After spending my first night in the hostel bar, not really moving from the pool table, I woke up wanting to get out and see the city. The hostel I'm staying at offers a free walking tour of the city, and although I usually tend to avoid that sort of thing I'm really glad I went on it. I got a lot of historical and cultural information about Munich, and our guide also took us to a great food market, where I got an amazing roast pork roll, a frothy beer and some authentic German gummi bears.
When the tour came to an end I teamed up with Neil, a Scottish guy, and Mandy, an American girl, and we went to the Hofbrauhaus - the most famous of Munich's many beer halls. I couldn't believe that I had been in Italy only one day before, because the Hofbrauhaus is probably the most German place in the world. Three litre-sized glasses of beer (called a maß) were plonked down on our table, we ordered a massive, doughy pretzel, and then after a heartfelt 'prost' we got down to some drinking as an oompah band played on in the background.
Munich is in Bavaria - the most 'German' area of Germany in terms of cultural stereotypes like laderhosen, beer drinking, big moustaches and so on. It seems to me that these Bavarians have really got things sussed out; the most important things in the world are beer and a wide array of tasty pork products to tuck into whilst drinking your beer. By law you can drink a litre of beer during your working day. You can bring your dog to work, and it's perfectly legal to wander the streets with a bottle of beer in your hand (which we did ourselves). I need to come back here for Oktoberfest. Or maybe to live...
Friday 28 March 2008
Thursday 27 March 2008
Munich - Day Twenty Three
The train ride from Milan to Munich (Verona to Munich more specifically) was the most impressive of my journey so far. Picture postcard Italian landscapes of pretty vineyards, rolling hills, crisp blue lakes and distant mountains gradually gave way to the towering Alps of Austria.
Huge, gravity defying road bridges are built far higher than they have to be, as if the engineers were just trying to prove a point. As the snowy peaks of Austria begin to fall, there is a definite change in the feel of the landscape, and things feel a little more Bavarian; with forests of pine trees and well organised German villages.
I had the sort of six person, compartmentalised train carriage that I always think of when I imagine European rail travel (it felt like I was in a classic movie, or a Poirot thriller), and I was lucky enough to share it with Saskia and Gijs - Dutch students who have been on a hitchhiking competition with nineteen other two-person teams from their university in Utrecht. They had both spent the last week or so hitching down from the Netherlands through Germany and Austria to Italy. They hadn't won the competition, but that wasn't the point at all; along the way they had experienced huge amounts of kindness from so many people - often being put up for the night, or taken home and fed by the drivers who had given them lifts.
They were recovering from a big party in Italy the night before, and were taking there first train journey of their trip so far. They picked a good one; the scenery was spectacular and it was a beautiful sunny day. I was almost sad to get off the train in Munich.
Huge, gravity defying road bridges are built far higher than they have to be, as if the engineers were just trying to prove a point. As the snowy peaks of Austria begin to fall, there is a definite change in the feel of the landscape, and things feel a little more Bavarian; with forests of pine trees and well organised German villages.
I had the sort of six person, compartmentalised train carriage that I always think of when I imagine European rail travel (it felt like I was in a classic movie, or a Poirot thriller), and I was lucky enough to share it with Saskia and Gijs - Dutch students who have been on a hitchhiking competition with nineteen other two-person teams from their university in Utrecht. They had both spent the last week or so hitching down from the Netherlands through Germany and Austria to Italy. They hadn't won the competition, but that wasn't the point at all; along the way they had experienced huge amounts of kindness from so many people - often being put up for the night, or taken home and fed by the drivers who had given them lifts.
They were recovering from a big party in Italy the night before, and were taking there first train journey of their trip so far. They picked a good one; the scenery was spectacular and it was a beautiful sunny day. I was almost sad to get off the train in Munich.
Milan - Day Twenty Two
With no room mates to wake me up, I slept late for the first time in ages, and didn't head out to town until the early afternoon. Milan is fairly flat, and the buildings are all quite high, so it's hard to get your bearings as you walk the streets. I came out of my hostel with no idea at all where I was or where any of the interesting stuff was, so I opted for my 'old faithful' method of picking a direction and walking hopefully until I find something.
For once old faithful worked swimmingly. After about half an hour of being convinced I was lost, I stumbled upon Il Duomo, Milan's landmark cathedral. It is the biggest gothic cathedral in the world, with space for 40,000 people inside apparently. When you're travelling you see a lot of cathedrals, and they can start to fell a bit samey, but this is definitely a good'un.
Italy definitely feels like the most foreign place I've visited so far. Part of this is the language barrier - which is frankly embarrassing, I didn't even know how to say "I can't speak Italian" until I'd left the country - but I also get the feeling that the baggy jeans and dirty hoody look is not going to be lighting up the catwalks this season. Several people had a slow, meaningful look up and down of me as I was waiting at traffic lights or in shops, and it seemed that my lack of Prada left a bitter taste in their mouths.
I enjoyed dodging crazy Italians on scooters, admiring the fashionable passers-by and trying to avoid the more impressive arguments going on around me in my brief stay in Milan, but this has really only been a chance for me to relax and recharge myself. I'll come back and see Italy properly soon...
For once old faithful worked swimmingly. After about half an hour of being convinced I was lost, I stumbled upon Il Duomo, Milan's landmark cathedral. It is the biggest gothic cathedral in the world, with space for 40,000 people inside apparently. When you're travelling you see a lot of cathedrals, and they can start to fell a bit samey, but this is definitely a good'un.
Italy definitely feels like the most foreign place I've visited so far. Part of this is the language barrier - which is frankly embarrassing, I didn't even know how to say "I can't speak Italian" until I'd left the country - but I also get the feeling that the baggy jeans and dirty hoody look is not going to be lighting up the catwalks this season. Several people had a slow, meaningful look up and down of me as I was waiting at traffic lights or in shops, and it seemed that my lack of Prada left a bitter taste in their mouths.
I enjoyed dodging crazy Italians on scooters, admiring the fashionable passers-by and trying to avoid the more impressive arguments going on around me in my brief stay in Milan, but this has really only been a chance for me to relax and recharge myself. I'll come back and see Italy properly soon...
Tuesday 25 March 2008
Milan - Day Twenty One
My train from Lyon to Turin turned out to be a bus. I found this out about five minutes before it was due to leave, and ran to a car park at the back of the station, making it aboard just in time.
Having stashed my bag, I found my seat, and was less than pleased to discover that I was sitting next to a very strange man. His strangeness was strange in itself, because it was threefold. Firstly, he was strangely small. I have seen smaller men, but something about his titchiness was just plain odd. Secondly, he had distinctly strange fingers - chubby, stubby and with gnarly nails. The most remarkable source of his strangeness though was his smell; powerful, elaborate and all-pervading. The five hours we spent next to each other were not five of my best. Especially when he fell asleep with his head on my shoulder. A good old fashioned elbow to the ribs showed him how a Boyne deals with that.
