Feb 2009

After taking the 4am shuttle bus to Madrid Barajas Airport, it seemed we should have just spent the night at the airport sleeping on the baggage belts beside the check-in counters like everyone else did. Though swearing never to fly Easyjet (elbowjet) again because of their no seat allocation/get-your-elbows-out policy, we eventually found ourselves being shoved to the outside of a throng of five foot tall, matronly Romanian women at the boarding gate. Last on the plane, we managed to find seats across the aisle from each other. Before the plane had even reached the arrivals gate in Bucharest, the aisle was full of Romanian woman yelling at Glenn in Romanian to hand them their oversized cabin bags from the overhead compartment.

We took a new-age bus from the airport to the train station in Bucharest to meet Soph and Jimi and Troy who were arriving from London on a later flight and then jumped the next train to Brasov. According to a certain travel bible, Bucharest's greatest annoyance is it's enormous number of 'community dogs' (read: stray, often mangey, sometimes rabid dogs) that roam throughout the city. There were nine dogs on the platform as our train took off for Brasov. Our train took more than three hours to cover the 120km to Brasov, hence Romania was re-named SlowTrainia.

The plan was to go to Brasov for a week of skiing at a resort called Poiana Brasov, 12km north of the town of Brasov in Transylvanian Romania (home of Dracula and all that). Again, we were foiled by the weather. Brasov has had an unseasonably mild winter with no recent decent snow. We took a day trip to the stunning Bran castle (often referred to as Dracula's castle, when in fact he's most likely never set foot in it) and spent most of our days planning our next meals. We're embarrassed to say that most nights we didn't make it past our local restaurant whose sausages and cabbage dishes were highly rated, even amongst the Irish in our group. The beer flowed freely; Romania produces a remarkably good black beer called Ursus Brun.

Bran Castle

Soph and Jimi departed early, which left Troy and Glenn and Bec to head to the ski resort to check out the action anyway (and for Troy to feel justified in hauling his snowboard bag and gear all the way from London). Troy's snowboard made for a good but uncomfortable sled.

In the middle of Brasov's old town square is an ice skating rink which we were keen to try out. Troy was good at it, Bec (decked out in a pair of ski crash pants she'd borrowed from Troy to protect her previously broken backside) was average at it and Glenn was rubbish at it. Even the lessons we got from a seven year old Romanian boy didn't help us.

Ice skating

It snowed on the Thursday night and we decided to head back to the mountain to see what the ski conditions were like for one final time. There proved to be enough snow for Bec and Glenn to have a ski lesson and for Troy to do a few runs on his board. Troy was good at it, Glenn was average at it and Bec was rubbish at it. At least Glenn had the decency not to gloat about it, unlike Bec who gloated famously about the ice skating. As predicted, Bec was the first to ditch the ski slope for the ski lodge while Glenn perfected his snow plows and turns.

Poiana's sludgy ski hill

Set into the hill above Brasov, alongside the cablecar station, is a giant Hollywood-style sign (that reads Brasov, of course). The day before we left town we took the cablecar to the top of Mt Tampa (Glenn and Troy were feeling almost at home) and climbed all over the Brasov sign.

Bec climbing Brasov

We then took the train back to Bucharest. Troy took an early morning flight back to London and we were left to our own devices for a couple of days in Bucharest. We're not adverse to big cities, but just prefer places that are easy to get around on foot. Bucharest has its charms, but we were keen to move on to Bulgarian pastures. Farewelled by a mob of community dogs, we took the train to Bulgaria.

Having made our break from the Funny Farm, we found ourselves with a bit of time on our hands which we thought might be best spent in Spain. With two years worth of Wednesday night Spanish lessons under her belt and with Glenn's Spanish repertoire gleaned from the Simpsons ('un momento por favor') and Terminator ('Hasta la vista, baby'), we were fairly confident in our ability to get by in Spain. Until we were booted off the bus at the Portuguese/Spanish border at what resembled a truckstop with market stalls, with no further idea of how or when we'd arrive in Seville. Bec was able to understand that there was one bus per day to Seville and that it would leave from said truckstop/market stall at 3pm. We wandered off to kill some time. Not as much time as we'd thought though, as we'd changed a timezone at the border and this only became apparent while sitting in a smokey bar with a clock above the cash register.

We caught our bus and it took well over four hours to arrive in Seville via every tiny town and narrow street along the way. It's amazing the only damage the driver did to the bus was on backing out of a bus station and not while weaving down the narrow cobbled streets.

After finding a bed for the night, we set out for some Spanish cultural immersion in the form of a tapas bar. We spent four days in Seville, which is quite possibly one of the most beautiful cities in the world. The orange trees were full of fruit (apparently more ornamental than edible though) and Seville is home to some of the most beautiful buildings.

