Cornwall, Lost Gardens, Pubs and Splendid Ruins

We'er up early in Valerie's household today 'cause we are off to the end of England, to Land's End via some interesting places, she assures us. Our destination for the day is Mousehole, very near Penzance and "only" 130 km distant but meandering through the laneways we will go.

Leaving Plymouth on the A38 we soon get out into the country, then, like Everest, for no other reason than it's there, we turn onto the A387, and end up passing through a small village, Hessenford, on the River Seaton. "It should be called Seatonford, not Hessenford, surely" I remark to myself , but perhaps that village name was taken up many years back. A quick Google query turns up only "Seaton Ford Dealership". Whatever! Across the bridge, we spy The Copley Arms, a typical riverside village pub complete with beer garden beside the gurgling River Seaton. The two Vals, with one voice, shout "Morning Coffee...we need coffee!!!"  "Is it too early for a little something on the side?" Valerie queries. From previous experience we know that this is code for "Lets enjoy a wee cognac with our coffee."

Val, Valerie and Bryan in the Italian Garden

Now suitably fortified, we head off to The Lost Gardens of Heligan,  not far from Mevagissey.  The gardens, first laid out in 1770,  were part of the 1000 acre Heligan House estate owned by the Tremayne family. Before WW1, 22 gardeners were employed in the gardens. Of these, 16 were killed in the trenches! In the 1920s Master Jack, unmarried and the last of this Tremayne branch, went off to live in Italy. Over the following decades the gardens fell into a serious state of neglect and were lost to sight.

Rediscovered in the 1990s, the restoration of 200 acres is an ongoing work and the award-winning garden restoration is internationally acclaimed.

In 2010, Val and I in company with Valerie and Paul spent a wonderful two hours exploring the glorious old gardens, admiring the restoration taking place. Today, 2020, work has greatly progressed and the beauty of kitchen gardens, orchards, flower gardens, crystaline hothouses, old walls and mysterious gates is simply magnificent. It's May, lusty, glorious May, when Spring is in the air and gardens blossom. Julie Andrews sings. (Take time when you visit Julie to check out the male costumes in the film...they seem so corny, but Burton does make a splendid Arthur.)

We are off to our night's accommodation in the village and fishing port of Mousehole, only a lazy lizard's crawl from our target, the end of land in merry England. Poetic Licence to the fore; its 90km but over two hours via our B3289 route so we have to hurry. We cross the River Fal on the King Harry Ferry, one of only four chain ferries in England and arrive at Mousehole to the clickerty clack of the sticks of a Cornish Morris troupe. Take a peek here at the troupe, complete with the unique traditional pheasant feather costume of Cornish Morris dancers.

In the pic, our pub is right on the waterside of the small harbour. Many of you, dear readers will no doubt know that Mousehole is pronounced "Muzzle" as in dog's muzzle. If one says "Mousehole" quickly in our comical and inaccurate imitation of a Cornish accent with one's mouth screwed up, it does sound something like "muzzle".

Our pub, The Ship Inn, is harbourside above the beached boat

A long day, time to eat etc etc. Valerie went for Fresh Local Mussels, Ian had the Homemade Fish Pie (sounded delicious) and for Val and I, the Golden Wholetail Scampi. We all complimented our food with several tankards of dark Old Mout Cider and ended up sounding a bit like tourists trying to sing in Corn speak. (Now, none of you thought for one minute that you weren't  going to get the Wurzels pitched your way, did you?)

Next day: Today we visited one of our trip's goals, Land's End Cornwall. What a shock! The actual land's end is a theme park, an amusement park to trap tourists: eating places, shopping and pay-as-you-go "attractions". Entry is free but one must pay for parking and pay for food and the attractions and the farm visit and even pay to take a selfie under the signpost. Nope, give that a big miss. So much for fish 'n chips at Land's End.

However, walking along the nearby clifftops in the stiff breeze is an experience in itself.

So, it's off to our night's accommodation at Tintagel, quite a drive but I expect there will be appropriate pit stops  (with a wee bit on the side?) along the way.

