Like wow (Port Douglas, Queensland)

Thanks to one of my favourite Australian bands the Hoodoo Gurus for today's post title. Why you ask dear reader? Patience, in time all will be revealed and my apology for late. Yesterday was a big day at the end I needed a drink to recover. Wow.

The weather continues to be perfect. Sometimes there is a little cloud in the morning but it always clears to blue skies and the humidity hovers somewhere around the 60% mark. It was an early start today because we had to be on a bus at 8:20am with 8 other intrepid souls for a day of exploring FNQ (Far North Queensland) with Tony's Tropical Tours.

There was another couple from our Hotel, also from Sydney and a couple from Melbourne who were staying at the Sheraton Mirage and the final members of our party were a mother and her two adult sons from Adelaide. Now, if we followed stereotypes, which group would be the focal point for jokes? No prize if your answer was Adelaide. Wow.

We've done the reef several times from several different places, twice from Port Douglas, so we thought a tour of the land might be the place to begin our sight seeing. This tour is popular because it is a full day itinerary and caters only to small groups. In hindsight, Jayne wasn't particularly impressed because there wasn't anything on tour we could not have done or organised ourselves, however, the point was we didn't have to do anything. Also, we do not have a car up here, so that would have been the first hurdle.

Our guide, Steve, is a very affable and knowledgeable person, although his stories of 'Captain Cook' and his exploits have devolved more from the Cook legend and a whitewash of history rather than reality. I guess he is catering to his audience because Lieutenant Cook wasn't nearly as successful as he was painted. For a more interesting perspective of the history of Australia, might I suggest you invest in Girt, An Unauthorised History of Australia, by David Hunt.

Cute caterpillar

The first stop was Mossman Gorge. We had a guided walk around the track and saw some interesting plants, bugs, lizards and a sizeable red bellied black snake. The river looked beautiful but apparently a swim in it could be fatal. Crocodiles. It didn't seem to deter some people and there were plenty of fish in the water as well. Standing on land we were assailed by swarms of March flies (I know, it's December right). The game became, kill a March fly and throw them to the fish. Great game, if you are fish and not being bitten by the flies.

Fish

Boyd's lizard

Random vista

The next stop was morning tea, although I wasn't entirely convinced I'd walked far enough to enjoy the homemade muffins and choc chip biscuits, but I reasoned with myself that the day was still young. The muffins and biscuits were beautiful and the Daintree tea was a nice accompaniment. 

A cruise on the Daintree River searching for crocodiles was next. Our captain Ray was every inch the stereotype of a laconic north Queenslander. He told stories in a typically understated Australian way, like the time a crocodile jumped into the boat and the French tourists on board wouldn't even hold his dog so he could throw the croc back into the river. The stories were interesting and were interspersed with commentary about the local flora and fauna. Alas, the search for the big crocs was to prove fruitless and the best we could find was a 10 month old hatchling. It wasn't even big enough to make a decent belt, let alone a hand bag.

Somewhat disappointed and a little wet (we copped the spray in the front of the boat), we were dropped at the 'cable ferry' crossing. Back in the day we would have referred to it as a 'punt'. In the air conditioned comfort of the bus we made our way to Alexandra Lookout. The views speak for themselves.

It was time for another walk through a section of the rainforest. The difference this time is that it was private property. Apparently that corrupt, gerrymandering genius Joh Bjelke Peterson made a valiant attempt to sell the entire rainforest. This decision was overturned by UNESCO and the government was ordered to buy back all the land - but not everyone sold. Hence we ended up on private property on another wander through the scrub with Steve providing interesting details about various plants and animals. It was at this point that we began to realise news must be slow to reach Adelaide as every tidbit of information was greeted with a "wow" and the really interesting stuff brought the group to a standstill as details were recorded on her phone for later review. Wow.

Rain forest

We survived another walk through the forest where upon Adelaide remarked, "wow" and were driven to lunch. It was a BBQ with steak, fish, salad, fruit and damper. Very nice. One guess as to which of our tribe had dietary requirements? And people wonder why other Australians laugh at people from Adelaide. Wow.

After lunch it was time for a swim in the river that runs through the Noah Valley Rainforest. To get to the pool you needed to negotiate about 40 metres of bush track. There is a metal ladder to encourage safe access to the water. It was a shock to the system at first, but didn't take long to adjust. The water was crystal clear and there were plenty of fish. A refreshing detour amidst the humidity. Jayne decided that changing and getting dry in time for the next leg of the journey was too much effort. She got to mind the thongs.

Back in the bus, Adelaide was lamenting not being able to get changed. Steve assured her that she could change at Cape Tribulation. We arrived at the Cape, Adelaide was directed to the change rooms, the rest of us were shown the beach and the track to the lookout. Here we met the peppermint stick insect made famous by David Attenborough. It is an iridescent green colour and has the ability to spit a peppermint scented poison about a metre at predators. Apparently the poison can blind you. Steve, being the brave tour guide he was, gave a couple of copulating insects a rub. Nothing. Maybe the rub became a part of the motion. He tried again and was duly squirted on the finger with a sticky white substance. Nope. I have nothing to say. Nothing to see here people. Read on. It was just another friendly Australian animal trying to kill or maim. Safely bypassing the orgy of stick insects we walked to the look out and snapped a few photos and then headed for the beach.

On the beach, Sydney, Adelaide and Melbourne ended up together at one point with the sons of Adelaide, but no Adelaide. The groups broke up and drifted down the beach. We stopped to watch a sea eagle and a sea turtle, inhabiting different parts of the world of course and then began a slow walk to other end of Cape Tribulation beach. We didn't make it far before relay calls from Steve via Melbourne called us to a halt, we then called the other Sydney-siders back, and the brothers Adelaide were also reigned in. It then dawned on our intrepid guide that we were missing one of our number. And so the search began. Back to bus for the travellers, Steve ran to the look out and back to bus. No Adelaide. At this point, one of the Melburnians reminded Steve that, at the commencement of the day, he had said it was "OK to lose one person". Onto the bus, onto the main road, no Adelaide. Back to the car park. Steve was getting increasingly concerned that she may have taken a track up the mountain by mistake. You would have to be pretty stupid to do that, I thought. Um, wow.

