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….cont.
Monday 19 April 2010: I’m woken by Emmet reacting to a dream. It’s an abrupt awakening, but after a satisfying nights sleep I’m not fussed. Outside is the hum of people biking and boating their way to work. The clothes I washed in the hotel sink the night before have dried on the radiator. Emmet and I pack the bag before deciding to stay another night in our hotel. We’ve learnt from experience that we’re unlikely to be able to book any mode of transport out of the city for the same day, so plan on another night of comfort before we’re back sleeping in our seats. We trek back to the library but not before stopping off to have a pancake and omelette for breakfast. At the library I spend time Googling transport options while Emmet emails all and sundry to let them know we’re stuck but okay. I manage to coordinate three buses, one from Amsterdam to Brussels through the Dutch Eurolines website, one from Brussels to London through the Belgian Eurolines website, and the final leg from London to ol’ Dublin town through the UK version of the Eurolines website. With no direct route available, this was our only option. Emmet handed over his credit card as his is in Euros, mine is in Aussie dollars, and I made the bookings. Emmet runs back and forth between me, the printer, and the print voucher machine until we have all of our tickets in our hot little hands. It takes a few hours to coordinate, but when we’re done we can spend the afternoon relaxing in Amsterdam.
We walk down some shopping streets as Emmet has wrecked his jeans around the ankles. He wears jeans almost every day so it’s no wonder they die quite horrific deaths. He tries on a pair and we take them. He also has a look for some shoes but the prices are quite high and we can’t seem to find anything decent on sale. Never mind. We stop in at a Waterstones and pick up some reading material for the onward journey. I get a colourful magazine as I can’t read on buses without getting a headache. Emmet gets something far more intellectual. We both get a left over Easter egg on sale at the counter. We wander through the streets and along the canals until we’re back at the hotel. We prepare ourselves an in-room picnic and eat sandwiches, cheese and salad. Emmet drinks a beer he has been lusting after for some time. It tastes like chocolate. We check the news and hear that airports may begin opening from tomorrow. I hear the sound of what might be a plane and Emmet opens the window. The plane! At least another three follow it before we fall asleep.
Tuesday 20 April 2010: Back in our travel outfits – trackies, t-shirts, cardigans and coats – we load up the backpack with supplies and head on over to Amsterdam Amstel for our 12.30pm bus to Brussels. The woman at the desk tells us there’s an earlier bus and offers us a seat, which we take. She also informs us that she had a number of spaces on a bus to London this morning. Bugger! When we arrived in Amsterdam there was quite a crowd, and anticipating the same today we had opted for booking online rather than just arriving at the ticket office to see what services were going in our direction. Never mind. We get on the bus and leave Amsterdam behind us. There’s a fellow on the bus who seems to be stoned. He’s making nervous movements that are making me a little nervous too. He keeps taking to the driver and seems to have trouble operating the toilet door. Soon he relaxes into his seat and we’re half way to where we need to be. The driver has his own issues going on as he follows the GPS a little too faithfully and takes us to a pedestrian street with an overpass his bus is too big to pass under. He puts the bus into reverse and sends a passenger out to make sure the road is clear. It’s anything but. We have to negotiate trams, bikes and less than impressed Mercedes drivers, none of whom care to be inconvenienced for the few minutes it would take our driver to turn around. Eventually he’s out of the tight squeeze and we’re off again.
We arrive in Brussels and check with the Eurolines desk to see if there is an earlier bus to London. Ours is scheduled to leave at 10.45pm. It’s around 4pm when we arrive in Brussels. It appears not. We walk into town and grab a bite to eat in a shopping mall. Brussels is not my favourite place, although Emmet has a soft spot for it. We buy the newspaper and read up on all we have been missing without access to English news. Emmet buys some comfy, and less smelly, shoes and I consider purchasing a radio for the next leg but opt not to.
Emmet calls home from the train station before we head back to the Eurolines waiting room. It begins to fill with people and we’re glad we have a ticket. There’s a rush to join the queue when it hits 9.30pm. A young lass has an epileptic episode and is taken away in an ambulance. Fortunately she makes it back in time to take her bus home. We are checked on bus number 12, which is one of the latter buses to leave even though it was the first to be allocated. We get seats together and the journey continues, but not before some hiccups with passengers leaving their luggage on the footpath expecting someone to place it in the hold rather than doing it themselves! Six or seven buses left Brussels bound for London that evening. All full.
