As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. Back on the bed.
Another argument lost, another smug ‘I’ve got the better of you, again’ look.
Time to move on, pick a battle I think I can win.
Food. There’s the old wives tale, that cats love fish, and it’s true to a certain extent.
Chester doesn’t believe fish live in cans or plastic packets, despite how it’s dressed up. Fresh fish, he’s into it, but there always seems to be a measured reluctance to eat something out of a can.
I think he regards us humans with disdain when our food comes out of a can or packet.
He refuses to eat the leftovers!
Then there’s chicken, or its more expensive neighbor, turkey.
He loves turkey.
I’m sure he’d eat quail and spatchcock too, but no, he’s a cat, and cats have to get used to eating chicken. We’ve had this discussion, one too many times.
And just for good measure, I told him if he thinks he’s coming to Italy with us, he’d better get used to the idea of eating pasta.
Of course, always with the last word, he said, quite nonchalantly, ‘then you’d better call me Garfield’.
I knew there was a reason why we don’t travel anymore.
And now, everyone is letting go of the Covid shackles, and the airports are overwhelmed.
Yesterday, the Qantas baggage system broke down and caused endless delays. Today, we’re in a queue that’s literally a mile long, just to be screened before we even get into the terminal.
And, we are in a smaller plane operated by Qantas Link, the main airline’s feeder. Confusingly, it has two names, National Jet Systems, and Qantas Link, the name painted on the aircraft.
Our plane is a Boeing 717, but it is actually an MD 95, made by McDonnell Douglas before Boeing took them over.
And so, it begins…
Boarding time comes and goes, as it always seems to, this time that age-old excuse, the flight attendants are on an incoming flight that is delayed but is on the ground.
That could mean almost anything, but in this case, we’re told, that they are coming from another satellite some distance away. Well, at least they will get some exercise.
9:56. The attendants arrived. They just got off the plane from Newcastle, so it can be confusing, going from destination to destination, well, at least for me it would be. For them, it’s all in a day’s work.
I asked for early boarding because Rosemary cannot walk very well, so it remains to be seen if this happens.
It does, and it’s a slow walk downstairs, and upstairs, but we have to wait because there is a sewerage spill and while waiting to get clearance to board, we’re getting a birds-eye view of the poor man who has to clean it up doesn’t make the wait any easier.
By 10:10, we were on the plane and seated.
We’re organizing a wheelchair and assistance at Hobart, to make things easier.
Minutes later our traveling companions are boarding.
Some confusion reigns, we are sitting in the wrong seats, row 5 instead of row 6. A bit of seat shuffling and everything is good.
10:30: The sewerage spill has been cleaned up. The front door is still open, but they just connected the tow vehicle.
10:33: Doors closed. 10:35: Push back. 10:40: Heading to the runway. 10:45: Take off, or is that wheels up? It’s not on the new second runway, perhaps because there are so many complaints from the residents nearby.
11:00: Time for a snack. It’s Tomato Salsa with corn chips, almonds, and pretzels. 60 grams worth, small but reasonably tasty.
Now we’re left to our own devices, as there is no onboard entertainment, and the plane is too small and too old to have onboard Wi-Fi.
Perhaps a siesta, but the seat is too uncomfortable to find a position that will allow it, so I guess a bit of writing is in order.
That and staring out the window and noticing that we have been hugging the coastline almost all the way south, except for when we were crossing Bass Strait, 32,000 feet above the waves.
Bass Strait is not a waterway you want to willingly cross at the best of times, and I have, once, crossed it at the worst of times, and it wasn’t fun.
1:00: Startin that, you would expect from such conditions.
I had expected, given the forecast for rain and heavy winds that we would have a treacherous landing but it was not, the rain had passed and the wind not as bad, and got on the ground without much ado.
It was exactly as the pilot said, 1:30 pm.
We were the last to disembark, with a wheelchair at the end of the disembarkation ramp, there are no air bridges here in Hobart.
My first impression of the airport, it’s like a country town with a tin shed, though the terminal looks a lot different inside than outside. And they do have international flights.
Our bags we out by the time we reached the baggage carousel, then it was off to the car rental counter for an effortless and pain-free pickup.
The worst thing was the distance from the terminal to where the car was parked.
A fine day, on this trip a rarity, we decided to take the train to Windsor and see the castle.