Perhaps, I suggested, she may have walked down to the far end of the beach. The sons set out for the beach and Steve made for the track up the mountain. Thankfully he had not progressed very far when the sons found mother returning from a walk on the beach. Wow. We were fortunate.

Calm restored and back in the air conditioning, Steve drove us to the Daintree ice-cream place and regaled us with mythological stories of "Captain Cook". Wow, came the comment from the back of the bus. Following the details of how Cook died on a Hawaiian beach, Adelaide immediately asked, "So, how did he die?" The story was retold. Wow. Just wow. The ice cream was interesting. You can only buy a serve of all flavours on offer on the day. No choice. Today we had a scoop of passionfruit, coconut, wattle seed and soursop. I still don't know what soursop is but it didn't kill me. I wasn't there to hear what Adelaide thought of the ice cream, but I'll bet it was, "wow". That was her reaction when she discovered that was the only place on the world you could buy that ice cream. 

The return drive was reasonably quiet and uneventful. We hadn't see a croc of any note and a cassowary sighting proved equally elusive as we wound down the mountain side. The Melburnians were returned safely to the Sheraton and, despite the odds, we deposited all three Adelaidians at their hotel. Wow. It could have been a wipeout. Given the lady's name was Grace all I can say is: amazing (come on, think about it). Wow.

It was after 5:30pm when we arrived at the hotel, a long day in more ways than one. Time for a beer by the pool and an opportunity to relax without inane questions. Wow.

Ain't no sunshine (Port Douglas, Queensland)

It's all the way back to 1971 and Bill Withers for today's title. Google it kids, it's a classic.

There is, patient reader, only one draw back to having a room opening on to the beach on the east coast of Australia. Dawn. It happens at the most ungodly hour and the sunshine in the tropics has an intensity to rival that of the outback. So despite me closing the blinds the sun was determined to shine through any tiny gap it cold and flood the room with blinding light. And it was only just 6am - that's 5am if you're from Sydney. Well, that's how Jayne saw the day begin. I was sad to keep the sun out and happy that it found a way in. All of this puts lie to the song, "Ain't no sunshine when she's gone" because in my world there will be an abundance of sunshine until she returns and we revert to the darkness.

The Peninsula Boutique Hotel (http://www.peninsulahotel.com.au) aside from having super-friendly, super-helpful staff, also offers a full buffet breakfast as a part of the tariff. Nice. Breakfast is served by the pool. Very pleasant. The only negative so far is the internet. It is woefully slow. We are not talking Lord Howe Island speeds but we are getting down there. As a result there probably won't be a lot of pictures attached to the posts for this trip.

Without wishing to jinx myself, all the talk of bad weather has been off the mark. It was in the low 30s yesterday and the rain came overnight. On waking this morning, everything was dry again and today is looking like a copy of yesterday.

The view north from the half-way point.

In an effort to walk off breakfast and try to balance the calorie intake with exercise, we decided we would walk the new ANZAC track. It winds itself up and around the headland and deposits you at ANZAC Park which is at the other end of Macrossan Street from where we are staying. The track is still undergoing construction but is close to completion. The surface is good, there are enough seats to stop and rest in the humid conditions, although it could do with some more signage. There were a couple of paths that joined ours but there was nothing to note where they might lead or if we should deviate from our path to the alternate one. We paused a little too long at the half-way point and Jayne was almost carried away by a squadron of mosquitoes. Expert tip: wear insect repellant and sunscreen.

Random plant. Cool though, eh?

As we climbed the gentle incline towards the top of the headland, I mistakenly asked Jayne did she need any assistance. My concern was dismissed with an attempt at bravado. "I climbed the blue track." she puffed and didn't quite draw breath again before she corrected herself. "The red track. I climbed the red track." she panted. Should you have forgotten that epic journey dear reader it can be found here: http://bradnjaynesblog.blogspot.com/2017/07/we-may-never-pass-this-way-again-cinque.html.

The end of the walk

One can't underestimate the heat or the humidity at this stage of the day. It may have been before 10am but it was 31° and 65% humidity. Before we left, I had applied sunscreen, which I detest, and mixed with sweat, it had almost dissolved my face. Sweat wasn't trickling, as the polite circles say. It was running down my back and behind my ears. Sensible people had removed their shirts, but me, no way, I'm too proud to bare my body to the world. So instead I suffered the indignity of a T-shirt glued to my body.


 Once back in the main shopping precinct, we looked for a cafe to rehydrate and have a coffee. The first few were crowded so we ended up at Cafe Ecco which turned out to be a good choice. The coffee was OK but the freshly squeezed juices were wonderfully refreshing. If you are into new age experimentation, they also had ginger and celery and other weird combinations. Recharged, we meandered back to the apartment to watch the cricket for a while before heading the QT Hotel for the smorgasbord lunch. This requires a walk down the 4 Mile Beach which should have been renamed the 6.4 Kilometre beach once Australia went metric, but it doesn't have quite the same ring to it.

A fame tree, aflame against the blue sky

We sought advice on the best method to get to the QT, thinking we would just walk along the beach and take the path inland. The best advice was that this would not be a good thing because the pathway we needed to find to exit the beach wasn't obvious. So we opted for the less scenic wander through the side streets. The '20 minute walk' probably extended to 40 and it was hot and humid but not unpleasant thanks to the breeze. We arrived at the hotel and located the bar and ordered a couple of beers, purely to rehydrate. Our enquiry about the buffet lunch we had arrived for was met with blank looks. Dinner? the bar staff questioned. I settled down with my beer and checked fb. Oops. The recommendation was for dinner.

