Hardy’s Well is a pub in Manchester. With white walls welcoming wise, wicked, and wretched, whither will… Gargh, it’s too hard.
Tag: travel
Mightier than the pen
The Lakes District is what the guides call ‘the most beautiful corner of England’. There’s lots to see, lots to do. When Derek, our B&B host, asked us at breakfast what we had planned for the day, dad said, ‘We’re going to the pencil museum.’
‘The pencil museum?’ Derek’s eyebrows shot up. ‘In Keswick?’
Yes, indeed. The highlight of our day would be the Cumberland Pencil Museum, home to Derwents, the world’s first pencil and the world’s largest pencil (not the same pencil).
At the museum, I learned about how pencils are made. I had somehow assumed that graphite lead was punched through a tube of wood. Obviously, I hadn’t thought too clearly about this because surely the graphite would snap during such a violent operation. I mean, that’s what they do when I’m writing in an exam. In actual fact, the graphite is sandwiched between two halves of the wooden shell, then the shell is shaved to make that nice hexagon shape.
I learned that in World War II, Allies soldiers were given special pencils, whose ends could be unscrewed to reveal a compass and secret maps of parts of Germany.
While there, I gawked at the world’s largest pencil. It’s almost eight metres long and 450 kg. If you could pick it up and draw with it, you could draw a banana or the sun. It probably wouldn’t be so good for writing on a Post-It note, though, even if you could write something intelligible on such a small surface.
Finally, we watched a video about the history of the pencil. My favourite part of the film went something like this: ‘In a great feat of engineering, Amercians spent ten years to develop a pen that would work in the zero gravity of space. The Russians used pencils.’
Walking Paris
For the three or four days we were in Paris, we took the Metro only twice. The rest of the time, we walked. It was a good way to see the city. The very afternoon we arrived in Paris, we walked ten or twelve kilometres from our hotel to La Basilique du Sacré Coeur (famous Catholic church — 800 m), to the Arc de Triomphe (monument to Napoleon in the middle of a five way roundabout — 5.6 km), to the Jardin des Tuileries (beautiful palace gardens — 5 km), then home again (3 km). That’s a grand total of about 14.5 kilometres!
On our last day, we walked from the hotel to Galeries Lafayette (massive department store — 1.5 km) to musée du Louvre (largest museum in the world — 1.5 km), to Saint Michel Place (gateway to the hip/touristy Latin Quarter — 3.4 km), to Jardin du Luxembourg (more palace gardens — 1 km), then back home (5.2 km) — 12.5 kilometres all together.
My feet hurt every day. Now, a week after I came home, my shoulders still ache from carrying my backpack (and camera) everywhere.
The reward for carrying my heavy camera was more photos! It’s worth the aches and pains.
The first couple of photos are from the Arc de Triomphe. You’ve seen it before on this blog.
Last time, I went early in the morning. In the afternoon, there are a lot more tourists.
It seems disrespectful, somehow, to be sitting on a military monument.
Actually, the day we went, some sort of memorial service was happening. There were a lot of elderly men in military dress… and this wreath from Australia. Maybe it was related to ANZAC Day.
These Segways were lying near the entrance of Jardin des Tuileries. I was confused. Was this a Segway carpark? Then I remembered that there were City Segway Tours in Paris. The group of people in the background of the photo have probably just dismounted and are getting a talk from the tour guide. I rode a Segway once, at my undergraduate university’s Open Day. It was a lot of fun.
Jardin des Tuileries seemed to be a popular place for people to slow down and enjoy the sunshine.
No Xboxes here. Just sailboats that you can push into the fountain pond with a long stick, wait for it to reach the other side, then push it again. Hours of fun for the whole family.
The Eiffel Tower…
…surrounded by people with guns.
Galeries Lafayette, the 10-storey Paris department store, is the ‘center of the fashion world‘. I went there for the food.
Lafayette’s coupole was spectacular! Beautiful! I took a dozen photos before a security guard marched over and told me that photography was forbidden.
See my previous post for photos of the Sacré Coeur and Moulin Rouge.
Red light district – Paris
I’ve visited Paris twice now. Both times, I stayed at Montmartre, north of the River Seine and home of Paris’s red light district.
After Amsterdam’s window women, there was no reason for me to worry about taking mum and dad to the Paris equivalent. So we walked to the Moulin Rouge (‘Red Windmill’), once during the day and once at night.
At night time, the pimps were working hard. One of them grabbed my arm as I walked by. Quite a few waved us down excitedly.
‘xìng biáo yăn! xìng biáo yăn!’ they called*. ‘Live sex show! Live sex show!’
Mum was really impressed. ‘Wow!’ she exclaimed. ‘They can speak Chinese!’
*If your computer can display Chinese: 性表演
The famous red windmill of Moulin Rouge.
Another view of Basilique du Sacré Coeur, which dominates the skyline of Montmartre.
