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July 2006

2nd July

My time here at Fron Dirion has almost come to an end. Tomorrow, Monday, I leave here to drive to Chester, about an hour away, to begin work.

While here, I've spent time exploring the surrounding towns and by-ways, and have had a wonderful time uploading some pics to my site. It's so nice, having the internet on tap and being able to keep in touch via email and Skype. For those reading this who don't know what Skype is, it's a phone system you can operate from your computer. With a headset and microphone you can call a landline anywhere in the world for cheap rates. If you call a Skype number (another computer user who has Skype) the call is FREE. And if you have a webcam or video hooked or built into your computer, your caller can see you. (Admittedly this is not always a good thing, but you do have the option of turning it off!)

Although I would have 7 days in this part of the country, much of that time had to be devoted to writing lesson plans and preparing for work. This only left me with 3 days to explore, so I had some difficult choices to make.

Ruthin, the nearest village, is nestled at the foot of the Clwydian Range. From here, one can visit a variety of areas, each beautiful and very different. There are all the usual ruins, old churches, abbeys, castles and gardens, and of course, the famous Welsh Railway. There are cycle paths and hundreds of walks. Unfortunately, I can't ride a bike (no balance) and walking for me is limited. I've had my fill of castles and ruins, and the railway, while interesting, will be crowded. It's summer here now and the holidaymakers are out in force! There are many interesting little villages too, with names like Porthmadog, Pwllheli, Colgellau, Llanllyfni and Llan Ffestiniog. I would love to see them all but time does not permit.

I did need to check Chester out, seeing that I would be working there and would need to know a little about the place in case my students asked, so decided to just drive in that direction and see whatever came to light on the way. Wanting to make the most of the time I had, I left my cottage early, at 8.30am, intending to spend a full day out and about. The drive was picturesque, winding up the Clwydian mountain range and swooping down into valleys. The day was slightly overcast but clear and the views heartstoppingly stunning. Everywhere I looked there were green vistas, hills and mountains rearing up, water trickling down, stone villages nestled down into the folds of valleys. People drive at a more sedate pace here in Wales, so I wasn't worrying about holding traffic up as I drove while oohing and ahing.

I was on the 'Ruthin to Mold' road, so my first stop was at the market town of Mold. It was a Wednesday, market day, and I I parked my car in one of the now familiar 'pay and display' parks that I had learned to look for at the entry to all towns and villages and set off to explore.

First stop, as usual, was to be the information or visitor's centre. I followed the sign at the side of the car park into the street, where one would expect to find another sign indicating the next turn. However, no sign was to be found so I wandered into the market area. The expected farmers market was there, with fresh vegetables and flowers and plants, but much to my dismay, there was also an abundance of 'cheap and nasty' stalls; clothes that looked cheap but weren't, tacky touristy stuff, plastic and more plastic. Nothing was arranged in the style I had expected - ranks of coloured foodstuffs all neatly arrayed, and stalls set in an organised fashion around the square. Instead, there were stalls all over the place and crowds of people doing mad dances around each other in order to get through.

Passing out the other side of the market place, I spied another sign for the visitor's centre and followed the direction it was slanted, apparently up a little side street. This led me to the Post Office so, having some postcards to mail, I went in and asked for directions. "It's at the Library," I was told, in tones that indicated I was a bit addled if I thought it could be anywhere else. "Go back up the street, around into the market and half way down there's a laneway. The Library's down there," I was told. "But what about the sign up at the corner?" I asked. "It was pointing down the other way!" THe postal worker scratched his head. "Yes, you could go that way I suppose," he finally said, "but it will take you a long way around." Scratching my head at this, I went the way he directed. In the laneway was an overspill of stalls from the market, another laneway, a department store, and an ugly square stone building. Nothing looked remotely like a library so I stopped an elderly couple and asked. They looked at each other, then at me and said in unison, "It's right behind you." I turned and looked at the ugly stone building. It was only after going inside the door that it was obvious that this was indeed the library. (On my way out, I looked, but still could not find a sign that said 'Library'!)