The QT was an interesting establishment. In no particular order, it contained groups of humans that I endeavour to avoid: unsupervised small children, overweight men clad only in board shorts and overly tattooed people of either gender (and sometimes they were also overweight men) - this is Australia and Port Douglas is also a haven for the Brits, so that locks up the world of tatts. Tasteful. Um, not really. It was an interesting sideline not to be repeated.

The view north to Port Douglas

Rehydrated we headed for the walkway to the beach and found it easily. It wasn't a path I would walk comfortably after dark, but in the mid afternoon it was fine. We walked north back to Port Douglas discussing lunch - the Surf Club was on our way home. It was a little crowded because it was nearing 2pm now. There was only one decision to make. Book for dinner, head home for another hydrating beer and then to the apartment for champagne and cricket. A perfect plan. Except for Melbourne's weather. The cricket was rained out. Undeterred, we enjoyed a beer on the terrace overlooking the beach before repairing upstairs to drink our champagne and then we retired to the balcony. I know, I know, dear reader, it's a tough life.

The Surf Club dinner was a disappointment for a number of reasons. We were regulars at the Noosa Surf Club when in Noosa and expected the same standard. I don't want to be totally down on them, but, really, everything was average. After discussion we believe it's a place to go for a casual lunch. Dinner? Not so much.

Tomorrow, we have a full on day trip, so there may not be a blog awaiting you at breakfast dear reader. In which case, until the next time ...

Port Douglas song

Yes dear reader we are back, albeit briefly, to document our sojourn to Port Douglas in Queensland. I understand that this is not the perfect time to visit that part of the tropics, it being cyclone season. However, with only a week or so off work, combined with last minute decision making, the options were not expansive. Anyway, the weather in Port Douglas should help us prepare for the languid torpor of Sydney in January-February.

As usual, our posts will be entitled after a song or utilise lyrics to represent our experiences. We have maintained this over a number of years, and despite being maligned by our eldest child for our choice of title (he thinks we are behind the times), there have been precious few repeats over the 226 posts to date. But I digress. Today's title Jayne discovered on Youtube. You can view it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vuedGCxpxzw and I recommend that you do for the purposes of cross-cultural understanding and multiculturalism. No doubt it will provide the 'performers' total number of views a nice fillip as well. If you are able to fathom the depth of its meaning, or can translate Russian, please get in touch.

The journey begins, as one would expect, in the Qantas Club lounge at Sydney airport. Qantas has not been a good friend of late so I am hoping that today's flight will be uneventful and not lead me to the 'customer care' page of their website. It's an interestingly titled page. An oxymoron perhaps? It is for customers but there is precious little care. Or at least that has been my most recent experience.

This is the first holiday in over ten years where I have left myself in the hands of a travel agent. The last time was 2003 and although that trip went reasonably (if we ignore the British Airways strike), I have not been back to an agent because I prefer to organise our itinerary and accommodation (read - I am a control freak [thank you darling wife]). This time due to poor time management, it was easier to leave the details to someone else.

The flight was uneventful. We left and arrived on time. There was no real turbulence and the landing was good. Our luggage were amongst the first bags through, we found our transfer people ... and they hadn't heard of us. No drama - they arranged for our transfer and a little over 90 minutes later we were standing in the foyer of the Peninsula Boutique Hotel sipping iced peach tea and discussing restaurants.

Who is that lurking in the shadows?

The apartment is wonderful: air conditioning and ceiling fans, a view of the beach filtered through the trees, king size bed and a bath that is larger than some pools I have seen, balcony with table and chairs, eating area, lounge and kitchenette. All this within a 5 minute walk of the main shopping precinct.

Bedroom and bathroom

Once the bags were unpacked, we headed into town to explore the shops and restaurants. In between fb messages of course which were providing us with our plan for the next week. Day 1 is not yet over but we have booked dinner tonight at 2 Fish, found a masseur, located the bottle shops and booked a full day Daintree - Cape Tribulation experience.

Walking down Macrossan Street, I wasn't sure what country we were in. It was a while before I heard an Australian accent. We did a bit of shopping and bought Jayne some summer frocks and tried to stay in the shade. I was getting peckish because I hadn't eaten since breakfast. A bakery espied in Grant Street, we redirected our path to buy a sausage roll. Now dear reader, Australia is known as the place of 'big things'. The big merino, pineapple, banana, potato, prawn, orange - the list goes forever. Port Douglas will forever be known to me as the place of the 'big sausage roll'. It was huge. About 20cm long and 5cm wide and just as high. It was mammoth, or perhaps made with mammoth. Quite tasty nonetheless. I would be lying if I said I ate the entire sausage roll; I was incapable of finishing it and Jayne gallantly came to my aid.

Post lunch holiday procedure when a walk has been involved? Do you recall, dear reader? Yes, that's correct, time for a hydrating beer, this time at the Court Hotel. This also allowed for a quick peak at the cricket. Depressing. Back into the sun and down to the marina and then back to Macrossan Street to compare prices at the three bottle shops. Now, it would be wrong of me to suggest collusion, so, let's call it coincidence that all three shops we surveyed had the two wines we wished to purchase for exactly the same price. Freight charges must be very uniform up here.

Back to apartment to enjoy an afternoon drink on the balcony prior to dinner. The breeze made the temperature feel acceptable and the humidity was no worse than Sydney has been for the last few weeks. We sat enjoying our wine watching a health enthusiast (body nazi) at the exercise spot in the park across the road. His abdomen had more ripples than the sand on an outgoing tide. He sweated, we enjoyed the setting sun and a glass of pinot gris. Mr Universe was soon joined by a female. After playing voyeur for a while, I was sure they didn't know each other and watched them compete for the most/fastest squats. Whatever. With no iPhone to swipe left he had to match her, squat for squat. Frequently she would move across the grass to the low fence and do squats facing Mr Universe. Agent provocateur. This was a pick up! Sadly for She-woman, Mr Universe was not interested and picked up his cap and sans shirt jogged his ripped abs into the distance, setting sun glinting on his sweat covered torso. Defeated, she left, a few squats later. Squats. Such a lowly sounding word, associated with defecation and poor living standards. Who would think it would come to be a pick up action? Albeit unsuccessful - smirk...

