giggle when he pulled out his somewhat stereotypically ‘girly fan’ and wafted it back and forth- his comic timing was outstanding.  

Next stop was Vathi- the capital of the island. Vathi was only formed in the 16th century, during the late Venetian rule, when the families living uphill in the settlement of Palaiochora ('old town'),began moving down to Vathi. Despite being devastated by an earthquake in 1953, this gorgeous idyllic town was rebuilt in the original venetian style and as a delight to witness and amble around. I contacted my friend Alice who own a villa in Vathi and who is always inviting us. She was furious that we had visited when she was elsewhere. I asked her where her villa was after forwarding her photo saying ‘Guess where we are?’ 

‘It’s the blue one in the top left corner of your photo’, she replied. We guffawed. We stopped for a beer in the harbour and a young smiling waiter asked us whether the beer in the UK as as good as Mythos. ‘No way!’ We lied, and he seemed happy enough. From here we walked to the statue of Odysseus for some essential snaps with the main man. I really must read Homer’s work, once I get through War and Peace!                                                                                                                                                                   

There was much chatter about our time in Vathi once we all regrouped on the top deck and began our trip to Kioni- a smaller and quieter town but perhaps even more beautiful. As you approach Kioni, you are greeted by the site o its small, stunning bay, well-maintained houses, built into the amphitheatre rising from the sea and losing themselves in the woodland beyond and the surrounding hillsides. In the bay itself, the harbour is filled with sailing crafts, jostling for space amongst the small local fisherman’s boats.Here Rach and I had a great tuna salad and the waiter made an already memorable experience all the better with his catchphrase-  “Whatever you like” in the kindest way imaginable. On the way back to Poros, we stopped again for a much needed second swim. I leapt off the top deck like a teenager- everyone else was more sensible. Well, youngsters are these days aren’t they? 

As the sun lowered, we drifted back to the villa. We snacked on leftovers, had another swim in the pool and it was a calm end to what had been a sunny and beautiful day, I sat chatting with Georgia and River, as the night came in.

Kefalonia 3- 12th to 14th August 2025

The following day was the definition of steady and no one seemed particularly keen to get up and put the skates on. It wasn’t long before my feet became itchy and I jumped in the van and nipped into Skala on my own. I took a walk down the hill towards the beach and the roman villa that sits at the bottom. It is quite small and not dramatic in any way but the mosaics were very impressive and wonderfully well preserved. From here, I walked along the beach and then up a side street to a bar where I sat and had two cold ones all on my own. I like doing this from time to time and the bar lady was particularly lovely, with a great smile and a friendly attitude. I could have stayed longer for sure.

I left here in search of a church I had googled which was called Panagia Lagouvarda in Mourkopoulo. Here apparently there are snakes every year. The small snakes, silky and with a cross on the back, apparently appear every year out of nowhere, gather in the church and then disappear after the liturgy on the day of the Feast of the Ascension. Apparently, they  have shown up inside and outside the church every year except 1940 and 1953. The myth about these snakes is attached to the year the monastery was attacked by pirates in 1705. The nuns prayed fervently to the Virgin Mary for protection and were subsequently transformed into the snakes to avoid being taken as prisoners, apparently. 

This exceptionally pretty church is right at the top of a mountain and I took several wrong turns and had to double back on myself (not easy in the clumsy, bulky van) before I finally chose the correct pathway upwards. There were Incredible views from atop the hill and a pretty walk from the church to a higher bell tower some 100 metres from the church. You can climb it, in theory, and the gate was open but the scrub was overwhelmingly spiky and though I tired twice, I decided against it. 

I felt good when I returned and everyone seemed very relaxed back at the villa. Rach and I cooked a veggie stew for everyone with roasted tatties and for dessert we had chocolate and bananas, a family classic (served in their skin). Another quiet early night followed and I was back on the ouzo before hitting the sack.

We eased into the morning and once everyone was settled, we made our way into Skala with the express aim of picking some prezzies and the like. The three couples split up and Rach and I were first struck by the surreal sight of a van driving along the seaside road stacked with cages of live rabbits. It was a jarring, slightly odd sight that stuck with me—a stark reminder of the unvarnished, practical side of life that exists just beyond the tourist bubble. I assume, these were for food purposes as there was little in the way of compassionate ‘petlife’ evident in the way they had been, well, ‘stored and packaged’. I was pleased Georgia hadn't seen it.

The morning mission was a success: souvenirs for Kyle and Molly, and the crucial supplies of coffee and lunch for Georgia and River. For Rach and me, the agenda could have been pure bliss: a cold beer, swimming in that impossibly blue water, and reading on the sun loungers. I was deep into The Picture of Dorian Gray, and losing myself in its pages with the sun on my skin and I have to admit to be somewhat grumpy when it was time to leave our little paradise to meet up with the others. It’s a specific type of holiday frustration when your own perfect rhythm is interrupted, even by lovely people who you want to spend time with. I think being the driver of the trip was beginning to get to me a little and I can be a grump, from time to time.

We dropped back to the villa and I scoffed down some salty halloumi and olives (the perfect Greek snack), and was eager to get out and see some more stuff!. This time Georgia and River were keen to come along, so we drove up to what was described as a water garden, near Tzanata. When we arrived at the destination and heard the familiar chimes of ‘you have arrived at your destination’ from Google, we were surprised to find it was simply someone’s front garden. We drove on and found a serene reservoir, which I assume was what Google wanted us to find. The vista was beautiful, all calm waters and rolling green hills under a warm, heavy sun. It was a peaceful and pleasant moment as the three of us circumnavigated the water, in deep conversation, as always. 

Later, we drove into Poros for dinner, as Rach and I had seen some lovely places by the water’s edge. The town was buzzing, but it quickly became clear that the places we thought were restaurants were actually, in the main, bars. Most of the actual restaurants seemed to be at capacity. There was one place, literally on the beach, which looked great and was super popular. It was buzzing with energy but there were no tables and those that seemed free, were reserved. We hung around like hungry wasps around a can of coke for a while and then the youngsters amongst us started heading back towards where the van was parked. I had tried to let others take the lead, but was surprised that no-one had even bothered to ask if they might be able to accommodate us. With a shake of the head and blow out of the cheeks, I approached one of the waiters who also puffed his cheeks out when I said there were six of us. However, he waved a hand or two and before long they were bringing tables from some hidden place and setting up our dining experience. I called after the others, who were some two or three hundred metres away to explain that we had a table. A few moments of wild gesticulation later and our party returned. The setting for the meal was great and the atmosphere wonderful but sadly, the meal itself was… just okay. Not terrible, but not the glorious feast that its setting demanded. Rach became emotional, not about the food but a mix of other more serious ‘things’ and went for a walk to clear her head. I ate some feta, and pepper dish which was pleasant but its consistency was a little, well…’baby-food-like’. River’s pasta dish was flavourless and Kyle’s veggie burger, rubbery in texture. In all fairness, Rachel’s prawns were perhaps the best order of the night.

We returned slightly deflated but chatted outside for a while before we slowly drifted away and I had another sip or two of ouzo, alone- the sofa inside gently mocking me in the background. 

And then, as is increasingly the case these days, the time had gone and it was our last morning in Kefalonia. Kyle had hoped that we could checkout late from the villa as our flight wasn’t until much later but sadly the owners needed to prepare it for the next customers. We packed our things slightly dejectedly and jumped in the van just after 11. I was perhaps the happiest, as I had planned to see some interesting places on the way to the airport and we still hadn’t been to see Argostoli, what with the fires, which had calmed apparently.

First stop was  the monastery of The monastery of St. Andreas which is situated below the Venetian fortress St. George (“Kastro”) at Peratata. The place has rich history and was even an orphanage back in 1832 when Greece fell under British protectorate. It is a sleepy place with a small museum and a quaint church with a bell tower and a larger church which was guarded by a smiling but fierce looking lady. I had to wear a towel like a skirt to go inside but I live in Malaysia now so this seems fairly normal. The icons inside the church were flamboyant and colourful. I wandered to a dry open space outside, which you might call a garden but there was nothing growing there. Unusually, there was a mysterious log standing upright in a circle of stones. I still don’t  know what this was but I didn’t hang around lest I was to be a human sacrifice. Kyle and Molly had a mild domestic whilst we were here but they gave each other some space and the moment passed. 

From here, we took the very short and steep drive up to St George’s castle- which dates back to the 11th century and stands  above the villages of Peratata and Travliata. In truth, we stopped before the castle and ordered some drinks. The view from here was spectacular and the walk up towards the bar and the castle was adorned with pastel coloured houses and elegant flower displays. There is also a curious church here which is even older than the castle.  I walked up to the castle entrance, and strolled casually by the place where you are supposed to pay, much to their consternation, as they hollered after me. I chose to wander back down for a beer but I later found that River and Georgia had hiked right to the summit and meandered around the castle walls. The beer after a stroll was tip top and the views unbeatable.