Tonight we indulge! We are taking self-indulgent delight in the 'Queen Room with Sea Views" at the rather grand Camelot Castle Hotel. A grand four poster bed with in a grand room with grand views.

At a mere $341 per night, breakfast included, its a steal.....isn't it??? Somewhat over our travelling budget but why not....Val and I don't expect to pass by this way again. So Just do it.

And "no" Ian you can't sleep on the couch, get your own room, please.

Val outside the Post Office in Tintagel Village

Ah, Tintagel. The spectacular fortified ruins on Tintagel island peninsular are pure magic, forever associated with King Arthur. Occupied in Romano-British times. Merlin's cave🌙. King Uther Pendragon. The illicit conception of Arthur by Uther. Owned by Charles, Prince of Whales through the Duchy of Cornwall.

Uther Pendragon, now that's what I call a ✨Name of Power♆; he claimed to be king of all Britain after the withdrawal of the Legions, a claim hotly disputed by other warlords I should think. However, archaeologists do agree that the castle was occupied by a powerful warlord or even Dumnonian royalty.

If you, dear reader, experience a yearning to visit this beautiful area of Somerset be sure to take in Glastonbury Tor (158m above sea level), also the remains of Glastonbury Abbey (where it is claimed King Arthur and Queen Guinevere were buried, a claim that did wonders to revive the ailing pilgrim trade) and Cadbury Castle, a massive hill fort (153m above sea level), and formally known as Camelet. Take that as you will.   When in the area, imagine that the whole lowland area was a semi-water land of fens and marshes, fogs and wailing winds, as indeed it was in the medieval era.

Bye, Bye....we are dropping Valerie off at Plymouth and then heading North. See you in Scotland

Dear Valerie, thank you greatly😂 for your gracious hospitality...love and virtual hugs from Val and me and Ian!🙋

Plymouth, home to privateers and pilgrims (pimps and prostitutes too probably)

Plymouth, home to privateers and pilgrims (pimps and prostitutes too probably) and to our friend, Valerie. We have known Valerie and her talented and wonderful husband Paul (now, sadly, passed on) since our days on exchange with the RAF in 1976/77. We developed a very close and enduring friendship during those days. So here we are in Plymouth with Valerie.

The two Vals enjoying a picnic lunch. The astute reader may ping that the background and dress is hardly Plymouth in April (9 degrees at time of writing). Yup, its actually Fraser Island Christmas 2017 but we do need a pic for you, right! And below  is a pic of Val's lovely house on the outskirts of Plymouth where she has ample room for us (and for fellow traveler, Ian...yes, Ian, we do think of you...sometimes).

Valerie says that she is going to take us to a lovely hidden garden, on an outing to Dartmoor, on a fleeting visit to Bath and Wells and, for a grand finale, lunch at Land's End. What a British gastronomic delight might await us there?

Bloody picture is supposed to be up and to
 the right, but this blog program is misbehaving,
so, dear reader, you see a lot of blank space.

But first, your compulsory history lesson, (after all, they are telling us to learn things online).  Right ho class, lets re-introduce y'all to the good and justly famous Sir Francis Drake, resident at Buckland Abby outside Plymouth.  Quoting that trusty know-it-all, Wikipedia,: "Sir Francis (c 1540 - 28 Jan 1596) was an English sea captain, privateer (i.e. a royally endorsed pirate...my addition) slave trader, pirate (i.e. dis-endorsed privateer...me again), naval officer and explorer of the Elizabethan era" and one-time mayor of Plymouth.

Well, that just about sums up the scoundrel, doesn't it! Drake's dastardly depredations so disgusted (oh, what a lovely alliterative string, eh) HRH Phillip II, King of Spain, that he issued a call for Drake's head, dead or alive, offering an enormous 20,000 ducats reward (to you and me, about $12,000,000).

