Mrs Bartolozzi (Málaga, Spain)

The next morning was rather grey and cloudy but that wasn't the most disappointing aspect to the day, dear reader. Turning the corner onto the waterfront and seeing two cruise ships in port, that was disappointing. It means the streets will be filled groups following flags. I don't have an issue with that as such, I have succumbed to joining such groups on occasion. My issue is with their mindless behaviour. However, disappointing turned to devastating when the whole port was in view. Not two, but four ships: combined mass to be disgorged onto the streets - just under 10,000 people. Yay.

Not a pretty picture.

Time travelling meant we needed a laundromat, after breakfast of course. We found a local café that was well reviewed and popular with the locals but it was also relatively expensive. Relatively because breakfast for one at the hotel is €28. We paid just under €18 for both of us; still a bit pricey for two coffees and two serves of tostados.

The fountain at the main roundabout.

We walked to the laundry after breakfast. It had excellent reviews and the owner/operator proved to be as delightful as previous customers had said. The only problem for us was that his laundry was closed for renovations and wouldn't be fully functional for a month. He directed us to the nearest self-service laundry. 

We went back to the hotel to gather the camera and all we needed for the day's excursions and walked down the main street to the old town. The recommended laundromat was just beyond. It was small and not all the machines were operational but it looked clean. It would have to do.

The walk to the old town is decorated by many different hibiscus plants

Into the old town we went, to be confronted by tour group after tour group, following flags or paddles that denoted the ship they were on. It was crowded, very crowded, as one of my favourite poets once wrote, "the crowds upon the pavement were like fields of harvest wheat". I would have liked a scythe to harvest a few of the less considerate stalks.

Jayne had discovered a walking tour of the old town that highlighted the main sites and had dovetailed this with recommendations form the hotel staff. The markets were not fully open, but we squeezed in there. It was similar to the markets in Valencia although the building wasn't as grand. There were stalls selling all the usual produce, fruit, vegetables, seafood, meat, cured meats, nuts, gelato and so on. 

The manic markets.

We found an exit and made our retreat into the fresh air. Next stop was the church of San Juan, because we walked past it. Well, we stumbled upon it. We were actually looking for the Cathedral and I saw a bell tower. The wrong one as it turns out, but we popped in to the church anyway.

The church of San Juan.

The search for the Cathedral continued. It is known as the 'one armed lady' because only one bell tower was ever completed. Not that you'd know from ground level. It is difficult to photograph because of encroaching buildings, crowds and the sheer size of the Cathedral itself. Apparently they are experiencing water issues with the roof and it is covered with a temporary structure.

Part of the Cathedral exterior.

To enter the Cathedral, you need to part with €10 or €9 if you're old like me. Interestingly Jayne had declined entrance to the Barcelona Cathedral because of the excessive cost, but we lured inside by the pictures of the interior of the Málaga Cathedral. Looks can be deceptive, dear reader. The interior did not shine bright and golden like the enhanced photos at the entrance.

It was quite crowded inside. I'm sure some priests in Australia would have been thrilled if this many people turned up for Sunday mass. It was also still and humid. The conditions were not ideal. I snapped a few photos, tried to ascertain where the organist sat to operate the organ and then exited 'through the gift shop' so I could breathe again.

I've seen bigger.

The next place to check off our list was the Roman Theatre. Once again, dear reader, I assert that size does matter. The theatre in Cartagena made the Málaga version look, well, let's just say it was the Palais Garnier compared with a country town hall. Yes, it was small and not a lot of it had been restored. 

The Roman Theatre.

Our intention was to do a guided tour of the theatre and Alcazabar later so we didn't loiter but sought out a bar to have an afternoon beer. All the restaurants, cafés and bars were buzzing but we scored a front table not far from the theatre and settled down for a Málaga lager.

The usual people watching was enhanced by a group of enterprising young locals who put on an impromptu break dancing display, complete with music. Once the performance was over they walked around, hat in hand and then moved a few doors down to another set of drinkers/diners. I'm not sure how productive their work was proving but there was no doubting their ability or fitness.

Saw this in a side street.