As time and tide rolled relentlessly on towards dinner we watched successive groups of people move in and out of the fitness park. Pretenders who stopped by for a few press-ups and moved on. Reminiscers, mostly drunk dads escorted away from the equipment by 20 something sons fearing for their dad's safety and the swift end to an enjoyable holiday. And kids, who like the billion lorikeets that inhabit the area swooped and rolled and tumbled over each other and the equipment in an orgy of movement, colour and squawking enjoyment.

Dinner was exceptional (thanks for the recommendation Craig). We couldn't recommend 2 Fish enough. We shared entrees, Malaysian prawns and calamari. Both served with a beautiful Asian salad and a sauce that didn't detract from the food. Light, fresh and tasty. For mains we had coral trout and Moreton bay bugs. Again, you couldn't ask for anything better. The service was great and the wine list contained the staples plus some interesting international numbers. So little time ...

Dessert you ask? Well yes, but, no, not at the restaurant. We wandered down the street to the gelati place. $10 well spent we walked home for a night cap on the balcony.

Until tomorrow ...

Don't leave your baggage unattended (Italy)

And just a brief (just reading back, not so brief, grab a glass of wine) post to wrap up the Italian trip. I thought I'd post a few different photos and record for posterity some of the more amazing things I heard that I forgot to post at the time.

How about the title? It is the 2012 album from a group called The 3 Summits. I think they are German, but I'm not totally sure. As always, the reason for the title will be come clear as you read on.

I need a bottle carrier like this one

Can I begin with jet lag is a bitch? Or, wow, Australia really is a long way from the rest of the world - which goes a long to explaining some of our parochial, small-town thinking.

In the 24 days we were in Italy, we walked a total of 247.1km, an average of 10.3km per day. Despite that, I still put on weight.

A remnant basilica

Random comment: "No, Italians don't really drink beer like us. They prefer wine." Clearly a cultural expert. You may choose your own national identity to vilify, dear reader, but I know where my money is going because I heard the accent.

Transit: We left the apartment in Venice at 10am (ish) to catch the vaporetto to the train station where we had a bit of a wait for the train. The problem is I am a paranoid traveller and like to make sure we have plenty of time to make our connections. Given the rail system in Italy, that has proven to be a sound practice. The rail system is extensive and I would have no hesitation using it as a mode of travel, but I would be a little circumspect around the time they allow for changing trains and making connections.

Arty shot at Assisi

The Frecciarossa delivered us to Rome in high speed fashion where we arrived at 4:10pm. That allowed us just 6 minutes to make the connecting train to the airport. Had I booked the train the web site suggested we would have missed it by 10 minutes and still had to catch the train I booked. I win. After the Frecciarossa, the regional train was riding on the back of a snail. 45 minutes from Rome Tiburtina to Fiumico and the airport. We arrived at 5:15pm

Despite Jayne assuring me that my safety-first attitude to travel is the right one, the gate for our flight was not open when we arrived at the airport. We had to wait almost an hour before we could get to the sane side of the customs barrier.

The flight boarded at 9pm for a 10pm take-off. All on time.

A museum somewhere. No idea where.

Best comment ever: Getting settled in Business Class, I listened as a family arrived to occupy 5 of the seats in the middle section. Two adults and three children under 12. It turned out one was a friend coming along for the holiday. The two boys were talking when one said to the other and said, "How come we are Business Class?" The reply? Is. To. Die. For! "Because there is no First Class on this flight." WTF!!! What a shame, poor little rich kid, had to slum it in Business.

Transit cont'd: Express lane for the security check. I love Business Class. Then we had to walk to the next free state to get to our gate. It was a seriously long walk made longer by dude in Information who sent us to the wrong Al Italia Lounge. I know, right. Scandalous.

Arty shot in Florence looking at the Duomo

Al Italia get my vote for superior food in their lounge and I've been in a few airline lounges over the last few years. Pizza, pasta, charcuterie, good red wine and dolci. The only  negative? They serve prosecco and not champagne. I know, I know, 1st world problems.

Just over an 8 hour flight to Abu Dhabi for another airline lounge while we waited 4 hours for our connecting flight home to Sydney. Jayne's seat wouldn't recline to its flat bed on the flight so we were asked to report to the people at the lounge on arrival. So, I got all excited thinking maybe we'll get a 1st class upgrade on the last leg. How cool. Nup. A 'sorry' letter and an offer of 10,000 frequent flyer points - wouldn't even get her to Melbourne - if she was a FF with Etihad and she's not.

Time for a whinge: Security at some airports is just ludicrous. LA has always been my default in this discussion. Until now. Here's the deal. We passed through security in Rome, boarded a plane, (didn't kill anyone or blow up the plane), got off in Abu Dhabi to transfer to another flight. We haven't left the airport terminal. We haven't been in contact with anyone who hasn't successfully passed through security and we have to be screened again. OK. I get it. You can't be too careful. But can someone explain to me why the boots, the watch, the bracelet and belt I was wearing that had already successfully passed though security while I was wearing them, suddenly have to be removed for this check? They passed through Sydney on the way out, Abu Dhabi on the way to Rome and from Rome only 9 hours earlier. Like WTF!!! I want answers people. What gives?

A Cinque Terre sunset. Meh.

Transit cont'd: Well I told you it was a long trip. As you might imagine, we are a tad over travelling at this point and have been wearing the same clothes for almost 24 hours. It's nearing boarding time, but we haven't been called. Jayne wants to go. We go. Another security check. They want to look inside our carry on bags, you remember, the ones that were x-rayed in Rome and then again when we arrived in Abu Dhabi. Now some flunky with nice rubber gloves is going to find something the two x-ray machines could not.