Caught an earlier train than I had expected from Turin to Milan, and felt immediately uncomfortable when I realised that I don't know a single bloody word of Italian beyond ciao and grazie. This should be fun.
Found my way through a dark and deserted Milan to my hostel, Hotel America, having briefly fretted that I'd be stuck on the streets all night. It's run by Giovanni - a strong contender for the nicest hostel owner I have ever met - who gave me hot chocolate and cake, and watched some cheesy films with me and a couple of American girls also staying that night. The Polish guy I was supposed to be sharing with never materialised, so I had a room to myself - an unexpected luxury after three weeks of dorms.
Having stashed my bag, I found my seat, and was less than pleased to discover that I was sitting next to a very strange man. His strangeness was strange in itself, because it was threefold. Firstly, he was strangely small. I have seen smaller men, but something about his titchiness was just plain odd. Secondly, he had distinctly strange fingers - chubby, stubby and with gnarly nails. The most remarkable source of his strangeness though was his smell; powerful, elaborate and all-pervading. The five hours we spent next to each other were not five of my best. Especially when he fell asleep with his head on my shoulder. A good old fashioned elbow to the ribs showed him how a Boyne deals with that.
Caught an earlier train than I had expected from Turin to Milan, and felt immediately uncomfortable when I realised that I don't know a single bloody word of Italian beyond ciao and grazie. This should be fun.
Found my way through a dark and deserted Milan to my hostel, Hotel America, having briefly fretted that I'd be stuck on the streets all night. It's run by Giovanni - a strong contender for the nicest hostel owner I have ever met - who gave me hot chocolate and cake, and watched some cheesy films with me and a couple of American girls also staying that night. The Polish guy I was supposed to be sharing with never materialised, so I had a room to myself - an unexpected luxury after three weeks of dorms.
Monday 24 March 2008
Lyon - Day Twenty
We piled into the van the next morning and tore out of Bourg d'Oisans in a green slushy blur. The mountain roads were beautiful, the music was pumping, and I knew that even though they were heading home, I would be sad to leave the guys after such a short time together. InterRailing on your own is all well and good, but you just can't beat a road trip with your friends.
As the mountains shrank to foothills and the horizon flattened out, I settled down on the bed in the back of the van and must have drifted off, because as I groggily came back to consciousness we had already arrived in Lyon. I woke up this morning with a plan of getting to Lyon and jumping straight on a train to Milan, but Bruce wisely pointed out that I might run into a few problems arriving unprepared and without a reservation in a devoutly Catholic country on Easter Sunday.
The guys dropped me at the tourist information centre in the middle of the city, then drove away as I stood waving and blowing kisses in the middle of Place Bellecour. Alone in a strange city, I climbed a steep hill (the woman in the tourist info place hadn't mentioned that) to the Auberge de Jeunesse that looks out across the old town and the newer city behind.
Lyon crept up on me that day. After booking my ticket to Milan I walked for miles around the city, taking in most of its squares, public places and landmarks. My first thought was that it was very nice but a bit too boring; like a Dairylea Slice, but gradually over the course of the day I realised it was more of a bubbling fondue, with unexpected objects surfacing when you least expected them, and a constantly shifting aroma.
I would be walking down a boring, pedestrianised street that could be any town in Britain, then come across an amazing fountain (the best is in Place des Terreaux, by the guy who made the Eiffel Tower). Another time I was climbing a steep sequence of stairs, heading towards Place de la Croix-Rousse and wondering if it was worth the effort, when I looked back behind me and saw the whole city stretching beneath me - the impressive Notre-Dame de Fourvière cathedral glittering on an adjacent hillside like a decoration on top of an elaborate cake. I took a funicular up the hill that evening at sunset, and was nearly swamped by people as the congregation swept out of an Easter service in a thick, devout tide of bodies.
That night I went for a couple of beers with Ryan and Manuel, a Canadian and Spanish guy I met in my dorm, and we watched the Lyon vs Paris St Germain match in a bar in town. It was Ryan's fist ever 'soccer' match, and he couldn't have picked a better one - a six goal thriller, with a penalty and everything, that Lyon won 4-2, prompting the bar to erupt in happy support.
Made it back up the ridiculous hill at a reasonable hour for once, battling our way through the snow that has been falling with increasing ferocity all day. Tomorrow Milan, and my first taste of Italy.
As the mountains shrank to foothills and the horizon flattened out, I settled down on the bed in the back of the van and must have drifted off, because as I groggily came back to consciousness we had already arrived in Lyon. I woke up this morning with a plan of getting to Lyon and jumping straight on a train to Milan, but Bruce wisely pointed out that I might run into a few problems arriving unprepared and without a reservation in a devoutly Catholic country on Easter Sunday.
The guys dropped me at the tourist information centre in the middle of the city, then drove away as I stood waving and blowing kisses in the middle of Place Bellecour. Alone in a strange city, I climbed a steep hill (the woman in the tourist info place hadn't mentioned that) to the Auberge de Jeunesse that looks out across the old town and the newer city behind.
Lyon crept up on me that day. After booking my ticket to Milan I walked for miles around the city, taking in most of its squares, public places and landmarks. My first thought was that it was very nice but a bit too boring; like a Dairylea Slice, but gradually over the course of the day I realised it was more of a bubbling fondue, with unexpected objects surfacing when you least expected them, and a constantly shifting aroma.
I would be walking down a boring, pedestrianised street that could be any town in Britain, then come across an amazing fountain (the best is in Place des Terreaux, by the guy who made the Eiffel Tower). Another time I was climbing a steep sequence of stairs, heading towards Place de la Croix-Rousse and wondering if it was worth the effort, when I looked back behind me and saw the whole city stretching beneath me - the impressive Notre-Dame de Fourvière cathedral glittering on an adjacent hillside like a decoration on top of an elaborate cake. I took a funicular up the hill that evening at sunset, and was nearly swamped by people as the congregation swept out of an Easter service in a thick, devout tide of bodies.
That night I went for a couple of beers with Ryan and Manuel, a Canadian and Spanish guy I met in my dorm, and we watched the Lyon vs Paris St Germain match in a bar in town. It was Ryan's fist ever 'soccer' match, and he couldn't have picked a better one - a six goal thriller, with a penalty and everything, that Lyon won 4-2, prompting the bar to erupt in happy support.
Made it back up the ridiculous hill at a reasonable hour for once, battling our way through the snow that has been falling with increasing ferocity all day. Tomorrow Milan, and my first taste of Italy.