"A Did You Know" moment: Something British histories rather cover up. In the year following the Spanish Armada debacle (for the Pedro's, that is) Elizabeth, in spiteful retaliation, sent an English armada to punish Phillip, led by her beloved and handsome hedonistic hero, Sir Francis. The fleet was funded through a joint stock company, putting up £80,000, a quarter from the Queen's own treasury. It was a disaster, both for the fleet and the investment! 40 English ships and 11 barges lost, a poor pittance of pillage plundered, the Crown almost bankrupt. Elizabeth was not amused and ordered a cover-up. To soften the blow lets have some lovely Elizabethan music   here It is actually a rather happy piece.

The "Mayflower Steps" in the Barbican area of Plymouth port are not actually the steps from which departed in 1620 the  peeved protestant pilgrims who persevered for a prolonged period at new Plymouth, Massachusetts (and yes, your author did have to look up how its spelled, so it is correct). But the Steps are believed to be close to the embarkation point, so that's something, I suppose. Only 48 of the 102 seamen, servants (yep, there were 23 servants aboard) and colonists were actually of the same Puritan congregation; the others, being in it mainly for the money, were undoubtedly Protestant but not nearly so puritanically hidebound as The Puritans. The whole company's only association with Plymouth is that they had to pull into Plymouth as a last point of departure for necessary repairs and provisions.

Valerie has had us enjoying dinner parties and drinkies with friends, just so you know that its not all classroom stuff here at Plymouth. Here we are outside The Ship Inn, on the harbour in the old Barbican area. The two Vals and your author gorged  on a selection of tapas; "marinated olives and ciabatta" was my favourite. Fellow traveler, Ian, was captivated by the "Toad in the Hole with ice cream and topping". Downing a pint of the Seven Decades oatmeal stout suited me, the girls had Euchre Pilsner while Ian chased the Strawberry Blonde, a fruity ale.

Now, I have to come clean; the dining and drinks above I have pulled from the Net. But, back in 2010, Valerie's charming husband, Paul, did take us all to a great craft beer pub on the barbican, the name of which is lost to me, an effect due, just perhaps, to the ruby red mists of time closing in.

However, I'm letting my enthusiasms run ahead of the blog space, so today we are taking a very quick run in the Passat up onto dark, dangerous Dartmoor, where we find ponies, pubs, prisons, pretty rivers and plenty of space. (I've just got to stop.....that's the last laboured lot, I assure you.)

On Dartmoor we come across Drake's Leat, an aquaduct taking water from the River Meavy to Plymouth and whose authorisation was carried through Parliament in 1690 by our local hero, Sir Francis, when mayor. He insisted that the bill allow for mills to access the water flow. Sorry, but I can't resist adding this little hysterical note: "Drake was paid £200 for the work plus another £100 for compensation to any landowners whose property the course of the leat would have to pass through. In the event he paid out only £100 for construction and £60 for compensation making a tidy £140 profit. The mill, into which the leat flowed, was leased by Drake as were all six of the new mills built in the same year"  Well, I did say earlier that The Man was a bit of a scoundrel. His themesong, perhaps: MONEY

Drake's Leat, a lovely bridge and the promised ponies, (nope, no ponies, couldn't get them in).

We need to progress quickly through the moor to Wells to visit the absolutely stunning cathedral there.

In your author's view, it's stunning because of the magnificent twin "scissor" arches, quite unique I believe. Just imagine the glee (one should not say, PRIDE, goodness no, when referring to a holy and anointed bishop's inner feelings, should one) of the Lord Bishop of Bath and Wells in acquiring such marvels of imagination, design and construction, easily trumping all the architectural flourishes embellishing his neighbouring bishops' beauties.

       

Well, this has been rather a long diary entry today. Cheers and cheerio until we meet at land's End, Cornwall.

Val and Bryan

On the Back Roads to Devon

After a full day at the Naval Museum we are looking for a B&B somewhere in the New Forest area of Hampshire up the road from Southampton. Out of the blue we found this rather grand Rhinefield Hotel, a little over budget but irresistible. I think fellow traveller Ian slept in the car that night, but we did save a croissant for his breakfast. We intend to meander through the back roads of  Dorset, Somerset and Devon until we drop in on our old friend, Valerie, in Plymouth.