Our main carry on bag contained our camera and its lenses in a bag and then about 3 kgs of washing. It had been really hot where we'd been. I didn't actually want to open the bag. "This will be interesting" I quipped quietly to Jayne as I lifted the bag onto the bench and opened it for inspection. I unzipped the lid and aired our dirty laundry. Curiously the attendant wasn't very interested, a cursory glance and "Thank, you can close the bag." God bless smelly socks.

Cinque Terre again. The track was steep.

And then? We wait. And so does everyone else. And we wait. No-one says anything despite the large number of Etihad people milling in suits. It was about then that I really began to pay attention to what was happening, read - woke up. We had been corralled in an area that was a mid-point between our gate and the one next to us. In between, and closer to our gate was a vast expanse of empty seats. Why wasn't that open for people to sit ... oh, I see. On one seat and on the ground nearby were three pieces of luggage. Not just any luggage, UNATTENDED LUGGAGE. Be alert, not alarmed. NO. Be alarmed. So what was the response of the security focused Etihad people that had made me crawl through the last security check wearing little else but my socks?

Not much actually. Were alarms sounded? No. Were we evacuated? No. I would have been no more than 10 metres from the offending bags. There was a 20L Nike back pack, a woven carry bag and a small wheeley bag. I watched as the man in army uniform arrived and commenced to x-ray the bags. True story. We actually discussed moving to back of the line in case they exploded. But, hey, I've spent far too much time in China to give up a good place in a line to board an aircraft. We stood our ground.

The x-rays went off into the ether to be analysed and then we scored the OK. No explosion. What sort

A random doorway in Rome.

of person manages to forget three bags? Then the barriers were taken down and we moved to the aircraft in an orderly fashion. Bah ha ha. Thank God for Business Class and a special line.

On the plane, Jayne tested her seat to ensure it fully reclined. Success. Happy days again. Champagne, Great menu. Excellent service. All is forgiven Etihad.

The last leg of the journey, a mere 13 hour flight was commencing around an hour late.

It was a downhill flight so we made up the hour, somewhere. The only down side to the flight was/were screaming children/babies. It must have been absolutely terrible for the parents - it's double loss, you are worried about your child and also worried about upsetting other passengers. And it was a night flight.

Sydney customs, crowded but smooth. Out and in to the car to drive us home.

Home: Sydney time 8am. We had been in transit for over 36 hours.

Um, Rome from a hill somewhere.

Random comment: How good is a hot shower after 36 hours in transit in the same clothes? Rhetorical question dear reader, no need to comment.

And that my friends is the end of my ramblings until the next holiday. Speculation is rife: the south of Italy, Croatia, Germany/Austria, Ningaloo Reef, Tahiti? Stay tuned.

Until the next adventure ...

The carnival is over (Venice)

Yes dear reader, I am aware that I have used this title before but in this instance I have no choice but to recycle. The reason will become apparent as you read on.

I struggled to get the day underway. It was much easier to stay in bed and doze, but this is our last proper day in Venice. Tomorrow, Tuesday is a transit day from here to Rome airport for the night flight to Abu Dhabi and then on to Sydney.

There are still things that we have to do in Venice, although I'm not sure we would feel compelled to return. Today we planned to see some more of the Biennale exhibits and visit the Correr Museum (and not get lost). Well, as Meatloaf sang, 2 out 3 ain't bad.

It was another perfect day, blue skies, no cloud, slight breeze to keep the temperature down and negate the impact of the humidity. We had our usual breakfast downstairs at our local in the Campo and walked down the alley to the main walk along the canal. From there we turned towards the Venetian version of the botanic gardens, the Giardini Pubblici, except they hold the major Biennale exhibition there.

Lifestyles of the rich and famous, Venice style.

I'd like to say that it was pleasant morning's walk, but it wasn't, at least to commence. Flooding toward us was tour group after tour group, literally. They covered, in places, the entire expanse of pavement. Group after group, slavishly following their leader's little elevated rag on a stick. Disregarding any of the niceties of pedestrian behaviour such as keeping to the right. On one bridge we were forced to wait until they had passed because to attempt a crossing could mean being swept in the other direction and being lost in Venice forever.

I think he could do with a scrub and a weed.

It would appear that many of the marauding groups are day trippers. Yes the most dreaded and feared of all tourists. They arrive in swarms by boat, disembark and locust-like sweep all before them, making noises like the ring wraiths in Lord of the Rings. Anyway, we dodged them, and in a few short minutes were out the other side, boats and groups behind us, into a gentler, quieter part of Venice.

We walked slowly, with sufficient space to outstretch my arms should the mood take me. And it did. Down the Cal Garibaldi and into the gardens where there is an interesting fountain. Interesting only for its inhabitants, a couple of very large koi carp, some goldfish and many turtles. They are red-eared sliders, apparently an introduced species.

The entrance to the park, beyond the fountain, is a wide, tree-lined walkway dotted with benches for people to sit and chat in the shade. A very pleasant place to meet your friends. We walked the length of this boulevarde onto the the boardwalk that runs next to the sea. The vista of San Marco was very different from what we were used to and provided a better picture of the vision the original founders had of Venice. We wandered slowly, enjoying the lack of people and arrived at the entry point for Biennale. What we had thought would be random sculptures, works and installations scattered throughout the gardens was actually a series of permanent exhibition halls - closed Monday. Today is, of course Monday. Much like Mark Twain musing on golf as a "good walk spoiled" we felt the same. We turned for home.

Graffiti on a statue in the park. Christians share a different view.