Sunday 23 March 2008
Alpe d'Huez - Day Nineteen
Waking up to snowy alps, having taken in the surf and sunshine the previous morning, was a bit of a shock to the system, but in a nice way.
We woke up early (frankly, it's a little rude of these guys to expect my body clock to adapt just so they can go snowboarding) and drove up the windy, icy roads from Bourg d'Oisans (were our hotel was) to the bigger, more snowbound Alpe d'Huez. The cars we passed on the road were all sporting snow chains and winter tyres, but we thought that sort of behaviour was distictly unBritish, so pushed on in our low profile summer tyres - the van coping superbly all the way up.
The boys went off up the lifts and I wandered the town. It's all a little touristy (and the coffee's a bit bloody steep), but I had fun wandering about in the snow. That night a foot and a half of powder had fallen, and San Sebastian couldn't have felt further away.
After lunch with the guys, Bruce and I played some pool and wandered around some more while the other two had a last bit of boarding. This has been Oli's first time, and he's walking around with the wide-eyed stare of the recently converted. I was pretty jealous not to have a go myself, but money, insurance and the almost certain odds that I'd instantly hit a tree and have to go back home all kept me at the bottom of the slopes.
That night we went out for a meal and some beers in Bourg d'Oisans, which is not the thriving filthy fleshpot of debauchery you might expect of a small village at the bottom of an Alp. In fact, it's much more like a small quiet village at the bottom of an Alp.
We restrained ourselves to table football, games of shithead, and some daring excursions into experimental organ music in the lounge of our strange little hotel. Where to tomorrow..?
We woke up early (frankly, it's a little rude of these guys to expect my body clock to adapt just so they can go snowboarding) and drove up the windy, icy roads from Bourg d'Oisans (were our hotel was) to the bigger, more snowbound Alpe d'Huez. The cars we passed on the road were all sporting snow chains and winter tyres, but we thought that sort of behaviour was distictly unBritish, so pushed on in our low profile summer tyres - the van coping superbly all the way up.
The boys went off up the lifts and I wandered the town. It's all a little touristy (and the coffee's a bit bloody steep), but I had fun wandering about in the snow. That night a foot and a half of powder had fallen, and San Sebastian couldn't have felt further away.
After lunch with the guys, Bruce and I played some pool and wandered around some more while the other two had a last bit of boarding. This has been Oli's first time, and he's walking around with the wide-eyed stare of the recently converted. I was pretty jealous not to have a go myself, but money, insurance and the almost certain odds that I'd instantly hit a tree and have to go back home all kept me at the bottom of the slopes.
That night we went out for a meal and some beers in Bourg d'Oisans, which is not the thriving filthy fleshpot of debauchery you might expect of a small village at the bottom of an Alp. In fact, it's much more like a small quiet village at the bottom of an Alp.
We restrained ourselves to table football, games of shithead, and some daring excursions into experimental organ music in the lounge of our strange little hotel. Where to tomorrow..?
Saturday 22 March 2008
Alpe d Huez, France - Day Eighteen
I left my hostel at 6.30am and walked the dark streets to the train station, empty at this hour apart from the dregs of revellers from the night before. The first stage of the train track out of town was closed for maintenance, so I had to take a bus to a station further down the line. Took me a while to get on the bus, however, as three drunken guys and one squealing girlfriend were shouting at the driver and kicking the bus doors. After a police car turned up, and the guys started shouting at the cops instead of the bus, I was able to get aboard. Good start. As the bus pulled out of town, the sun began to rise.
14 hours of rail travel lay ahead of me, involving four connecting trains. Until now my experience of the French rail network has been based only on the TGV - the high speed service that runs across the country's main routes. As it turns out, Hendaye to Grenoble is a route that not many people travel. Therefore there aren't any shiny TGV trains, and things are far from high speed.
Every one of the three stations I changed at saw my crappy, uncomfortable old trains rattle their way in with no more than a two minute window to change platforms. I sprinted at Hendaye, I barged my way through Bordeaux, and when I had to get across 6 platforms at Lyon I was shoulderbarging grannies and hurdling small children. Somehow, against all the odds, I made it onto my last train. I still couldn't relax though, because on the previous train I had talked a friendly Belgian girl into letting me make a call on her mobile, and in the brief conversation I had with Oli he casually mentioned there was a chance they would be snowed in and unable to meet me. At this stage in the game, this was not what I wanted to hear. The Belgian girl smiled encouragingly. I smiled not.
Somehow (mainly due to her kindness and patience) I convinced a French girl on the train to Grenoble to let me make another call. We were ten minutes from the station. I was not my usual icy-cool self. The call was answered. I spake unto James, who told me they were waiting at the station. Sheesh.
After many hugs and hellos, we all piled into Bruce's van and headed for the mountains.
14 hours of rail travel lay ahead of me, involving four connecting trains. Until now my experience of the French rail network has been based only on the TGV - the high speed service that runs across the country's main routes. As it turns out, Hendaye to Grenoble is a route that not many people travel. Therefore there aren't any shiny TGV trains, and things are far from high speed.
Every one of the three stations I changed at saw my crappy, uncomfortable old trains rattle their way in with no more than a two minute window to change platforms. I sprinted at Hendaye, I barged my way through Bordeaux, and when I had to get across 6 platforms at Lyon I was shoulderbarging grannies and hurdling small children. Somehow, against all the odds, I made it onto my last train. I still couldn't relax though, because on the previous train I had talked a friendly Belgian girl into letting me make a call on her mobile, and in the brief conversation I had with Oli he casually mentioned there was a chance they would be snowed in and unable to meet me. At this stage in the game, this was not what I wanted to hear. The Belgian girl smiled encouragingly. I smiled not.
Somehow (mainly due to her kindness and patience) I convinced a French girl on the train to Grenoble to let me make another call. We were ten minutes from the station. I was not my usual icy-cool self. The call was answered. I spake unto James, who told me they were waiting at the station. Sheesh.
After many hugs and hellos, we all piled into Bruce's van and headed for the mountains.
San Sebastian - Day Seventeen
On Thursday morning I packed my stuff and headed out of San Sebastian. Despite the weight of my bags I took a longer route than necessary, walking past the surfers at Zurriola beach, across the river and through the centre of town, before heading out to the train station. The sun was shining and a fresh breeze was blowing off the shore, and I had a powerful sense that I was coming down off the crest of a wave.
The last few weeks have been pretty intense. Since that first, long Saturday night in Madrid every night has been a party, and I've been surrounded by funny, interesting people more or less constantly. Walking away from somewhere as beautiful as San Sebastian, and being alone again for the first time in a while, both my rucksack and my heart grew heavier with every step.