The only good things that came from my visit to Mold was some necessary shopping - my employers had informed me that I would need to wear a 'uniform' of black trousers and white tops - and a haircut. Collecting my car, I continued on my way towards Chester, which my map indicated was a very large walled town on the northern border of England and Wales. Before long, I found myself driving through a series of roundabouts. The traffic was increasing, in number and speed, and the signs at each roundabout came up and went by so quickly that I was never sure, going into one, which was my exit. As a consequence, I entered each feeling anxious and a little pressured by the traffic looming behind me, thus going a little faster than I would have liked. On my way around, as soon as I saw the correct sign, I veered off at a rate that I can only liken to being shot out of a catapault. These roundabouts are everywhere and they sort the traffic into their various roads; one roundabout will follow another until, eventually, one finds oneself on the correct road to one's final destination. And so I finally reached Chester, or rather, the exit to it via another series of roundabouts.
Chester is a walled city and so traffic is not encouraged into the centre, although it is not forbidden. In order to keep the traffic to a minimum, the city council (or whatever the equivalent is here) have instigated a series of 'park and ride' areas around the city. ONe can park free at one of these, and then pay to take a bus to the city centre. The buses run very 10 minutes or so, so I didn't have long to wait. The driver asked me if I was from New Zealand. When I said I was Australian, he told me that his son was there, in Brisbane. Did I know it? It's amazing how little people really know about Australia. The bus ride was short and about 10 minutes later I was in the centre of Chester.

As usual, my first stop was the Visitor's Information Centre. My road there took me through some lovely parts of the city and I noticed a couple of bright red tour buses, similar to the one I had taken in Dublin. It was nearly lunchtime, so after collecting some brochures from the Information Centre, and ascertaining where I might board a tour bus, I found a little cafe and had something to eat while I read the brochures.

Stomach satisfying full, I found the tour bus and boarded for a drive about the city. I stayed on board for the whole tour, taking notes on those places I wanted to get off to see, which I did the second time around. As in Dublin, a ticket on one of these buses is valid for 24 hours, and one can get on and off at designated stops.

Like York, Chester is a city of treasures, all well signposted. There is a Roman Amphitheatre, and the Walls, which slither around the city in a two-mile walkway. On the walkway is a promonade, from which one can admire the streets below and the distant Welsh mountains. Legend has it that King Charles 1 watched the defeat of his army at Rowton Moor from these walls during the English Civic War. The King Charles Tower is named after him. The river Dee flows through the city, and there are some fine examples of 18th century architecture, complete with cobbles, in Abbey Street.

It was the river that attracted the Romans to the area and for many years it was a flourishing port. Today, those waters are for pleasure and a variety of craft - public and private - row or motor along it and there is an abundance of bird life, such as ducks and swans. Chester is also part of England's canal system and a series of locks take boats up or down 30 feet of it near to the heart of the city. There is also an ancient weir, and many bridges, such as the Bridge of Sighs.

At the historic centre of Chester is The Cross, which stands on the site of The High Cross, where merchants struck deals in the 15th Century. Today the 'Oyez, Oyez' of the Town Cirer resonates from this spot in summer. Along Bridge Street and Eastgate Street there are some black and white timber buildings. Some of these are authentically ancient while others are clever replicas built by the Victorians. There are also the Rows, 13th century half-timbered shops taverns and galleries on two levels, with covered walkways, once occupied by shoemakers, cooks, ironmongers and fishmongers. THe Three Old Arches is the oldest shope fornt in England.

There was more, much more, churches, castles, more ruins, more history, old laneways, archaelogical sites, and the cathedral. Chester is a town rich in 2,000 years of history and as the tour bus passed through its various gates I happily realised that I will be here for three weeks.

It was late when I left Chester and I found myself caught up in the commuter traffic, making my progress through the dreaded roundabouts a little more dignified. At least I didn't feel as if I was being flung off them! Once I reached the 'Mold to Ruthin' road the traffic thinned and I had a pleasant drive home through the mountains, arriving at the cottage at 7pm.