Back home, we sheltered from the early afternoon sun because it can be very strong. Feeling rested and brave enough to battle the crowds again, we ventured out to get some cash and then to the Correr Museum. It was close to the apartment just at the other end of San Marco Piazza and there was an auto teller there as well. To reinforce my notion that it was almost time to head home, I joined the queue at the auto-teller only to realise that I hadn't brought Jayne's card. No problem I'll use mine and reached for my phone, also at home. Oh well, to the museum. We were walking up the stairs to the museum when it occurred to me that I had also left the camera at home. Really? Where was my brain?

The Correr, like the Accademia had a standing exhibition of renaissance era art works as well as a modern exhibition. It also had older works dating back to the Etruscan, Mesopotamian and Egyptian civilisations. Even Jayne commented that there are only so many religious paintings you can look at, so the camera was not really missed. They also had another interesting painting by Hieronymus Bosch, a Dutch painter we had seen at dell' Accademia. Critics talk of his detailed work and blending of creatures to create a bizarre hybrid. He obviously had a significant influence on the work of Monty Python cartoonist Terry Gilliam. Bosch' work is either influenced by drugs or he is just plain weird.

The modern exhibition was by Shirin Neshat, an Iranian artist who presented a photographic series and an interesting short film called Roja. The film explores the concept of longing for homeland and opens with a shirtless male figure miming the words of The Carnival is Over that is being sung by a female. Hence today's title. In the credits it states that the song is a Russian folk song from the 1880's and was only translated into English in 1965 when it became the signature for Australian folk group, The Seekers.

Venice has a tower with a lean  as well

One the way to the museum, one of the spruikers from a restaurant around the corner asked if we wanted a drink. I told him we would come in on the way back and we dropped in to have our first aperol. Quite a refreshing drop it is too. It was, like many of the restaurant/bars over here, relatively small, but it had an extensive menu so we thought we would come back for dinner. Before that, there was one last bottle of wine to be finished on the altana.

It was much funnier than the picture shows

Later in the evening we heard what was more than the usual sound of the gondoliers from the canal below. Jayne was surprised to look out the window and see a gondola coming from the opposite direction to what they usually travel. There was a line of gondolas heading in the usual direction down to the Grand Canal and one lone, brave gondola going against the traffic. We had assumed it was a one-way street. Certainly this man heading in the wrong direction was causing major issues and was getting a serve from every gondolier that rounded the corner. Part of the problem was the blind corner that needed to be negotiated. The number of people on the bridge increased as did the people watching from windows. The embarrassed passengers didn't quite know where to look, although at one point the female passenger looked towards our window and I gave her the thumbs up - which she returned with a rueful smile.

We cannot understand how this rogue gondolier managed to come the wrong way down the canal - the gondolier fraternity seems pretty tight - could even be a generational thing. The services run in very defined segments of the canal - it does not seem like you can just go wherever you like - you hire, you get on board, you are paddled around a specific canal route (serenaded or not depending on how much you are willing to pay) and then you alight.  Jayne wondered if this was the beginnings of the invasion of Uber gondolas in Venice? That would be a fascinating battle!

Dinner was pretty good - again. The food has been pretty wonderful from start to finish. Last night a caprese salad and calamari followed by lasagne and pizza. I dreamed of my bike last night because I think I need the exercise to help remove some of the excesses of the trip.

This will be our last post for a while, as I tap away at the keys we are on the Frecciarossa to Rome to transit to the airport and then Sydney. Next time I write to you dear reader will be from home in Redfern.

Island of Lost Souls (Venice)

And today dear reader I hit the wall. I have had enough of the crowds, the lack of consideration for other people, the endless tour groups stampeding over anyone and anything who get in their way, the pushing and the shoving and dawdlers who block the entire alleyway while they look in shops or chat or just stand there indecisively. It is time for some space and that will happen soon enough. It is Sunday and we begin the long trek home on Tuesday. But let's begin with our last conclusion.

The Biennale is on, expect the unexpected

The fireworks never eventuated. Well they did, but not for us. We lasted until 10:30pm and gave up and went to bed to be awoken by sound of explosions at 11:30pm. The rumoured 45 minute display was just that, rumour. Obviously they commenced at 11:30pm to conclude at midnight. We both acknowledged the show had commenced with a weary sigh and drifted back to sleep. Fireworks are a bit passé for any Sydney-sider.

And I have nothing to say about this

When we emerged in the morning light, the evidence of the previous night's party had pretty well been erased. Except for the occasional smell of urine in the narrower alleys. Very reminiscent of Paris on a Sunday morning at this time of year. We ventured to our local Campo for breakfast - the usual, coffee, brioche and OJ. Not the cheapest but not the most expensive either. I paid and went to pick up my change when I noticed that amount on the counter was more than I had given him. He had given me change for 50€ not the 20€ I gave him. He looked somewhat surprised when I told him he'd given me too much money, but was grateful to put 30€ back in the till.

It was time to make our way to the Church of Santa Maria della Saluté, but before we reached our destination we came across the Gallerie dell'Accademia, San Marco. This was reached via a 'temporary' wooden bridge which has resisted its temporary nature and stands today, much like the temporary demountable classrooms of Australian schools. The Accademia was quite deserted so we detoured and spent a few hours there. I had tried to book tickets online earlier in the week, but that proved as difficult to negotiate as the alleyways of Venice or a ticket machine at an Italian train station. It was a bonus to find this museum so crowd-free. I imagine it was due to the late night festivities and fireworks.

The ancient race of ninjas

Another sign that we are nearing the end of our trip: the Accademia had a sameness about it to many other works of art we have seen over the past few weeks. More works by Tintoretto, Titian and Verenese. All special and spectacular in their right, but also similar to so many others. This is not a criticism, these artists and the many they influenced had a profound impact on the world.

Old or new?

What do you prefer?