Wednesday 21 April 2010: It’s dark and I’m tired. There’s not much to be seen on the way to the ferry in Calais other than other buses and trucks passing us by in the same direction. Emmet is watching, excited and curious as to whether we’ll be taking a ferry or going via the Channel Tunnel. We’re headed for the ferry. We get off the bus briefly for a passport check by both French and UK authorities. The French guards are a little intimidating. I’m shaking like a leaf from the cold hoping it doesn’t make me look too suspicious in from of the man holding my passport. The British lady on the other side was much more upbeat for someone working at 1 in the morning. We board the ferry and have to stay awake for the duration of sail. Tea is welcomed, as are some Lindt chocolates Emmet had picked up in Brussels. The sea is dark. There’s nothing to see. We get back on the bus and drive along the Dover coast until we pick up the road into London.
The stop-start of London’s ample red lights wakes us both. A wave of joy passes over me, quickly followed by the dread of having to wait 12 hours for our connecting bus to Dublin. I’m too tired for anymore of this. The five hours to Brussels, the five hours waiting time and the seven hours to London have taken it out of me and I get the shakes from exhaustion. When we arrive at London the bus station is full of lost souls. It’s difficult to tell the difference between stranded travellers and the homeless. The toilets are locked, which does not please me as I’ve been holding it for quite some time. We arrive ten minutes ahead of the scheduled check-in time for the next bus to Dublin, leaving at 6am. We wait. Emmet jumps in the line and hands over his ticket to the lady, who subsequently hands him our boarding cards. I’m pleased and have a new-found burst of adrenalin keeping me upright. Emmet worries that the Eurolines lady hasn’t read his ticket properly and not seen that it’s actually for the 6pm bus. He rejoins the queue to make sure we’re not taking the place of someone else on the bus. We’re not, so we take our seats and wait to depart. The driver allows eight additional passengers to board. They’ve been in the bus station a while now waiting as stand-by passengers. I’m glad to see them join the bus. Within twenty minutes of boarding we’re bound for Dublin and I am happy that our homeward journey is now some 12 hours from coming to an end.
I’m not envious of the couple in front of us having a blue. They’re going to be spending the next 12 hours together and she’s totally ignoring his pleas. A random Irish lass boards the bus and begs the girl in front for a sip of her water. She’s perished, apparently. She remains obnoxious for the remainder of the journey. Thankfully Emmet and I are far enough away from her to listen in without having to enter into any direct contact. Somewhere along the way she mentions how lucky we are to have been trapped in such ‘civilised’ countries. I’m not sure what she means by that but feel I should be either ashamed or embarrassed on behalf of someone. This journey’s discomfort is also physical. It’s the tightest of all the buses so far. It’s also the coldest. A woman in front of us complains to the driver who turns up the air conditioning after a short pit stop. We’re in Watford. I think. It’s soon too hot on the bus as the sun beats down through clear skies and the massive bus windows. The whole journey there has been nothing but sunshine and I wonder how far up this ash cloud is supposed to be if there’s absolutely no sign of it from the ground. My suspicions are confirmed as my Irish companions begin to melt…the Irish don’t cope well with heat. The same woman who asked for the temperature to be raised asks for it to be turned back down again. The air conditioning is stuck. The driver can’t pull over as the bus too is stuck, in traffic. There’s only just enough time to get to the ferry before it leaves so we make do with random bursts of cool air and slowly warming bottles of water.
The English countryside is glorious in the sunshine. The contrasting green fields and blue sky are stunning. Wales too. Especially around the coastline. Spring is truly in the air, with the leaves of the trees breaking through and flowers blooming. I entertain my inner child and announce ‘sheeps’ and ‘cows’ as we travel along. There are youngsters and mothers hanging out in every species. Soon enough we’re an hour from the ferry’s scheduled departure time. 40kms to go. Wait, no, it’s 40 miles! Damn it, there’s no town nor port in sight! It’s a photo finish but we make it in time to be waved on board, minutes before the ferry pulls away. We’re so close!