I need to push on though, and it's about time I covered a bit more ground. I caught a bus across the border to the French town of Hendaye to book tickets across the country. My brother Oli and his friends (James and Bruce, from that first night in London) are snowboarding in Austria and the French Alps this week, so I queued for about an hour for a ticket to Grenoble, where they could pick me up in Bruce's van. Unfortunately, I hadn't anticipated the sort of mayhem that consumes the French rail network during the Easter holidays. The woman at the desk told me there was literally no way I could leave that day - not even to go to Paris and head back down to Grenoble from there. I booked tickets for a 14 hour day of travelling the next day, then headed back to San Sebastian...
To be honest, despite the frustration of the wasted morning and the hassle of heading from Spain to France and back again in a few hours, I was glad of the chance for one more night in San Sebastian. In the time I had been out of town, the population seemed to have at least doubled as the town filled up with Easter tourists, drawn here for the Semana Santa celebrations. I had real problems trying to get a bed for the night, and in the end had to settle for a knackered old armchair-bed in a run down hostel that seemed to be run by a mad woman. I don't know what language she was speaking (probably Basque, because I'm pretty sure it wasn't Spanish), but whilst she seemed crazy she wasn't stupid - the uncomfortable armchair cost me more than any hostel yet. At that stage I was prepared to take what I could get though.
I bumped into Scott again, and that night we went out for our third 'last night together', along with David - a freelance travel journalist I got chatting to in my new hostel. Had a good night, and for once I managed to exercise a little restraint; I got to bed before 2am.
The last few weeks have been pretty intense. Since that first, long Saturday night in Madrid every night has been a party, and I've been surrounded by funny, interesting people more or less constantly. Walking away from somewhere as beautiful as San Sebastian, and being alone again for the first time in a while, both my rucksack and my heart grew heavier with every step.
I need to push on though, and it's about time I covered a bit more ground. I caught a bus across the border to the French town of Hendaye to book tickets across the country. My brother Oli and his friends (James and Bruce, from that first night in London) are snowboarding in Austria and the French Alps this week, so I queued for about an hour for a ticket to Grenoble, where they could pick me up in Bruce's van. Unfortunately, I hadn't anticipated the sort of mayhem that consumes the French rail network during the Easter holidays. The woman at the desk told me there was literally no way I could leave that day - not even to go to Paris and head back down to Grenoble from there. I booked tickets for a 14 hour day of travelling the next day, then headed back to San Sebastian...
To be honest, despite the frustration of the wasted morning and the hassle of heading from Spain to France and back again in a few hours, I was glad of the chance for one more night in San Sebastian. In the time I had been out of town, the population seemed to have at least doubled as the town filled up with Easter tourists, drawn here for the Semana Santa celebrations. I had real problems trying to get a bed for the night, and in the end had to settle for a knackered old armchair-bed in a run down hostel that seemed to be run by a mad woman. I don't know what language she was speaking (probably Basque, because I'm pretty sure it wasn't Spanish), but whilst she seemed crazy she wasn't stupid - the uncomfortable armchair cost me more than any hostel yet. At that stage I was prepared to take what I could get though.
I bumped into Scott again, and that night we went out for our third 'last night together', along with David - a freelance travel journalist I got chatting to in my new hostel. Had a good night, and for once I managed to exercise a little restraint; I got to bed before 2am.
Wednesday 19 March 2008
San Sebastian - Day Sixteen
San Sebastian is a funky, sunny, surf swept town, and would have been a great next destination after Barcelona if it wasn't for one thing; my utter failure to have a proper detox. One of the reasons for this is that I'm still hanging around with Scott, and when we go out alcohol just seems to fall into our mouths without us having much of a say about it, but the other major factor is that San Sebastian is packed with the sort of bars that demand your attention, respect and dinero.
This area of Spain is famed for it's cuisine, and the reason soon becomes obvious when you wander into any of the city's fantastic 'pintxos' bars. I enjoyed snacking on tapas in Madrid with Aidan, spitting my olive stones on the bar floor like a local, but the pintxos you get here are the big daddies of the tapas world. Your first thought when you wander into a bar here is that you've stumbled into someone's wedding reception buffet and you should just sheepishly back out of the place. Every available area of bar space is crammed with plates of interesting, irresistible treats - skewers of seafood and olives, french bread piled high with cured ham or chorizo, black pudding, any number of cheesy delights and a range of kebabs, sausages and giant prawn skewers that get fried up at your request. Each pintxo costs a couple of Euros or less, so you can gradually scoff down a huge range of local treats as you sip at your caña and hop between bars. When you're finished, you just tell the barman roughly how many pintxos you've devoured and settle up the bill before you leave. I'm going to open one of these bars back home and retire a very rich man...
Yesterday Scott and I climbed to the top of Monte Urgull; a wooded, fortified hill above the city where an imposing statue of Jesus keeps a rocky eye on the locals. The view from the top is pretty impressive, but we picked the only two hour period of the last few days when the sky was overcast to go up and have a look. It was worth the walk though.
Last night we went out for a quiet drink, and (predictably) ended up gorging ourselves on pinxos and putting away more beer than we anticipated. We ended up partying until the early hours with a couple of German girls we bumped into in a bar, and as I'm now in no fit state to travel it looks like I'll be here for another night. Oh well, there are worse places to be stuck...
This area of Spain is famed for it's cuisine, and the reason soon becomes obvious when you wander into any of the city's fantastic 'pintxos' bars. I enjoyed snacking on tapas in Madrid with Aidan, spitting my olive stones on the bar floor like a local, but the pintxos you get here are the big daddies of the tapas world. Your first thought when you wander into a bar here is that you've stumbled into someone's wedding reception buffet and you should just sheepishly back out of the place. Every available area of bar space is crammed with plates of interesting, irresistible treats - skewers of seafood and olives, french bread piled high with cured ham or chorizo, black pudding, any number of cheesy delights and a range of kebabs, sausages and giant prawn skewers that get fried up at your request. Each pintxo costs a couple of Euros or less, so you can gradually scoff down a huge range of local treats as you sip at your caña and hop between bars. When you're finished, you just tell the barman roughly how many pintxos you've devoured and settle up the bill before you leave. I'm going to open one of these bars back home and retire a very rich man...
Yesterday Scott and I climbed to the top of Monte Urgull; a wooded, fortified hill above the city where an imposing statue of Jesus keeps a rocky eye on the locals. The view from the top is pretty impressive, but we picked the only two hour period of the last few days when the sky was overcast to go up and have a look. It was worth the walk though.
Last night we went out for a quiet drink, and (predictably) ended up gorging ourselves on pinxos and putting away more beer than we anticipated. We ended up partying until the early hours with a couple of German girls we bumped into in a bar, and as I'm now in no fit state to travel it looks like I'll be here for another night. Oh well, there are worse places to be stuck...