Rehydration complete, we returned to the hotel and grabbed our laundry and walked to the laundromat in the hope that siesta time would see the machines empty. A plan that almost worked. There were three small machines. One was in use and one labelled 'out of order' and the third? Its handle was broken so it to was out of order which meant using a 14kg machine. Who has that much washing? It cost extra but hey, to have a pair of underpants laundered at the hotel was €5. To wash and dry our clothes cost €12.50 and we had a lot more than three pairs of knickers. Bargain.

The rather obscure title, Mrs Bartolozzi, is a song by Kate Bush where she sings about washing the clothes, metaphorically of course. Since we spent part of the day in the laundromat it works.

To while away the time, we walked into Soho proper. The tour guide maintained there was street art adorning the buildings. The tour guide was wrong. There were a couple of feeble attempts at art, a lot of graffiti and bugger all else. We combed the nearby streets methodically, because we had the time while the washing and drying was happening. And ... nothing. No sides of buildings adorned with paintings of birds by famous street artists. There were more sex shops than street art, but Jayne wouldn't let me browse. A fruitless search but it filled in the time.

The best of Soho.

Dinner tonight was at a nearby Italian restaurant, literally across the street from the hotel. It's quite a large establishment. As you walk in, there are tables to the right that could seat 40 or so people and then the area to the left where there were about 10 patrons seated with plenty of vacant space.

We were greeted with, "Do you have a reservation"? Perhaps greeted is the wrong term, it was more an accusation. He dismissed us to the young woman resetting tables, we were seated and we watched as a pizza and the biggest calzone I've ever seen arrive at the next table. We exchanged glances, hmmm, large serves, proper Italian.

After some discussion, we settled on zucchini flowers, a caprese salad and one pizza between us. A wise decision as we watched the people next to us move the food around their plates. I doubt they would have finished one pizza between them and most of their dinner ended up in the bin. Such a waste.

And that was about it for the day. Tomorrow we head back into the old town for a dose of Picasso.

Until next time.

Walking on the spot (Dunedin, New Zealand)

Dunedin, the Adelaide of New Zealand. It's all churches and parks and carefully mapped streets (ok, maybe not the streets so much). Underneath that veneer of respectability, as in Adelaide, is the bogan car culture. And god forbid we haven't even made Invercargill yet, dear reader!

Sitting at an eatery on the Octagon provides an excellent opportunity to watch the local 'townies', not 'students', cruise the streets. Their cars are invariably loud, old and have had much love and too much money poured into them. As Jayne noted this afternoon as we were enjoying the sun and a quiet wine, all of these cars have one thing in common ... a young, white, male driver - no passenger. And for good reason I would suggest.

As we enjoyed our moment in the sun after walking the street art precinct, the peace was shattered by the revving of a car at the lights. It was a brand new Maserati with a middle aged man at the wheel. He looked before he revved. I just raised my hand and returned serve with the international hand gesture for wanker. The revving stopped. Maybe it was me, maybe he'd attracted the attention he desired. It's nice to know that one of the mullet-sporting bogans driving a twenty year old Mazda 1 around the circuit with an extra loud exhaust might one day become a bigger wanker with an expensive car. The world turns and nothing changes.

Ah, yes, dear reader,  now where was I? Oh, yes. The day commenced in beautiful sunshine once again. An absolute stunner of a day, blue skies, sun and a slight breeze. Our first stop was Olveston House, a stately home, as one might say in the 'old country'. It was all of five minutes walk (not uphill) from where we are staying.

The house is set on an acre or so and is now protected from the street by a series of trees that have grown so high as to obscure the view of the ocean. We booked a guided tour for 10:45 and fortunately we were the only ones so to do. A personal guided tour. Excellent.

The library and the writing desk.

Building commenced in 1904 and was completed 18 months later in 1906. What makes the time frame so remarkable is that everything was built/cut/manufactured in England and transported out here. Except the wallpaper that came from America because it was tax free. When you see the intricacy of the timber work, you can only marvel at what was accomplished.

The reception room.