The inscription on my wedding ring reads ‘…and yes I said yes I will Yes’, quoting Molly Bloom’s soliloquy from James Joyce’s Ulysses. Emmet’s has it too. And that day, Wednesday 21 April 2010, the Ulysses brought us home to Dublin.
Glasgow, the less pretty daughter of Scotland actually has more to show for itself than meets the eye. While as a tourist you may not be immediately hit by its beauty, Glasgow still has plenty to offer the worldly traveller. Although initially reserved about visiting Scotland’s largest city – it’s somewhat unfair reputation preceding – I was pleasantly surprised.
Our gracious hosts for our flying visit took us on a whirlwind tour that included walks through the University precinct, through green spaces turning brown in anticipation of winter, and to see some of the city’s architectural sites. As well as, given the weather was not altogether suitable for walking, a drive to see some hairy cows and the ‘beach’.
The West End of Glasgow is lovely. It features the University of Glasgow, Kelvingrove Park and a major art gallery and museum. Very pleasant for the cultured amongst us. In truth, it just happened to be where our hosts were residing so our starting and end point during our stay.
We were also introduced to the architectural and design talents of of Charles Rennie Mackintosh, an exponent of Art Nouveau and probably lover of tea, for he designed the interior of the Willow Tearooms, one of Miss Cranston’s Tearooms.
A short drive from Glasgow and you’re at the beach, or what some Scots might consider a beach. We were treated to a drive through pouring rain, to Largs, a seaside town near deserted this time of year, or so we thought. Upon entry of Amici Italian restaurant we discovered the entire population of Largs out of the rain enjoying a hearty lunch. While through the windows a hurricane appeared to be passing us over, inside the piano man played standards and entertained the kiddies. What a wonderful way to spend an afternoon in Scotland.
I can only then assume that the city’s lesser status on an international scale is due to the blue collar nature of its more recent history. Glasow is known for its crime and apparently, it’s unhealthy lifestyle. But when you think about it, Edinburgh, London and any other major city for that matter, has it’s issues. Glasgow has made efforts to clean itself up, however, again as with anywhere, some places will never feature in the top ten of tourist destinations within Glasgow. That said, there is really no reason not to include Glasgow on your list of places to see while in Scotland, especially given the highly convenient timetable of rail services between it and Edinburgh. Fifty minutes and you’re in a whole other part of Scotland. Just don’t go asking for a Glaswegian kiss!
Edinburgh, in a word, is stunning. Glasgow on the other hand, although it has its own charm is, quite obviously, the more functional of the two cities. Edinburgh belongs to the British, while the lifeblood of Glasgow is well and truly Scottish. And this was the discovery of our flying visit to both cities over the recent long weekend. Edinburgh and Glasgow present two very different interpretations of Scottish life.
Edinburgh is generally high on the list of places to visit for the incoming tourist trade, and is very much a British place to be, having been effectively handed over as the monarchy’s play town. This was evident from when I first walked through the door of our luxurious bed and breakfast, Two Hillside Crescent, which greatly outdid our expectation and we thoroughly recommend. The young lass managing the property, I had assumed was English due to her mild manner and barely hint of anything recognisably Scottish in her accent. I was later advised, no, that is the Edinburgh accent, but that some folk from this end of the country do consider themselves British before Scottish.
Having arrived in the dark I had hardly noticed the grandeur of the city, more focused on the impending black cab ride than the lights of the old town competing for attention with those of the new. The city itself is remarkable in its preservation of the old and accommodation of the new. Many of Edinburgh’s streets turn out not to be streets at all, but bridges, with the upper floors of buildings accessible from the bridge entrance and the lower floors accessible from ground level. Although apparently even ground level isn’t ground level as I am reliably informed that below again is a series of walkways and passages.