From here we finally made it to the capital, Argostoli. As we entered by road, I was immediately struck by the expanse of water that flowed into the city itself, reminding me of Istanbul, though on a smaller scale of course. We agreed to have some couple time and meet back up in about three hours and I was excited to see the sights. Sadly Rach was struggling with the heat and was in one of those moods where my bounding enthusiasm was clearly just pissing her off. We agreed to stop for a meal at a beautiful restaurant next to the water’s edge and I enjoyed a rich and yummy stifado accompanied by our last retsina of the trip. Rach ate some massive prawns and tried hard, as her appetite was still not quite there. We had quite an argument for the second day in a row and I was emotional as it felt like we were missing so many great opportunities to have fun. Very frustrating.

Thankfully, we talked it out on a bench in the shade and agreed to check out De Bosset bridge, originally constructed in wood in 1813 by Colonel Charles Philip de Bosset, Four years later stone arches were added and, after some 26 years, the entire bridge was rebuilt in stone. Almost halfway along the De Bosset bridge stands a stone column built by the British to celebrate their presence.  Rach, desperate for a wee, somehow managed to sit on the side of the bridge and urinate into the water below. It was almost as amazing as the feat of engineering it took to build the bridge. We chatted for a while above the sparkling water, looking for turtles but not seeing any, about life, endings and beginnings and it all became quite philosophical. We noticed nearby that we could take a boat ride and so we did. Rach was captain or so the owner of the fleet called her, when helping her on to the boat. At least this time, no rowing was required. This was super peaceful and we were able to drift quite far up the stretch of water.  

We made it back to the van despite briefly wondering where it was and the famalam were all waiting for the olds. From here, we took the brief trip to the airport. We had a long, long wait but Rach and I had beers in the bag and sat outside on benches in moderate heat, sipping causally whilst the youngsters sat inside on the floor. After a long wait we said our goodbyes which were emotional, especially as Rach and I wouldn’t be seeing the Georgia and River for a year. 

I slept through most of the flight and before long we were back in blighty and searching for Kyles’s car, which we found easily enough after jumping on the bus. 'Thinking ahead Kyle’ drove us home smoothly, despite his obvious tiredness. Young men eh? I remember well enough.

And that was it. We were back at New Queen Street, the place where Rach and I had brought up our kids and where Molly and Kyle would now begin to make their life together. 

A Train Trip to Tuscany

Part 1- Pisa and Lucca 21-06-25 to 24-06-25

Tuscany is one of those places that conjures up romance and undulating landscapes of green fields and red tiled houses with families sitting on their land, drinking chianti and pouring olive oil on their bread whilst they gaze out over domed cathedrals and ancient churches. I had long wanted to visit and considering how exotic some of our recent travels have been, it is a little surprising that it has taken us this long to get there. Travelling on longer flights is always a worry these days, with the memory of Rachel’s seizure several miles high still firmly in both of our memories. This was not a mile high club Rachel ever wanted to join. Our first flight was at 2.30 in the morning and I had hoped we might sleep for the majority of the time, but Rach unfortunately had a few panic attacks at the airport and so the trouble began immediately and our general descent into pre-flight chaos seemed inevitable. Adding to the stress was this massage chair that just wouldn't stop talking – honestly, it was driving me up the wall! We were trying to stay calm and get some rest before boarding and the chair shouts out something like ‘please don’t sit on me unless you want a massage’ and then seconds later, ‘please be respectful of other guests’. This was on repeat with perhaps 30 or 40 seconds between each cycle. No one sat on the chair in the hour that we waited to board and yet this infuriating electronic masseuse must have ‘pissed’ everyone off. It reminded me of the talkie toaster from Red Dwarf.

Once boarding began, Rachel’s stress increased and at one point I thought we were going to miss the flight but thankfully I managed to hobble her on, though I must confess to my heart rate going through the roof. I almost had an attack myself and it reminded me of that doctor’s sketch from the Fast Show where a doctor and his patient seem to take it in turn to have heart attacks!

Once on board, Rach was feeling pretty sick and wasn't eating, which was a real worry as this usually leads to disaster but somehow we arrived in Dubai in one piece. A huge shout-out to the clinic at Dubai airport – it was free, and the staff were absolutely lovely. I had it in my mind that Dubai Airways might not let us fly but we managed to get on and Rach had been saved by an anti-sickness drip.

The bus ride to flight 2 seemed to go on forever and the chap, who gave us entry was so grumpy. He just wasn’t in the right job, bless him. Rach was still feeling two-dimensional and flat (that’s how ill she was) for most of the journey, making for a pretty stressful start to our holiday, in truth, and sadly, fairly typical of the first day of most of our holidays these days. Rach slept for most of the flight to Pisa and we arrived to my great and lasting relief.

It was a quick though frighteningly expensive taxi ride from the airport, and we were at the hotel. My dad, bless him, had beers ready at the bar for us – a truly welcome sight! He looked so happy to see us and though Rachel wanted to change and chill, there was no way we weren’t supping the beers. I also tucked into some lovely, Sorrentine-style gnocchi.

A brief interjection here as I mention that my mum had flown to Pisa with a broken foot and only two days before the journey I had fallen down the stairs and twisted my ankle quite severely too, so it was going to be a challenge. We hobbled on through. Mum was a star!

The hotel check-in was... interesting. The chap at the desk was somewhat curt; I wasn't a fan of his vibe, to be honest but any lingering grumbles vanished when we climbed up to our room and saw the Leaning Tower right from our balcony! What a view! The bathroom, however, presented its own quirky challenge: an odd toilet flush that took some working out. Rach, despite her best efforts, was definitely not the toilet whisperer! Our room also had this rather grand, almost domed ceiling, which was a nice touch. I fell on the bed and crashed for a solid three hours of sleep.

Refreshed, we ventured out. The streets were charming, with horse and carts clip-clopping by. We headed straight for the square at the Leaning Tower, which was bustling. We spotted the fascinating "Fallen Angel" sculpture and the iconic Romulus and Remus statue. Rach, still not 100%, decided to head back to the hotel to rest, which was probably for the best.

As I wandered, I noticed some striking silhouettes of people and noticed that someone had written a letter in each head. I checked and noticed it said- 'Palestine will be free.' It was a moment that really made me pause and reflect, especially as the Malaysians are also pro-Palestine- indeed the world seems to be shifting on its axis with regard to this issue.

We meandered through the streets of restaurants which were thriving and enjoyed some drinkies whilst soaking up the Tuscan atmosphere. Dinner was fantastic – a lovely meal of layered lasagna. To cap off the day, we bought some wine and returned to the digs. Rach was feeling a little better and we enjoyed some drinks on our balcony, pushing the corks in as we didn’t have a corkscrew. Incidentally, almost all of the wine bottle in Italy had corks in them, whereas most wines in the UK are screwcaps these days. It was a small but satisfying victory to ease the cork slowly in, after such a long day!

We both slept very well indeed.

We woke at a reasonable time and started the day with coffee and cake at Coffee Lab, a perfect little spot, with a beautiful indoor garden area. On our way, we passed a place that Mum delightfully mispronounced as "coffee latte" – it was actually Felice Cavallotti, a charming square, where we sat for a while and admired the statue that was there to honour the political revolutionary who made his name in the late nineteenth century. From here, we wandered down to the Arno river, making sure to take in the impressive Palazzo Agostini, the "Red Palace," and admiring the row of beautiful pastel houses lining the way. The red palace itself is a Gothic-style aristocratic palace located on Lungarno Pacinotti. The palace was first built in the 14th century but is now a testament to the architecture of a previous time and the bottom floor is a classy looking cafe.

We crossed the bridge to the other side of the Arno, where we spotted the Blue Palace which is now a museum and is wonderfully juxtaposed with the red palace almost directly opposite, across the river. We continued our stroll down to the Chiesa di Santa Maria della Spina, a tiny Gothic church that looks like a miniature jewel box and we passed a narrow road snaking away from the river where someone had spray painted ‘Free Gaza’ on the wall.

The church was erected around 1230 in the Pisan Gothic style, and enlarged after 1325. The name of della Spina ("of the thorn") derives from the presence of a thorn, putatively part of the crown of thorns placed on Christ during his Passion and Crucifixion. The relic was brought to this church in 1333 although, in truth, we never saw it.

After another bridge crossing, we headed towards the Citadel and its ancient walls but it was very hot indeed so we took advantage of a small, very local type cafe that served decent draft beer at reasonable prices. We had to refresh and we certainly did. The citadel and its fortifications were impressive and its setting on the river with the Pisan mountains in the background. Perhaps the most dramatic sight for me by the citadel walls was the statue of Galileo who is, of course, one of the most famous of all of the children of Pisa, born here on February 15th, 1564. The statue is great from the reverse, looking out over the river Arno although he looks a little like Nosferatu with spiny fingers reaching up to the sky, a long thin face and piercing, malevolent eyes.