Rhinefield House
A small hotel for one night at $314
breakfast included

Beech trees in the New Forest
A restful place

The New Forest, most of it crown land, is one of the larger tracts, at 946 sqkm, of unenclosed pasture land, heathland and forest in Southern England (thanks Wikipedia) giving rural comfort to 14 million visitors each year. Cattle, ponies and donkeys roam freely throughout the Forest.

The New Forest was created in 1079 as a royal hunting preserve by William from Normandy who had purloined England for himself a few years earlier at a time when the reigning Saxon king, Harold, was a little preoccupied by an upcountry Norse invasion. A conspiracy, perhaps! Had our William, perchance, put his Norse cousins up to it as a diversion? Later chroniclers claimed that dear Bill cleared off all 20 hamlets and farmsteads to create his "new" forest but this is now discounted given the very poor soil which would not support much agriculture.


After a full English breakfast in the understated breakfast hall at the Rhinefield we hit the back ways  to visit Old Sarum on Salisbury Plain. (Once one has visited Stonehenge at a time well before tour buses, hordes of visitors, Interpretation Centres etc, etc,  and once one has walked freely, undisturbed amongst the great stones, why sully that image, so we will give Stonehenge a miss.)

We head North on Forest Rd to the hamlet of Stoney Cross passing under the A31 freeway. Nearby there's an old wartime airfield. As we progress we cast an appreciative but fleeting glance at Swallow Fine Wines (too early, too early we cry). We bypass Salisbury to arrive at Old Sarum castle 75 minutes and a mere 50km from our fine hotel.

Old Sarum: "It's one of England's better kept secrets - Old Sarum is a gem among gems, one of the most spectacular ancient sites in Europe and in the world."  (attribution ZME Science website)

The entrance to the site is surprisingly unspectacular! A small sign saying "Old Sarum Castle" pointing to a steepish laneway up which we proceed to a carpark and a pathway through a large earth rampart. Blessed be us: no "interpretive centre", no coaches, no souvenir stalls just 20 odd cars in a carpark.
 
On the left is Old Sarum today. It is a joy to walk the fields in the sunshine (without hordes), to explore the inner  royal enclosure and imagine the chant of the monks in the cathedral. Listen Here

Just an aside; hill forts are ten a penny in England with 1,300 known sites, the great majority of them in the Southern counties.

On the right is a picture of Old Sarum in the times of our friend William. William built the castle in the inner works where, at a royal conclave, he demanded solemn vows of loyalty from all the notables of England. This drawing is based closely on a thorough, ground piercing radar survey of the entire site. Archaeologists were astounded at the findings and detail revealed.

Observe the outline of the cathedral on the lower left and pictured at upper right on the "excavation".The Lord Bishop of the local counties ruled the cathedral but the Sheriff of Wiltshire ruled the city. They did not get on. Amongst other aggravations, the nasty Sheriff charged stiff accommodation fees on the clergy and charged for water, a commodity in short supply on the hill. Following much fulmination from both camps, the Pope approved the relocation of the cathedral to the present site (now called Salisbury). The common people followed their priests and decamped to the new town. The old town died and was abandoned. The site was left undisturbed for hundreds of years with no contamination from later over-building, much to the delight of our modern archaeologists. Lesson: Don't tangle with the local Bishop

Time to make for Plymouth just on 300km away, a bit of a hop on the back roads. Your author invokes Poetic License to allow for just one stop along the way and reach friend Valerie's home by drinkies time.

We are on the B3212 just past Six Mile Hill when we pass through the peaceful little town of Dunsford. We notice a village fete is in progress at the hall with a small hand written sign advising "EVERYONE WELCOME" tacked outside. We take them at their word. "Let's stop for afternoon tea." We park and walk beside a beautiful small (very small) stream through the gardens to the hall rooms, attracting odd looks from some of the villagers. One younger man seems quite put out "that there be strangers at the fete"! We buy tea and scones and a jar of home made jam. An older gentleman invites us to sit and chat with him in the garden. Delightful.