This is a real castle, and still in one piece, unlike a lot of castles.
Were we hoping to see the Queen, no, it was highly unlikely.
But there were a lot of planes flying overhead into Heathrow. The wind must have been blowing the wrong day, and I’m sure, with one passing over every few minutes, it must annoy the Queen if she was looking for peace and quiet.
Good thing then, when it was built, it was an ideal spot, and not under the landing path. I guess it was hard to predict what would happen 500 years in the future!
I’m not sure if this was the front gate or back gate, but I was wary of any stray arrows coming out of those slits either side of the entrance.
You just never know!
An excellent lawn for croquet. This, I think, is the doorway, on the left, where dignitaries arrive by car. The private apartments are across the back.
The visitor’s apartments. Not sure who that is on the horse.
St George’s Chapel. It’s a magnificent church for a private castle. It’s been very busy the last few months with Royal weddings.
The Round Tower, or the Keep. It is the castle’s centerpiece. Below it is the gardens.
Those stairs are not for the faint-hearted, nor the Queen I suspect. But I think quite a few royal children and their friends have been up and down them a few times.
This was one of the more interesting experiences for the grandchildren as they were, as all young girls are, interested in ballet.
We thoroughly enjoyed our visit which included some time watching ballet practice.
I could not convince anyone to take the elevator back down to the ground floor as it was suspected we might be ‘attacked’ by the ‘phantom’. Certainly, the elevator was very old and I think at the time it was being repaired.
Part of the Grand Staircase in Palais Garnier Opera de Paris
The ceiling above the main staircase. The ceiling above the staircase was painted by Isidore Pils to depict The Triumph of Apollo, The Enchantment of Music Deploying its Charms, Minerva Fighting Brutality Watched by the Gods of Olympus, and The City of Paris Receiving the Plan of the New Opéra.
The ceiling of Chagall at the Palais Garnier
On 23 September 1964, the new ceiling of the Opéra Garnier was inaugurated with great pomp. It was painted by Marc Chagall at the request of André Malraux
Amphitheatre and Orchestra Pit entrance
Interior, and doorways to boxes
Box seats in the auditorium
Ornate ceilings and columns
Seating inside the auditorium
The day we were leaving Paris, was the first night of the Bolshoi Ballet. My two granddaughters were greatly disappointed at missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime, to see the Bolshoi Ballet at the Paris Opera House.
Overnight the rain began and hasn’t stopped. It is cold, and the heater in the room is not quite adequate for the space it has to heat up. Fortunately, the bed has electric blankets, and it was warm, lying wake listening to the raindrops. That warmth makes it difficult to get out of bed, but this is a holiday, and we have to get motivated.
We have a balcony, and from there the bleakness of the early morning is stark, but at least the rain is light if not a fine mist.
Worse, it alternates between this fine mist and a short downpour, which means the umbrella goes up and down until you give up. Later, the rain is not heavy, and just tolerable.
We head off to the Salamanca markets, happening only on Saturday morning. Unable to walk long distances, we drive, about four minutes from our apartment, but miss a turn, it takes 10, then and 5 to assess the parking situation which, in the end, was the easiest part of this expedition.
The hardest part, walking among the very large crowd of people defying the rain and cold. I can tolerate large crowds but today, they seem to want to stop suddenly, and just stand and talk in the middle of the walkways making it difficult to impossible to maintain any sort of continuity.
There were hundreds of stalls, the most predominant, micro distillers for some odd reason, selling expensive spirits for about $90 a 700ml bottle, which I regard as overly expensive. My son has made Bourbon some years ago and it cost him about $10 for 4.5 liters, so it must be a lucrative sideline, even after you’ve added the excise.
There were a great many food stands, and choices, one of which was a curly potato skewer, which was interesting to say the least. On a meat pie quest, we found a stand that sold pies, but they were warming a new batch, and the waiting line was about 50 or 60 people long.
I went back a half-hour later and they had sold out. They must be one of the highlights of the market to be so in demand, and that people would stand in the cold and rain just to get one.
Having been defeated by aches and pains, the cold and rain, as well as the large crowd, and the absence of anything we wanted, it was fortunate that time had expired on our parking space.
