Tag Archives: bus

…And then the South…

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Thursday of our week in Malta and time to take out second bus tour- this time to see the south of the island. Whilst in the ‘Queen Elizabeth’ pub I’d become absorbed by a tourist video of a fishing village. I thought I’d love to go there. It turns out the village is on the bus tour of the south. Hooray! We can stop off and have a quick look. The village is called Marsaxlokk and it’s anybody’s guess how it’s pronounced.

The day is just a little less breezy and slightly warmer than the previous day, when we’d had to sit inside to avoid getting blown to smithereens, so when the open-top comes we clamber upstairs and sit as near to the front, undercover part as we can, which is not under, but nearly!

Our first stop is in Valletta, which is familiar territory by now, then there’s a lot of twisty turns and narrow streets to negotiate before we’re out in the countryside. The outskirts of the city are densely built, blocks of flats piled in, pastel coloured and higgledy-piggledy, a forest of aerials flying above.

Driving out of Valletta this way is a complicated business of circling around each harbour as well as a lot of ups and downs, but at last we’re in the open.

We arrive to Marsaxlokk, stopping at the end of a curving quayside where a string of restaurants are serving luscious looking seafood- and all look busy. We’ve an hour to wander before the next bus comes but first we make for a bakery selling coffee and a range of delicious things. We opt for spherical apple pies and sit in the sunshine. The far end of the quay hosts a tourist market, stalls selling all manner of edibles, ceramics, flags, lace etc

It’s all very beautiful here- and by far the most spectacular sight is the fishing boats, which are painted in bright, primary colours and have a protruding eye of Horus either side of the prow. Most are bobbing about in the little bay but some are drawn up on the slipway or in the process of getting refurbished.

the hour passes quickly and we walk to the bus stop. Soon we’re underway again. We’ve no interest in the ‘Popeye’ village- an ageing film set for the Popeye film, which, I have to admit passed me by when it came out in the early eighties. I’d no idea there was such a film, which apparently starred Robin Williams.

Back in Sliema, we attempt a read by the hotel’s pool, which is across the road, or can be accessed by a tunnel underneath, past the spa and beauty salon. We manage an hour before the cool wind drives us back into the building.

In the evening we decide to try another pub, further down the street. It’s tiny, but looks promising, initially. We order a pizza [Husband] and pasta [me]. There is a loyal gathering of Brits who clearly love this place and return- not only to Malta, but to this pub, year in and out.

The meals come, remarkable only in that they are two of the worst meals out we’ve ever had. We won’t be joining the loyal clientele here…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Breezy Bus to the North

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We’ve to fit two bus tours and a harbour tour into our week in Malta and it’s Wednesday already. But high winds and choppy seas have anchored the harbour boat, so a bus trip it is, to enable us to see as much of the island as possible. The tour of the north includes a visit to Mdina, Malta’s old capital, which is perfect. We can have an hour looking at this ancient city and get on to the next bus, which allegedly comes round in an hour’s time.

We head into the inside of the bus, since it’s neither warm nor calm enough to sit upstairs in the open, although a few hardy souls are attempting it. Once we get underway, some of them decamp down inside, looking battered!

I like getting a chance to see some of the interior of the island. I always like to see what grows and how the people live. The rural areas are criss-crossed with dry stone walls, much like our Dorset, UK countryside, except that it’s divided up into much smaller areas like allotments.

The roads around Mdina are very busy and once we get to the approach road, on a hillside, we’re down to inching upwards towards the top. We’d seen the walled city as we approached as it’s set up high in the landscape.

We’re dropped outside the walls by a kind of park, where patient horses are waiting for sightseers to take up an offer of a carriage ride. There’s a public toilet here, but judging by the queues- [especially for the women’s, as usual] it may be the one and only opportunity, so we have to use some of our precious hour to queue up.

There’s a short bridge over a moat then we’re in through the gate and it would be like stepping back to medieval times were it not for the throngs of tourists everywhere. There’s more shelter from the stiff breeze here inside the walls and it’s pleasantly warm. Horses and carriages clatter around the streets, looming up alarmingly from unexpected corners. We stroll. It isn’t a large city but the buildings are magnificent- in particular a church with a most beautiful, painted ceiling. Further up the street we emerge into a small square and a portion of wall that can be walked upon. There is a smattering of gift shops, although it isn’t too commercialised.