Sunday 16 March 2008
San Sebastian - Day Thirteen
I finally did it; somehow I have made it out of Barcelona. I tried booking trains to the South of France and was foiled by French rail strikes, and I tried to catch a 19 hour ferry to Rome but was thwarted by crowds of holidaymaking Spaniards booking every seat on the boat. In the end, I have had to slightly retrace my steps and am now back in the Basque country, in San Sebastian in Northern Spain.
Scott, my Australian mate from Hostel Kabul in Barcelona, and I caught a sleeper train last night and arrived in sunny San Sebastian this morning. It seems like a great town, but at the moment I'm just impatiently killing time before I can check into my hostel and have a long overdue shower.
After the sort of stay we had in the Kabul, our last night in town had to be a special one (especially being a Saturday night). We started with a few drinking games in the hostel bar - joined by Shelby and Lesley, the Canadian girls from the other night, as well as a selection of good friends from the hostel, including Ben, Andie, Vidtoria, Gustavo, Stephan, Paddy and Leandro, amongst others. We headed to town and joined up on an organised pub crawl - which sounds a lot tackier than it actually was! Went to about four bars and ended up at a club called Sunset, down at the waterside. We hooked up with a group of American girls on the pub crawl and partied well into the morning. I managed to make it down to breakfast for the first time in my stay, purely because I didn't get to sleep that night. I fumblingly packed my stuff and checked out of my room while I was still feeling tipsy, forgetting to have a shower before locking my bag in the safe room. This would prove to be a serious oversight.
Andie, one of the girls from Kabul, let me grab a brief powernap in her bed that afternoon while she went out shopping, but I didn't manage more than an hour and a half...
Sunday developed into a peaceful last day of chilling in the sunshine of Kabul's roof terrace and saying my goodbyes, despite gradually suffering more and more for the night before. When Scott and I finally left for the station at about 8.30pm and were waived off by a big table full of friends it felt like leaving a new found family behind. I'm going to miss that place.
Was excited about bunking down in the sleeper car of my train last night, but I do feel sorry for the people I shared it with. I wonder if they'll let me have that shower now...
Scott, my Australian mate from Hostel Kabul in Barcelona, and I caught a sleeper train last night and arrived in sunny San Sebastian this morning. It seems like a great town, but at the moment I'm just impatiently killing time before I can check into my hostel and have a long overdue shower.
After the sort of stay we had in the Kabul, our last night in town had to be a special one (especially being a Saturday night). We started with a few drinking games in the hostel bar - joined by Shelby and Lesley, the Canadian girls from the other night, as well as a selection of good friends from the hostel, including Ben, Andie, Vidtoria, Gustavo, Stephan, Paddy and Leandro, amongst others. We headed to town and joined up on an organised pub crawl - which sounds a lot tackier than it actually was! Went to about four bars and ended up at a club called Sunset, down at the waterside. We hooked up with a group of American girls on the pub crawl and partied well into the morning. I managed to make it down to breakfast for the first time in my stay, purely because I didn't get to sleep that night. I fumblingly packed my stuff and checked out of my room while I was still feeling tipsy, forgetting to have a shower before locking my bag in the safe room. This would prove to be a serious oversight.
Andie, one of the girls from Kabul, let me grab a brief powernap in her bed that afternoon while she went out shopping, but I didn't manage more than an hour and a half...
Sunday developed into a peaceful last day of chilling in the sunshine of Kabul's roof terrace and saying my goodbyes, despite gradually suffering more and more for the night before. When Scott and I finally left for the station at about 8.30pm and were waived off by a big table full of friends it felt like leaving a new found family behind. I'm going to miss that place.
Was excited about bunking down in the sleeper car of my train last night, but I do feel sorry for the people I shared it with. I wonder if they'll let me have that shower now...
Friday 14 March 2008
Barcelona - Day Eleven
I have ended up staying in Barcelona for several more days than I'd originally planned. There are two reasons for this:
On Wednesday Scott and I had an epic clash-of-the-titans style faceoff at various games after making doubles teams with a couple of Canadian girls. It was civilised enough at the start with a few quiet card games, but by the time we moved on to table football the competition was vicious. Unfortunately though we took some bad advice and ended up at a rubbish Irish bar in the middle of nowhere. The Canadians did a runner and we had to sit through one of the worst dj sets I've ever heard. Had a good night though.
Last night was a bit more successful - headed out in a United Nations style group (Brazilian, German, US, UK, Italian...) and went to a dirty little underground club. Scott had adopted an American guy called Ben for the night - he's lost all his money and has spent the last few days in his dorm to try and save cash - so we bought him a few beers.
A little while later, after Ben had bumped into most of the larger, angrier drinkers in the bar, and was about two minutes away from starting a good old fashioned bar fight, I decided to walk him back to the hostel. It was a long walk, with many people being stumbled into on the way, but my constant apologies for him kept us more or less out of trouble. I think he'll be staying in the dorm again tonight.
I wasn't quite ready for bed, so headed back out with a couple of American girls I met in the hostel reception.
Went to another club.
Got back at 6am.
I need a night off...
- Train drivers in France were apparently on strike the day I tried to book my ticket out of here, and;
- I'm having too much fun
On Wednesday Scott and I had an epic clash-of-the-titans style faceoff at various games after making doubles teams with a couple of Canadian girls. It was civilised enough at the start with a few quiet card games, but by the time we moved on to table football the competition was vicious. Unfortunately though we took some bad advice and ended up at a rubbish Irish bar in the middle of nowhere. The Canadians did a runner and we had to sit through one of the worst dj sets I've ever heard. Had a good night though.
Last night was a bit more successful - headed out in a United Nations style group (Brazilian, German, US, UK, Italian...) and went to a dirty little underground club. Scott had adopted an American guy called Ben for the night - he's lost all his money and has spent the last few days in his dorm to try and save cash - so we bought him a few beers.
A little while later, after Ben had bumped into most of the larger, angrier drinkers in the bar, and was about two minutes away from starting a good old fashioned bar fight, I decided to walk him back to the hostel. It was a long walk, with many people being stumbled into on the way, but my constant apologies for him kept us more or less out of trouble. I think he'll be staying in the dorm again tonight.
I wasn't quite ready for bed, so headed back out with a couple of American girls I met in the hostel reception.
Went to another club.
Got back at 6am.
I need a night off...
Wednesday 12 March 2008
Barcelona - Day Nine
Another day, another hangover...
Yesterday I left Aidan and caught a bus to the train station. I knew the journey was only about 15 minutes, so I didn't bother taking off my backpack, despite the fact the bus was crammed with old people and really hot. We got stuck in traffic for about 40 minutes (plenty of time for me to get good and sweaty), so I jumped off and walked to the station instead.