And so it was with mouth gaping and wondering in my eyes that we wandered around the old town of Edinburgh. As per my usual recommendation when time is of the essence we took the open top bus ride to get our bearings. It’s also a great way to continue on being a tourist even when the weather isn’t all that agreeable. Edinburgh Castle holds pride of place overlooking the movements of the population below. It’s an obvious tourist trap, and although of interest to many, for us the visit to Edinburgh was about a little more than an observation of its historical features.
Having graduated from University and unable to locate suitably stimulating employment, Mister Emmet upped stumps and moved to Edinburgh where he lived for close to a year. It’s here that he met one mutual friend, who I would not meet until several years later, and who would eventually lead us into each others lives. Awe, soppy I know. But for Emmet it as important to show me the places that marked a remarkable year for him. It was only fair, as I had shown him parts of Finland that had an impact on my life, he could now retrace the steps that provided him with a period of personal growth and began him on the path that brought him to me. And so it was we made our way to the National Museum of Scotland, where Mister Emmet worked briefly as a waiter. The Museum, unfortunately, is currently undergoing significant renovations so the actual location of the cafe was blocked off, but none the less a photo was taken outside the front entrance and we wandered inside to take a look at Dolly the cloned sheep. She looks remarkably like a sheep, to those out there who are wondering.
Enough of the sentimentality and back on the tourist trail…or maybe a mix of both, as we stopped at the memorial to Greyfriars Bobby, who for 14 years stayed by his master’s graveside. Bobby was well known by the locals who would provide him with food and water and ensured his survival in the face of dog registration requirements handed down by the local council. A little tear in our eyes as dog lovers hanging out for a puppy to call our own.
The remains of the day were spent wandering the streets, where I was blown away by the preservation of both the old town and the significant green space so close to a functional city centre is a really pleasing sight. As you’re walk on passed Marks and Spencer the view down the street may be one of green hills, a loch or of Edinburgh Castle’s all seeing eye. Edinburgh strikes me as being best appreciated in this way, being in amongst its city streets, so after a quick purchase of a new pair of shoes (the ones I was wearing were soaked through), that’s exactly what we did.
Today I’m a little annoyed. I keep encountering people in Dublin who, upon hearing my accent, ask from whence I have come only to poo-poo when I say I’m from south of Sydney (as much as I love the ‘gong there’s little hope of anyone over here having heard of the place).
‘Oh’, they say, ‘I was in Sydney once….’. And I go stumbling into the trap laid bare before me. ‘And what did you think of it?’, I ask, knowing full well what the response will be. ‘Didn’t like it much’. Shock horror. ‘Oh?’ I ask putting on a front of having not heard such a comment before. ‘Yeah, it’s not that interesting, and the people aren’t all that friendly’. I sigh as I ask the well practiced follow up question, ‘how long were you there for?’. ‘A week’, at best, ‘three days’, at worst, followed by ‘then we went up to Cairns’!
Now, there’s your problem right there.
Soon after I grew weary of the commute between Bulli and the City I moved to Sydney. First, as a contract employee without a permanent income or landlord reference to point to, I moved into a share house, a dodgy one at that, where there were no contracts, just a mellow property manager who would come around once a week with a receipt book and a pack of rollies. I lived in Sydney for somewhere between four and five years and even I haven’t yet figured out how it all works, it’s no bloody wonder that after three days you’d had enough!
But in all honesty, you just weren’t looking hard enough. And in three days who could ask you to.
Sydney is truly a commuter City in that the CBD, which incidentally is where all the obvious touristy things are, can be eerily quiet on the weekends when the workers who commute in, even if only from the inner suburbs, retreat to their locals to relax before jumping back on the nine-to-five merry-go-round. Dear tourist, did you venture beyond the Quay or the Harbour? Did you venture beyond walking distance of your hotel? Did you wander through the communities of Glebe, Paddington, Surry Hills or Newtown? Stopping for a beer in the Rocks just does not compare to drinking a slow pint in the Lord Wolesey, a million miles from City life and yet just behind Darling Harbour Exhibition Centre. Even so, I am still mesmerised by the sight of the Harbour Bridge lights reflecting on the water on a clear dark evening.
Below, dear tourist, are some suggestions, to take you away from your hotel that you have no doubt booked in Kings Cross, and ever so slightly off the beaten track in between some of the tourist essentials, to, hopefully, provide a more endearing impression of my City, of Sydney.