An hour is long enough to get a flavour of Mdina, so we wander back and across the bridge to the park, where the loo queue is as long as ever. Husband, of course, reappears in no time and goes over towards the area of bus stops, little knowing that my queue extends inside the toilet block. When I emerge he is shouting for me to hurry as the bus is about to leave and he’s prevented the driver from leaving- phew!

We stop at a few more places pass by some of the large resorts that dot the north coast, like St Paul’s bay. Looking at these, I’m glad we’re based at Sliema as the weather isn’t lending itself to lolling around on a sun lounger.

Later, we walk down the road to ‘Giorgio’s’, where we get a very delicious meal. We still have a bus trip and a harbour tour to fit into our week.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Bus Trials [again!]

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So it transpires that our neighbour at Bagwell Farm camp site, Chickerell, Raymond, is something of an institution, as having sorted out the electricity problem, he’s off hobnobbing with all and sundry. Clearly, he spends a great deal of time here and is to be spotted most of the day, sitting outside his caravan awning chatting to other ‘regulars’. It’s that kind of site. In contrast, the single man in the caravan the other side of us is reclusive to the point of hermit-dom, appearing rarely and furtively [and clad only in scruffy shorts].

But we’re here to enjoy the walks and the coast path and having undertaken quite a hefty hike yesterday, we’ll take a day off and get a bus to Abbotsbury, which is famous for its swannery, of course, [https://abbotsburyswannery.co.uk/ ] but has other, lesser known bits of interest.

It should be easy. We’ve used the bus service on many, many occasions back and forth along this part of the coast. And the bus stop is down on the main road, near the unpatronised Victoria pub we’ve already investigated. Husband, who is the maestro of all things timetable, has looked at bus times and selected one for us. We stroll down the field and to the stop by the silent pub and the busy road. A man rides out behind us on a mower and begins to cut the grass around the pub. We wait…and wait. An inspection of the bus stop timetable affords no help- since not only do the times bear no relation to Husband’s online timetable, they bear no relation to reality-

I begin to tire of standing still. We begin to discuss how long we should wait. I sit down. It’s a warm afternoon. After about 40 minutes [far too long!] we opt for returning to site. We get as far as the gate to the field and…yes…there is a bus. It pulls up at the stop. We make our attempt to run towards it in full view of the driver…we get to within 50 yards of the bus…and…it pulls away.

Having returned to the van and regrouped, not to be beaten, we try again, even though the afternoon is slipping by and we’ll need to return at some stage.

Finally we get on to a [very busy] bus and get to Abbotsbury, where we alight and attempt to discern the timetable for the bus back to Chickerell. I need hardly say that it is all nonsensical. We wander the lovely, picture-perfect village. We don’t have long, but we stumble upon Abbotsbury Abbey, which is delightful, with a ‘cut-your-own’ flower shop, a beautiful mill pond, the semi-ruined abbey and a cafe which is just about to close but will sell us drinks and cake to take away [hooray!]. We settle at a bench in the sunshine by the pond.

It’s time to meander back to the dastardly bus stop, opposite the pub. The bus stop bench is occupied so I lower myself on to a log by a gate from which chickens are coming and going- a more interesting diversion than the mower. At least this time there are fellow hopeful passengers. Husband bemoans the fact that we don’t have time for the pub, which appears a great deal more inviting than the Victoria.

At last, however, a bus comes. Perhaps there is some mysterious deity after all…

The Beastly Buses of Bilbao

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We’ve had a brilliant time at the Guggenheim Gallery in Bilbao, looking at a magnificent pop-art exhibition. Now we retrace our steps to Bilbao’s ‘international’ bus station to get the first of the two buses we need to take, back to our camp site at Islares.

The buses themselves are on the ground floor of the station and we enter on the first floor. But I notice there are ticket barriers, which I mention to Husband, who shrugs and tells me we can pay on the bus. This is what we did when we came. We paid the driver. But how are we to get through the ticket barriers?

We go around to the back and spot a staircase. Hooray! We can go downstairs to the buses, which we do. And there- THERE is our bus- the bus to Castro Urdiales that we need to take to get another bus back to Islares. It’s the 5.00pm bus, which is perfect timing. We join the queue and soon it moves along as people begin to board the bus, their tickets being checked by the driver. Then it’s our turn. But no- we can’t board the bus. We don’t have a ticket. We are turned away.