We managed to work our way back to the restaurant opposite the digs and a stone’s throw from the leaning tower where lunch was a generous affair. I particularly loved the tuscan beans – simple but perfectly cooked. Mum bravely tried the oozy fondue, which was deliciously rich. Rach, still not at full strength, opted to rest in the hotel while we lingered at the restaurant before heading back to the room. In the down time I took the opportunity to finish my book, "The Underground Railroad," finding a quiet corner to read. It is an excellent book, but as is often the case, I was less than thrilled by the ending.

As evening approached, we rallied and headed out to see the main attractions in their golden hour glory: the magnificent Cathedral, the iconic Tower, and the Baptistery. Be warned, though – you have to pay for everything to enter, which was a bit annoying, but understandable given the upkeep these incredible structures require. We also witnessed some truly surreal horse statues on the green around the cathedral and the sculptor had caught them mid-leap. The tower is quite a site for sure, and the lean is even more significant than I ever expected.

The cathedral of assumption of Mary is a medieval catholic cathedral dedicated to the Assumption of the virgin Mary in the Piazza del Miracollini Pisa, Italy, the oldest of the three structures in the plaza. The cathedral is a notable example of Romanesque architecture, in particular the style known as Pisan Romanesque and it was consecrated in 1118. Italian catholic cathedrals have such a different look to English cathedrals- often broader, more decorative and rarely do they seem to have a spire.

For our final dinner in Pisa, we ambled through the narrow streets and the small piazzas before selecting a restaurant back in the lively Felice Cavallotti square. To cap off a fantastic day, we enjoyed final wines opposite the hotel, watching the world go by. It was a lovely, boozy day, filled with good food, beautiful sights, and the perfect amount of relaxation. Pisa- what a charming place!

Our morning began with a taxi to the train station, which was easy to book through the hotel (taxi apps being less prevalent in Pisa than other places I have visited). It was also very, very expensive. This is one of the huge differences between travelling in the East and West. Twenty-two euros for about a mile or so – felt like we were paying for the driver's next holiday! While waiting for our train, we grabbed a much-needed coffee and an orange juice for Rach. As I was heading back and forth to the train notice board, I must have put down my new ‘chilli’ hat. I noticed, but by the time I retraced my steps, it had gone. I was annoyed.

The train itself was on time, and once we navigated the slightly chaotic station until we were on the platform, getting on was easy enough. The train ride was okay, though poor Rach was feeling a little travel sick from riding backwards. She held in there like a trooper and mum too, who was still walking and moving around on her fractured foot.

Lucca is truly beautiful, with its sleepy Italian streets and an abundance of churches around every corner. We even spotted a slightly incongruous carousel ride in one of the squares – a fun touch amidst the ancient architecture but oddly it wasn’t apparentlt not-operational or at least we didn’t see it in action whilst we were there. Lucca was gearing up for a series of summer concerts and we had to walk around the main piazza where a huge stage was being erected. Bands as diverse as the Pet Shop Boys and Dream Theater and even Bryan Adams were advertising their upcoming shows.

We also passed the imposing statue of Garibaldi, the revolutionary icon who died in 1872. Not long afterwards we found our lovely digs: a nice apartment in the Centro Storico, right inside the walled city and after some QR codes, and a full navigation of the whole entry procedure, we managed to get access to our rooms- brief refresh followed and we headed out into Lucca for some beers, but first stopping at the Puccini statue where thirty years ago my father had burnt his arse on the bronze toe. Puccini is of course one of the most famous sons of Lucca although I have to admit to not knowing much of his repetoire- perhaps I should have a good listen. We took photos here but fortunately, didn’t burn our arses.

We headed from here to the serene Saint Frediano's Basilica which is the oldest church in Lucca and has a wonderful, vibrant and colourful ancient mural of St Frediano with angels on either side of him, as he sits on a throne. We had a look inside and sought out the revered St. Zita, the patron saint of maids and housewives, who was known for her humility and generosity, even when working as a servant for the Fatinelli family. Her body, found remarkably preserved after her death, is displayed in a chapel within the basilica for veneration and is considered incorrupt. In truth, there does appear to be some skin still covering the body of the woman who had supposedly died in the mid thirteenth century. Though she was a little zombie-like and I wouldn't want to have been near her on my own in the dark without porotection! I don’t know how much I believe in the romance and revelation but it is certainly an intriguing sight and a great story for the city to tell. From here, we strolled to the ancient Amphitheater which is now a piazza of restaurants. The foundations of the old roman amphitheater are still there and the celebrated architect, Lorenzo Nottolini had successfully keyed-in the new design to the old foundations and elliptical structure remains as it was. Impressive. We had beers and square pizzas here and then strolled to the grand cathedral, the duomo di San Martino, which had the common bell tower separate to the main building. There are columns on the exterior in layers like the stages of a grand cake. Beautiful building.

After a packed day, it was back to our digs for a much-needed rest, made all the more welcoming by the thoughtful inclusion of a coffee machine – a true touch of luxury!

We went out for dinner which was a slightly posh but undeniably delightful affair. The bill, including some lovely wines, hit 150 euros, sparking a lively debate about the cost of vino in wine-growing regions. We spoke of how once upon a time, continental wines were so cheap and yet now, even in France, wine is extortionate. The food here was superb! I particularly enjoyed a hearty dish of beer and potatoes, which, though the menu called it "peasant food," was absolutely divine. It is often thus- cheap, simple food, cooked and eaten for centuries remains delicious.

The evening crescendoed at a place called "Wine and Beer," affectionately known as "La Tana del Boia" – "The Hangman's Den." The name, complete with a hangman cartoon on the wall and a cartoonish wine bottle design, certainly added a quirky charm! Here, we savored special local wines and craft beers, all served by an excellent and hilariously funny waitress. We indulged in wine, adventurous cocktails, and even a fiery grappa. It was our first of the trip. Rach tried a whisky that seemed impossibly strong so that even after pouring in a lot of water, was still very potent indeed.

As if the libations weren't entertainment enough, we were treated to a spectacle of talented cyclists (local lads for sure) pulling extravagant tricks right outside in the square. It was truly "booze and a show," though we all agreed on one thing: a slight disappointment was their music choice. Honestly, with such a backdrop, it should have been Puccini! That would be a juxtaposition I would love to see- hair-raising cycle tricks to Puccini.

This night in the local bar was a real highlight of the trip and one we would repeat on the last night of the holiday.

Tuscan Train Trip Part 2-Florence

24-06-25 to 27-06-25

Well, after the charms of Lucca, our Italian adventure continued with an early start! We fueled up on berries, banana, coffee, and yogurt before a rather clunky walk across the old cobbles with our cases to Lucca train station. The station was quaint and less rowdy and busy than Pisa and so it was easy to find our platform. I looked out to the rail and noticed a double decker train- this was the first train of this nature that I had ever seen.

The station had its quirks; cigarettes were clearly on view at the café, which felt a bit unusual to us- a country that has vilified the smoker and made it a dirty, highly unpopular habit. It was like going back in time yet I must admit that I didn’t see many smokers on the streets in any of the cities in Florence. In a truly baffling moment, the toilet at the station was locked – although we later wondered whether we needed to put some money in a slot to operate the door. Now we will never know. 

Then came the classic travel hiccup: our train to Florence was cancelled! This gave us a real touch of those UK vibes  but thankfully we were able to jump on the next one which was only 20 minutes later.

The announcements on the train are worth a mention, hilariously bouncing between clipped, posh English and a strong italian accent . I imagined a posh toffified English gent speaking with a Florentine in a cap, jumping out from behind him to make interjections. Maybe you had to be there. As we rolled along, the views of the Tuscan fields, the Arno River, and the rolling hills from the train were absolutely breathtaking and this is exactly what I had hoped for from the journey. 

Arriving in Florence was like stepping into a whirlwind. It’s a crazy, bustling city with amazing architecture at every turn and yet my first thoughts were ‘please get us away from these crowds’. It took some time. Our trek towards the digs was perhaps only a mile or so but with mum’s dodgy foot (mine had improved considerably) the awkwardness of the cases, the cobblestones and indeed the duckling and weaving required in the crowd, it was quite some challenge and so we stopped, for some much-needed litres of beer. It was expensive but a vital thirst quencher and we were right next to the Cathedral- which is utterly breathtaking. More on that story later. 

Our apartment, though perhaps the best of the trip, with great views over the tiled roofs, came with one rather terrifying feature: steep stairs! Seriously, they were a challenge. I had visions of one of us, often myself, tripping and falling down them. They were made of stone and the first of the flight of four was particularly frightening. Once we recovered, it was time for some shopping. Mum and Rach rested up and dad and I were the hunters, though orange juice was a step too far in Florence- not a chance.  We grabbed some bits and bobs and stopped for a cheeky beer. The heat was intense, very hot indeed so I left dad supping whilstIi tried one more nearby shop for orange juice. Failed again! 

We wandered the few metres further to our apartment but found ourselves caught up in a sea of red-shirted and green-shirted men, and then a procession of men in tight shorts and old-fashioned medieval garb. Turns out, as Mum later discovered, it was all part of an ancient town match – a wild combination of football, rugby, and wrestling! It is called the Calcio Storico and in the past has even claimed lives. Each district enters a team and we had arrived on the day of the finals. What a bizarre and brilliant cultural experience to be accidentally part of the parade before the game. 