It turns out that Atocha Station (the one I was trying to travel from) was the one targetted in the Madrid bombings in 2004, and I had got there on the fourth anniversary of the event. As a result, all the streets leading up to the station were closed by the police (which freaked me out as I walked towards it - I got worried there might have been another attack or something), and I had to wait outside for about half an hour while the memorial service took place. It was very dignified and moving, but by that point all I wanted was to get on a bloody train and get out of there.
I caught one of Spain's impressive AVE trains (high speed and ultra-modern), and made it to Barcelona in just two and a half hours, where I checked into Hostel Kabul. Kabul is a busy, funky place on the Plaça Reial - a palm tree lined square just off Barcelona's busiest street. It's full of travellers from all over the world, and is equipped with the most important feature of any good hostel; a cheap bar.
After a cheeky warm up beer, I soon felt sociable enough to sit myself down at a table and start meeting people. I ended up making friends with a few of the staff, and made plans to go out that night with a laid back Ozzie guy, an Ozzie girl with very good taste in British music, and a crazy Italian girl.
Don't ask me how it happened, because I'm not really sure, but at about midnight the girls decided they wanted to check out a strip club...
One hour, twenty euros and a couple of beers later, we stumbled back out onto the streets. Victoria, the Italian girl, had spent most of the time sitting at the front of the stage cheering on the ropy old strippers, while Scott (the Ozzie guy) and I sat a little further back exchanging 'what the hell's going on' glances with each other.
After that place, we somehow talked our way into a private bar that was hidden away amongst some flats, which had no sign, and a locked door we had to bang on for five minutes to be let in. I was half expecting a little window to slide open in the door, but instead we just had to chat to a couple of drunk guys who seemed to work there. The bar turned out to be a sort of old-fashioned, art deco kind of place, with the feel of a cuban mansion - high ceilings and lazy fans whirring away in the gloomy half-light. Despite it's secretive location, it was full of locals who all clearly knew the best place to drink into the early hours.
I made it home at about 4am, and no doubt woke up everybody in my dormitory. I'll probably manage to have a sober night sometime soon.
I really love Spain.
Yesterday I left Aidan and caught a bus to the train station. I knew the journey was only about 15 minutes, so I didn't bother taking off my backpack, despite the fact the bus was crammed with old people and really hot. We got stuck in traffic for about 40 minutes (plenty of time for me to get good and sweaty), so I jumped off and walked to the station instead.
It turns out that Atocha Station (the one I was trying to travel from) was the one targetted in the Madrid bombings in 2004, and I had got there on the fourth anniversary of the event. As a result, all the streets leading up to the station were closed by the police (which freaked me out as I walked towards it - I got worried there might have been another attack or something), and I had to wait outside for about half an hour while the memorial service took place. It was very dignified and moving, but by that point all I wanted was to get on a bloody train and get out of there.
I caught one of Spain's impressive AVE trains (high speed and ultra-modern), and made it to Barcelona in just two and a half hours, where I checked into Hostel Kabul. Kabul is a busy, funky place on the Plaça Reial - a palm tree lined square just off Barcelona's busiest street. It's full of travellers from all over the world, and is equipped with the most important feature of any good hostel; a cheap bar.
After a cheeky warm up beer, I soon felt sociable enough to sit myself down at a table and start meeting people. I ended up making friends with a few of the staff, and made plans to go out that night with a laid back Ozzie guy, an Ozzie girl with very good taste in British music, and a crazy Italian girl.
Don't ask me how it happened, because I'm not really sure, but at about midnight the girls decided they wanted to check out a strip club...
One hour, twenty euros and a couple of beers later, we stumbled back out onto the streets. Victoria, the Italian girl, had spent most of the time sitting at the front of the stage cheering on the ropy old strippers, while Scott (the Ozzie guy) and I sat a little further back exchanging 'what the hell's going on' glances with each other.
After that place, we somehow talked our way into a private bar that was hidden away amongst some flats, which had no sign, and a locked door we had to bang on for five minutes to be let in. I was half expecting a little window to slide open in the door, but instead we just had to chat to a couple of drunk guys who seemed to work there. The bar turned out to be a sort of old-fashioned, art deco kind of place, with the feel of a cuban mansion - high ceilings and lazy fans whirring away in the gloomy half-light. Despite it's secretive location, it was full of locals who all clearly knew the best place to drink into the early hours.
I made it home at about 4am, and no doubt woke up everybody in my dormitory. I'll probably manage to have a sober night sometime soon.
I really love Spain.
Monday 10 March 2008
Madrid - Day Seven
Wow, what a city! It's Monday now and I'm still trying to recover from my antics on Saturday night...
Yesterday Aidan and I went to Parque del Buen Retiro, an enormous public park that's right next to Aidan's flat. We had a nice little wander, taking in the eclectic collection of bongo players, jugglers, rollerbladers and rowers that fill the place up on a weekend. Bars and clubs here are literally open all night, so you're just as likely to encounter bleary-eyed pissheads as frisbee tossing families on your Sunday morning stroll through the park. We were both looking pretty bleary-eyed ourselves, although hopefully not as bad as the happy old man in the stained mac who was dancing along to the bongos.
Today Aidan and I walked around the most interesting bits of the city centre. Madrid doesn't have a world famous landmark like the Eiffel Tower or the Colosseum, but it's still a great place to explore. We checked out the Palacio Real (Spanish version of Buckingham Palace - big courtyard, nice views), and then walked a little way to the Templo de Debod; an ancient Egyptian temple that was transferred stone by stone in the seventies. We also checked out some of the many plazas in the city, including Plaza Mayor (impressive, spacious, pigeon-filled) and Sol (busy, noisy, currently being dug-up). Had a great lunch of paella and sardines, then chilled in a funky little bar while Aidan went off to teach an English lesson.
That's the thing you really notice about this city actually; the sheer number of bars. They're everywhere! It's probably just as well I've got time constraints...
If all goes to plan I'll be heading to Barcelona tomorrow (hopefully by high speed train, which takes half the time). I wonder how it's going to measure up to manic Madrid.
Yesterday Aidan and I went to Parque del Buen Retiro, an enormous public park that's right next to Aidan's flat. We had a nice little wander, taking in the eclectic collection of bongo players, jugglers, rollerbladers and rowers that fill the place up on a weekend. Bars and clubs here are literally open all night, so you're just as likely to encounter bleary-eyed pissheads as frisbee tossing families on your Sunday morning stroll through the park. We were both looking pretty bleary-eyed ourselves, although hopefully not as bad as the happy old man in the stained mac who was dancing along to the bongos.