My next outing was a walk. After a couple of days rest, my foot had recovered from it's trek through Chester, so I decided to see what 'Mother Mountain' was all about. I reasoned that I could always turn back, so with a bottle of water, some fruit, and a book (well, if I did have to wait to recover I'd want something to read!) I set out. The path up the mountain - a bridle trail - crosses the laneway outside my cottage about a hundred yards down it. I reconnoitered at the bottom, peering up as far as I could to see what the slope was like. But it was impossible to see more than a few yards because the track was bordered on both sides by trees, hedges, shrubs and other plants. The whole effect was that of a tunnel, with no light at the end! I opened the gate, closed it behind me as instructed, and set off.

The slope was gentle, if a bit muddy underfoot. And horses and their riders had obviously made good use of the trail because it was liberally sprinkled with manure. Behind the hedge of greenery I could see wire fences on either side; in the fields I glimpsed beyond them were sheep and cows. The ever present birds chirped and called from the undergrowth, and brightly coloured flowers - violets, briar roses, bright pinks, yellows, blues - were everywhere. The grade was definitely uphill, but not too steep. But soon the muddy patches became bogs, and the grade steepened. However, it wasn't too difficult so I continued on.

After 1/2 hour I crossed a particularly boggy patch, sinking halfway up my shoes; soon I would see that this presaged a particularly steep bit and much narrower. Someone had thrown some stones down, which helped a little. The hedge closed in but I couldn't use any of it to haul myself up because it was all prickles. However, it wasn't much longer before I found myself coming out at the top. The hedges dropped away and I was in an area open to the views. A little further on was a gate. After passing through that, I was in with the sheep who took umbrage and with much blahing and mahing they trotted off, leaving me to spend some time admiring the views. They went forever, with the rest of Wales purpling into the southern distance ahead of me. To my right were views over towards the west coast, and to my right, over into England.

On top of a far ridge I could see a wind farm. The hills rose up, pile upon pile of them, and nestled down below, outlined in green hedgerows and dry stone wall fences, were miniature farms. The broad gentle sweep of green below me was the Vale of Clwyd, where historic towns and charming small viallages are all sheltered bwetween the lofty moors of Myndd Hiraethog and the beautiful Clwydian Range; a living tapestry. All around were the sounds of birds, sheep, distant tractors and such. There was a little more of a rise at my back but no clear trail and lots of underbrush. I decided not to go any further in case I lost myself in there, and contented myself with a long look, a little rest, some water and lots of photographs, before I headed back down the way I had come. Mother Mountain is so called, I think, because she's really quite gentle. I arrived back at my cottage a few inches taller, partly from the sense of achievement, but mostly from the mud and manure that caked my boots.

After another day of rest I had one more outing. This time I went to Ruthin, at the foot of the Clwydian Range. It has more listed buildings than any other market town in North Wales, lots of specialists shops, and plenty of eating and drinking places! There were lots of pretty walks, down cobbled narrow streets, and many fabulous views. The cross marked the centre of the village (as it does in almost every village I've visited in England, Ireland and Wales) and from there the streets radiate out. The NatWest Bank is in a black and white timber building, and looks nothing like a bank. The police station is built of old stone and looks nothing like a police station. The library looks like something from ancient Rome, very grand for such a small village. I went in to print out my lesson plans and activities and spent some time talking to the lady in there about Australia. She has a friend who is there now, touring around, much as I'm doing here I expect. She at least seemed to know more about the country than anyone else I've spoken to.

I spent a lovely morning wandering around Ruthin and finally stopped for lunch in a quaint little tea shop. There I was surrounded by Welsh speakers. The only problem with the Welsh language is that its speakers throw in so many English words and phrases that one is left with tantalising bits of conversations. (The language is ancient and there are no words or terms for all the new things of today, so they just use English for them.) The shop itself was very old, kept in good repair. The weather has much improved over this last week and it was quite a warm day, yet the obligatory jug of milk still sat on the table. It's on the tables in almost every village tea shop I've visited.