After all that excitement, we cooled off with a great meal (made by humble yours truly), accompanied by more wine and beers. The huge noise from the city was a constant backdrop, a vibrant hum of life. And then, just when we thought the day couldn't get any more memorable, the fireworks began! It was absolutely amazing and a truly wonderful finale to the day. Apparently the fireworks were to recognise the end of the tournament. I have np idea who won. I hope no-one died.

We had a very comfortable night’s sleep.

We headed off mid morning for a leisurely walk to the Arno River. The sun glinted off the water, and we watched a few intrepid souls kayaking, cutting smoothly through the gentle current. It was a peaceful start before we plunged into the vibrant heart of the city.

Our next stop was an internal courtyard of a gallery, a hidden gem bustling with activity. Numerous artists were showcasing their art, their easels and displays creating an impromptu open-air exhibition. But what truly captivated us were the statues of famous figures that graced the space. We found ourselves surrounded by the likes of Galileo, Machiavelli, Leonardo da Vinci, and Dante. Each one stood in stoic grandeur, but it was Machiavelli who really caught my eye. His statue had this brilliantly sinister pose, those eyes seeming to follow you, full of an almost unsettling wisdom.-sort of like the master from Doctor Who.

From there, we ventured onto the Ponte Vecchio. This iconic bridge is like something out of a storybook, or perhaps Old London Bridge with its charming shops built right into its structure. And what shops they were! Loads of jewelers, their windows sparkling with treasures, beckoned to passersby. We resisted the urge to splurge and instead indulged in a delightful passionfruit ice cream – on the far side of the bridge

Our journey then led us to the magnificent Duomo, Florence Cathedral. It truly is stunning, its intricate facade and soaring dome a testament to incredible artistry. However, the sheer scale of the queues to go in was ridiculous! We opted to admire it from the outside, taking in the awe-inspiring bell tower and baptistery instead. Externally, it is one of the most incredible building I have ever seen- right up there with Angkor Wat, the colosseum or even the Hagia Sofia. The building was begun in 1296 in the Gothic style to a design of Arnolfo di Cambio and completed by 1436 with a dome engineered by Filippo Brunelleschi. The basilica's The exterior is faced with polychrome marble panels in in various shades of green and pink, alternated by white and is dramatic and captivating. 

The heat, though, was starting to take its toll, particularly on Rach, who was struggling. I'll admit, I got frustrated briefly with trying to keep everyone happy. Like a spoilt schoolboy or a crotchety old man I sat down and waited for others to make some decisions. Embarrassing really. As is often the case, a strategic decision to stop for food and beer quickly remedied the entire situation. I savored a delicious plate of gnocchi, its pillowy goodness a much-needed comfort. We were met here though with a reoccurring theme: wobbly chairs. Seriously, everywhere we sat, there was a distinct lean, a gentle sway that added a peculiar charm to our al fresco meals and beer breaks. It became a running joke- the spirit of the leaning tower was following us everywhere.

Reenergized, we continued our exploration with a walk to Santa Croce, the very spot where the Calcio Storico had taken place the previous night. The outdoor stalls were still busy, offering everything from leather goods to local delicacies. We enjoyed the lively atmosphere, soaking in the last bits of the day's hustle and bustle.

Our wander back took us via Carrefour, where we grabbed some grub for dinner. After a long day of walking and sightseeing, a rest was definitely in order but I took on the role of chef. Again! We enjoyed a tasty meal (if I say so myself) followed by a great chat on the upper balcony; the sounds of the city fading into the background as we listened to some music.

All in all, it was a day filled with art, history, and the delightful idiosyncrasy of wobbly chairs. Every moment, even the challenging ones, added to the rich tapestry of our first day in Florence.

Some mornings are made for languishing, and our second day in Florence certainly started that way. A very lazy morning eased us into the day, fueled by leftover breakfast goodies at the digs. I even made a quick dash out for some local cheese to accompany the last of yesterday's bread. With our loaf salvaged, I then morphed into chief sandwich maker, crafting a packed lunch of sarnies, drizzled with balsamic, and crisps – perfect for our Pompeii-esque explorations later! (very over indulgent as this is how Rach, myself and I had eaten during our trip to Pompeii so many years ago).

Our mission for the day was to find the fabled wine windows of Florence. These quirky, medieval inventions date back to the plague years, allowing Florentines to buy wine directly from the producers without direct contact. Many are no longer in use, but a few have been revived for curious tourists. Our first attempt, alas, was a bust – the window was firmly closed and we wondered, after tapping a couple of times, whether what mum had read online was just fantasy.

Undeterred, we pivoted to a 'Weston' pastime: finding a piazza for a refreshing beer. We stumbled upon a lovely square complete with a charming fountain and even a bustling jumble sale. As we sipped our drinks, my eyes were drawn to the street walls, a canvas of intriguing contradictions. There were fascinating odd moments of art, interspersed with lots of anti-Israel graffiti. I also noticed colossal crowns on the walls and curious iron rings – my mind immediately conjured images of some forgotten medieval torture, and I hope their purpose was far less sinister!

Eventually, we circled back to the wine window, and it was open. Many folks were drinking in the street and it was quirky fun to take one from the window as was done all those years ago – a little piece of history brought to life Our second stop for a tipple was near Santa Croce, where Rach had a last-minute change of heart about buying a dress (the reasons remain a mystery to me!). We decided a commiserating beer was in order, a shared moment of "oh well!" before I decided to peel off for a trip up above the city where I could see the aspect of the cathedral at its finest. Mum, Dad and Rach went in search of another wine window and I don’t blame them. 

My path led me to Palazzo Davanzati, where the famous bronze statue of David resides. From my elevated vantage point, the views were superb. The Arno snaked through the city, the Cathedral dominated the skyline, and multiple towers punctuated the cityscape. It was a scene that truly transported me, making me think of Romeo and Juliet and the romantic, dramatic essence of old Florence, though of course Romeo and Juliet was set in Verona but you get my point.

I continued my walk, passing by Santa Maria church and heading further up to a monastery. It was here that I finally found what I'd been longing for: the green aspects of Tuscany. Rolling hills, verdant trees – a welcome contrast to the bustling city streets. I even managed to snag a takeaway beer for 5 euros and enjoyed a leisurely stroll down the hill towards our digs, beer in hand, passing weary-looking folk making their ascent with longing faces. I smiled all the way down- what a sadist. 

The day wound down perfectly. Dad met me outside the apartment, ready for a well-deserved beer. Later, we ventured out for a meal, finding a charming side-street place that served up some tasty food. We ate well, returned to the digs- braved the ascent a final time and slept like logs.

Tuscan Train Trip Part 3

27-06-25- 30--06-25- Siena and a Return to the Hangman

The morning after our Florentine escapades began with a test of endurance for Mum. Despite a broken foot, she bravely undertook the long walk to the train station, which of course began with yet another hair-raising trip down the steps of doom. We made it there with plenty of time to spare, and thankfully, the train was also on time, whisking us away directly to our next Tuscan adventure: Siena. This train was direct and the whole experience quite easy.

However, upon arrival, the "long march" continued to our digs, starting with the longest escalator I have ever travelled on. I thought, at one minute, that we were on our way to the pearly gates. Siena, it turns out, has an impressive dedication to hills! We trudged uphill through the outskirts of Siena, and I swear, like a beacon in the desert, we spotted a pub beckoning to us and we hoped against all hope that it wasn't a mirage. It provided the perfect mental boost to keep us going and the chap in charge of the place was hilarious and happy. The trudge uphill continued post beers but eventually flattened out before we arrived at some steep steps down to a residential area, seemingly some way from the main historical centre. The flat was not as pleasant as Florence but comfortable and well-appointed. Rach and I drew the short straw this time as our assigned "kids' room" was certainly... memorable. Think rockets and Pooh Bear plastered everywhere – an unexpected, but amusing, touch which we had a good laugh over. 

The bus stop to town was right outside the apartment and so we hopped on and took a ride into the heart of town. Our first destination was the iconic Piazza del Campo but what immediately struck us was the most beautiful, stunning architecture. Siena truly has its own unique palette: pink bricks, charming shutters, and pastel yellows dominating the buildings. The city's charm lies in its great narrow lanes, winding up and down hills, each turn revealing another picturesque vista. This was not a place for the unfit or the broken-footed and so it was slow going especially as mum had already walked a fair distance for the day. 

We paused for lunch at a lovely spot where the chap was wonderful, even offering us free booze afterwards. Mum enjoyed a pleasant pistachio liquor, while Dad and I opted for the more potent kick of grappa. Fuelled up, we continued our exploration.

The Siena Cathedral was our next awe-inspiring stop. Its distinctive "zebra style" striped facade is truly unforgettable, and the great exterior artwork is simply mesmerizing. As we looked out, we spotted some brave souls on a structure known as the "Facaccioni," or "Big Face," which is actually the remains of what was intended to be a much larger, second cathedral. Now, it's just a scary set of arches offering incredible, vertiginous views. We found a spot to enjoy a beer here, soaking in the grandeur.