Heading the right way towards to the City, ie bypassing where you can Darlinghurst Road in the Cross, you should come to Woolloomooloo, where Russell Crowe has his City residence. Very nice. I would be amiss to not mention Harry’s Cafe de Wheels, a Sydney institution where the purchase of a beef pie smothered with mash potato and mushie peas swimming in gravy is an absolute must. Oh, and don’t forget to wash it down with a Bundaberg Ginger Beer!
Onward and you should come to the Domain, which may or may not, depending on the time of year, feature a festival or gig of some sort in its amphitheatre. Beside the Domain is the Art Gallery of NSW, where many a New South Welsh-child has been on excursion. Touring or specialist exhibitions sometimes cost a few dollars, or ten, but the permanent works are free to admire. Beyond the Domain there’s a butt ugly building, which is probably the ‘new’ part of Parliament House, a building I know all too intimately. The new section is restricted to political types and party hacks but the old part, where the two houses are, is actually worth a look, if politics is in any way your thing. Or you might just like to pass on by. Right next door is the State Library, which often has exhibitions of its own, a lot of which seem to be photographic. On the other side of Parliament House is the Eye Hospital, and then the Mint, and then Hyde Park Barracks, all of which feature exhibitions of one type or another, general historical in nature.
So, from Macquarie Street you’re pretty much smack in the middle of it! The Opera House is in one direction, Hyde Park in another and in a third direction there’s shopping! You can walk through the Botanic Gardens on the way to the Opera House just watch out for the flying fox poop! The Botanic Gardens make a nice place for a picnic or just to chill out. You’re in the middle of Sydney, but somehow you’re a million miles from anywhere. The Opera House has a tour through the concert halls. There’s a main concert hall and then a couple of smaller venues underneath. One feels like you’re sitting in a red velvet jewellery box, where you can usually see something a little bit fringe for a little bit cheaper. If you follow the curve of the Quay you’ll pass by the wharves that can take you to Manly, Balmain or Taronga Zoo for the day.
Keep wandering around and you’ll come to the Museum of Contemporary Art, then some swanky restaurants in the overseas passenger terminal. If you’re up for something nice, although a little pricy (but hey, you always win coming from the Euro into Aussie Dollars), try Wildfire. The mushroom plate for entre is unbelievable!
You should come to the Harbour Bridge pretty soon thereafter. If you have the time, I would recommend the Bridge Climb experience. By all accounts, rain, mist or clear skies, it’s worth the money and the climb. If you’re not a fan of heights then at the very least a walk across the Bridge is in order. It’s not too far and Luna Park on the north side is worthwhile for a photo or two, if not for reliving your childhood with a ride or two.
Back on the south side and I’d suggest a walk through The Rocks. It’s a historically significant settlement site, and also, as you walk along Circular Quay you’ll have noticed markers in the pavers which map out the 1788 shoreline. At the weekend The Rocks hosts a market, which sells interesting trinkets, snacks and the like. As you head back towards town stop in at the Shangri-La Hotel. The cocktail bar on one of the top levels has a brilliant view and the cocktails aren’t bad either!
Continue your stroll down George Street, as this will take you into the CBD and the shopping areas. If the walk is too long, stop off at Max Brenner for hot chocolate and a chocolate babka. Then roll out the door, onwards and upwards until you come to the Apple Store on George Street. From here the main pedestrian shopping mall of Pitt Street runs parallel for a block. But if you continue along George Street you’ll come to yet another building of architectural significance, the Queen Victoria Building, featuring a statue of HRH Queen V herself. Apparently a gift to the people of Australia from the Irish upon shaking off their colonial shackles.
Beyond the QVB and onward along George Street, stopping just short of where the light rail crosses the road, follow the rail line around to the right and you’ll have Chinatown on your right and Market City on your left. The markets are open Thursday to Sunday and have all sorts of bits and pieces that are imported cheaply from Asia. Towards the far end there’s also fresh fruit, veg, meats and seafood. But if you prefer, head over the road for something different in Chinatown. There’s a great little dumpling place up near Goulburn Street, or BBQ King slightly further along Goulburn Street, where I hear the Peking Duck is excellent.