We had contemplated finding a restaurant to have lunch, deciding it was time to have a proper meal rather than a snack, there didn’t seem to be any places open, and the cafes were packed.
This sparked off an odyssey to find a decent restaurant.
After leaving the markets, we find a road that follows the coastline. Aside from houses either side, and at one point a marina and the Wrest Point casino, which was not a place we intended to visit, the further we went, the less chance it seemed of finding what we were looking for.
But we did find a tourist attraction, a shot tower, and a museum.
And a tea room that had afternoon tea. Not exactly what we were looking for. That said, and feeling like going any further would not fix the search parameters, I go to Google maps and search for restaurants near us.
There’s a Vietnamese restaurant, 6.1 km back the way we came, and being the best choice out of five or six others, we go.
And here’s the thing, it’s just around the corner from where we’re staying. Go figure.
But, there is a twist, we drive past one of the hotels that were recommended to us back at the apartments, so we go there, the Hotel Doctor Syntax. We figure we’re more likely to get the vegetable component there than the other place.
It turns out to be a master stroke, getting steak, pork belly, roast potatoes, gravy, asparagus, and seafood on the side. All having generous servings as one would expect from a hotel bistro.
The food must be great because they were full and had to turn people away. We were very lucky to get the last table but one, and that one didn’t last very long.
After a long, leisurely lunch surrounded by warmth and atmosphere, we had one more stop. Coffee and cake at Daci and Daci, a café recommended to us.
It was worth the experience, although it took some fortitude to fit it in after such a large lunch. I suspect before we go back for a second visit, yes, it was that good, we will make sure we are less full of lunch first. The cake I had was delicious but very filling. The coffee? Excellent.
It was a cold but far from a miserable day. We were taking our grandchildren on a tour of the most interesting sites in Paris, the first of which was the Eifel Tower.
We took the overground train, which had double-decker carriages, a first for the girls, to get to the tower.
We took the underground, or Metro, back, and they were fascinated with the fact the train carriages ran on road tires.
Because it was so cold, and windy, the tower was only open to the second level. It was a disappointment to us, but the girls were content to stay on the second level.
There they had the French version of chips.
It was a dull day, but the views were magnificent.
Or as it might more commonly be known as, spending a few hours in a historical museum. which just happens to cover some of the material you need for a school project.
I brought up the subject of living history yesterday after we all packed off to have an hour ride on a steam train and accompanying equally aged carriages.
Since these trains have been missing for nearly fifty years, there is basically two generations of people who have never had the chance to travel in such a manner in their lifetime, unless, of course, they have found a tourist train like our example, the Mary Valley Rattler.
It’s the same as the early days of finding gold in Gympie, in Queensland, Australia. It dates back to the 1860s, and one can only imagine what it was like because most of the history is in books. Yes, they have sketches, and sometimes photographs, but these do not generally date back to the middle of the nineteenth century.
But, visiting a living example of what it was like in ‘the old days’ can give those generations a glimpse of what it was like.
Single room schools, because unlike today when schools now cater to over 1,000 children in varying years, one school held about 20 or 30 in all grades, with a single teacher.
In fact, today, I saw a collection of readers that I remember reading when I was in grade school, a long time ago. Even the desks and the ink wells brought back interesting memories, one of which when I was ink monitor.
But housed in a number of old-style buildings was the information on the diggings, the mines and the impact of gold in general, and, at the very end, the children got to do a little panning for gold, and found a number of small fragments of real gold.
Once they’d been shown by a panning expert that looked as if he had been transported into this time from the past.
There are similar places elsewhere in this country that preserve the past to show future generations what it was like.
After this weekend, we have more than enough information to work on the project, based around gold mining, and it’s impact on the people, the area, and the government.
And best of all, it has generated an interest in the past, reading more, and perhaps if we’re lucky, an interest in writing something based on history, which sometimes is quite difficult when it has to compete with more interesting pastimes like computer games.
It was one of those beautiful Autumn mornings, blue sky with a smattering of clouds but a sunny day all the same. It’s Sunday so there is not as much traffic on the road.
Anyone with any sense would be going to their favorite coffee place and settling down to your choice of coffee and perhaps a toaster or muffin to accompany the conversation.
This is what’s happening at the cafe we go for coffee. 9:00 in the morning it is packed. But great coffee is hard to find, and this is apparently great coffee.