"Take a peak in our St Mary's Church as you leave" advises our gentleman. We do and discover a most wonderful church, a place of worship since Saxon times, absolutely, charmingly decorated. The medieval sepulchral of the local manor knight, Sir Thomas Fulford, and his lady is stunning. Check  out the chapel here.

Onwards to drinkies with Valerie. And fish and chips, big spenders that we are.

Cheers to all our virtual fellow travelers on this journey,

Bryan and Val 

To Plymouth via the Naval Museum, Portsmouth

It's 23:55 (yep...5 minutes to midnight) at Singapore's Changi airport, terminal 3 and we are boarding Lufthansa flight  9763 on our way to the world's seventh busiest airport, Heathrow via Frankfurt.

She's supposed to be serving,
 not drinking!

Good news or bad news, take it whichever way you like. We are not taking an extended stopover in Frankfurt. Couldn't find much to interest me, but I suppose there could be buxom wenches serving gallons of beer somewhere.

There's not much point in making satirical blather about international air travel, is there. You've all been there, done that!  Now, your author was tempted to take up virtual business class travel, but then we would be missing all the great fun stuff of ECONOMY CLASS flying. And, I have to admit, it would not be in the spirit of following our actual world tour plans.

STOP PRESS: Fellow traveler, Ian, is insisting that he travels business class so there goes our good, economical intentions...up to Business we go. We will put the sudden and mysterious arrival in our bank account of $750 x 2 to good use in these (real world) hard times....that is looking after the tycoons who own airlines. Ian is demanding egg and lettuce and beetroot sandwiches in Business Class, what class!

Jan is coming with us a far as London before hopping off to Barcelona to admire La Sagrada Familia and other strange buildings. Hope she learns the Catalan national anthem (here) but Jan, don't sing it anywhere near a Civil Guard gendarme.

Our itinerary out of Singapore is not for the faint-hearted. A midnight departure for a 13 hour A380-800 airbus flight to Frankfurt, with 1 hour 15 minutes to make our connection for Heathrow on flight LH 900 for a 1 hour 40 minutes Airbus A320-212 trip during which, happily, we will be fed "a snack". For the mathematical minded, that's 16 hours from leaving beautiful

Minor delay at Heathrow, today folks. Chin up!

Changi airport to arrival at, ugh, Heathrow.

All we have to do now is follow the queue to get out of this place.

One bit of good news: Avis, out of their eternal gratitude that WE chose THEM as our hire care providor  have upgraded us. From humble Ford Focus to VW Passat. (Actually we were so blessed once on a 3 week hire from Charles de Gaulle.)

Another bit of good news, good folk, is that our journey to Plymouth takes us past Portsmouth Harbour, wherein is situated the magnificent National Museum of the Royal Navy.

To get in the mood, you really must learn a sea shanty or two HERE (Blow the Man Down)

“Right ho, you jolly jack tar, here’s your new Sea Chanty Song Book. I expect you to know the first 3 by first watch…understood”.  “But sirrr, I cain’t read!” pleads the jolly tar. “Oh, never thought of that!” replied the senior midshipman, thinking fast. “Ah, I know, I’ll get you one in braille….how’s that?”

The Museum is truly impressive. Since we all look like  to be over 65ers the concession day pass to all exhibits is a mere £27.50, per hot body, of course. Unfortunately, that does not buy access to the Mary Rose Exhibition, an absolute must see. Since we are here at Portsmouth, just cough up another £14.40 for the ordinary every day pass.

Today we are taking in three exhibitions. First is a visit to that old piece of Naval glory, HMS Victory, followed by HMS Warrior (because both ships are very interesting and we have pictures of us on them) and the Mary Rose (alas no pics of yours truly on board as it was closed the day we really did go to Portsmouth.)

HMS Victory:  104 gun first-rate "ship of the line", 40 years old at Trafalgar, a huge 3,500 tons with 850 crew able to achieve 11 knots on a very windy day (the ship that is, not the crew). In a serious engagement, ships of the line (naturally) would line up opposite their opposite number in the foe's line-up and each proceed to shoot the crap out of its opposite number. The biggest and heaviest gunned ship usually won. Nelson's splendid notion was to have each of his ships suddenly pull a sharp left and cross the enemy line behind each one's opposite number and then shoot the crap up its rear end from whence the opposite number could not reply, then each ship was to come around to lay against its rather dazed opposite number and give the opposite number a jolly good thrashing. Only a public school chap would think of something so terribly unsporting, but great fun, what!