That evening we met up with Saira, Aidan's lovely girlfriend, and went out for some drinks and tapas in La Latina, a funky area full of bars, where the streets are packed on a Sunday night. Tapas and cerveza (served in tumblers rather than pint glasses) are such a perfect combination, I don't know why it's not more common back home - the pork scratchings and pickled eggs of British pubs don't quite measure up somehow. We went to a few lively, noisy bars, and all of them were brimming with vocal locals acting as if no one had to go to work tomorrow. Everyone here seems happy, noisy and drunk on a night out, but I still haven't seen the sort of vomity, comatose drunkenness you get in Britain, and people pace their booze across the night instead of racing each other through yard glasses and shots.
Today Aidan and I walked around the most interesting bits of the city centre. Madrid doesn't have a world famous landmark like the Eiffel Tower or the Colosseum, but it's still a great place to explore. We checked out the Palacio Real (Spanish version of Buckingham Palace - big courtyard, nice views), and then walked a little way to the Templo de Debod; an ancient Egyptian temple that was transferred stone by stone in the seventies. We also checked out some of the many plazas in the city, including Plaza Mayor (impressive, spacious, pigeon-filled) and Sol (busy, noisy, currently being dug-up). Had a great lunch of paella and sardines, then chilled in a funky little bar while Aidan went off to teach an English lesson.
That's the thing you really notice about this city actually; the sheer number of bars. They're everywhere! It's probably just as well I've got time constraints...
If all goes to plan I'll be heading to Barcelona tomorrow (hopefully by high speed train, which takes half the time). I wonder how it's going to measure up to manic Madrid.
Sunday 9 March 2008
Madrid - Day Five
Woke up at 7.30am (earliest start yet) and began a long day's travelling to Madrid. There are no high speed trains on the way, so I enjoyed a half hour trip to the border town of Irún, a three hour wait at Irún station, then a seven hour trip to Madrid. The scenery on the way down kept things interesting though, especially through Basque country, which looks surprisingly Alpine rather than Spanish.
So, I arrived in Madrid after a long day's travelling, and was met at the station by Aidan - a good mate from school. By the time we'd got back to his flat it was 10pm, and by the time we had eaten some tapas, sunk a few beers and watched a football match on tv, it must have been about midnight. It turns out that in Madrid, midnight is early...
This city is amazing! There are bars everywhere, and at night everyone hits the streets; hopping from bar to bar, snacking on tapas, and sipping at drinks with some of the most ridiculously generous spirit measures I've ever seen. I had easily the best night of my trip so far, and eventually got to sleep at about 9am. I want to live here.
So, I arrived in Madrid after a long day's travelling, and was met at the station by Aidan - a good mate from school. By the time we'd got back to his flat it was 10pm, and by the time we had eaten some tapas, sunk a few beers and watched a football match on tv, it must have been about midnight. It turns out that in Madrid, midnight is early...
This city is amazing! There are bars everywhere, and at night everyone hits the streets; hopping from bar to bar, snacking on tapas, and sipping at drinks with some of the most ridiculously generous spirit measures I've ever seen. I had easily the best night of my trip so far, and eventually got to sleep at about 9am. I want to live here.
Friday 7 March 2008
Biarritz - Day Four
After a brief five hours on France´s superfast TGV (high speed train), I found myself in Biarritz. I´d made arrangements to stay with Paddy and Jess - good friends from Devon - and had managed to book a train that arrived about 10 minutes before Paddy finished work.
With timing this perfect it would surely be the work of a moment to either give him a call and get picked up from the station, or make my way across town and surprise him at his flat. I looked in my wallet for the piece of paper I´d written his address and phone number on and strolled to a payphone.
Two significant things soon became clear to me:
Still, this sort of thing is what makes travelling fun. I grabbed a street map from the station, got a taxi to an internet cafe, and then discovered that their house was only a couple of streets away. After 10 minutes of wandering about trying to read house numbers I found their block of flats at exactly the moment Paddy was wandering back from his car, a case of twenty beers in his hands. Panic over.
Had a really lovely evening staying in and catching up with Paddy and Jess, who treated me to some tasty quiche and a very strange Australian film from the 80´s, Hercules Returns. If you ever get the chance to see it I highly recommend it - one of the weirdest films I´ve ever seen.
The next day Paddy and Jess both went to work, and I was left to discover the town on Paddy´s pride and joy: a pimped out, blinged up bmx he got off eBay from some guy in Germany. Someone has literally made every available accessory on that thing gold and shiny. I was assured that as soon as I hit the streets I´d have a crowd of babes chasing after me, all wanting a piece of the shiny action, but in the event all I managed was a friendly "super" from a passing French granny.
Because my interRail ticket is only valid for a month, I only had time for one more night with the guys, but that didn´t matter as they were heading off to the mountains to go snowboarding with Paddy´s Quiksilver workmates anyway. We had a great pizza in a restaurant that was decorated like a pirate ship (if you know me at all you´ll know just how sweet it is to write those words), and then all too soon it was time to hit the road again. I´m starting to feel like the littlest hobo, and I´m not even a week in yet.
With timing this perfect it would surely be the work of a moment to either give him a call and get picked up from the station, or make my way across town and surprise him at his flat. I looked in my wallet for the piece of paper I´d written his address and phone number on and strolled to a payphone.
Two significant things soon became clear to me:
- I´d left the piece of paper with all his contact details on it in an internet cafe in Paris
- The payphones in France are the playthings of satan - they don´t accept coins, credit cards or the phonecard I´d picked up in Paris.
Still, this sort of thing is what makes travelling fun. I grabbed a street map from the station, got a taxi to an internet cafe, and then discovered that their house was only a couple of streets away. After 10 minutes of wandering about trying to read house numbers I found their block of flats at exactly the moment Paddy was wandering back from his car, a case of twenty beers in his hands. Panic over.
Had a really lovely evening staying in and catching up with Paddy and Jess, who treated me to some tasty quiche and a very strange Australian film from the 80´s, Hercules Returns. If you ever get the chance to see it I highly recommend it - one of the weirdest films I´ve ever seen.
The next day Paddy and Jess both went to work, and I was left to discover the town on Paddy´s pride and joy: a pimped out, blinged up bmx he got off eBay from some guy in Germany. Someone has literally made every available accessory on that thing gold and shiny. I was assured that as soon as I hit the streets I´d have a crowd of babes chasing after me, all wanting a piece of the shiny action, but in the event all I managed was a friendly "super" from a passing French granny.
Because my interRail ticket is only valid for a month, I only had time for one more night with the guys, but that didn´t matter as they were heading off to the mountains to go snowboarding with Paddy´s Quiksilver workmates anyway. We had a great pizza in a restaurant that was decorated like a pirate ship (if you know me at all you´ll know just how sweet it is to write those words), and then all too soon it was time to hit the road again. I´m starting to feel like the littlest hobo, and I´m not even a week in yet.