There was also an exhibition of the work of Philip Guston, responding to the work of various poets such as Yeats and Eliot. The juxtaposition of his work next to the classics is puzzling. Well it is to me. All it does is to serve to highlight his lack of talent. I'm sure an art critic would tear down my comments, but his child-like renditions of feet, or scratchy depictions of every day objects against the work of Titian? Please. What was most interesting in this particular exhibition was the number of people who managed to repeatedly encroach on the alarmed spaces in front of the exhibits - all very clearly marked on the floor by lines and/or railings. As we moved through the spaces, we continuously heard the alarms being set off and actually observed one woman who set the thing off three times in less than a minute before her friend worked out it was her that was causing the alerts. Mind you, none of the security staff seemed remotely concerned or responded in any discernible way so may be they shared our opinion regarding the artistic merit of the works.

From the Accademia we walked down to the point occupied by the Church of Santa Maria della Saluté. It has views back across the Grand Canal to the San Marco area and down towards the main pier where the big cruise ships berth. It is certainly less crowded on this island and the views in large part are interrupted only by water craft, pylons and pontoons.

Looking back across the water to San Marco

Walking around the other side of the island we went down to Chiesa del Redentore to cross the pontoon bridge that is there for the Festa del Redentore. It is only there for one weekend a year and that is when the festival is on to commemorate the redemption of Venice against the plague through the intervention of the Virgin Mary, the patroness of Venice (in most artworks we have seen, Venice is represented by the blonde Queen of Heaven). The walk across the bridge is meant to be an experience reminiscent of either being on a boat or drunk, whichever best describes the rocking sensation that  is exaggerated by the wash caused by frequent boat traffic in the channel. This reminds Venetians of the precariousness of our earthly existence and the need to be grateful for the intervention of Mary to keep Venice safe. We walked across the bridge to the church just in time for midday mass.

The pontoon bridge

Then it was time to get hopelessly lost again. We staggered back across the bridge - swaying and moving with the waves and mapped our route back to the Accademia where we needed to cross on the other temporary (since the early 1900's) bridge back to the main island. Somewhere, somehow, we missed the Accademia; we think perhaps we walked around the back of it and down the other side and missed the bridge. We wandered happily until we realised we weren't where we were supposed to be. We were geographically embarrassed. We were lost. Hence today's title, Island of Lost Souls by Blondie. We couldn't find any of the nearby streets on a map, we were lost on an island of lost souls. In a moment of dejà vu, I thought it would be a good idea to follow the signs to Piazzale Roma, which we did for a while. Until we decided to locate Piazzale Roma on the map and saw that it was miles away from anywhere we wanted to be and it appeared to be a transit terminal of some sort.

No idea where this was, but it's where gondolas go to die.

Back to the drawing board. Then I lucked onto Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari, a ginormous church that would have to be on the map. It was. Wow. We were way off course and a long way from where we wanted to be. So, it was time to retrace our steps and find that elusive bridge near the Accademia. This time we were successful and thought it prudent to stop for a drink, a bite to eat and a rest. Semi-accidentally we located one of the cicchetta osteria's that was recommended to us but we couldn't get a seat so went around the corner to a cafe and took up a position people watching and enjoying a birra alla spina with a panini.

And that is Venice.

It was then, dear reader, that the crowds started to get to me. We were following a circumlocutious path home, as one does in Venice and the paths seemed to be narrower and the maddening crowds larger and the mindless tour groups more plentiful. Unusually, we did not pass a shop where you could buy wine so we had to back track and head towards San Marco and the area behind the square. Not good at this time of the day because the day-trippers were all still here. Eventually we found a shop that sold wine, Jayne made a quick purchase and we made directly for the apartment. Time to rest and recuperate before dinner at Da Jonny's at 7pm.

Dinner was beautiful once again. Tonight we shared a bowl of mussels and clams followed by gnocchi with red sauce and prawns and Jayne had rib-eye fillet and I had cuttlefish, finished off with desserts and coffee. Service, atmosphere, food, everything was perfect. We sat outside which meant we got to watch many a confused tourist wander past, not once, in many cases twice and occasionally three times. Not all of them were amused by their geographic dislocation. Sitting eating delicious food with a glass of wine - I was vastly amused. Although the call of the night goes to the older French lady who stopped to ask directions to the station and how long it would take to get there. Our waiter happily pointed to map and showed her the route to take and said it would take about an hour to walk there. Off she went only to return about 10 minutes later, a face like thunder, ignoring the directions she had been given. When we told the waiter, he laughed, shrugged his shoulders and said, "It is Venice".

Then is it was back to the apartment to sit in the altana and listen to the sounds of Venice changing gears into a more relaxed pace once many of the tourists had returned to the mainland. That's a happy thought with which to conclude this post.

Fun fact: The two most common sights in Venice?

1. People walking with a map in hand or sitting at a cafe with a map open, trying to work out where they are or how to get some where else.
2. People walking with the mobile phone in hand, following google maps.

Thunderstruck (Venice)

The view from the Rialto Bridge

Almost 3 weeks into the holiday and I'm thinking, I don't want to write today. It is a beautiful afternoon in Venice and we have had a very relaxing day. Anything is distracting me from this post, including the gondolas trying to make the left corner back towards the grand canal. That turn, as tight as it is, has been made even more difficult today by what we in Australia call a 'dick'. He arrived just after 9am this morning in his power boat, playing AC/DC's Thunderstruck at top volume on his phone. I was impressed by the volume his phone could achieve (assuming he had no bluetooth speakers hidden on the boat), but otherwise, bogan, bogan, bogan. There is a place reserved for you in Australia and, since you obviously have money and little class, I'd suggest The Shire. No dear reader, not where Bilbo Baggins comes from, the other shire, the one that is home to racist bogans.

The other view from the Rialto Bridge

While we had planned today, everything was flexible because there were no time constraints. Our first stop today was the Rialto Markets. We weren't intending to purchase anything because that would mean I had to cook!!! No, no, we were just going to have a look and not take pictures because a dead fish is a dead fish in any country and isn't really that fascinating (are you reading this Asia?).