When I say "suddenly" pull a left, I use the word loosely; the two fleets were working off their annoyance with each other in a very light 5 knot sea breeze, so it took quite some time for the engagement to actually get exciting.

HMS Warrior: 40-gun steam-powered armoured frigate with a full three-masted sail ship rig, built 1860 and Britain's first iron hulled armoured fighting vessel. 706 crew, weighing 9,136 tons (the boat that is) and able to achieve 14 knots. Much to the delight of their Lords of the Admiralty, this was one knot faster than the Frenchie's iron-clad La Gloire, topping out at a miserable 13 knots. While Warrior was the most powerful ship when built, she never saw any action worth mentioning becoming outclassed and obsolete within 15 years. However she did give sterling service at Fleet Reviews. Interesting to note that her top speed was only 3 knots faster that the Victory's but I think the Victory would only achieve that speed when running before a fearsome storm. Warrior is twice as long as your average clipper and just as beautifully elegant; my favourite ship at Portsmouth.

The Mary Rose: Henry VIII was rather proud of this purpose built fighting ship, built to defend the realm against those nasty foreigners across the channel, and, incidentally, being rather useful against the Scots. Built 1511, sank 1545, 600 tons, 80-odd guns, crew about 500 men (and I suppose, a few women). Named after Henry's sister Mary, coupled with the Tudor "Rose".

Henry was watching (from the shore) when the Mary Rose and his entire fleet sailed out to meet the French in the Solent, 80 English against the French 200 ships, fairly even odds. After a refit several years earlier to fit heavier guns, the formerly excellently handling Mary Rose was known to behave rather poorly in a breeze. She was not "weatherly" observed the admiral in charge and promptly assigned it to his vice admiral, Sir George Carew. The Mary Rose sailed out and fired her starboard broadside then came about to fire the port broadside. Going about, a gust of wind hit, she heeled over. Some idiot matelot had left the starboard gun ports open. Disastrous! Goodbye Sir George.

OPPS!!!

The Mary Rose was one of only two ships that could fire a broadside at that time, the other being Henry's flagship, named (what else?) Great Harry. The astute reader will have noticed that the Mary Rose was a mature 34 years when she joined Davy Jones in watery wedlock. The widespread myth that the Mary Rose sunk on her maiden voyage is simply wrong. By the way, the French fleet retired first from the fight.

See you all in Plymouth.

Come Fly With Us to Singapore and Beyond

All our bags are packed
We're ready to go
We're standing here by the boarding gate
We love to wave to you to say goodbye
We're leaving on a jet plane
(apologies to John D)

We are off and on our way on this world-spanning journey. For those of you, dear readers, who simply get on a plane and go, try this take off:
So, come fly with us:here

For those of you who fancy themselves as aficionados of the aeroplane take off : the building excitement as your plane taxis out, the wonderful feel as the nose rotates up (not down, hopefully), the incredible sense of  power as acceleration pushes you back into your seat check HERE .Follow to the end, its great! **

So, come fly with us. We have brand new 10-year passports, absolutely unused. (Yes, we know, at our age ten years does seem a tad excessive, hey, but optimistic). So far we have one fellow traveler, Jan, an olde Maleny friend, joining us for the first leg to sensible Singapore, then she's off to Barcelona.

Now its up, up and away  click the link
(hint: allow a few minutes for this little old gem)

Well, here we are at incredible Singapore. Changi Airport, the beautiful drive into downtown, the amazing architecture (isn't the ship in the sky just stunning), the cheap fast food markets, the cleanliness, the hotels, and the friendly people.