We dash upstairs to the first floor and to the manned icket windows. ‘No’ says the ticket seller, ‘you can pay the driver’. ‘But we can’t!’ we tell her. And she shrugs.

5.oopm comes and goes- and so does the bus.

While we are standing helpless and hopeless we are joined by the Dutch couple from our site- the ones who’d turned up after us and had eaten paella in the restaurant as we had. Now the four of us are attempting to get back to Islares. We turn our attention to the ticket machines, a row of them along a wall. They are not all identical but we try a few. We press buttons. Some destinations appear on a list. Castro Urdiales, however, is not among them.

We return to the ticket windows, where we are variously told to pay the driver, shrugged at or ignored. By now we have bonded with the friendly Dutch couple, united in our difficulties. We all return to the machines. Then we’re joined by a kind Nigerian who seems very keen to help- for a while, although as he tries machines and accompanies us to the ticket windows it becomes clear that his attempts to help are eclipsed by his ignorance of the entire procedure. We are no further on with our ticket purchasing. And the next bus is the 6.00pm.

We return to the windows with no improvement in results. ‘Why doesn’t she help us?’ says the Dutch lady- and it is a mystery.

Then we get a breakthrough. One of the ticket machines- one of the smaller ones at the end of the line- displays our stop, Castro Urdiales. Eureka! We quickly begin buying tickets, using credit cards. It has to be done one by one. Then we’re done and have 4 tickets! But there’s a wait now for the six o’clock bus, so we repair to the bar and chat.

At last we board our bus, quieter now than the 5pm one. We set off for Castro Urdiales, with deteriorating weather. Once we reach the town we peer out to look for the bullring, then we’re there; the bus parks and we get out and go to our stop, although we must wait on the opposite side of the road. Sadly, although it’s now raining, the side where we must wait has no bus shelter- and it’s also become much colder. We’ve no idea of the bus schedule, but a look on the internet suggests there won’t be a bus for about an hour. An hour!

There’s nowhere close to retreat to- not a bar or a coffee shop where we could see a bus approaching. We sit in the bus shelter, ready to leap across the road should a bus come. We get very cold but are glad of the company of our new Dutch friends. Now and again a taxi zooms by and I wave madly- and in vain.

At long last the bus arrives and we can get back to Islares. By the time we’re there the rain is falling in bucketloads and it’s gone 8pm. We all go to the cafe and have a convivial meal.

Next day we’re off to the ferry at Santander. Our friends have not emerged so I leave them a note. Then we drive away and to the port for the [tedious] sailing home to the UK-

Needless to add- I did not photograph any of our grim return journey, so instead I’ve added some more pop-art!

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Affronts on Several Fronts

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The day after the bramble debacle at Symondsbury, Husband’s wounds are on the mend, however we select the road option, rather than the footpath, for a walk into the village and a look round. It is all very cute in an ‘olde English’ way, yellow stone cottages with roses round the door, a rustic church, apple trees laden with fruit. Many of the cottages, though are holiday lets.

A signpost points to Symondsbury Estate and while I imagine this to be an unglamorous, new development on the outskirts of the village it is, in fact an attractive collection of buildings clustered around a square of gardens with a cafe, gallery and craft shops.

The gallery is so new as to be still in the setting up process, but is clearly displaying the work of a single artist and he is there. He’s painted the same view, a forest, many times over in different seasons and weather conditions. ‘Like David Hockney’ I say, since I know that Hockney has himself done this at his Normandy home- painted the same woodland scene in different conditions. The artist snorts in contempt- ‘David Hockney!’ he splutters. But a nearby woman [his wife?] quietly tells him that Hockney has produced some paintings this way- and he becomes silent. I feel it’s time to leave and we continue to the next unit, which has a collection of lovely textiles and items made from them.

From here, we find a path that leads into Bridport. This time it’s not a lethal mud slope to tip us into the brambles, but a meander across grass fields and an ancient sunflower field then on across a river and up a lane. Then we’re on to the outskirts of Bridport. We’ve visited quite a few times, so we’re not exploring on this occasion but take a short stroll up the main street, searching for a bakery without success, before returning to the supermarket to pick up a couple of items before climbing on the bus for a convenient ride back to our site.