Gorgeous Seville

Plaza de Espana, Seville

Still in search of some warmth, we went south in our hire car to the small town of Cadiz on the Costa del Sol. Deserted as the coast was, it's not hard to see how it could become a British enclave in the peak summer season. Our lunch stop enroute to Cadiz was the setting for Bec's first severe language failure which resulted in a 40 euro lunch and a budget-imposed diet for the next two days. We'd only planned on staying one night in Cadiz but found ourselves in the middle of a festival known as the 'Spikey Fish' festival (still not sure what this was about given that we saw no fish and definitely no spikes) and decided to partake in the merrymaking. We bought a litre of beer for $2 and took to the streets with the rest of Cadiz.

Alocal fiesta in Cadiz

Our next stop was just outside of Gibraltar to spend a couple of nights with Bec's old Bundy neighbour, Steve, and his very pregnant wife Tatiana. It was excellent to catch up with them (and play with their crazy dog) and though we wanted nothing more than a bed, Steve and Tati turned on the hospitality. Tati is an excellent cook and we spent two nights by the fire eating, drinking and generally just being merry. Steve and Tati have an awesome view from their home and the most beautiful nursery awaiting the arrival of the bella baby Boge.

The view from Casa del Boge

Enroute to Gibraltar we passed the most enormous windfarm with no less than a thousand wind turbines dotted across the hillsides. Very impressive. We spent a day in Gibraltar itself (a British territory on the southern Spanish mainland) which necessitated us parking the car in Spain, flashing our passports as we crossed the border (which also happens to be the airport runway, they have to close the road when a plane is about to land) and then reverting to spending pounds instead of euros for the day. We paid a cabbie to take us around the famous Rock of Gibraltar. We like to say that Glenn got a trip to England and a view of Africa for his birthday (you can see Africa from the very south of Spain).

Bec on the runway/border at Gibraltar

From Gibraltar we ended up in Granada. The weather was still rubbish and our hotel was in the middle of a slushy, muddy, cementy building site that made parking difficult. We thought we were being clever in avoiding parking tickets by moving our car after midnight, no such luck. We'll see if we're billed through the credit card for that one!!

Bullring in Ronda, Spain

We then meandered our way north to Madrid where, nerves and patience shattered after a week in a hire car together, we spent the night in an airport hotel before flying to Bucharest the next day.

With out budget taking a hammering on account of too much socialising, Glenn (the Minister for Finance and Built Environment ie. budgets and accommodation) suggested to Bec (the Minster for Tourism, Sustainability and Health ie sightseeing, food and mingfoot) that to rescue the budget we need to essentially live somewhere for free for two weeks. So Bec set about researching some work exchange programs with the idea of working on a farm in exchange for our food and accommodation. Good in theory........

After registering our interest on a few websites, we were approached by a woman in Portugal who ran an 'animal rescue charity' on her property. We'd pay 20 euro per night for all meals and accommodation and in return we'd look after some animals and some orange trees. Great, we thought. Nothing like a few weeks of wholesome work to cleanse the soul (and the liver). So we flew from Dublin to Lisbon and took two buses to the middle of nowhere, arriving by taxi to the property at about eight o'clock at night.

On arriving we were enthusiastically greeted by an AmeroEnglish couple of about our age who looked as though they'd not been in normal company for quite some time (they'd arrived three days before us). We met the British owner of the property, a British couple running the property and the Portuguese neighbour from down the road who spoke no English. There was a roast on the table and loads of wine.

The next morning we woke up to find very little food in the house and our new AmeroEnglish friends took us on a tour of the 'animal rescue charity'. We're not sure that the animals had been brought into a better situation. BellaDog was locked in a cage the size of a small car and was up to her ankles in her own faeces. Likewise Jack the horse, whose grumpy personality meant he was largely ignored. Darling JennyDonkey looked like she was about to have twins, but was most likely badly malnourished and riddled with worms. The Forgotten Seven horses in the back paddock were poorly shod and left to fend for themselves with not a scrap of food. Cash was clearly scarce and the animals not provided with their basic food or health needs. Most likely, the owner of the property went into it with good intentions but lacked the know-how, funds or motivation to be fair to the 'rescued' animals. An internet search of the owners name turns up pages exposing involvement in horse fraud in the UK.

Bec and Jack the Ass

The weather was abnormally cold and the house was freezing. Our days were spent in the orange orchard tidying up the trees and trying to gather firewood without an axe or a chainsaw ('We have no axe and you need a license to use a chainsaw in Portugal'). The owner was driving around on the spare space-saver tire on her car 'because there are no tires in Portugal' and we often ran out of gas for showers 'because there's a problem with gas bottles in Portugal'. The people running the place had no respect for each other, their volunteers or the culture in which they'd chosen to live (as evidenced by their backstabbing of each other, the theft of money and dishonest acquisition of money, and the zero intention they had of learning the Portuguese language. The Portuguese neighbour calls the owner 'la gorda' which she believes means 'the beautiful' but actually translates to 'the fat woman'). The final straw for us came one night in a display of drunken volatility with the inference of knives. The next morning we packed our bags and did a runner with the help of our AmeroEnglish friends who did a runner the next day. We'd paid 200 euros upfront for ten days and left after four. We like to think our money was used to buy food and health care for the animals but we suspect it became part of the wine and frozen french fry budget.