Now Val and I didn't want to upset the oh-so-very-sensible Singapore authorities; we didn't want to upset that feeling of peace and order on this beautiful island. We researched. We know what not to do:

No way are we going to run around naked in our own Singapore flat. No way are we going to carry a durian on public transport, (in fact, no way am I going to carry a durian at all, let alone eat one, they stink!). These are just two of 10 worst things one should NOT do least one upsets that peace and order. Here's another one: no buying booze after 10:30. Buy before 10:30 and have a party in your flat, but no taking  your shoes off...no,no!

So that you can be well briefed for a visit, dear reader, HERE are the ten naughty things you MUST NOT DO in incredible Singapore.

It's getting late so Val and I and, of course, our virtual fellow traveler, Jan, are out searching for dinner, a cheap dinner, and we have found just the place. Line up with us at this Michelin starred street food vendor HERE

Food again folks. Its morning and Jan has this burning desire to dine with orangutans at the famous Singapore Zoo.

That's not me with the bald head. Val and Jan and I are just off camera. (Its so hard to get a stranger to take the picture you really want, isn't it!)

Boarding in a day or two for our Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt. Looking forward to it. See you there.

A second fellow traveler has just joined the expedition. My mate, Ian, hit me with a pike because our flight to Singapore didn't take off on schedule, but he still wanted a ticket....bloody cheek!!

FAKE NEWS alert: Some of you with long memories of my much earlier blog (Postcard from La Charente) may just note that the pic of us departing (above, with our own in-flight snack) is actually us arriving at our long term house exchange at "Le Petit Maine" in France, 2014.

** PS Once, many years ago, in a much earlier life (was I ever 30?), your author was invited to stand behind the two pilots in the cockpit of a RAAF C-130 Hercules as it came in to land at RAAF Base Laverton. Now that was scary. Steep approach, runway looming up at a rather (to me) alarming rate, late flare out and speedy touch down. And they say rank has its privileges! New thought: maybe they did it on purpose.

We CAN"T go for REAL, so come with us NOW....VIRTUALLY!!

Val and Bryan, that's us. Some time back we started planning to take off on a fantastic "Round the World" travel extravaganza. YEH!!  A swansong, a final (?) awesome overseas adventure.

We would visit our lovely friend Val in Plymouth, Cornwall, then up to the Highlands of Scotland, explore the Orkneys, down to London via Inverness and Edinburgh. Onwards to old friends in the beautiful Charente area of France. "Naturellement" there has to be a few days "dans la belle Paris",  throwing in, as one does, an evening at Moulin Rouge...how could this not be so? Finally home via a week in Vancouver.  What a trip we planned. 

Alas and alors. As you, dear reader, may surmise, there have been complications, to understate the case somewhat!

"Val, you will need treatment soon", our Medical Lady advised, putting a dead stop to our real plans two months ago.

And now the whole world has come to a STOP.  We are all locked down and house bound.

We won't be spending heaps of money travelling on our planned "Round the World" extravaganza ... "that's a big plus", we so convincingly tell ourselves.

BIG IDEA: House bound we are but the imagination can fly high.

We will take a beautiful, big virtual vacation over the next few weeks and follow as near as practical our intended itinerary. There must be heaps of videos and tourism propaganda in cyberland that we can access and share.

All you great Folk out there, you are invited to join us on our blog vacation; your kind comments and other ideas are most welcome along the way.

Val in Plymouth, get ready with your suggested outings (must be photo ops). Barb and Peter in Passirac, make ready your so comfortable guest gite once again and, perhaps, your fabulous cassoulet dinner. Pam and Ian in Brossac, make ready once again a wondrously tasty gammon, egg and fries banquet in your extraordinary man-cave.

Hooray. Virtual Take Off is in two days. Qantas Flight QF 51 leaves from Brisbane at 11:50am (a quite civilised hour, don't you think) arriving at Singapore 18:00pm. Two days later an evening departure with Lufthansa (flight LH 9763) giving us a lift to London via Frankfurt. That's the plan. Pre-virus price, $2,100 pp round the world with quality carriers: I think we will be whistling dixie to expect those prices post-virus!

Meanwhile this is about the town we now call home:

Link to our home town, Burrum Heads  look here

Or a second look: a glimpse of our home town water front.