As the afternoon wore on, we opted for the sensible choice of a taxi back – whilst apps aren’t all the rage in Siena, there are ranks in various squares and phone numbers on stands. Dad called it and sat through the Italian nonsensicals and moments later, a taxi arrived. Expensive again but efficient. 

Later that evening, Dad and I ventured out for some more food and we settled into a cozy evening. I cooked a delicious Tuscan-style stew with artichokes, a truly comforting end to a day of travel and exploration. The lovely evening in the garden rounded off our Siena arrival perfectly, a peaceful contrast to the earlier exertions and we managed to smash through a fair bit of plonk. We even tried some 45 percent liquor that had been left in the fridge. We were reminded of all those years ago, when Dad had thrown an entire bottle of Faustino down the plughole in Mallorca. It wasn’t that bad but there was definitely an odd taste that was somewhat ascerbic. It’s only redeeming quality, apart from the obvious booziness, was how sweet it was and this somehow made it bearable. We obviously slept very well indeed. 

It was another slow start and a leisurely breakfast to start the day. Our first mission of the day involved grabbing a bus back to the centre. From here we walked the old streets towards Siena’s famous Duomo-for a deeper dive into its beauty. As we ambled through and mum continued to brave the hilly streets, I began to compare the places we had seen. Lucca was quiet, charming and delightful, Florence, bustling, classical and intriguing but Siena was, for me the most beautiful. The geography made walking challenging but gave the city a stunning aspect for photographs, and the little shops with flowers outside and narrow streets winding up and down the hills are so charming. Then, of course there is the Duomo.  If Florence's Duomo is a grand statement or power and beauty, Siena's is an opulent, intricate masterpiece. It is smaller than the cathedral of Florence but still imposing. It took us some time to get the tickets for entry as there were multiple options and the system was somewhat complicated- the front of the church, the front and back, the bell tower, the gallery and more all individually priced but put into bundles.

We opted for a simple wander into the front of the church and wow- that alone was a memorable experience. Inside, it's incredibly flamboyant, a feast for the eyes. I was particularly fascinated by the paintings on the floor, an unusual and stunning detail that you rarely see in Britain. Since the early 13th century the Siena Cathedral has been an important part of the Sienese identity and I can see why. The catholic nature of Italian cathedrals makes them far more ostentatious and less severe than those in the UK, with paintings and colour everywhere you look. It was fascinating to read further of how they had begun to build a second nave in 1339 which would have doubled the size of the cathedral but the plague put pay to any further works and it was never finished- get this one on abandoned engineering! Outside, in the warm Italian sun, Rach couldn't resist buying a guinea pig cuddly toy from a street vendor for Georgia and later, at the airport, she would buy Kyle a Dugong (not a made up animal apparently) I still doubt it!

Next to the cathedral is a smaller church called San Francesco’s, (I think) which was quaint. There were many Chinese nuns and monks inside, which felt a bit odd in the heart of Tuscany  but they were obviously on some pilgrimage of sorts. 

Our post-Duomo stroll led us towards San Domenico Church, a journey that took us through Siena's charming ups and downs, past pretty scenes, beautiful shops, trattorias, and bursts of vibrant flowers. We paused halfway up a particularly steep hill for a well-deserved break. Our great waitress served us refreshing beers and delicious ravioli with ragu. I felt sorry for her as she had to serve on this steep incline and whilst we were shaded, it must have been very hot work indeed. We joked with her and she said, ‘yes, I am living the dream’. The church of San Domenico was begun in 1226–1265, on the hill of Camporegio which the Dominicans had received as a gift from the Malavolti family. It is another imposing structure with huge walls, a robust and powerful framed body but with no major height from a steeple of tower. The real curiosity lay with the relics, most significantly, Set in an ornate reliquary in the Basilica San Dominico in Siena  Siena is the dismembered, mummified head of the revered Saint Catherine of Siena (1347-1380). Her right thumb also resides in a smaller reliquary not far from her head. It's quite something to witness believers praying to a decapitated head, a stark reminder of the deep and sometimes peculiar devotion of religious history. The interior of this church was decidedly more Anglican in its simplicity in comparison to the Duomo but I was more startled by the service that was taking place, as it was in Russian!

I am still perplexed by this.  After the slightly macabre encounter with the head and finger slightly we began our walk home, punctuated by essential pit stops for ice cream and beer. The route offered great views over Siena and the cathedral, a chance to appreciate the city's beauty from a different perspective. Rach, ever practical, even grabbed some water from a fountain and, in a moment of heat-induced relief, dropped it on her head. Making it home was easy enough and not as far as we had thought it to be, giving us a little time to relax. Unfortunately, whilst making coffee, the power in the apartment cut out. I rang the owner who told us that the trip switches could be found behind a picture of a horse – well of course they are, I thought. Once the lights were back on, we settled in, cooked, enjoyed some local drink (yes, we polished off the unspeakable juice aforementioned) and indulged in lively chats as the day wound down. The competitive spirit then took over as we played a card game of 7s. Dad initially dominated, taking the win, only for Mum to stage a triumphant comeback in the next round. Rach and I were losers.

Well oiled we dropped into our respective sacks- mine being the sofa (damn my incessant snoring).

Our final morning in Tuscany kicked off with a brisk start. Our booked taxi arrived, taking literally 2 minutes to appear – impressive! The driver, however, had a rather unique approach to city navigation, driving nutty fast, even through the old centre. A thrilling (and slightly terrifying) last glimpse of Siena's ancient streets. I did wonder how many human beings he might send to their maker.

At the station, we settled in for a long wait, fueled by coffee and pastries, followed by a celebratory beer. Our entertainment for this extended layover was an enigmatic bloke in green, who was also there for the same three hours as us. We watched, fascinated, as he paced around and around and around – a human clock hand marking the passage of time. 

Our train to Empoli departed on time. The second leg of our three legged journey, however, was delayed but we managed to jump on a later one. On this particular leg there was a very odd gentleman who had thrown a bag on to a chair next to him put his feet up on another chair and was dangling his arms on the fourth, thereby taking up the entire area of the train. I moved his plastic bag to the side and took one of the chairs. He started shouting very aggressively in Italian and was either drunk or perhaps a bit of a nutter. Not sure which- maybe it was both. I managed to work out that he claimed he had a cold and I shouldn’t sit anywhere near him. I said it was fine but he kept shouting. I ignored him for a while but a chap next to me offered me his chair. I hate bullying so was happy to see it out- I am often decidedly comfortable in these aggressive moments. For the sake of the peace of the train, I shifted. He then took out some scissors and started cutting his hair on the train, then asked me to cut his bandage for him which I did.

A local chap alighted a few stops later and had a similar exchange with him until the ‘crazed’ fellow got up and walked down the train, yelling and shouting. He was harmless really. The rest of the journey was a little easier and we were soon in in Lucca. Our first stop was the train station bar, where we found super cheap beers. Getting them, however, was a bit of a challenge due to an argument happening, which made for a slow, if entertaining, transaction. It must have been a morning for shouting and arguing. 

We then walked through Lucca, finding it even quieter than before. Perhaps it was the time of day, or simply its serene nature, but the city embraced us with its tranquil charm. After a much-needed rest at our digs, we ventured out for beers in the square. A highlight was the excellent jazz saxophonist, whose soulful notes filled the late afternoon air, creating a magical atmosphere.

Rach then made an incredible discovery: a restaurant called Osteria. Without exaggeration, it served up my best meal of the trip. Unfortunately, Rach was battling some back pain and wisely decided to head back for an early night.

Mum, Dad, and I, however, were not ready to call it quits. We headed to our favourite hang-out (or rather Hangman’s) bar to  enjoy more beers, wine, and grappa. It was here we met Alex, a top lad of 28, brimming with excitement about travel and keen to become a teacher. We are still in touch via Whatsapp.

The next morning, the bloke at our Lucca accommodation helped us out by booking a taxi to the airport. We were slightly concerned when he said it was super busy, but thankfully, we got away with it. The journey to the airport was smooth, a final serene moment before the chaos of travel.

And chaos it was. We were there far too early, and the place was packed. Rach, still not feeling 100%, was visibly knackered. Mum, Dad, and I rallied, securing a much-needed beer. Our flight home was only 2 hours, which was a mercifully short hop.

The final leg of the journey was Dad's valiant effort to soldier us home in the car. It proved to be challenging indeed, as we hit a huge traffic jam, necessitating a sudden change of route. But we made it! Finally home, we celebrated our return with a beer at the Amber Rooms. As always, drinking in Wetherspoons felt like walking back in time- perhaps the cheapest beer I know!

Welcome home to the UK I finally thought.

Normal for Guernsey- 01-08-24 to 04-08-24

Propellor planes are much louder than you think they'd be. They growl on take off and grunt throughout the journey like a wildebeest. Thankfully, the ears stop working fairly quickly on Aurigny planes and this must be to do with the pressure change. 