We’ve booked a table at the village pub for our evening meal, [open tonight, unlike last night]. The Ilchester Arms has a modest menu but everything is delicious and I’m glad I chose the smaller portion of chicken for my main meal. Neither of us can cope with desert.

For our second day we’re off to Lyme Regis, again by bus, although when it arrives to our camp site stop it’s already almost full. Lyme is a very popular destination for summer visitors and when we arrive in the centre, the driver having negotiated the narrow, twisty street, the pavements, promenade, street and shops are all teeming with tourists.

Husband has suggested pasties on the beach for lunch today- an idea I’m not about to dismiss, so we head to the nearest pasty shop- one of about 5 pasty outlets along the main street- and take our still-warm pasties to the pebbly beach. We perch on the sea wall and keep a close eye on the marauding gulls which swoop and stalk around us in a menacing way. I’ve read that you should stare them out, which does seem to be successful in keeping them at bay.

We have a quick stroll then we’re getting the bus again, this time on to Axminster, which we’ve driven through many times but not stopped to examine.

It doesn’t take long to realise there’s a reason we’ve not stopped here before. Poor Axminster, whilst not unpleasant, has little to offer. A swift walk around the tiny centre, with its nice enough church, an attempt to get a coffee in a courtyard cafe where the woman serving is too busy chatting to akcnowledge our presence and a visit to the community hub-that’s about it; except for one outstanding feature. Down on the path to the station there is a patch of the most delicious blackberries we’ve tasted for years…

Then it’s back to Symondsbury-

Grace is the alter ego of novelist and short story writer, Jane Deans. To date I have two published novels to my name: The Conways at Earthsend [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Conways-at-Earthsend-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B08VNQT5YC/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2ZHXO7687MYXE&keywords=the+conways+at+earthsend&qid=1673350649&sprefix=the+conways+at+earthsend%2Caps%2C79&sr=8-1 and The Year of Familiar Strangers [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Year-Familiar-Strangers-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B00EWNXIFA/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2EQHJGCF8DSSL&keywords=The+year+of+familiar+strangers&qid=1673350789&sprefix=the+year+of+familiar+strangers%2Caps%2C82&sr=8-1 Visit my writer Facebook page [https://www.facebook.com/search/top?q=jane%20deans%2C%20novellist%2C%20short%20fiction%20and%20blog or my website: https://www.janedeans.com/

Back into Oxford-

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We’re undertaking a rain spattered bus tour of Oxford, sharing the top deck with a couple from Sidney. This typical British weather won’t be what they’re used to and I’m sad for them- or perhaps it’s a novelty and renders their experience more authentically British?

Our bouncy, enthusiastic guide, Catherine keeps us interested with plenty of anecdotes and by making references to our respective home locations. She knows plenty about everywhere, seemingly and hails from Somerset, herself. As we make our soggy way through the streets and past the individual colleges she provides us with a ‘who’s where’ of writers, artists, politicians, artists and otherwise famous people who attended them. There’s a comical moment when she mentions Boris Johnson and Husband interjects with ‘BOO!’ causing much hilarity from the Australian couple.

We’re not tempted to ‘hop-on-hop-off’, or certainly not to hop off, although the Australian pair alight when we pull into the bus station, taking their wheeled cases with them and off to Scotland, as the woman tells me.

It’s day 2 of our mini stay at the club site just on the outskirts of the city of Oxford and the morning arrives with much improved weather. After our previous day’s soggy walkabout we dined in the local pub- a perfectly acceptable pub meal- and all is well.

For this next day we’re meeting family members at the park and ride and heading back into city for a closer look at some of the colleges and historic buildings. After meeting up we clamber on to a double-decker bus and up the stairs to the top. The front seats are empty! In our dotage, we’ve all regressed to childhood in our delight in sitting on top at the front for the bus ride, enjoying a wonderful sense of almost-vertigo as the tall vehicle rounds corners, lurching like a galleon on the sea, and we’re able to peer down into peoples’ gardens or into top floor windows.

We alight in the city centre. Husband, who has a map, becomes the navigator. As usual I’m having to run to catch up most of the time due to photographing things [Husband has never been one to pause for photographical activities]. We get to look at a lot of things we passed on the ‘open-top’ and viewed through rain-streaked windows but this time the sun is out and even warm.