Red light district – Amsterdam
What did I know about Amsterdam before I visited it? It has canals, bicycles, cannabis… and a famous red light district.
Well, I had seen all of these and there was no way I was going to leave without De Wallan.
‘You took your parents to the red light district?’ my friends asked when I came back. They were astounded. ‘Isn’t that a kind of weird thing to do with your parents?’
In Amsterdam’s red light district, there are large glass windows. The idea is that prostitutes rent a window and use it to, ah, display their wares.
I was disappointed, actually. We visited in the twilight and there were already women working the windows. They wore bras and briefs, were in superb physical shape, young and taut. But they just stood there, looking a bit bored.
‘Come on, girls,’ I said. ‘Dance! Gyrate! Do something! Sheesh, I could do better.’
Someone suggested that maybe they would move more once they got a paid gig.
Interesting facts from our Amsterdam Lonely Planet Guide: Forty percent of visits to Amsterdam’s prostitutes are UK men from across the Channel. On average, each encounter costs 50€ and lasts 15 minutes.
Heaven is…
We had checked in to our Amsterdam hotel and had the afternoon and evening to get to know the city. It was sunny and we had been walking for about two hours.
‘Look, it’s Ben and Jerry’s,’ I said. We don’t have B&J’s in Australia. There are B&J stores in England but I hadn’t tried it yet. I love ice cream so it was only a matter of time.
‘Why don’t we get some?’ mum said. I didn’t need much convincing.
There were a few people in line ahead of me. I watched a girl and a boy point out their flavour choices. The counter woman scooped the ice cream into waffle cones and the happy couple stepped into the sunshine with ice creams in their hands.
Strange. I didn’t see them give her any money.
The next man wanted New York Fudge Chunk. ‘Can I have it in a cup?’ he asked.
‘Sure,’ she said and scooped the glorious ice cream into a cardboard cup. He tried to give her a Euro note but she waved it off.
‘No, it’s free!’ she said, smiling.
‘Free?’ He looked confused.
‘Free?’ I thought, blinking with growing excitement.
‘Yes! Today is Free Cone Day!’
‘Wow. Thank you!’ he said.
I rushed up to the counter. ‘Free Cone Day? Is it Free Cone Day?!’ I had never heard of such a thing.
‘Yes!’ The look of realisation in people’s faces was clearly making the ice cream lady’s day. ‘Just for today.’
‘Well, I’ll have three!’ I shouted. I had died and gone to heaven.
Ben & Jerry’s hold Free Cone Day on the same day all around the world every year. Mark it in your calendars, friends. Watch out for it in April or May.
Parkinson’s Law
My parents and I had a 7 AM flight from Stansted airport to Amsterdam. We’re a very punctual family, which meant we were awake by 2:30 AM and at the Cambridge bus station forty-five minutes later. Better to be at the airport half an hour early than 15 minutes late, that’s our way.
Four or five other sleepy people were waiting at the station with their bags. When the 787 came, I handed over £30 and the driver stored our luggage in the belly of the bus. We took three seats in the middle of the bus and settled down to catch up on sleep.
The driver started the bus and in the silence of the very early morning, the bus U-turned to begin its journey.
Suddenly, the bus stopped. The door swooshed open and a young dark haired man in a white sweater threw himself on board.
‘Sorry, I’m was runnning up behind you and shouting, thank you, thank you very much, I’d like a ticket,” he gabbled.
As the long-suffering bus driver took his money, I murmured to my parents, ‘He is very lucky. He got an extra half hour of sleep.’
The strange things you see in Amsterdam
Here we are! Oooh, and a giant sign to tell us so.
And here is the sign in its entirety. The sign/sculpture is at Museumplein (Museum Square) near the Van Gogh museum. There is an ‘I amsterdam‘ tourism campaign. I like the small pun.
I am Joan!
Here are the most Amsterdamish modes of transport — canal boats and bicycles.
And tiny putt-putt cars. These Canta LX cars are everywhere.
Amsterdam is Bicycle Capital. Cambridge and Oxford have NOTHING on Amsterdam. I have never seen so many bicycles. There were lots of strange ones but I only got a picture of this one. I saw one rider with a child in front, a baby at the back and a dog in the pouch.
Obviously, bicycle theft is rife so there is a roaring trade in bicycle locks.
And, apparently, a similar crime spree for outdoor furniture theft, too.
I found this little clog at Albert Cuypmarkt, where my parents and I went to by fruit and nuts.
I learned something at the Jewish flea market in Amsterdam.
Other things you can buy at the market — hash pops.
And cannabis lollies. The signs made me giggle. I like puns, remember. Why is the sign in English? It must be for the benefit of the tourists. Nearly all Dutch people under a certain age speak some level of English as well.
Speaking of clichés and stereotypes, what’s with this bar? Slanderous!
Amsterdam is home to some of the most famous art in the world by Rembrandt, Van Gogh and Vermeer. The whole time we were in Amsterdam, we didn’t step into a museum once. We did enjoy the free street art, though. This was just off a main road.