I will soon be home or at least my summer home of the UK and more precisely, Loughborough. Another flight, albeit a short one and my carbon footprint doesn't improve. 

So what of my destination, my journey to Guernsey? Well, it was thoroughly delightful. The plan was to visit my sister, who has been working on this small island for a year and indeed that is what happened, although my sister is leaving Guernsey later in the month to resettle in Burton on Trent: now, aesthetically, it would be hard to make a case for that decision as Guernsey is a stunning location but Emma has her reasons and 'love' is the main one so I can't fault that.

We left around midday about three days ago and there were no hold ups at East Midlands. Emma and I were straight into the deep discussions and the banter and the 'what is happiness?' philosophy over a couple of beers at the airport. 

The flight was by propellor plane as aforementioned but was short. Though it was a cloudy day, they sometimes slipped aside to allow me a quick peak down on to the islands we flew over, surprisingly, a lot more than I had thought; though many were very small.

The bus service at Guernsey airport was efficient and within twenty minutes (apparently everywhere is twenty minutes away in Guernsey) we were in St Peter's Port. We dropped our stuff at Emma's flat, which was all but cleared out ready for move with only boxes and bits randomly strewn waiting to be re-housed. It was a quick, in, drop and leave experience and Emma was soon driving us around Guernsey's roads in her beaten up old Audi.

The roads are quite comical with yellow arrows sometimes painted on the road and pointing towards you as if you are going the wrong way down a one way street. Emma says that this and the sign reminds you to stop if you see a red light, is NFG or Normal for Guernsay, a saying I became used to as we travelled. 

We stopped first at The Little Church which was constructed originally in 1914 by a monk who wanted to educate your boys. The church itself is beautiful and unique  and though small is slightly larger than you at first think as it is on two levels. From the road, it sits on a slightly elevated mound and sparkles in the sunlight or shimmers through the rain with all manner of colours. The house made of sweets from Hansel and Gretel was the first thing that sprung to my mind when I saw it. As you approach the entrance, you realise that the course and it's unique appearance is created through the use of random pieces of old pottery which is used almost in the style of a mosaic both outside and inside the church. It is a charming place and well worth a visit.

From here Emma took us to a beautiful where she has often swum though we weren't doing that on this particular occasion. It was pretty with some swimmers, small boats bobbing out at sea and rugged rocky outcrops, not high or dramatic but cute and almost miniature. We walked around the bay and chatted about all manner of rubbish but it was a lot of fun to catch up.

We headed back to Emma’s apartment to change before walking into St Peter’s Port and stopping for a drink and then a quality meal in a posh restaurant where we both ordered fish dishes and shared them after a great melted camembert dish. We even indulged in some Irish coffees. After the meal, we stopped at a lovely pub called the Albion for a wine and a whisky. The chat was flowing and there was a pleasant quiet atmosphere in this pub. The waitress was a lot of fun and it was cool that she even knew my parents, who had visited Emma a couple of times throughout the year. 

We reached Emma’s home after midnight, enjoyed a further whisky and finally got some rest. We had forgotten to pump the airbed up but thankfully, it was a top notch bed and pump and within seconds I had a very comfortable cot to sleep on and sleep, I very much did. 

We enjoyed granola and yoghurt for brekkie as Emma was hoping to get through the leftovers she had in her fridge. Striding out into the open air was wonderful as the sun was beaming and the temperature, delightful. Emma had decided it was a great idea to head over to Herm. Herm is one of the Channel Islands and part of the Parish of St Peter Port in the Bailiwick of Guernsey. It is located in the English Channel, north-west of France and south of England. It is 2,183 m long and under 873 metres wide; oriented north–south, with several stretches of sand along its northern coast. There are no cars on the island and a population of 60.

The boat ride across was around about 30 minutes and we were very happy to be sitting on the top of the boat in the open and under the warmth of the sunshine. The announcer stopped at one point to ask us to sing Happy Birthday to one of the passengers and it was a lovely human moment.

Emma and i strolled around the entire coastline of Herm which is only three miles miles so perhaps not as impressive as it sounds. The views as you rise and fall along the coastline are spectacular and the weather was stunning- warm and bright throughout. I was mightily impressed by the birds and on one occasion we both stood for quite some time looking at a gull who balanced itself in the eddies of the wind, seeming to float effortlessly, despite the gusts.

Emma took us down into a beautiful bay, which was quiet and enclosed with a rocky outcrop. We decided we would swim and Emma, having changed (more on that story later) into her swimming costume. Like me, Emma is a jump in and think later kind of swimmer and she ran into the cool waters. I raced on immediately afterwards making a variety of shudder noises and blowing out of cheek accompaniment but in truth, after a few moments the water was the perfect temperature and Emma and I swam for 15 minutes or so, marvelling at the posh yachts further out and wondering at the bravery of the young tombstoners who leapt with gay abandon into the rippling sea.

After we swam, Emma had to go through the challenge of changing without being seen and we remembered the amazing episode of Mr Bean, where he proved the point that no-one sees a 'British nob' on the beach- if you know what I mean. Not that Emma has a nob! Anyway, we also chatted about how difficult it is for women (was going to say hard but the semantic field would be contrived at best) and how men just leap in, even in their pants and dry off. we also discussed whether getting your boobs out counted as indecent exposure and thankfully, and rightly, it isn't. We checked on google!

We strolled further along the coastline and dropped down into Shell Bay, where we sat down and enjoyed a beer and a sandwich at the Mermaid Tavern: lovely place and a great view from here. Emma kept talking about rouge (a beautiful wine bar with artisan cheeses and cold cuts) and eventually pulled out a letter from my parents to be opened in Rouge. She had become anxious that we might not get there and so I should open it there at Shell beach. I declined and said, well let's go to Rouge. 

So we embarked on the final part of the 3 mile walk and took the boat back to Guernsey. We walked to Rouge and enjoyed some fabulous wine and some great cheeses, one of which was local and another one was, without doubt, the best blue cheese I have ever eaten. The note from mum and dad was so kind and heart warming and spoke of their pride in me. From here we nipped back to Emma's, changed and headed out to the castle at Guernsey for the last night of the Castle night events, where bands play and everyone can bring their own food and beverages. 

Castle Cornet is 800 years old and a beautiful place to stroll around, with different levels and lawns and with outstanding views over St Peter’s Port harbour and the sea itself. Emma and I had brought a bottle of wine and some nibbles and we sat down with her friends Alison and Mark for some banter, food and to sing along with the excellent band who played some 90s classic including Blur and Pulp. The atmosphere was lovely, the sun was beaming and there was a real feeling of fun. 

The final band of the night was excellent and wrote their own songs, (a sort of Energy Orchard vibe- check them out!) and at one point towards the finale, they invited on to stage a very adept fiddle player who gave them another dimension. They played the national anthem of Guernsey at the end and it was a rip-roaring frolicsome dance number with layered rhythms and the lead vocals  breaking out to  jump around in the crowd and strum at the same time. It was one of those moments that will stay with me for a long time. Very uplifting and not like the original national anthem, which I have heard on Youtube since.

The lovely and very knowledgeable Alison took us to a delightful and posh restaurant outside of town for a few last beers of the night and I had a great chat with her, learning about the legendary guernsey milk and butter (custard colour yellow) Emma had a more stressful conversation with Mark and he walked off in a huff. None of my business really. We walked home and thankfully, this time, it was downhill all the way. In truth, I didn’t fancy the Clifton Steps again (561 steps) and I noticed on  my step counter that I had done over 28000 steps which was a new record and more than my day on Scafell Pike.

I enjoyed a final whisky at Emma’s- she had Japanese and it was mighty fine. I certainly slept well after consuming that. 

The next morning was grim…grey, cloudy and full of that British style sense of weather-doom: when you just know the whole day is a ‘right off’. That said, the stalwart Alison, whom I had met the previous night, would, as a Guernsey resident, be remonstrating with me quite vociferously for such a comment. After all, Guernsey isn’t really British, as such but is actually a Bailiwick and not even a country. It’s complicated. Look it up, if you’re interested. 

Emma and I drove out to through the ghostlike mist which hung ominously over the coastline. The experience was almost ethereal and was perfectly fitting for the experience that Emma had in mind: visiting some of the second world war german fortifications. They are bit like British pill boxes but they are on several levels and are quite formidable. Apparently, by 1944 Guernsey's coastline was covered in concrete fortifications. Hundreds of reinforced bunkers, gun emplacements and tunnels were constructed, transforming the tiny archipelago into the most fortified place on earth. Inside this particular bunker we were able to climb the frightening stairs, with no handrails and some serious risk of falling. At the highest level there was a rope which initially looked like a noose but on closer inspection, was just a means of reaching the roof. I looked out through the gun slit of the highest point at the sea, with the mist now sitting a little higher, hovering above the salt water waves, and imagined what it might have been like for a german manning that station in world war two. The answer: boring I suppose and they were probably very happy with that. It must have been better than being posted to the Eastern front.