In Ruthin, as in many other villages, I had a lot of trouble finding the Visitor's Centre. I did ask at the Post Office, where a young lady had to consult with a collegue, but they only had a vague idea themselves. But, after lots of false leads (signs pointing the wrong way, or missing altogether, and lots of head scratching from people I asked) I managed to find them in the Craft Centre, which is at the roundabout leading into the town. Even there, the very small 'visitors and craft centre' sign was obscured by overgrown bushes.

And now here I am, my last day in Fron Dirion. I've enjoyed it here and would love to be staying longer but work awaits - and the rest of England.

15th July

My two weeks of work are over and here I am, ready to leave Chester. It was a long two weeks while it was happening, but now,looking back, it went by much too quickly. It was a great experience and I met some lovely people, teachers and students, and even though it was hard work at times I thoroughly enjoyed it.

After last lessons yesterday the diplomas were handed out to some very excited and noisy Italian and Greek students (the Spanish are staying on for another two weeks). Earlier in the week we had all gone to Chester Cathedral for a concert (Japenese drummers) and the students - and their group leaders I might add - just could not keep quiet. You might think silence is not necessary while drums are being played but there were faint echoes one had to listen for, and the tap of the drum sticks on the side of the drum - all subtle sounds that were part of the performance. I guess that noise is an Italian thing, combined with the 'kid' thing of being unable to stay silent or still for any length of time.

After the diploma session was all over, we teachers retired to the George and Dragon for a drink or two, then moved onto the Frog and Nightingale for another. This last is a lovely inn/public house/pub right beside the canal. As we sat there, long thin boats - floating restaurants - glided quietly and serenely by, a contrast to the busy and noisy bunch of people at tables and chairs on the paving. From there we moved to a curry house. It's difficult, in an unknown place, to choose the right restaurant for curry - opt for the 'wrong' one and it can be disastrous. However, a couple of the teachers live in Chester and knew the best one to go to so we had a lovely meal.

Like many places in England, it's easier to walk than drive, parking often being a problem. The walk into Chester was much easier than the walk home, having been done in stages, but I survived it. I've been doing more walking these last two weeks than I have in years. The foot has been a bit of a pain at times but I've made sure to rest it up at night so it didn't inconvenience me once.

I have one more day here and will spend that seeing all those things I haven't had time to get around to. Tomorrow morning I move on, down to Herefordshire. I'll stay there for 2 days before heading off to Ruislip, which is just on the outskirts of London. I'll have just over a week there before leaving the UK for Italy. I'll spend that week visiting some places in London and going to Kew, where I will do one final piece of research into the family history. My three months here have gone by very quickly but I'm starting to look forward to the next three, which will be very different.

23 July
I stayed at Frownhope, just south of Hereford, for two nights and managed to get to Hay-on-Wye, which I missed the last time I was in the UK. Hay-on-Wye is known for its bookshops, of which it has hundreds. The day I visited was a Sunday, but it was still crowded and I spent a lovely day poking through the various shops, drooling over books that I knew very well I couldn't buy, because there was no way I could fit more than a couple into my suitcase! Lunch was in a quaint little cafe. I ordered a ploughman's lunch and there was enough for three growing men! Four sorts of cheeses, chutneys and sauces, salad, pickled onions, and crusty fresh bread. Heaven!

Another day was spent in the market town of Ross-on-Wye, and a visit to Tinturn Abbey, which I had visited 10 years ago. Then it had been raining and we'd had the abbey to ourselves; this time the sun was shining, it was very warm, and the place was packed with people. The atmosphere wasn't as thick and mysterious as that last time, but it was still well worth the visit. I spent some time just sitting, and picturing the monks working away at their various tasks, and thought of all those lives spent in such isolation, and for what?

The B&B I stayed at in Fownhope - Bark Cottage - is a restored two centuries old house that was filled with antiques. THere was a large piece of land that went with the original house and the owners have used the space to build a Leisure Centre. It has 3 swimming pools (heated), spas, saunas, masseurs, beauticians, a gym, a cyber cafe and a restaurant. I did wonder, at first, how they managed to fill the place seeing that it is situated in such a tiny village, but fill it did, with people from all over.

I left there on Tuesday morning to travel to Ruislip Manor, which is a western suburb of London, to stay with the husband of a friend. The drive was only about 3 hours all up and I wasn't expected until after 4pm, so I broke my journey at Oxford, which I've always wanted to see.