Wednesday 5 March 2008
Paris - Day Two
I woke up early, slipped out of my dorm and made it to reception just in time to intercept a call from Vicky Wong - an old friend from working at Hilton Cardiff. Judging by the symphony of snoring that I awoke to I don't think the other guys in my room would have been pleased if they'd been woken up by phone calls for me. A couple of days in and I'm already regretting not bringing my mobile...
I arranged to meet Vicky outside Notre Dame in a couple of hours, and headed off across town. Any first day blues that may have lingered quickly evaporated in the bright morning sunshine as I wandered across Pont Neuf to the Ile de la Cite. The Seine sparkled serenely, and when I walked across the square in front of the cathedral, still fairly deserted this early in the morning, the whole city seemed too beautiful to be true.
A little while later - after some serious posing in a street cafe - I met Vicky, and she whisked me off on a whistlestop tour of some
of her favourite parts of Paris. About a year ago Vicky transferred to Hilton Paris to fulfill her childhood dream of oneday living here, which I really admire her for. She certainly loves the city, and she took me to some cool little places. We started with a quick look round Shakespeare and Co., an old english-language bookshop, with dogeared classics spilling out of every available bit of space in the strange old building, then wandered around a weird little church that is supposed to be the oldest in the city. It wasn't much to look at, but it also gets used as a live music venue which must be pretty atmospheric.We had an amazing, bellybusting three course lunch at a funky cafe in Montmartre, then washed it down with a coffee in the cafe that was used in the film Amelie. I sheepishly took a couple of photos in there but felt a bit self conscious - in Britain this place would have completely sold out on its links with a successful film, but that's not the Parisien way; the only nod to the film is a poster on one of the back walls. I got the impression that snapping away in there was decidedly unchic.
We caught a metro across town to Trocadero, and walked under the eiffel Tower to the classier of the world's two Paris Hiltons. Vicky had cleared it for the two of us to have a drink in the hotel's swanky executive lounge on the top floor, and sipping at my drink in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, I knew it might be a little hard readjusting the the glamour of my dormitary that night.
After saying my goodbyes, I made my way back across town on the Metro feeling so cheerful about the weeks of travel lying ahead of me that I even tolerated the guy playing My Way on his electric accordian right behind my head. Ah Paris...
Paris - Day One
I didn't step off the Eurostar at Gare du Nord, I strutted. I walked through that station like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, giddy as a schoolgirl to be starting my adventure, and pleased to be back in the city of lights.
It was a straightforward Metro trip to my hostel, where I quickly dumped my stuff and hopped back on the Metro, headed for Pont Neuf station. Having visited Paris for a few days a year or so ago I figured I couldn't fail if I started from such a central location, and that I'd soon be nonchalantly wandering familiar back streets like a local. Half an hour of confused bumbling later I realised the reason that nothing was familiar was that I was on the opposite side of the river to where I imagined I was. Slick.
Once I regained my bearings I must have wandered about for a few hours. It was strange being back here again, especially as my memories of most key places are romantic ones, and I was now walking the dark, cold streets alone. I was also feeling the same sort of first-day-of-travelling uncertainty I had in South America - 'I'm in Europe. Indefinitely. For months. Aaaaaaargh..." etc.
I'd been expecting both these feelings. Perhaps that's why I was feeling them. Luckily I found a solution to both through some basic Man Therapy; a small restaurant in the Latin Quarter, with a textbook example of the small, friendly, old French waiter (Gallic smile, black waistcoat, white apron - the works), where I ordered myself a couple of beers, some good rare steak, and watched the football on tv. The waiter wasn't happy when Manchester Utd beat Lyon, but he didn't take it out on me. I helped the beer and steak down with some profiteroles, and helped that down with some more beer.
I returned to the hostel a happy man.
London
I'm a fairly organised person. When I travel I like to know that I've packed sensibly and efficiently, and that I've left myself plenty of time to catch the plane/train /automobile I bought a ticket for. That's why waking up on Saturday morning with a spectacular hangover, a half eaten kebab and less than an hour to get sober, showered and to Totnes train station came as a slightly unpleasant surprise.
I'd managed to remain relatively responsible for Friday night's farewell drinks in Totnes, but my beloved friends couldn't let me leave without sneakily lining up a colourful little selection of shot glasses as a leaving present. They're thoughtful like that you see.
As a result, I managed a hasty shower, had time to double check my tickets and passport (but not the rest of my luggage), and visibly shuddered when my mum offered me breakfast. I made it to the train though, and set off to London with barely a queasy backward glance for Devon.
I spent a really nice few nights staying with James Rowden (and Sarah) in London, but suffered instantly for confidently abandoning my mobile phone (like the self-sufficient ubertraveller I am) when I failed to meet up with any of the old uni friends and Cardiff workmates I had arranged to catch up with. Managed to have a few drinks with James, Tamsin and Bruce on Saturday night though which was very nice, as well as experiencing some impressive Rowden hospitality in the form of tasty meals and frequent cups of tea.
On Tuesday morning I tubed across town to the impressively shiny new St. Pancras station, but found it a bit boring and empty after all the hype it's had in the media. I'm not sure if I was looking shabby, suspicious, dangerous or a combination of all of these things, because I immediately got pulled aside for a 'random bag check'. This involved a full-body pat-down, and me slowly emptying the smaller of my two rucksacks so the security guard could have a painstaking snoop through all my stuff and swab the bag for traces of explosives. Bit of a pain in the arse. Next time I'm going to dress smarter and pack less stuff...
I'd managed to remain relatively responsible for Friday night's farewell drinks in Totnes, but my beloved friends couldn't let me leave without sneakily lining up a colourful little selection of shot glasses as a leaving present. They're thoughtful like that you see.
As a result, I managed a hasty shower, had time to double check my tickets and passport (but not the rest of my luggage), and visibly shuddered when my mum offered me breakfast. I made it to the train though, and set off to London with barely a queasy backward glance for Devon.
I spent a really nice few nights staying with James Rowden (and Sarah) in London, but suffered instantly for confidently abandoning my mobile phone (like the self-sufficient ubertraveller I am) when I failed to meet up with any of the old uni friends and Cardiff workmates I had arranged to catch up with. Managed to have a few drinks with James, Tamsin and Bruce on Saturday night though which was very nice, as well as experiencing some impressive Rowden hospitality in the form of tasty meals and frequent cups of tea.
On Tuesday morning I tubed across town to the impressively shiny new St. Pancras station, but found it a bit boring and empty after all the hype it's had in the media. I'm not sure if I was looking shabby, suspicious, dangerous or a combination of all of these things, because I immediately got pulled aside for a 'random bag check'. This involved a full-body pat-down, and me slowly emptying the smaller of my two rucksacks so the security guard could have a painstaking snoop through all my stuff and swab the bag for traces of explosives. Bit of a pain in the arse. Next time I'm going to dress smarter and pack less stuff...
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