As usual, I had not come prepared for the weather, with my bright floral malaysian shorts on and a pair of shorts made of a material wholly ineffective for dealing with the rain. Thankfully, and with right brained genius, I took a blanket from the back of Emma’s car and walked along the coastline wrapped inside it. I was dry but looked ridiculous, as usual. 

The rain worsened a little but thankfully Emma had booked us in for lunch at Cobo Tearooms, a well known and excellent small cafe overlooking the stunning Cobo bay. Here we tried Beanjar, a local delicacy, which was basically bean stew, with some shredded meats (I have no idea what- could have been dog for all I knew, or cared). We also ordered a lemon cake, which was moist, sour, sweet and soft, filled with cream and one portion was enough to feed three comfortably. Here, I tried the frankly average butter that is coloured like one of the characters from The Simpsons. Nevertheless, it was a fab way to spend an hour or so, even if the weather outside hadn’t improved at all. 

Emma and I braved the rocky headland for a while and experienced some interesting historical fortifications as well as the beach, which was empty and therefore atmospheric. In the mood for more atmosphere Emma drive us to Dehus Dolmen (also known as Le Déhus), around half a kilometre north of Bordeaux Harbour. This is a large multi-chambered tomb beneath a grassy mound with standing stones around the edge (some of the edge stones are replacements, but others are original). Artefacts from around 3500-2000 BCE have been found here.

There was a Scandinavian family leaving the tombs as we entered and Emma tried to show them the famous carvings inside of the bearded man. Later she realised she had told them wrongly and the family found it on the stone roof above. It is faint but clear enough if you look closely. We enjoyed a little banter with the family and moved on.

We walked a lot more across the beach, after the visit to Dehus Dolmen and I joked about having still not had a beer, which catapulted us into a conversation about our dependence on alcohol. We discussed the pros, the socialising, the fun, the experiences and even the great ideas that have come out of alcohol and how no tea, or fruit juice has been invented that keeps people in one space chatting for hours and hours. Then, I thought of some of the Malay muslims out for the evening and realised that my opinion was total bollocks and simply part of my cultural apologising. I still drink but we discussed the pros of reducing or even stopping drinking, mainly coming from Emma’s relationship with Marika, who drinks very little. We spoke of the pressure put upon non-drinkers and the crutch that it becomes for so many of us. 

It was a deep and a long conversation but the rain was holding off and the views were amazing. Afterwards, we stopped back at The Albion in St Peters Port for a beer! Here the conversation turned to religion and mostly, whether people who say they believe in the ‘old school’ view of a fiery hell with people burning forever, actually do. I mean they say they do but they still sin and the like. If they could see a field with a multitude of suffering sinners in flames, screaming in an agony unthinkable but not dying and then that person was told that they would be going to that for eternity, with no hope of escape, if they sinned or indeed did anything you told them they shouldn’t, I think they might fall into line pretty quickly. In my view, they don’t really have faith that such a place exists.

The mood lightened as we trudged off to the Indian restaurant with 23000 steps showing up on my step counter. The meal took a reassuringly long time and the quality was excellent; so too, the service. I drank water this time. Haha. We had one wine on the way home and headed back at around 9.00am as I had a flight first thing in the morning and had to be up at 4.30pm.

Emma was good to me and dropped me off- though her goodness truly shone through as we drove passed a young girl, scantily clad, crying and make-up smeared down her face, in the rain and looking very distressed indeed. We were right next to the airport so Emma dropped me off and picked the girl up on the way back. Apparently, she was very, very drunk, had no phone, no purse and was slurring her words quite dramatically. Emma took her into St Peter’s Port and dropped her on a bus, explaining to the driver where she needed to get to. That is apparently also normal for Guernsey. 

Stockholm Sweden- 17-07-23

Day 1

It felt strange to be driving back to Manchester to board another plane, only a matter of weeks since returning from Malaysia and I have to confess to not really fancying the journey at all. Kyle was obviously excited and for him, it had been a few years since he had last been on a plane. As we drove in the relatively early hours of the morning to our pre-booked car parking space, I found that his excitement, fuelled by research about the treats that Stockholm had in store, began to rub off on me and by the time we were at the airport awaiting our flight, I had managed to extinguish my apathy and the internal giddy child that normally accompanies every trip I go on, had returned. 

The flight to Stockholm is about 2 and a half hours and it was clear that Kyle was a little, though certainly not uncontrollably nervous when we took off or later, when we hit a patch of turbulence. He handled himself well enough and his mild anxiety disappeared once we were above Sweden (a place, like most of Scandinavia, Kyle has often wanted to visit) which from above was astounding: a huge expanse of land, trees, hills and natural beauty- and islands everywhere the eye could see. There was a Canadian woman sitting in the seat in front of us who caught our busy conversation about the wonders below and she added to our delight by ‘waxing’ lyrical about Stockholm, a place she had lived in for over ten years. She spoke of the ‘right to roam’ and how huge swathes of the land could not be owned. 

We landed with our spirits high and the touchdown was near perfect, to Kyle’s relief.  

Arlanda airport is a world away from Manchester and we were immediately impressed by the smiles of staff, the efficiency of service and the general positivity. Even the posters on the wall were of women holding glossy organic vegetables and standing in paradise or of children licking ice cream. In contrast Manchester airport’s sign were a series of imperatives, all assuming bad behaviour such as ‘Don’t smoke’, ‘don’t be rude to our staff’, ‘don’t accept slavery’. Whether such posters are needed or not, I don’t know, but at Arlanda airport, it was taken as a given that people would behave well, and they did.

We bought a ticket for the Arlanda express which took us into the city centre and though it took us a short while to work out the machine that deposited the ticket, it was easy enough. The express train leaves every 15 minutes and is clean and fast. The staff member who checked our tickets was happy, smiling and welcoming. 

We stopped at Stockholm train station for a beer and a moment of calm after the journey. Kyle received a call whilst we were there from a head hunted who had seen his CV online. It was great to see him smile and feel wanted. 

After beers we walked the mile and a bit to the digs; dragging our cases and our carcasses, as we went. It was less than two miles but exhausting with the luggage in tow and after the long journey. Initially there was confusion when we arrived at the hotel to find the door locked and a staircase, beyond a slightly grimy window. There was a bell to ring but no one answered and we were contemplating our next action, when a guest opened the door from within and we took the opportunity to sneak in. The place looked rough and we walked up the staircase to a formidable looking wooden tour, like something from a viking hall. Luckily, they responded to the bell this time and the door opened to reveal a pleasant reception, out of odds with the exterior and a lovely eating area. 

The lady on reception was delightful, pleasant and very helpful. She showed us to our rooms which were more than acceptable and we all had a short lie down to recover. It was a relief to finally put the bags down.

After a short rest we walked and crossed the bridge to the old town of Gamla Stan. This part of the city is the original centre and consists of Stadsholmen island and the islets of Riddarholmen, Helgeandsholmen and Strömsborg. 

The old town dates from the 13th century but most buildings are from the 1600s and 1700s. It is a glorious labyrinth of charming cobbled streets, alleyways, faded mustard and rust-coloured townhouses and meeting squares. Before making our way through the narrow alleys, we wondered at the water, the islands in the distance and the myriad of different boats and floating vessels moored at the water’s edge or sailing along the blue. 

We made our way past some proud looking statues including the proud one of Gustav the third which dominates the square outside the cathedral. It was a peaceful and pleasant stroll past the shops, coffee houses and restaurants, through to the courtyard of the baroque royal palace, Kungliga Slottet, where guards stood ominously in their blue uniforms and wearing very spiky helmets.

We weren’t sure if this was a private area as it was so quiet, but I gingerly pushed on and Kyle and Rach soon followed. The courtyard opened up into an area by a church with a small hill leading back to the water. Here there were many photographs of the president of Sweden present at a recent celebration. We marvelled at the pictures that showed the aforesaid leader mingling casually with hundreds of locals and even dancing with his wife in the middle of the adoring throng. There were no signs of guards or security.

From here, we walked through another small alleyway which opened out on to Stortorget,  the beautiful main square with its expensive but quirky restaurants and narrow, tall germanic medieval buildings with their pastel colours and old timber window frames. We had an incredibly expensive round of drinks here, sitting opposite the North facing Nobel Prize museum. It was lovely to watch the world go by from such an interesting location. Whilst we were sitting, an old style fire engine drove through the square passing the natural spring water fountain. We wondered for a minute if they were coming to fill up but they simply drove on through, casual as you like.

Stortorget used to be the political heart of town until 1732, when the city hall was moved to the Bondeska Palace. In 1520, it witnessed a large execution as the Danish conqueror Kristian II had 82 Swedish dignitaries arrested and beheaded at Stortorget (all those who had opposed his rule). We had no idea as we sat sipping wine. How times change.