Like Chester, the council there runs a 'park-and-ride' system so I was able to leave the car outside the city and travel in by bus. This is the only way to see many cities in England. These old cities were built back in the days before cars and so the roads are narrow and twisting and many of these are now one-way streets, so driving is not an option. As in previous visits to cities, I took the 'red bus tour', which stopped at all the famous places so one can get off and on at will. I did a lot of walking too, and looked at all those colleges I've read about, or seen in the Inspector Morse movies, and strolled down by the River Thames. (In Australia it's always the such-and-such river; here in England, it's the River such-and-such.) When it came time to catch the bus back to my car, I was a bit stumped. I'd made sure to ask the driver, on the way in, where I should go to catch the bus back, and I followed his instructions, going to the stop outside the Odeon. However, he'd neglected to tell me which side of the road I should wait (there are bus stops on each side) and as I'd neglected to look at the name of the park-and-ride, I wasn't sure which bus to take. To make matters worse, all the buses for the park-and-rides (which ring the city) were numbered 300. I eventually told one bus driver that I had come in on the A40 from west and had stopped at the first park-and-ride I'd come to. That did the trick and he directed m to the other side of the road and I eventually arrived back at my car.

Continuing on from Oxford, I discovered that the A40 turns into the M40, which is a different kettle of fish; more cars, faster cars, and lots more round-abouts. How I hate those round-abouts! I eventually pulled into a layby, consulted my trusy maps, and decided to get off the busy motorway and travel via the back roads. I much prefer these; they are slower, and wind through many villages, but one is able to see so much more. And so I arrived at Dulverton Road, Ruislip, only having to consult my map once more.

Since I arrived here last Tuesday, I've sold my car, receiving half of what I paid for it, which is what I wanted. In short, if I'd hired a car for my three month stay it would have cost me in the region of 1500 pounds; what it actually cost me was 700 pounds.

David, the friend I'm staying with, followed me and drove me back and on the way took me to see the village where John Mills and his family lived. John Mills died some time ago but his children/grand children still own the house. David had met John a couple of times and said he was a nice chap, no airs and graces, who willingly joined in the villages celebrations and fund-raising activities. He even used to set up a stall outside his house, to sell things to raise money for charity. There are two lovely pubs in the village and we went to one for lunch. THe pubs here are nothing like ours, they are social gathering places, and the meals are far superior to our 'counter meal'. I ordered a chicken sandwich and received a huge 'meal'. The chicken was thick, between fresh hunks of bread, and accompanied by curly, crispy potatoes and a huge, fresh salad that was more than lettuce, tomato and cucumber. The building was old, although well-maintained, and reeked of history.

I travelled by train to London a couple of days ago, visiting Kew Gardens on the way. The National Archives are there and I needed to check one more ancestor. It's a huge place and it took me an hour just to get past the reception area, which was preceeded by a security check (electronic gates and a bag search). I had to be registered as a 'reader' and was issued a card with my photo on it. From there I passed through another check-point, and was directed to the lockers, where glass fronted lockers (free) would keep my possessions safe until I returned. All one is able to take into the Archives is paper and pencil definitely no pens), reading glasses, and coins for any copying. No drinks - even water - and no food. Another check point had to be passed through, my card swiped, and I was finally into the Archives.

Once there my search was made easier by way of banks of leaflets; one only has to select one for the type of search or research to be done and follow the step-by-step proceedure. It took me just an hour to find the records I wanted to look at, and another half-hour to have them copied, all up not much longer than it took me just to get into the place!

By the time I left the Archives, the day had heated up considerably, and my train journey into the city was not comfortable. Very hot weather is not the norm here and so the trains and buses are not airconditioned. This didn't worry me - I'm used to high temperatures - but what I found awful is that the windows don't open so there's no fresh air, no air circulation at all. By the time I arrived in London I felt as if I'd just stepped out of a sauna! (There are announcements at all stations, advising passengers, 'during this hot weather to carry water at all times. If anyone should take ill, please do not press the emergency button; wait until the next train stop to seek help.'.