The pressure was on because I had to navigate us to Campo Bartolomeo as it is adjacent to the Rialto Bridge and then the markets follow. As a bridge it serves its purpose, but I am uncertain as to its fame. It lacks the charm of Ponte Vecchio, although it has similar crowds; people just standing around staring, smiling vacantly, holding selfie-sticks and phones in the air. If I was a pick-pocket ...

Interesting architecture, a mixture of Christian and Muslim.

The bridge crossed (and crossed off the list) we grazed past the tourist stalls and moved slowly towards the markets. They were as described, a produce market and that is what they were, fresh fruit, vegetables, seafood and flowers. There were other shops around where you could also purchase cheeses and meats. If we lived here, this is where we would shop on the weekend, it had a diversity that I wish Eveleigh markets could replicate.

There is an interesting mix of architecture in Venice, due largely to it being a major destination on the trade route. Another interesting fact is the importance of fresh water. As an archipelago, fresh water is life. The closed wells that you see everywhere are actually fresh water storage areas. The space surrounding the well has drainage holes in the stone and when it rains the water is channeled underground into a storage system. Ingenious. Indeed the Basilica of San Marco was considered to be the life blood of the place because its vast floor area acted as a huge catchment for fresh water.

A well, of sorts

The drainage point to capture water for storage

After the markets, I thought it would be a good idea to follow the signs to Piazzale Roma. No dear reader, I had not the slightest concept of what we would find there. Off we went, following the signs down this alley and out of that one, emptying into a Campo and looking for the sign and setting off again. After maybe three days (ok, 30 minutes) I deferred to my map reader. We were close, but the Piazzale Roma appeared to be little more than a hop off point for the mainland. I should have researched that one.

We still hadn't had breakfast and decided the nearest cafe that served pastries and coffee where you could sit down would be a winner. And it was a winner. Fresh orange juice, pastries and great coffees -  we sat down to enjoy breakfast and the company of pigeons. You are never without the company of pigeons in Italy. While we were contemplating the day, Jayne consulted her map and noted we were not far from one of the restaurants that had been recommended by Anna. The two we had already visited were great so we thought we should check out Osteria Ca' Mocenigo. A quick discussion with one of the staff and a lunch booking was made.

There was a bit of time to fill before lunch but we intended to head home for a domestic chore - hanging out the washing - and on the way we looked for some presents to ensure our spoiled family remain spoiled. This task consumed more time than we had anticipated and we didn't arrive back at the apartment until almost 11:30 which created a tight timeline in which to hang the washing out of the window and battle the crowds, navigating back to wherever it was we had our lunch booking.

I should have photographed our washing. It's too late now, we've brought it in, but it was on a line that is fixed to the outside wall of the apartment. Yes, it's 3 floors above ground and you have to lean out of the window to peg the clothes on the line. Not easy for a short person, but fascinating.

Lunch. A long lunch. So long in fact the planned museum visit was postponed. We arrived back at the restaurant at 12pm, the first customers for the day. Not so crowded we thought. That didn't last and when we left after 2pm it was packed, but I am getting ahead of myself. We were greeted warmly and had our choice of tables. We were offered menus in both Italian and English and settled in to select our dishes. Not so easy. Too many wonderful choices. After some negotiation we managed a shared caprese salad and then house lasagne and black spaghetti with prawns and tomatoes. The lasagne would take at least 30 minutes ... that's OK, we weren't in a rush.

The bread arrived with the water and the wine. We sat and nibbled on the beautifully fresh bread, drank the wine and watched the restaurant fill up. The head waiter/owner was most adept at selecting the nationality of his customers and offering menus in an appropriate language, we were one of the few who were offered a choice. Interesting. The salad was, as you would expect, colourful and tasty. Jayne loved her lasagne and I thought my black spaghetti was superb, especially the prawns, very sweet.

Post lunch we had the shopping to do as planned, but the museum just seemed like a bridge too far (did you see what I did there? Bridge? Like it's Venice, there are bridges everywhere). Back home to ... well, rest and then head out for an afternoon beer when we thought it was going to storm. Curious? I wanted to be in the local Campo to watch everyone run for cover and close their stalls. OK, maybe not nice, but a really cool spectator sport.

Once we had safely ensconced ourselves under the awning, we ordered drinks and waited. Nothing happened. We watched a group of four people crowd a woman sitting on her own until she left and gave them the table. Truly fascinating to watch. I wanted her to stay and at least make it awkward for them to communicate with each other, but she seemed unperturbed and stood and gave them the table, not that she moved far. She stood nearby, intently texting on her phone.

The awnings around us started to be raised, the table clothes were placed on the tables and the umbrellas were put away, the stalls began packing up and the rain drops arrived. Large raindrops that sent staff scurrying. Our awning was extended (nice), some tables were unmade, a few people re-located to the inside ... but not much else happened. Whatever storm there was slipped to the west of us despite the promise of what we saw yesterday.

We walked down to the Grand Canal where they are placing barriers along the water's edge in preparation for the fireworks tonight. If you have been to the New Year's Eve fireworks in Sydney, my well travelled reader, you would understand the level of paranoia that goes into the planning of the evening. The barricades they are using here would not stop pre-schoolers pushing them over and falling into the water. Perhaps in Italy the expectation is that children are the responsibility of their parents and drunken adults (insert own national prejudice, although there has been some consistency of nationality in drowned drunks in Australia) who slip beneath the surface and don't return are contributing to Darwin's theory of evolution.

Then back home to tap on the keys a little and the prepare for the climb to the terrace (known locally as the altana) to eat cheese and drink wine and watch the fireworks that reputedly will last 45 minutes. I know we come from the land of crackers but really, 45 minutes? I doubt it will hold my interest for 15, but we shall see.

It is bed time (after 10:30 pm), dear reader, and the fire works have not eventuated...

fino a domani