The Royal Cathedral of Sweden, the Storkyrkan, is the oldest church in Gamla Stan, first built as a chapel in the 12th century. It was rebuilt as a basilica after a fire destroyed it in the 14th century, and has since gone through several changes and reconstructions. The exterior is a fine example of the Baroque style, whereas the interiors are done in a Gothic style. Perhaps most startling to me was the pink exterior which made it stand out and seemed to contrast oddly with the statue of St George and the Dragon which stands in the grounds of the church.

The Nobel Museum (Nobelmuseet in Swedish) dedicates itself, as the name indicates, to displaying the work of Nobel laureates. The acceptance speeches of the various laureates can be heard, including Martin Luther King Jr’s speech. Attached is a bookstore with biographies about the Nobel laureates, as well as books written by winners of the Nobel Prize for Literature.

Once the scene of a bloodbath, the charming square of Stortorget is now frequented by tourists for its quaint and colourful buildings. Stortorget used to be the political heart of town until 1732, when the city hall was moved to the Bondeska Palace. In 1520, it witnessed a large execution as the Danish conqueror Kristian II had 82 Swedish dignitaries arrested and beheaded at Stortorget (all those who had opposed his rule). There was no sign of blood on this occasion, just a range of tourist folk enjoying their fika (cinnamon and coffee).

Gamla Stan is exceptionally clean, almost impossibly so for such a busy tourist area and it is clear that the council and the people of Sweden take care of the area very well indeed. 

We wandered through the clean, busy streets in search of restaurant and found a quaint place on one of the many narrow streets. It had the exterior of a sweet shop from the 1950s and single pain windows in large green frames. Inside, the walls were a boring white but the chandeliers were made out of stags' horns and there were old framed paintings on the walls of swedish grandmothers sitting contemplatively on robust wooden chairs built to withstand the rigours of time and certainly not for comfort. The waiter was efficient and pleasant, if a little cursory and we were very much left to our own devices, save the food that arrived promptly and without fuss.  Like most places, swedish meatballs were on offer and when in Rome (or Stockholm in this case) you have to try them. They were delicious- soft, moist, flavoursome and in a creamy, onion gravy that was far tastier than it sounds. The mash it was served with was only slightly worse than mine (and my mash is perhaps my finest feature- ha ha). There was a sweetness to the sauce, from the lingonberries which all of my culinary knowledge told me shouldn’t work but it did.

We strolled home after a good feed and slept well at the digs. It had been a long day.

Day 2 18-07-23- A magnificent ship!

After breakfast, which was delicious and consisted of lots of wonderful pastries, good coffee, yoghurt and fruits, we walked back across the bridge to Gamla Stan but this time strolled along the water in search of a boat called the Ostana 1, which we had booked online and which was built in 1906. It take us too long to find although we did need to take a tram. 

The trip began at the Stranvagen and took us gently through some of Stockholm's archipelago, which is the second largest in the Baltic sea. 

The interior of the boat was decadent and polished with a veneer of tradition and sturdiness. There was a bar inside and one could order sandwiches and the like, should they wish. We inially opted for a seat outside on the side of the boat, where we could watch the many islands glide by or catch a glimpse of the natural wildlife that inhabit this area.

Rach and I have been on many boat rides if late including trips in Langkawi and Phi phi and this was perhaps less dramatic with fewer monkeys. However, it was a at kspheric way to see the country and witness the range of housing including some hastily erected wooden huts that sat happily upon some of the smaller islands.

More dramatic was the site of one of Bjorn Borg's mansions! Impressive. We saw a stunning bridge that crossed from one island to another that was built of stone and looked medieval but I think what I enjoyed most about the trip was the slow pace and the time to relax and think and watch.

Halfway through the two and a half hour ride, we popped inside and bought a beer. It was quite an experience to gently rock along the water inside the inner cabin of such an old boat.

Once we arrived back on land, we had the brief moment of Jack Sparrow legs, where land somehow feels less secure than sea but we recovered soon enough and stopped at a restaurant that sold just about everything and which was placed overlooking the water and at the base of a bridge which crossed over to the island of Djujarden, a beautiful but small piece of land blessed with gorgeous gardens, a small harbour and wonderful museums. The pizza we had was decent and expensive but it was lovely to get a beer down us (Kyle had a coke).

From here we walked across the bridge and strolled to the Vasa museum. This was a major highlight of our time in Stockholm and surprisingly so as I knew very little to nothing about its contents. The museum is simply a one artifact museum- that of a almost completely intact 17th century war ship, and one of the largest ever made.

You enter the museum and are smacked in the face immediately by the vastness of the ship, which is 69 metres long and more than 50 metres tall. It weighs 1200 tonnes and was fitted with ten sails and 64 cannons.  It is formidable to behold (but more on that story later) You enter at level two which would have been just above the water level, if the vessel was out at sea but you can walk down below and indeed right to the top of the fifty metres, where you can look down upon the upper deck. The place is dark inside; dark and brooding adding an eerie feeling of ghosts and age which really works (although the lack of light is a measure to help preserve the original wood, which makes up almost the entirety of what remains). 

Most striking is the decorative qualities with sculptures of kings, of battles and of beautiful mermaids adorning the exterior, and even what looks like a royal balcony built on to one of its sides. It is a tour de force. A staggering achievement and no doubt The Lion of the North, Gustav the second must have been proud when it was completed.

However, the irony of this trip is a lesson to all engineers that beauty and exterior beauty must never supercede intelligent design. On its maiden voyage in 1628, it travelled no further than

1,300 metres. Within minutes, the ship was lying on the sea bed 32 metres below. Thousands of Stockholm´s inhabitants witnessed the tragic scene, together with several foreign ambassadors. What began in hope and ambition ended in tragedy.

We left the museum shaking our heads at the wonder and mostly the tragic story. It was beautifully sunny and it was hard to not stop at a pop up craft beer tent only a few metres from the exit of the Vasa but Kyle isn’t a drinker and he was keen to see more of Stockholm.  

We took a bus back towards Gamla Stan and then walked back towards an area we were more familiar with. Kyle was keen to pop to another museum and was disappointed when Rach was too tired to go on but dutifully we headed back and rested at the digs. 

I took a stroll to the higher point above the city and took some great photos including some of a very gothic church that was completely black. Afterwards, I stopped for a cheeky and surprisingly cheap beer next door to the hotel. 

In the evening we wandered into the old town and ate at a  very expensive and posh place that specialised in whiskies- one of which, Rach enjoyed. We had looked around for a more suitable place to eat, one of which I had found online but there was a long queue outside and the centre was super busy, in general.The food in our posh place was very tasty and outside there was a model of a stag in a gentleman’s suit. How odd. We had some excellent conversation about our time on the boat and of course the wonder of the vasa. It had been a great day and we returned to the digs feeling very happy.

Stockholm Day 3- 19-07-23

We had another nutritious and pleasant breakfast before heading back to Djujarden. The weather was warm but not oppressive and we were keen to see the Viking museum which stands in picturesque grounds not far from the Vasa museum. It is hard not to compare this place to the Jorvik viking centre as we had visited York's famous museum when the kids were young. Although my memories of that impressive museum are sketchy, to say the least, I do feel that this Viking museum on the island of Djujarden is equally its match, if not more impressive. 

The steps into the museum seize your interest immediately as each one has a date on it that takes you on a journey back from the present to the viking era. The top step says something like 870 AD, I think and it is as if you have been sucked into the world of the vikings. Inside there are many outstanding artifacts from the times, such as goblets, clothing, weapons and the like but also some recreations of houses and vikings halls as well as places where you can sit by the fire and wear a viking crown for a photograph. Despite this, it is rather tastefully done and we wandered the interior for a long time reading a lot of the literature on the wall displays. 

Once you reach what you think is the end of this fascinating place you are led to a ride which is also reminiscent of Jorvik but this is very different and a lot less smelly! Indeed, it is more of an immersive recorded drama experience. You are taking from diorama to diorama, each with a voiceover, a video or sound effects that hit your ears via surround sound. The story is of brothers who went on a viking quest and is a little like the saga of Ragnar Lothbrook. The lighting, the timing (including an arrow that seems to fly through the air and hit a tree at one point, but obviously didn’t) and the experience of moving through the ages in the car, really blend well and I was captivated by the whole experience. 

We left the Viking museum having felt like we had learnt a lot.

From here we made our way back to Gamla Stan for fika, which is a swedish custom and Kyle thoroughly enjoyed it. It is basically damn good coffee and a cinnamon bun and it was certainly available in almost every coffee place in sight. 

It was our last day, so in typical traditional style, we went shopping and Kyle bought himself a nice Stockholm shirt to tattoo the moment and the experience. Rach enjoyed the shopping too but headed home a little earlier than Kyle and I, who walked into the more commercial sector of the town, which was an interesting contrast to the old buildings of Gamla Stan. 

In the evening we had food at the digs, having spent at least thirty minutes in the supermarket deciding what to buy. Nevertheless, we knocked up some decent grub, enjoyed a beer or two and hit the sack as we had a very early flight in the morning. 

Stockholm had been expensive, eye-opening-picturesque, historical, ordered and clean. I will never forget this place.