As was by now my habit, I found a bus tour (hop on, hop off) and paid 20 pounds for an all day ticket that included a river cruise. Not bad I thought, but it wasn't a good idea at all. Firstly, to cover all of the sights of London there are three buses one needs to take, a red line, blue line, or yellow line. To take all of them, you would need more than a day. I tried selecting those things I was particularly interested in but found that I would still need to take all three. With time running out, I eventually hopped on the first bus to come along and found myself whizzing by 'the house that Lady Thatcher now lives in' and other totally uninteresting places. We did rush by Buckingham castle, with the guide commenting that it wasn't worth visiting (Windsor is much more interesting, he said, adding that we could buy tickets for a trip to Windsor at their office, which was another of the uninteresting places pointed out on our ride around.) When we weren't whizzing (which was most of the time) we were stuck in a jam of traffic, usually at a roundabout. I watched a group walking by the bus at one stage and then again when we passed them some minutes later, only to see them walk by when we were stopped once again!

The 'designated' stops were few and far between and if I had wanted to get off to look at any of the places we'd passed by I would have had a long walk. I wanted to avoid walking much, firstly because it was much too hot (hotter still in the concrete and high buildings of London) and secondly because my arthritic foot has been giving me a lot of trouble. The heat and too much use has caused it to blow up every day to twice its size, which makes wearing shoes uncomforable.

I finally asked the bus driver about the river cruise, and was told that I'd have to change buses. This, even though the river cruise was marked on the map for that bus! By this time I was feeling very hot and cross. I hadn't been able to get to the top of the bus, which is open, and had been crammed into the bottom deck where every 3rd window opened just a crack. I was really looking forward to the river, which I reasoned would be cooler. I finally found the right bus and endured another hot half hour before arriving at the Eye, with the cruise leaving from just below it.

The London Eye is something I had planned to take - it's a very slow moving 'ferris wheel' type structure that gives a bird's eye view of London. However, as I approached it I saw a staggering long line of hopeful people, waiting to get on, so I went straight to the river cruise. That was a little better than the bus, but everyone had to sit on a seat and we were crammed in and it was difficult to take photos. I did manage to get to the top deck, and got some snaps, but many of the sights are obscured by heads! But I did get a good shop of Big Ben, and a couple of London Bridge. When we arrived at the Tower, I was shocked to hear that our tickets were one way only, that we would have to get off and join a bus at the top of the road. So, if I wanted to try to get on the Eye, I'd have to endure another round of buses. I gave up then and found a lovely little old pub and had a late lunch/early dinner. I think I could become addicted to the pubs here.

At 7.30pm, thinking the peak crowds would have long gone, I went to Victoria Station to take a train back to Ruislip (needing just one train change from there). When the train came, I couldn't believe my eyes. It was packed to the doors; sardines would be more comfortable in their tins. I managed to squeeze on board and wondered if I would have to pay extra for the sauna! I honestly don't know how these Londoners do it. If I had to travel to and from work in those conditions, I'd be lobbying for airconditioning. Even if their summer only lasts a couple of weeks (although this is changing - it's been getting longer and longer each year I'm told) they need it.

Since then, I've rested up and done a little shopping in a nearby market town that has a couple of modern shopping centres. I also went to the movies and saw a light-hearted piece called "The Break-Up". At least it was cool in the cinema, unlike one of the shopping centres. When I asked one of the girls there why it was so hot she said that the airconditioner was broken. When I came out of the movie it was raining and the weather had cooled down considerably. Today, it's lovely, slightly overcast and cool.

This will be my last journal entry until after I arrive in Italy. I have no idea what the access to the internet will be like at the places I'll be, so please bear with me if it's a couple of weeks before you hear from me again. I'm looking forward to the adventure, although a little anxious. I'll be leaving all things 'English' behind and moving into a totally foreign environment. Always though I know that if it becomes too much, I can always go home to Australia.

27 July

My last 4 days in England flew by. I managed to squeeze in one more touristy thing - a visit to Hampton Court Palace, which is steeped in over 500 years of royal history. Situated on the Thames, it's a huge sprawling building, added to by various royals over the years. Inside, there are state apartments, the King's apartments, the Queen's apartments, the Wolsey rooms,the Georgian rooms, and the triumphs of Caesar.

Outside there are fabulous gardens that cover over 60 acres. I walked trough the courtyards and the private and public rooms, and sat in the gardens and enjoyed the vines, flowers, garden beds, trees, birds and the fountains. Shy deer drank from the pools, bounding away at any sudden movements but we enthralled on-lookers. But my favourite place in all of this was the Palace Kitchens. Here the recreation included ghostly voices and whiffs of things cooking, and of smoke from fires. As I walked through these cavernous rooms I could here the staff as they chopped and cooked, basted and kneaded, polished silver and prepared trays to be carried up to the dining hall. Woodsmoke filled the rooms with an aroma that reminded me of camping in the Australian bush; mixed with all this was the smell of roasting meat and bubbling cauldrons of stew or soup.

The heat had returned to the UK and my last days there were spent in steamy humidity reminiscent of home. I sorted and packed and turned my thoughts to Italy; my feelings were a mix of excitement, anticipation, and anxiety. Will my driver me waiting for me at the airport? Will my journey to Poppi be straightforward? Will the reality of Italy live up to the expectations I have of it?

This morning dawned a little cooler, rain through the night having washed the country clean for my farewell from it. I arrived at the airport in plenty of time, thanks to David (fiance of a friend of mine), who insisted on driving me to Heathrow, bless him. I had checked in on-line so only had to drop my bags and make my way to the gate. We boarded a little late. I had my window seat and was beginning my book when a couple appeared to sit in the two seats to my left. Unfortunately he chose to sit in the middle and he was a very large man. His shoulders protruded half way into my space and he overflowed the top of the arm rests. His knees pressed into the back of the seat in front of him. It was not a comfortable 2 1/2 hours for him or for me. I had to twist sideways and lean against the window, which was icy cold. The airconditioning was set at too low a level so I asked for a blanket, only to be told there were none on board! I arrived in Rome with my back protesting loudly, both at the cold and the posture.

Despite my 'right of abode' for the UK, I had to go through the alien gate at the airport. However, this turned out to be the shortest queue. The passport officer was totally disinterested - opened my passport, stamped it, and swished it back to me through the slot in the glass, all without looking at me or my passport photo, and without a word. She did not seem happy in her job! As is usual in any airport the world over, waiting for the baggage is the longest part of any trip, and it was more than a half hour later before I saw mine circling on the carousel. I walked through the 'nothing to declare' line, past another bunch of disinterested customs people, and out into the arrival hall.

And there was my driver, holding up a board with GRAHAM written on it. 'Sono Trudy Graham,' I said. He pointed to the name and nodded at me. 'Yes,' I again confirmed. Unless there's another Graham on this flight,' I added. 'Only una persona?' he asked. I told him that yes, it was only me and he took my bags and trotted off. I had to walk at a brisk trot to keep up. He looked to be about my age (been here a long time but not really old yet) and was wearing black pants and a faded light blue blazer that was clean but had seen better days. The heat hit us as we emerged into the open. A short walk later he stopped by a dark blue van that looked as if it had been pushed sideways into a slot between two cars. I could not see how he could possibly get out, but with a lot of jiggling backwards and forwards, by inches, he finally did. And we were off.

The stop sign a few hundred yards later got a tap of the brake only and he threw the van around to the right, just in front of a wall of cars that were approaching on the left, none of which appeared to even think of slowing down. A short while later we came to some road works and everyone was forced to slow down and merge into one lane. There were vans, cars and scooters and I don't know how someone didn't get clipped. Everyone seems to drive to their own rules but somehow it works. Once past the roadworks, my driver put his foot down. Despite the signs (100 kms) he was doing at least 150, according to the speedometer. When he came upon someone in front who was slower and who he wanted to move over into the right hand, slower lane, he just drove right up behind them (no braking mind) and almost tapped their bumper. They nonchalantly moved over and we continued on as if they'd never been there!

So we proceeded into the city of Rome. Just before we crossed the Tiber River, the smell hit me. Rome is an ancient city so I expected this. It's the smell of age, of old buildings, drains, and sewerage, held down by the blanket of heat that covers the city. But it's not totally unpleasant and is soon forgotten as I am carried along the Appian Way, past bits of the old city walls, crumbling now, past giant basilicas and historical monuments. My driver comes alive at this point and begins to point out places of interest, telling me I cannot miss seeing this place, or that. As he talks, he turns his head to look at me and my neck almost swivels off my spine as I try to quickly look at what he is pointing to and then back at the road, which he seems to have forgotten. The traffic is heavier but it doesn't seem to worry him. We come to a red light and I'm sure we're going straight through but at the last moment he hits the brakes. I and my laptop slide forward and back with a thump. Within minutes he's inching forward; so is the car and the scooter beside us. It seems as if there is going to be a race. By the time the light turns green we are all halfway through the intersection! So far, the fact that we are on the 'wrong' side of the road doesn't faze me because the streets are mostly one way. Where they are not, the median strip is very wide. We travel along V. Di S. Croce in Gerusalmemme and go through the Piazza di Porta Maggiorie and so turn into Via Bixio, where my hotel, The Secret Garden, is located. Cars are parked on either side of the road and there is barely enough room for the van to move along it.

My driver stops his van, oblivious to the fact that he is blocking the traffic behind (they don't seem to worry about it either) and gets out. I discover then that my 'hotel' is behind a narrow double door, one of many in this street. It was once, apparently, a lovely home that has been divided up into rooms with ensuites. The door was closed and locked but I rang the bell and was soon welcomed by, of all things, a young man and his sister who lived for many years in Australia. They were born in England and have British Passports but want to go back to Australia to live. My room is 'quaint'. It's the only one on this floor (one flight down, with my window at pavement level) and holds a double bed (hard cotton wadding mattress) a tiny fridge, cupboard, wardrobe, two bedside tables, a tv, and a white kitchen chair. The bathroom is half as big again, with a decent looking shower, toilet, bidet and washbasin. The walls are painted white, and the 'ceiling' is a curved arch of pale, large bricks. There is a ceiling fan, and the window, blessedly, opens, although I later discover that having it open is not such a good idea.

After I put my bags in my room, I had to go to the 'rooftop garden' to register. In Italy, this means having your passport registered as well. The rooftop is tiny and crammed wall to wall with small round tables, four chairs to each. This, I am told, is where breakfast is served. I wondered what they did when it rained, but didn't ask. After registering (which we did at one of the tables) I stood up to leave, trying to see what views there might be, but couldn't see anything over the walls. I made a note to go up early tomorrow to see if I can see more, and take some photos.

Back in my room I discovered that the light did not work. The manager and his sister came to fix it and this waas carried out amidst much arguing (it's not the globe, it's the switch. We'll fix it later, he said. No, we'll fix it now, she said, or else it's another thing for us to forget.) and much balancing on the chair which was put on top of the bed. It was finally fixed and off they went, home to take a shower after having been horse-riding all morning, which explained the horsey odour that I had noted. I was curious about where they ride but they said there are lots of stables around, and plenty of parks. They gave me a key to my safe, a key to my room door, and a key to the front door.

It was 3pm by this time so I had a quick wash, unpacked a few things, and set off to explore the surrounding area, armed with a map of course. I only stayed out for an hour - it was so hot, and the pavements crowded with tourists. I came across a small food market so stopped to buy a few supplies, planning to 'eat-in' for my first night.

As the afternoon and evening wore on, I began to realise that the Romans love noise. They adore their car horns and will blow them for any reason - or for none. They don't speak to each other, they shout. Doors are not meant to be closed, they are slammed. They slam room doors, car doors, and front doors. Slamming doors, loud voices, and tooting car horns all vie to be the loudest in the street outside my window. I finally relent and shut the window, which deadens the sounds a little. I just hope that I can sleep for tomorrow I plan on seeing the Colosseo, the Pantheon and Fontana di Trevi.

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