It’s that in-between time before it gets windy, cold and wet, with the sort of chill you can feel in your bones, rather it’s the time when you have a barbeque in the mid-afternoon and get home before the cold sets in, or take the kids to the park for some healthy exercise.
Today I have to take a drive from one side of suburbia to the other, taking a network of main roads with rather anonymous names such as North and South
We travel through the older suburbs, those with a collection of red or white bricks and timber dating back to the fifties and sixties. They are not, for the most part, in a good state of repair, and rather than looking ramshackle, it’s more like they are slowly decaying.
Fences are rotting or falling over, extensions like they have been glued on rather than added by an architect, and paint either fading or missing. For the most part, people are struggling to keep up with the cost of living, and too busy to worry about maintenance.
Some have been bulldozed and replaced, blocks are cleared awaiting new development, others are being renovated. Any way you look at them they are still worth a great deal of money being relatively close to the city. Nut it’s a double-edged sword, worth a lot, but costing more to keep.
It’s a location we could never afford. Because we were not affluent we were pushed out to the less expensive outer suburbs. This was of course 50 years ago, and now those outer suburbs are now the new inner suburbs and people are buying up to 50 km further out in the new estates. When I was young these suburbs were farms and open land.
It also surprises me that people would want to live on the main road because with traffic as it is heading into the city, it would be difficult to leave or return by car. At least for these people, public transport is better than in the outer suburbs.
Because it’s Sunday my trip takes a lot less time, except for those unpredictable traffic lights, some of which I missed and took a while to cycle through the other traffic before it was our time to move. It’s the only disappointment of the modern era, the fact roads were never made to handle the traffic, and the fact they now have to bulldoze homes to make way for roads.
Pity they didn’t lay down the foundations of a proper transport system, much like they have in major European cities.
Mount Ngauruhoe is apparently still an active volcano, has been for 2,500 years or so, and last erupted on 19th February 1975, and reportedly has erupted around 70 times since 1839.
The mountain is usually climbed from the western side, from the Mangatepopo track.
This photo was taken in summer from the Chateau Tongariro carpark.
In late autumn, on one of our many visits to the area, the mountain was covered with a light sprinkling of snow and ice.
On our most recent visit, this year, in winter, it was fully covered in snow.
All in all, this is just the place I was looking for to write into a story. A perfect blend of fact and fiction could make this into something else, or just plain hiding in plain sight.
If you are not skiing, not hiking, not horseriding, and have come for the fishing, this is the place to be.
Except…
There is something about a summer resort town in the middle of winter.
Or maybe it’s like this all the time. After all, I have been here in Spring and Autumn and it was just as deserted on the main street.
And not just deserted it is almost like a ghost town, and I suspect the few people that are here are the few hapless tourists wandering about wondering where everyone else is.
It’s about 2 pm and we are heading for the local Coffee club for lunch and coffee. It might be past lunch but I don’t think that’s the reason why there are so few customers
There is just no one here.
Perhaps it’s probably a different story on weekends when the city people come down for the snow and are passing through.
But, essentially, Taupo is a holiday town, and if you take a closer look, all you will see is cafe’s, dining establishments and motels. A quick tour of the shopping center shows more shops are closed or vacant than there are open.
It’s not surprising that a lot of businesses cannot survive, because to stay in business, you need a steady stream of customers all year round, not just in Summer.
Unlike their winter counterparts, the ski resorts who seem to have a different working model, take as much as you can while you can, they only have to operate a few months of the year, use non-permanent seasonal workers, and can adjust if there’s no snow.
An indication of just how much custom there is in Taupo in winter is trying to organize horse riding. Admittedly it is rather cold for both humans and horses, but not every day is a loss. We sought out the local Taupo horse riding establishment and found it closed for Winter. Understandable perhaps, but the more telling point was the fact it had a big sign up “Business for Sale”
I don’t fish, and aside from water sports, a summery thing to do, there is precious little to do there in winter, which could have it’s benefits.
Hmm.
Hang on, if I really want to disappear and can’t be bothered doing anything else except a walk to the nearest cafe for a cup of coffee to be away from all the distractions long enough to finish a book, this is the place to go.
It’s just a pity with the COVID restrictions, we can’t go anywhere, even New Zealand.
I guess I’ll have to find something closer to home.
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Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 