No doubt my editor will embellish this section, but the level of technology built into the structure, much of it still used today, is nothing short of far-sighted brilliance. They had:

• electricity (2 years before Dunedin city) and the locals used to walk up to watch the lights come on for entertainment,
• central heating, including heated towel racks,
• an internal phone system,
• a bell system for the servants,
• gas cooking,
• an internal lift (bigger than a dumb waiter),
• water filtration, for cooking, not drinking,
• hot and cold running water.

It was absolutely amazing. The younger of the two children left the house and its contents to the City of Dunedin, hence it is the tourist attraction it is today. The house itself is filled with original artefacts of the time that were collected by the family in many overseas travels to the Middle East, Japan and other far flung parts of the world.

The drawing room.

Our tour firstly took in the family zone, consisting of a library, formal dining and breakfast room, a reception room for larger social functions and a drawing room for more intimate gatherings. There was an entry foyer and cloak room from which visitors were announced into the inner sanctum.  All rooms had their own distinct decor and colour scheme, matched by tiled fireplaces that were there in addition to the central heating system. A large central staircase led to an open area from which musicians could provide entertainment for guests while not getting in their way.

The Games room.

On this level were the family bedrooms as well as the bathroom, replete with bath and shower, and a separate toilet. In the master bedroom was a substantial jewellery safe built into the wall. Adjacent to the bedrooms was a billiards and games room that boasted an ingenious lighting and ventilation system that both yielded natural light and allowed cigar smoke to be expelled.

The kitchen, with cooking options.

We were also shown the staff side of the house which included pretty decent accommodation as well as the working areas of the kitchen and butlery, again featuring a still functioning refrigerator, a meat safe room, a gas cooker as well as a double fuel stove.

Apart from the telephone system, there was the intricate bell service which allowed for staff to be summoned to any part of the house as required.

Th Fiat is hidden in the garage on the right.

The gardens were beautiful, although probably not in original condition. The green house contained its own display of exotic plants and flowers. The garden also housed the garage with the last car the family owned - a 1920's Fiat that has been fully restored to its former glory, despite having been forgotten for decades in a partially flooded backyard somewhere else in Dunedin. 

Ok, it's the greenhouse. Like really.

The whole property is like a time capsule that showcases the colonial lifestyle of the wealthy entrepreneurs of the early settlement of Dunedin. It was such a fabulous start to the day, made so for us by the exceptionally well-informed guide who, it seems, could speak in detail about any piece among the thousands of artefacts displayed in the house's amazing collection. She was also well-versed in the architectural features of the house and the history of each member of the family. No question stumped her - very impressive!

Pretty.

After a brief rest stop at the apartment, we girded our loins for the descent into Dunedin and the street art precinct. They love a bit of street art in NZ. Interestingly the style of art was very different from Christchurch to Dunedin, reflecting the character of each city. The Dunedin art scene was more interpretative rather than decorative like Christchurch. There were many different sites, not all of them easy to photograph. I won't attempt to interpret them, I'll just select a few for you to peruse, dear reader.

This is by Magee - we see a lot of their art in Sydney.

My favourite. Pity about the truck.

Not even the wide angle lens does justice to this.

This actually spanned another two scenes.

There followed a brief rest at the Dunedin Social Club (it's a pub) where we were entertained by some locals. Most of their conversation is not suitable for this blog and one of their number was sooo drunk that he couldn't bend to pick up his dropped cigarette. When we left and they made to move to our table in the shade, they just dragged him in his chair. The lights were on but no one was home. Dazed and confused.

Once again we ascended the mountain to our eyrie. A journey which spawned today's title, Walking On the Spot, by Crowded House from their eponymous 1986 album, because that is how Jayne feels climbing the mountain.

We descended one last time for dinner. A highly recommended Italian restaurant that we thought was pretty average. The most interesting point of the night was the Chianti, the first bottle they presented was bagged. Now that's a problem I haven't experienced for a long time. No arguments - they took it away, brought us another bottle and then the maître d' came by later to check if we were okay and to chat about how infrequently this happens....

And I thought I was ordering Verve. Pay more attention.

And that brings us to a close. Tomorrow we have a couple of things to explore on the Otago Peninsula and then it's off to motor city, Invercargill.

Until then ...