Someone or some people seem to have decided to use temporary construction fencing in Vondelpark for a modern art installation…
More ‘art’, this time the lights in our hotel room.
Amsterdam is full of really interesting buildings, old and new. You can see in this photo the hooks on the roof of each house. Lots of houses have them. The hooks are used to hoist things to the upper floors of a house. This is necessary because houses in Amsterdam are narrow and their staircases are narrower. In fact, Amsterdam claims to have the narrowest house in the world. A curious by-product of this hoist system is that many Amsterdam houses have a distinct forward lean so that things being hoisted up don’t bang against the walls.
I have no idea what ‘BELT U EVEN’ means. It might be English or it might not be.
…Ah! I’ve just put ‘belt u even’ into Babel Fish. The translation from Dutch to English is ‘you ring just as’.
Ice cream friend
We were walking towards the York Minster when someone called, ‘Do you want ice-cream?’
Without breaking stride, I detoured to stand in front of Frankie’s Real Dairy Ice Cream cart.
‘Hmm…’ I considered the sign that said that I could have two scoops for the price of one. ‘Is it nice ice cream? I’ve had Italian ice cream before, you know.’ I was warning of him of my standards.
Frankie’s friend was a lanky redhead with quirky purple glasses. She was leaning against the cart. ‘Oh, yes!’ she said, nodding enthusiastically. ‘It’s the best! Look! He has raspberry ripple. Not many people have raspberry ripple.’
‘Hmm…’ I repeated. I peered into the ice cream buckets. ‘And how much is it for ice cream?’
‘One pound forty,’ said Frankie. ‘You get an extra scoop for free. You can choose any flavour!’
I thought about it. ‘I don’t really feel like ice cream, though,’ I murmured to myself. And £1.40 was not the bargain they made it out to be.
I stood there for another ten seconds before taking a step back. ‘Sorry. Thanks for the selling effort, though.’ I had disappointed them.
An hour later, after visiting the Minster and the Shambles, I found myself back within five metres of Frankie’s cart.
‘Mum, dad, I’m going to get some ice cream,’ I said.
‘Whatever you want,’ they said indulgently.
I trotted up to the cart and announced, ‘I feel like ice cream now.’ I walked back to my parents with a double scoop of raspberry ripple and mint choc chip.
‘They were so excited to see you,’ mum laughed. ‘They must be happy to get a customer.’
I nodded gravely. ‘Half the reason I bought the ice cream was that I knew they would be happy.’ I licked the ice cream. It was yummy, although no ice cream in England — even the famous Cornwall ice cream — has been as good as Trampoline gelato in Melbourne.
Much later in the day, as we were walking towards dinner, I walked by the ice cream cart again. Frankie must have recognised my furry hat because he waved to me from across the courtyard. I waved back to my ice cream friend.
Stonehenge and Warwick Castle
I am in a bed-and-breakfast in Warwick, a small Tudor town in the middle of England. My parents and I have spent the last three days at Stonehenge, in Bath and at Warwick Castle. The castle was particularly enjoyable — we spent 5.5 hours there. It’s like a medieval theme park in a real historic setting. Stonehenge was less impressive; we made the mistake of going on a sunny Good Friday holiday so were stuck in a traffic jam for more than an hour, just two miles from the site. It wasn’t a waste of time, though. The audio tour makes all the difference.
Stonehenge on a beautiful spring day.
There were lots of tourists, all posing and taking photos. I’m kind of sad that every tourist seems to have a camera and is mindlessly snapping away. I can’t actually complain because I probably do it as well. It just feels like the way people hunt and take trophy animals; they’re taking trophy photos to prove that they were here.
Anyway, what I meant to write is that I like this little guy’s way of posing.
One of the younger tourists-with-cameras.
Warwick Castle is very impressive. I don’t have a photo of it in its entirety because I used a telephoto lens today (and was too lazy to change it). Hopefully, I will get some good photos of it from my parent’s camera. Here I am in front of the Castle Mound.
The Warwick Bowman was very funny. He was the highlight of the visit. If he was a rock star, I would be a groupie. Here he is, demonstrating to Alex (the boy) and the crowd how inadequate bowman armour is for protecting people against a sword strike to the neck.
We were lucky in that I accidentally arranged to be at Warwick Castle on the Easter weekend. Easter Sunday (today) is the anniversary of the death of the Earl of Warwick in the Battle of Barnet in 1471. Today, there was a full scale re-enactment of a siege battle. It’s actually less riveting than you might expect but I appreciate the effort the actors have gone to. The armour is really heavy and hot, especially on a warm day like today.
I am not sure why there were women on the battlefield. These women had come down from the ‘camp’. We visited earlier and the actors were lying around, cooking or making armour and shoes. They cook pheasant, rabbit and bread and eat it throughout the day! Imagine getting paid to do that! Dress up in costumes, relax in tents and eat!