Today we can take ourselves to a restaurant and enjoy a long, leisurley lunch and we opt for a French bistro down a little side street, https://www.pierrevictoire.co.uk/find-us/. It’s great food in a rustic space that feels comfortable and intimate- ideal for catch-up chats.

There’s more wandering after lunch, although nobody feels like a long hike, or clambering up the ‘motte’ of the old castle which is surrounded by paths and also flanked by the historic jail.

Eventually we’re back at Queen’s College and the little old coffee shop, feeling it would be churlish not to stop for tea and cake before we amble to the bus stop for another lurching, swaying ride back to the park and ride. There’s more tea at the van and we bid our goodbyes. Home tomorrow…

Grace is the alter ego of novelist and short story writer, Jane Deans. To date I have two published novels to my name: The Conways at Earthsend [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Conways-at-Earthsend-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B08VNQT5YC/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2ZHXO7687MYXE&keywords=the+conways+at+earthsend&qid=1673350649&sprefix=the+conways+at+earthsend%2Caps%2C79&sr=8-1 and The Year of Familiar Strangers [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Year-Familiar-Strangers-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B00EWNXIFA/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2EQHJGCF8DSSL&keywords=The+year+of+familiar+strangers&qid=1673350789&sprefix=the+year+of+familiar+strangers%2Caps%2C82&sr=8-1 Visit my writer Facebook page [https://www.facebook.com/search/top?q=jane%20deans%2C%20novellist%2C%20short%20fiction%20and%20blog or my website: https://www.janedeans.com/

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For our first foray by van this year I know I’m bound to forget something and of course, I do. In spite of copious list-making, notes to myself and references to our inventory we get as far as the supermarket before realising I’ve neglected to pack a bottom sheet for the bed. I’d been congratulating myself on even remembering the bedding itself- having once forgotten all of it- when it dawned on me, half way down the first aisle of Saunsbury’s. But all was not lost and I picked up a perfectly serviceable cotton sheet in the bedding aisle for £6 [a spare, white cotton, fitted sheet is always useful].

The weather is kind and it feels good to be off in the van- even if only for a couple of days and not very far. We’re going to Oxford, a mere two of hours away, to a site we’ve stayed in before which is conveniently next to the ‘park and ride’. Oxford is notorious for its lack of parking, snarled up streets and throngs of sightseers, making bus travel into city essential.

For non UK readers, Oxford is well known for its historic, 900 year old university and has been called ‘city of dreaming spires’, a description coined by the poet Matthew Arnold. The beautiful college buildings are spread over a wide area, some open to visitors to wander inside the gate and gawp at the splendid quadrangles in honey-coloured stone. Oxford has been a popular film location for many years, providing the set for Harry Potter films and much of Philip Pullman’s Northern Lights trilogy, among other productions.

First we settle into our pre-booked pitch and have a gentle wander around our immediate locale, where there’s a weir and canal boats moored. The site is almost always busy but we’re here mid-week. A weekend stay would be impossible in this popular spot. In the evening we stroll along the main road to the nearest pub, which is perfectly adequate for an evening meal next day.

The next day we wake to a gloomy start, with grey clouds and an ominous sky. This does not bother the ducks on the grass outside the van, who wait for the staff member to unlock the office and head inside to pester him for breakfast- a well-rehearsed morning ritual.

But we’re not too downhearted, as for the time being we’re not going to walk much and had already planned to use the open-top bus. It’s a strategy we sometimes employ for looking at cities, giving us a chance to choose what we’ll come back to and providing us with an interesting [hopefully] and informative narrative.

We get to use our [oldies’] bus passes for the journey into town then, having located the bus tour office we clamber on and up. We’re fortunate. The covered area at the front of the bus has only two occupied seats. Catherine, our guide follows us upstairs. We’ve earphones but they’re not necessary as she’s sitting behind us!