Portuguese orange grove

As a result of a negative review by our AmeroEnglish friends, we believe this listing has been removed from the exchange program website. In case it hasn't, please excuse these few key words. Animal charity/Portugal/Helpex/Viana. We hope to make this google-able so as to prevent other people ending up in our situation. Contact us through this website if you think you might end up at this place and we'll give you further details.

And so we ended up spending two nights in a lovely Portuguese town called Beja before heading to Seville in Spain.

Beja

And so an impromptu trip to Dublin was born from a seemingly harmless messenger conversation:
Bec: Yes, we seem to be sleeping a lot and wasting heaps of time here in London
Soph: Well, you could always come to Dublin..... Rail and sail deals are cheap.
(Pause while Bec looks up Railsail deals to Dublin)
Bec: 27 QUID!!! IT'LL ONLY COST US 27 QUID TO GET TO DUBLIN?!?!!? Deal. See you on the weekend.

And so Glenn and Troy and Bec took the train from Euston Station to Holyhead port, and then the ferry from Holyhead to Dublin where we were met by Soph and Jimi, whose hospitality lived up to its legendary status as usual. At the top of the to-do list was a visit to the Guinness Brewery and the mandatory pint of black stuff, or course, high above the Dublin streetscape.

Soph and Jimi getting amongst a few Guinnesses

The next few days flew by in a haze of late nights and hot toddies. We borrowed Soph and Jimi's car, Glenn reverted to driving-on-the-left mode, and we took a road trip around Northern Ireland to check out the Giant's Causeway at Antrim and checked out the Causeway Coastal route. In spite of being positively freezing, it was still stunning. We also checked out the very interesting and very old NewGrange monument.

Giants Causeway rock formations

Some stunning Irish coastal scenery

The very old Newgrange

The Irish weather was typically rubbish, so we planned to set off for the warmer climes of Portugal........

Getting back to London has been like a huge set of goal posts we've been aiming at for the last six months. We've lost count of how many of our sentences have started with 'When we get to London.......' and so when we arrived again at Heathrow airport it had rather the same comfort factor as slipping into an old pair of PJs and watching re-runs of Seinfeld. We know the transport system, we know how much things cost and, most importantly, we have FRIENDS in London. The friends thing was particularly important to Bec who hasn't had friends for six months. Similarly important to Bec was getting to Brick Lane for a curry.

Staying for free with Glenn's brother (thanks Troy) allowed us to redirect the 'accommodation' part of our daily budget to the 'socializing' part and we didn't waste much time getting amongst it. It was excellent to catch up with Troy, Ros, Zhar and Asher and Leonie, especially given it was Christmas and all and how busy everyone was.

Christmas Day was a quiet, three-person family affair complete with roast lamb, trifle,modified Trivial Pursuit and enough mulled wine to fill a washing machine. New Years Eve was much the same. Tempting as it was to stand outside in -2 degree breezes with two million other people and watch the fireworks, we decided to forgo the queues for the loos and the tube carriages full of vomit in favour of a quiet one at home.

Christmas Day 2008 (and some dodgy Aussie shirts)

We checked out our old London stomping grounds. Tooting Bec has become rather posh. All the little bakeries are now quite flash and even Chicken Cottage has automatic doors. Canning Town has tidied up its act with not a single burnt out car or trench coat-wearing dealer at the end of the subway tunnel and the old pub/house at Surrey Quays was so unrecognisably renovated it's hard to believe it used to be a hangout for Polish air hostesses and subject to burning newspapers through the mailbox.

Tooting Bec tube station

The old Surrey Quays pub, now posh!!

We took a weekend trip up to Derby and caught up with our mate Gav who we'd met in Thailand a few years ago. Gav took us round to the family car dealership, the local tourist attractions (Little John's grave, the pottery factory) and round to his mum's place for a cuppa. Good food, great company and an educational on absurd British nightclub dance practices (google 'Oops upside the head dance') if you're curious.

The lack of sun in London lent itself to doing a whole lot of nothing and after tripping around to such places as Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Club, the Imperial War Museum and the Brick Lane markets and curry mile (mmmmm curry), we decided it was about time to move on.

The BBC media room, Wimbledon Tennis Centre

There's nothing quite like an impromptu trip, so we booked a 27 pound rail and sail deal and headed to Ireland........