If, though, rather than heading into Chinatown you follow the road around from Market City you’ll come to the Sydney Entertainment Centre…it’s pretty much an entertainment centre, and occasionally has something worthwhile seeing, but if you’re only in town for a few days there are probably better things you can spend your time doing. Just beyond the Entertainment Centre is Darling Harbour. You’ll pass by The Pumphouse, which has a good selection of world beers, and keeping on you’ll come to the Chinese Garden of Friendship, a little bit of serenity in the middle of what can be a bustling city.
Through the fountains and passed the MacDonalds (there are plenty of other options, in fact the main thing to do in Darling Harbour is probably eat), and you’re into the Harbour proper. I say ‘harbour’, but actually up until about 20 years ago it was actually a cruddy old docklands. Hard to imagine these days. Cockle Bay is the little bit with all the seating around it. So, down to the eating. There’s the Meat & Wine Co and Hurricane’s Bar & Grill for those who need a steak, ribs or burger. Pancakes on the Rocks for….well…pancakes, actually, the original is at The Rocks, but you’re here now, so we’ll make do. The Little Snail if you’re up for French inspired cuisine, the Bayside Lounge for sparking wine and canapes or a dessert selection plate, and Blackbird for something cheap and cheerful cafe style. I could go on, and basically in Darling Harbour you’re spoilt for choice! Sit outside if the weather is good, and if it’s a little chilly, sit outside anyway, under the outdoor heater provided. The backdrop of the city lights over dinner, or the blue sky over lunch can be truly glorious.
At this point you might want to jump on the light rail that runs just behind Darling Harbour, and head on over to Glebe. Remember, here you’re travelling in the direction heading out of the City, rather than into it. Alight at Glebe and walk up the stairs (it’s a bit steep) onto Glebe Point Road, the main drag. Now, you may think you’ve entered into suburbia, but bear with me. Glebe is a bit of a mixed bag, with some incredibly wealthy people living there while others live in council housing. Anyway, heading in the direction away from the water Glebe Point Road is littered with cafes and restaurants, most with an arty and relaxed feel to them, such as Badde Manors is great for a weekend breakfast fry! At the end of Glebe Point Road you’ll come to a highway, across which is the lovely Victoria Park. Beside Victoria Park is the University of Sydney, which has the reputation of being one of the country’s premier tertiary institutions. The University grounds feature an interesting mix of old buildings and new, with the chapel a popular choice for weddings. But, at the end of the day it’s a uni, so take it or leave it, depending on what takes your fancy.
The road that runs around Victoria Park becomes Kings Street, Newtown. Newtown likes to think it’s a bit alternative, a little bit bohemian, but looking at some of the property prices you can’t help but wonder how it maintains this charm and appeal. King Street, though, is lined with funky fashion outlets (Faster Pussycat), cinema (Dendy), bookstores (Gould’s Book Arcade), great food and varied drinking establishments. There’s a melting pot of meals within walking distance from each other. But Guzman y Gomez is my recommendation after an evening of sensible consumption of alcoholic beverages in one of Newtown’s fine public houses.
So, if you’ve done all that, you’ve had a pretty impressive and LONG day in Sydney. And we’ve barely begun! Turn in a different direction and you could end up in Paddington, where on Saturday’s there’s a market featuring the creations of tomorrows top designers and the streets are lined with designer stores and boutiques, not to mention the cupcake shop and another Max Brenner. Take the bus through Paddo and you’ll likely to end up in Bondi, which if you’re an English tourist keen on pinking it up (sorry guys, ya just don’t tan well, naturally anyway), might tickle your fancy. In another direction you’ve got Surry Hills, which is another cafe cultured location with a semi-bohemian but little more upmarket in places feel. Crown Street, which comes off the Kings Cross end of Oxford Street, will lead you to some funky shops (see Wheels & Dollbaby), galleries (try Outre) and cafes en route though to Surry Hills, where the Clock Hotel is not a bad place for a pint.
So there, a brief introduction, not too far from the beaten track, but hopefully just enough to enhance your three day stop over in Sydney.