Regular readers will have learned about Elton, our reluctant guide on Cape Verde [https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/118951799/posts/4623291456] but Catherine is everything that Elton was not; well-informed, enthusiastic, engaging and fun. Our top deck just has ourselves, an Australian couple and herself so we can sit back and enjoy the ride, the stories and the views through the rain-streaked windows…

Grace is the alter ego of novelist and short story writer, Jane Deans. To date I have two published novels to my name: The Conways at Earthsend [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Conways-at-Earthsend-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B08VNQT5YC/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2ZHXO7687MYXE&keywords=the+conways+at+earthsend&qid=1673350649&sprefix=the+conways+at+earthsend%2Caps%2C79&sr=8-1 and The Year of Familiar Strangers [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Year-Familiar-Strangers-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B00EWNXIFA/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2EQHJGCF8DSSL&keywords=The+year+of+familiar+strangers&qid=1673350789&sprefix=the+year+of+familiar+strangers%2Caps%2C82&sr=8-1 Visit my writer Facebook page [https://www.facebook.com/search/top?q=jane%20deans%2C%20novellist%2C%20short%20fiction%20and%20blog or my website: https://www.janedeans.com/

Alghero and the Wonderful, Watery Caves of Neptune

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The boat to the Grotte di Nettuno, off the quayside at Alghero, Sardinia is just about to leave when we make a spontaneous decision to buy tickets and get on board. There’s just enough room inside the boat’s seating area, although when we choose a seat a couple across the aisle shoo us away, which is a mystery, since nobody else takes the seat. It’s a forty-five minutes or so trip, the first part simply going out to sea but then it becomes much more interesting as we near huge limestone cliffs with interesting formations and caves.

The boat begins to pull into a bay, which has us wondering where on earth the caves can be, but it is merely stopping to pick up more passengers. Once they’re on we round a gigantic rock and into a rocky inlet. Along the cliff side there’s a tiny walkway with people clambering along it, up and down- another way to access the grotte.

Once we’re off the boat there’s a mass of tourists to buy tickets- because of course, the boat trip does not include entry to the caves. There are a lot of visitors, and very little in the way of orderly queuing but we get our tickets [and with a concession for old age. I ask the ticket seller how he knows we’re eligible and he tells me; ‘because you are nice’…]

Even in this outer part of the caves the sight is other-worldly. But as we climb the steps and begin to make our way around it’s clear these are no ordinary caves. They are magic! The stalactites and stalagmites, the columns, the pools and the reflections are extraordinary and breath-taking. And it’s extensive, the path winding round and round and sometimes we must duck and walk bent over as we wind around the caverns and pools.

We eventually emerge and there’s a boat to meet us, stopping as before to disgorge some of the passengers.

Back at Alghero, there’s little time to explore the town as we need to get our bus back to site. We’ll return next day.

In the event, the following day we wait at the bus stop opposite the site as before and wait…and wait. It’s hot. We’re on the point of giving up when a bus appears and pulls up. Hooray! But then the driver gives us a stern look and points at his face, which is partly covered by a mask, of course- masks being still obligatory here on public transport. We are wearing our masks. I point to mine, in case he is mistaking it for my face. He shakes his head. Apparently we are wearing the wrong sort of masks. Who knew? Certainly not yesterday’s bus driver. He pulls away without opening the door. We wait.

A kind Irishman, also waiting, gives us the ‘correct’ masks. Another bus comes, eventually. In the town we find the phone shop the lady at tourist info told us about and get a replacement memory card for my camera plus a SIM card for our mobile wifi device.

The old town of Alghero is quaint, though not extensive and we feel we’ve done it after an hour or two. The historic area is behind substantial walls by the port. We get our bus [without incident this time] and return to site. I have the tricky task of getting the damaged memory card out of my camera and downloading the photos into my laptop, which goes fine until I need to remove the card from the computer, when it leaves the broken part inside the slot. I do manage to remove it but clearly the slot is damaged.

Then again, the Italian SIM card does not work. Hmmmmmm…………

A Wander in West Sussex

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Having regrouped from our debacle in Iceland, picked ourselves up and dusted down we opt for a modest, local jaunt in our campervan. It’s a while since we packed and prepped for such a trip so I resort to consulting our inventory list in the certain knowledge that we’ll have forgotten something. A few years ago we arrived to one of our favourite Isle of Purbeck sites to discover I’d loaded no bedding of any description, which resulted in a visit to Swanage’s one and only duvet and sheet stockists.

This March has come in like the proverbial lion, with ferocious, biting winds. At least the abortive Iceland trip was good for something, in that we amassed excellent cold weather gear. The van itself is cosy and warm- [warmer than our house!]. Also I’m reminded that the Ukrainian refugees are fleeing their war-torn country in icy, snowy conditions with their babies and all they can carry.

On our way back from Gatwick last month, the train passed through Emsworth, leading us to consider returning to have a look. It’s a modest distance from our home but not an area we’ve explored much so we’ve headed there, to a site at ‘Southbourne’, not the Southbourne, Bournemouth we moved from 5 years ago…

For our first day we wrap up well and walk down to the coast path and along to Emsworth, which is either a large village or a tiny town. It’s attractive, with a pretty harbour and not a lot else, including shopping, so I give up on the soft toothbrush I was hoping to pick up [having- yes- neglected to pack mine]. We get a coffee outside a small harbourfront cafe, sitting in a sunny, sheltered spot then it’s a short bus ride back to Southbourne.

Next day we opt for a visit to Chichester, accessed by a bus ride in the opposite direction. On the bus a single, portly, mature man feels the need to chat, starting with harmless remarks about bus stops and gradually progressing to rants about his pension, his dentist, his rent and why doesn’t everyone vote Conservative, at which point I no longer feel able to nod and murmur and I’m praying for his stop to be soon, please…When he gets up to leave the bus the woman who’d sat behind him is moved to tell me ‘Well that’s lucky…’ I also noticed that Husband, who’d been lucky to have taken the window seat, had found the passing countryside totally absorbing throughout the man’s diatribe.

We alight right beside Chichester’s magnificent cathedral but don’t enter as a recital is taking place. Instead we walk through the cloisters with their barrel-vaulted ceilings and the close- all very scenic. Then it’s a stroll of the streets and a quick look in a gallery or two. It’s a beautiful city with many historic pieces of architecture, including a wonderful market cross. There’s just time for a look at the Bishop’s Palace Gardens before we head back and the garden is extensive, although it’s too early in the year for many colourful displays.

The return bus is full to the gunnels, mostly with schoolchildren who act just exactly as you would expect groups of adolescents to-

Then we’re off to the pub, just a step along the road, for a very acceptable meal. We’re gearing up to move on to the next site in the morning…

Australia: The Long, Hot Road South

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We were on the next leg of our Australian Odyssey, travelling by bus, a seven hour road trip. In the previous post I described how our driver made what could have been a tedious and tiring journey a fascinating and enlightening seven hours by sharing stories and radio clips as well as entertaining facts. The beginning of our drive was early- and dark, meaning that visibilty was limited and as the driver explained, roadkill was inevitable along the road, even though traffic was sparse. Enormous ‘land trains’ are not designed to make emergency stops.

There were breaks along the way at lonely cafes where we could buy meals and drinks as well as art and craft work by indigenous Australians, who were sometimes around, seated outside. The sun’s heat was as unrelenting as the red, dusty road was straight.

We arrived to our stop at King’s Canyon National Park, where we were to undertake a guided walk. As we descended from the cool of the bus the heat assaulted us. Our guide explained that we must choose between a shorter, less taxing walk or a longer, more arduous one. We needed to make this choice on the basis of how fit we were, as if we chose the longer route we’d have to carry at least 2 litres of water. We judged that we could manage the longer hike, a smaller group. Before we got going we were advised not to gulp down large amounts of water but to sip, swigging leading to the necessity for bladder emptying- not a convenient situation out here in the bush. I must point out here, however, that those of us who are used to camping are also used to dealing with peeing outdoors. I’d say the guide was more concerned with leaving the landscape unsullied than our sensibilities.

It was hot. The walk was, at times, hard. Sometimes we had to clamber up and down. There was a point when, on the way down some rocks, I inadvertently trod on a snake. We’d been specifically warned to avoid them, but whilst negotiating a steep descent I hadn’t seen the small, black, wriggling creature and it fell foul of my boot. Horrors! I watched aghast as it threw itself out of the path. At least I hadn’t murdered it- although Husband issued a stern admonishment!

There were some wonderful views, including a pristine pool- astonishing in the desert environment- the reflections beautiful. There were also beautiful birds and flowering plants, eking out a living in this parched, unforgiving environment. The rock stacks and ravines towered or plunged, the colours changing through a varying palette of russet, ochre and deep red. It was worth the effort- the climbs and the seering heat, to see such an astonishing place.

We returned to the bus, filthy from sweat and dust but jubilant from having completed the hike. Then it was on to our next destination, Alice Springs, for a stopover and I was looking forward to seeing such an iconic town…

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook.