ACROSS THE NULLARBOR BY CAIN TOWED - A Most Improbable Journey

Day 3.75, 29 April 2018 

Station Pier to Braybrook

The SS Axolotyl under full steam - or one very much like her

The SS Axolotyl arrived at Station Pier in Melbourne at precisely 7.00 pm as advertised.  It was pitch dark and with only a late-model GPS to guide us, we set out - not without trepidation - for the Melbourne Discovery Holiday Park and other parts unknown.

Only one wrong turn and there we were by 8.00 pm eating deep fried street food from an in-park food vending van!

Very nice, but not quite perfick!

Day 4,  30 April 2018 

Melbourne to Lake Fyans

Up betimes (as Samuel Pepys would say) to look about the "Melbourne Discovery Holiday Park" at Braybrook.  It is immediately apparent that many others have also "discovered" this little bit of tourist infrastructure well before the Prop and Mrs P.

The joint is as full as a fat girl's sock and bigger than God's underpants!

Uneventful drive out of the metropolis towards Halls Gap via Ballarat.

228 km later and just short of Halls Gap in the shadows of the Grampians, we spy a sign reading "Lake Fyans Holiday Park".

Well reviewed on Wiki Camps (the holiday park, not us) and feeling essurient (us, not the holiday park) we decide to give it a shot.

Perfick!

Lake Fyans with the Grampians in the background

Day 5, 1 May 2018 

Lake Fyans to Halls Gap and Back Again

Up betimes (if 8.00 am is "betimes"") to attend to a spot of professional business and then off to conquer the mighty Grampians!

"Conquer"may be too large a word in this context, the conquest consisting of a 2 hour return walk/climb/struggle to "The Pinnacle Lookout" a remote but astonishingly popular lookout at the top of the Grampians.

The View from the Pinnacle 

The Prop hoped that once there he might commune with nature for a moment or two.  Instead he was obliged to commune with a large and rather rowdy group of schoolchildren!  Not at all the same thing!

Victorian school kiddies eager to commune with the Prop

Still the views were good and the exercise no doubt did wonders for the Props's cardio-vascular system.

A good view

One note of minor embarrassment: The Prop and Mrs P appeared to be the only walkers above school age who were not equipped with a pair of stylish aluminium rambling sticks. Now on the shopping list!

Doesn't pay to look like an amateur but the Prop draws the line at wearing lycra.

Off west tomorrow...

Day 6, 2 May 2018
"Wont'You Take Me To Funkytown Bordertown"

Up betimes and on the road west.

Passing through Dadswells Bridge the Prop almost missed the most remarkable piece of tourist infrastructure that the northern Grampians has to offer - the Giant Koala cafe!  In truth, with a little more luck, the Prop might have missed it altogether.

Not sure about all these "big" tourist things in Australia.  They may be something of a paradox - a bit like the "mullet" hairstyle.  

One can never be quite sure whether the wearer of a mullet (or the proprietor of a "big" tourist attraction) is serious and really likes the thing OR is quietly taking the piss.  This means that one never knows whether one is laughing AT the mullet-wearer or WITH the mullet-wearer. 

More concerning is the possibility that the mullet-wearer is laughing AT you while you are laughing at/with the mullet-wearer because he knew all along that you would!

The Giant Koala of Dadswells Bridge - probably has a mullet!  

Due to South Australian quarantine restrictions, the Prop and Mrs P were obliged to lunch on several apples and a tomato or two to save them from the bin at the border.  Most heartbreaking of all, the Prop had to dispose of half a dozen home-grown capsicums - the first he has ever managed to successfully cultivate despite numerous attempts.

Arrived at Funkytown  Bordertown by 2.00 pm to a very pleasant 26 degrees.

It is called "Bordertown" because it is close to the border.

It is not called Funkytown because, although it is a pleasant enough little town, being as generous as one can, its lacks a little in the "funk" department.

Bordertown SA, virtually funk-free

Day 7, 3 May 2018

Funkytown to Kapunda

Up betimes on account of a power blackout!

After a night of boisterous weather conditions the Prop awoke to find no mains electricity was making its way to the Cane Toad.  Perhaps the South Australian grid (Tesla battery and all) had failed again?

Not so!  Upon investigation it appeared that water had leaked between the side of the Cane Toad and the electrical input socket causing what we amateur "sparkies" refer to as a"short".

A bit of fiddling and a bit of insulation tape and all good...we hope....

Heading in a general north-westerly direction we passed through Keith - don't know his other name - but were unable to locate what is billed as the second best attraction in that location: "The Land Rover on a Pole".  At first the Prop thought that this might be a memorial to a Polish immigrant unfortunately run over by a 4WD. Turns out that someone thought it was a good idea to weld an old jeep to the top of a big pipe and stick it in a park.

The second best attraction in Keith

Saw a nice piece of silo art in Coonalpyn.

Silo Art - the only attraction in Coonalpyn

Drove through Eden Valley, the Barossa Valley including Nurioopta just so we could say "Nurioopta" several times before we finally arrived in "Kapunda".  

As many readers will know, this charming little town, formerly known as Coppertown has recently been re-named in honour of the Prop's close personal friend, Mr Ronaldo Kapunda, the famous naturist.  The town ordinarily has an ideal climate for naturists, both young and old, but today was a rare exception. It was as cold as Liaweenee and everyone in town had their full kit on - including the Prop and Mrs P.

Ronaldo Kapunda pictured on a warm day

Tomorrow: The Prop susses out "the Big Miner" - or should that be the Major Miner?

Day 8, 4 May 2018

Kapunda to Woolundunga

Up betimes after yet another night of boisterous weather but the Cane Toad was tight and men did their duty.

First stop, "Map Kernouw".  According to the "interpretation infrastucture" (i.e. signs) "Map Kernouw" means "son of Cornwall" in the Cornish dialect.  Turns out Kapunda (formerly "Coppertown") had the first working mine in Australia.  It was staffed by men from Cornwall who wore stiff leather hats with wax candles stuck to them with lumps of clay so they could see underground.  This was, in 1840, what we would now call "cutting edge technology".  

In truth it was just a fire hazard!

Anyway, lots of little Cornish miners came to South Australia and brought their hats, candles and pasties with them and helped to make this country great: That's  more or less what the "interpretation infrastucture" says.

"Map Kernouw" a major miner in Kapunda

Farewell Kapunda - you have done Ronaldo proud!

Ronaldo Kapunda - as proud as buggery

Back in the saddle of the Cane Toad inwe made for Port Augusta.  However disappointing (not to say somewhat disturbing) reviews on the only two Cane Toad Parks in Port Augusta forced a rethink.  At length, Mrs P found a very nice little establishment called "Woolundunga"  As well as servicing Cane Toads (and their owners) Woolundunga produces South African sheep which eat saltbush and make very nice saltbush-flavoured meat.

Woolundunga also has a very fine collection of stromatolites.  Eager to view them (despite not knowing what a stromatolite is or what one looks like) the Prop and Mrs P set off on a hand-drawn-map bushwalk to the site of said stromatolites.  

About an hour later we arrived at a location which may or may not have been rich in stromatolites.  It was unarguably rich in pieces of rock.  Bereft and bewildered we returned to camp afraid someone might ask us to describe the stromatolites that we had seen. So, we repaired to the Cane Toad for the night to "google" images of stromatolites in the hope that we might find something that looked like something that we had seen earlier. Not sure that we did!

Could this be a stromatolite? Who knows?

We did see some nice birds and a nice sunset though.

Fincus Stromatolitus - or the Common Stromatolite Finch - very common in Woolundunga 

A nice sunset

Tomorrow: The Nullarbor beckons... 

Day 8, 5 May 2018

Woolundunga to Wudinna

Up betimes to sally forth to the outback...well quite close to the outback at any rate.

Lots of steering the Cane Toad in a straight line today.

Paid a visit to Kimba (sic) to appreciate more silo art.  Who knew four years ago that "silo art" was even a thing?

Silo Art in Kimba - but not a white lion in sight!

However, often the oldies are the real goodies.  In the shadows of the tarted-up Kimba silos stands - and has stood since a time whereof the mind of man runneth not to the contrary - THE BIG GALAH.
The Big G may be weathered and faded but still, like a colossus he bestrides the Eyre Highway like a...well...galah! (The use of the word bestrides is not strictly accurate as, in fact, all of the Big G is on the southern side of the Eyre Highway.  However, so imposing is the Big G that he seems to bestride the very continent itself! [Readers will excuse this hyperbolic flourish])

The Big Galah - but is it art?

Waving a fond farewell to Kimba and the Big G, the Prop and Mrs P moved on to Wudinna.
Uninstructed the Prop would have pronounced the name of this place Wuh-Dinna.  However, not being up with the Anglicisation of Aboriginal words, he was not to know that the locals call it Woodener. (as in "His smile was wooden, hers was woodener, but mine was the woodenest")

Wudinna also has a "big thing" called the "Australian Farmer" it is carved from the local red granite and is very impressive.  It is also very universal in the sense that it does not seek to imitate the appearance of any particular individual.  In fact, it doesn't even look like any individual, let alone a farmer.  It doesn't even have a hat!  But apparently it is "art" so that doesn't matter.   

The "Australian Farmer" - a fine example of art.   

Tomorrow : To the Very Edge of the Nullabor - Ceduna here we come! 

"ACROSS THE NULLARBOR BY CANE TOAD" - A Most Improbable Journey

The Prop is back!

Despite failing so miserably to make good on his representations concerning more timely posts from the journey from "Istanbul to Inverness", undeterred and undaunted the Prop is having yet another crack at the Blogging caper.

For those who may be interested to know what happened after Chios (to be frank, no-one has has expressed the slighest interest in knowing, let alone disappointment in not knowing) the Prop and Mrs P moved on to Ikaria then Mykonos then Naxos, Koufonosia and Iraklia before going to Athens, Thessaloniki and then Belgrade.

From Belgrade to Bar on Tito's train then Kotor, Dubrovnik, Korcula, Hvar and Split. 

From Split by overnight ferry to Ancona and then by train to Bellano on the shores of Lake Como for a week off. Time to write the immediately preceding post then no further blogs - not a sausage!

From Bellano to Barcelona via Milan then to Madrid, San Sebastian (Donostia), Hendaye, Paris, London by Eurostar then to the "Stylotel" Paddington (world's smallest hotel rooms). 

Then Heathrow Express to Heathrow Airport to pick up a rental car. Four hour wait. Then drive to Woodstock near Oxford. Take up residence in curious16th century dwelling (not Blenheim Palace) with P Kimber et al.  

Then watched quite a lot of rugby live (Cardiff, Cardiff, Leeds, Twickenham and Twickenham) and on the telly at the Woodstock Social Club (excellent Sunday  roasts).

After the rugby, quick trip around "the North" and Scotland:  Knaresborough, Bishops Stortford (ancient family seat of the Prop), Norwich, Lincoln, York, Knaresborough, Whitby, Bamburgh Castle, Berwick-upon-Tweed (not quite Scotland), Lundin Links, Ballater, Dundee, Aberdeen, Cullen, Inverness (yes, Inver- bloody- ness, we made it!), Kinlochbervie, John O' Groats, Skye, Fort Wiiliam, Loch Lomond, Glasgow, Ambleside, Daventry, Hobart.

If that were not enough, the Prop - much encouraged by Mrs P - has determined to cross the Nullarbor Plain by cane toad. (In fact in a car and self-contained caravan compete with satellite telly. The "cane toad"  thing is a shameless rip-off of the second most famous of the "Ripping Yarns" and sounds much more exotic, even interesting).

Day 1,  27 April 2018 

At "The Sands"

Sunset on the Hazards

Spent the day at "the Sands" preparing the "Cane Toad" for the arduous journey ahead.
Fiddled with a grease nipple or two but otherwise no news of a salacious, lewd or even interesting nature to report.

The "Cane Toad"

Day 2,  28 April 2018

The Sands to Devonport

A bit more fiddling and a surprise visit from Lady Luck (and her husband, Bob) then time to set off.

Not so!! Flat battery in the Cane Toad!!!

Get the jump-starter - another flat battery!!!

Get the "Old Crocodile" and jumper leads.  

Success!!!

Off we go...

The Old Crocodile

Day 3, 29 April 2018 

Devonport to Melbourne by Axolotyl

Up at sparrow-fart to board the Axolotyl for a day crossing to Melbourne.

The Prop had thought about going the other way but in the end settled for crossing Bass Strait.

Due to a happy administrative error the Prop booked a de luxe cabin for a daylight crossing!

The De Luxe Cabin

Expensive? Yes.

Silly? Well, not so. Very relaxing day lying on a bed and watching telly.

Perfick!

The SS Axolotyl

That's us - top window on the left (port side)

GETTING BETTER BUT STILL ROOM FOR IMPROVEMENT!

GETTING BETTER BUT STILL ROOM FOR IMPROVEMENT!

Dateline: Bellano, Lake Como, Northern Italy - 30 August 2015

On the one hand, the Prop is unjustifiably pleased with himself for issuing his third post of the “Istanbul to Inverness Grand Tour” within a mere ten days of its predecessor.

 

On the other hand, it remains the fact that the Prop is still more than a month behind in bringing the reader news of what is happening out here on the road.

On balance however, this third post represents a positive development and, to the extent that it might be said that some sort of exponential trend is developing, the next and fourth post may be expected in a little over three days!

At that rate, it seems entirely possible that by about the middle of next week the Prop will not only be completely up to date but will, in fact, be reporting on destinations which he and Mrs P have not yet reached!

On reflection, the Prop thinks he may need to slow down the pace of things!

CHIOS 

The National Bank of Greece, Chios.  Unfortunately not open for business while we were there.

The port of Chios, Chios

At 11.15 on Sunday July 19 we said farewell to Lesvos.

A man who saw us was kind enough to explain that there is no point trying to talk to an island in English – especially a Greek island.  In fact even speaking Greek to a Greek island has its limitations.  But unlike the locals, at least Lesvos appeared to pretend to understand what we were saying.

The Prop and Mrs P struggled aboard the impressive MV “Nissos Rhodos” bound for the neighbouring island of Chios (say: He-oss).

The Nissos Rhodos - every day is like a Boxing Day Sale

The “struggle” involved many elements. 

First, there are no discernible rules about who or when or where passengers and vehicles may embark on a Greek ferry.  This makes for a scene a like one sees on telly on the day after Boxing Day, of people clamouring to get into department stores to buy things they wanted for Christmas but apparently couldn’t afford until after Christmas when the price went up – but with the added thrill of some shoppers on motor bikes and others in four wheel drives and motorhomes.  There were no deaths this day but the Prop believes that it is only a matter of time.

Second, as the reader will know, modern suitcases are manufactured with two and sometimes four wheels on the bottom.  This is supposed to assist the traveler who is on a 5 month journey and schlepping through Europe with 25 kg of luggage, to move his or her luggage from place to place with relative ease and with fingertip control.

 

There are, however, two serious flaws in this supposition. 

First, the little wheels are no match for the many stairs and steel cleats one encounters on Greek ferries (not to mention the very uneven – I use the word advisedly) quality, of much of the paving to be found on the Greek islands.  

Secondly, the Prop has it on good authority that a dedicated unit of the KGB is responsible for the design and manufacture of the little wheels and that it goes to great lengths to ensure that of those little wheels destined for suitcases to sold to residents of the rest of the world, at least one in every three will fail after no more than one kilometre and none is capable of being repaired.  The result is that you cannot replace the one defective wheel on your suitcase which self-destructs about four days after your journey begins so you must replace the whole suitcase knowing that, statistically speaking, one of the little wheels on the new case is also going to give up the ghost before the end of the following week.

(Note that the Prop has chosen to divide the second element of the “struggle” into two sub-elements.  Of course, one might just as easily have treated the second sub-element as a third element of the struggle – which perhaps, ought to have been done because I did say the struggle had “many “ elements, which usually implies more than two!)       

On arrival at the capital of Chios, called Chios (Chios, Chios – so good they named it twice; and did so quite a long time before New York!) we chivvied out our accommodation at the quaintly-named “Pelineon Rooms” (The “n” is apparently optional - see pic.)

Pelineo Rooms - or did the signwriter just run out of room?
The Prop will have more to say about the quality of Greek signwriting in subsequent posts.

The name was not the only thing that was quaint about the place.  Still, it had a small balcony with an excellent view of the harbour and was nearly close enough to the water to be able to touch the MV “Nissos Rhodos” as she turned and left town.  

A vessel similar to the Nissos Rhodos does a U-Turn in the middle of town in the middle of the night.

In truth the balcony, which measured about two metres by 0.75 m was a good deal larger than the room itself!

The al fresco bedroom at the Pelineo(n) Rooms 

 The balcony (or al frecsco bedroom as Mrs P liked to call it) also had a very good view of some of the many street-vendors’ kiosks which dot the footpaths of so many European cities.  At the risk of correction (A Welsh reader whom the Prop regards as being much too enthusiastic has, in private correspondence, pointed out that the English word “pier” comes from the Latin “Pera” and not from the Greek Pyrgos, which may be so.  But the Prop asks: From where did the Romans get the word “Pera”?  From the Greeks perhaps?) the Prop has discovered that the word “kiosk” is one of only a handful of Turkish words which are in common use in English.  A thorough (and if the Prop may say so, very learned) discussion of the topic can be found here:  http://home.iprimus.com.au/glsealy/

On Chios may be found several run-of-the-mill kiosks - but also an “Executive Kiosk”! 

The "Executive" kiosk, Chios, Chios.  So good they [nearly] named it thrice!

It turns out that the island of Chios is mainly famous for the production of “mastic”.  Prior to his arrival on the island the Prop had only ever heard mention of the word “mastic” from his late father who used the term to describe any of a variety of latex/bituminous substances useful for plugging leaks in roofs, pipes etc.  That a Greek island should claim to be famous for producing sticky waterproof goo seemed to the Prop to be a claim that should not be made lightly.  In fact, it seemed to be a claim hardly worth making at all!

A working mastic tree. Bowed but not broken.  The white area is clay used to prevent the sap from seeping into the ground.

It turns out that “mastic” is the sap of a particular tree that grows on the island.  The sap drops from the trees and is collected by the locals after spreading a layer of impervious clay beneath each tree, then picking up the dry drips and turning them into an astonishing variety of things like chewing gum, soap, medicine, liqueurs and other alcoholic beverages.  When sufficiently warm mastic could easily be used to plug leaks - but surprisingly the natives don’t yet seem to have twigged to this further possible use.      

The Prop and Mrs P paid a visit to the walled city of Mesta and thence to Pyrgi (the Greek word for more than one tower – I think that’s where the Latin word Pera comes from) where Christopher Columbus used to live.  But apparently he hasn’t lived there for years.  I suppose because it’s well inland and quite a walk down to his boat from there. 

Inside the walled city of Mesta.  Maps are available on request

Pyrgi - where all of the residents paint their houses with black and white geometric designs.  It is thought that the residents of Do-Town on the Tasman Peninsula got the idea from here.

To be honest, the Prop is a bit vague on the Christopher Columbus detail mainly because, due to an administrative error we ended up on a Turkish language guided tour and didn’t understand a word all day!  

The former residence of Christopher Columbus.  The Prop thinks he must have got lost. No wonder he found America while looking for India! 

Maybe it was the fillum director of the same name who used to live there.  

Maybe it was Magellan?  

Who cares?

Let’s have another glass of mastic!

Toilet facilities on the Turkish tour bus were woefully inadequate!

 

One of the most popular beaches on the island of Chios.  Note the excellent coverage of gravel and shale instead of sand.  The locals like to walk on these stones at the height of the midday sun in order to burn the soles of their feet. 

NEXT: Ikaria – if you are going to fly to the Sun don’t use wax.  Use mastic instead! 

RUMOURS OF THE PROP'S DEATH MUCH EXAGGERATED

RUMOURS OF THE PROP'S DEATH MUCH EXAGGERATED

Dateline - Zmovska Banja, Korcula, Croatia

OK, OK, OK.  So it's exactly one calendar month since the Prop last "blogged".

Call it constipation.

Call it writer's block.

Call it the greatest choke since the Great White Shark, Greg Norman retired (and possibly since the Great Black Shark, Tiger Woods dropped out of the top 300) .

What can I say?  The Prop ran out of puff after the first scrum and hasn't really been in the game ever since.
 
The Prop's therapist has suggested possible PTSD following the "Galata Tower Incident" (q.v.)

The Prop is content to put it down to too much cheap wine and a lot of old-fashioned indolence. Indeed if it were not for the fact that the fifth and un-deciding test has just started at the Oval, there is a good chance that the Prop would be at "the plage" down the hill having a quick dip in the Adriatic.

But the Prop forgets himself - much as he has forgotten the reader who, in recent days, has been making ever more earnest imprecations by email and otherwise, requesting; nay, demanding fresh content on the Blog.

Even Mrs P has begun telling the Prop to pull his journalistic finger out!!

So, to pick up the story where we left off.....Lesvos, I think it might have been.

LESVOS

Mytilini, on the island of Lesvos .
The motorcycle that this man is holding is believed to have been stolen in Istanbul. 

The island of Lesvos (also known as Lesbos) gave birth to the eponymous  "lesbian" - for no reason that is apparent today.  Although it is a very popular destination for lesbian women (tautology?) from all over the world who, the Prop is told, come here on a sort of pilgrimage.

On arrival at Lesvos we were obliged to clear customs and passport control.  There were, the Prop estimates, about 200 people on the "feribot" from Ayvalik.  There were four queues - but as it turned out - only two passport officers, one of whom apparently worked part time but without leaving his booth.  I guess it took almost an hour before we cleared customs and were made available to the local taxi drivers to haggle over.  Eventually it was settled and we were told how much we would have to pay.  When the Prop suggested that he would pay whatever was on the meter, all twenty or so taxi drivers present began laughing uncontrollably!

Lesvos lies to the west of, and close to, Turkey.  As a consequence, large numbers of Syrian refugees enter Greece by way of Lesvos having first made their way through Turkey which shares a border with Syria.  For about 15,000 Euros, people smugglers will move the refugees the 20 or so kilometres from Turkey to Lesvos.  From there, the refugees fan out through the Greek islands (which can scarce afford to deal with them - you may have heard that Greece is in a bit of financial strife just now) most of them seeking to make their way to the mainland and thence to Western Europe.

Syrian refugees sleeping on the deck of an inter-island ferry.

At the present time about 40,000 (forty thousand) a month are arriving in Greece.

(This provides an interesting comparison with Australia's "border protection crisis" which, at its peak, saw as many as 2,000 (two thousand) refugees per year (or as many as 180 a month) entering Australia by boat.)

EU policy is that those claiming refugee status, once issued with identity documents, may live and move freely within EU territory while their claims are being assessed.  They don't seem to think much of the Australian approach of locking everyone up offshore to prevent them from having either legal or practical access to the courts and keeping them there for 4 or 5 years or maybe even forever.

Apart from the massive cost, I wonder what they think is wrong with the Australian way of doing things?

I guess that's what happens when you are stupid enough to respect human rights!

What is happening throughout much of continental Europe at the moment is far from ideal with large numbers of refugees - men, women and children - sleeping rough in city parks and any available vacant land.  But the Prop feels pretty sure that if you asked them, they'd say they would rather be living like that than in a prison  on some busted-arse Pacific island.

But the Prop has digressed!

The Prop took an almost instant liking to the capital, Mytilini, not least because at the first cafe we came to the first item on the menu was a small plate of nibbles, bread, a large glass of ouzo and a dish of ice - all for 4 Euros (A$ 6).

A nutritious, well-balanced, wholesome and intoxicating meal for just 4 Euros

This was as nourishing as it was refreshing as it was intoxicating.

The Prop more or less instantly declared that there was no reason to go anywhere else until mid-September when we are due in Oxford, England.  However, but not without a little difficulty, Mrs P was, eventually, able to persuade the Prop that there were other worthwhile things to do in Europe.

(As subsequent blogs will reveal, Mrs P was, as ever, right on the money)

We lodged at the "Pyrgos of Mytilini" a fine old building decorated in the byzantine/ roccoco/ baroque style (i.e.,that style in which no amount of excess is regarded as being excessive)  The word "pyrgos" (say: peer-go) means "tower" and just about every town and city in Greece has a Pyrgos something or other.  The Prop thinks that the English word "pier" may owe its origins to this ubiquitous bit of Greek.

Pygros of Mytilini - up the hill and a bit over the top!

The boudoir

One day, feeling intrepid, the Prop and Mrs P purchased tickets on the local bus from Mytilini to Molyvos  - a port and tourist hub located on the north of the island.  The Prop was lucky enough to be seated next to a youngish woman who was evidently not enjoying good health. So far as the Prop was able to ascertain from one or two polite questions and a lot of careful observation, she had traveled to Mytilini to seek medical treatment for some unknown condition and had been supplied with some pills and a device which looked a lot like Dr Who's sonic screwdriver but which, it seems, was capable of delivering or injecting medicine subcutaneously under very high pressure.  A bit like a small portable tyre inflator - but for the forearm (That might explain why Popeye looks like he does?)
Anyway, this poor woman, being unsure whether to take one of her pills or to inflate her forearm with the sonic screwdriver decided to do both - and then have a smoke.

She got off shortly afterwards still alive but looking a bit peeky,

Molyvos was nice.

Molyvos - tourist hub for fat Germans who pay too much for their souvenirs in the hope of impressing their secretaries

The sort of place where fat German businessmen would go on holidays.  Surely enough there were quite a few fat German businessman around town - some with wives...or girlfriends...or secretaries.  The souvenirs were pretty much the same same as those in Mytilini  - but about one or two Euros more.  That's how you can tell the place is classy.

A fat German Businessman looking for his secretary in Molyvos

More fat Germans at Molyvos deciding whether to have a swim or a beer

Eager to sample some of the local seafood, the Prop ordered grilled calamari for lunch.  During the longish wait, the Prop imagined tucking into tender succulent segments of sweet calamari and began salivating.  What eventually arrived was a material of such a consistency that the manufacturers of the Blundstone boot would readily pay a premium to secure regular supplies.  Not for the manufacture of the soles of the boots - for this calamari (if that is what it was) was not of a rubbery consistency.  No! This was the stuff from which the hard-wearing uppers of very sensible shoes are made!

Exhausted by our trip to Molyvos, the Prop and Mrs P next day headed to the beach (or the Plage as they call it here.  It is French and means "no sand , just gravel and sharp rocks").  It was very nice indeed - aprat from the gravel and sharp rocks.  Free sunlounges courtesy of the local municipal council and scantily clad young ladies to fetch cold drinks and comestibles - but at a price.

The Plage at Mytilini.  

Next : Off to Chios    

  

HOBART TO CHIOS

HOBART TO CHIOS

(via Doha, Istanbul, Ayvalik and Mytilini)

Hagia Sophia, Christian Church then Muslim Mosque now Museum

As the title to this post suggests, the Prop and Mrs P have covered a considerable amount of ground since the last post. To be precise, they have traveled from Hobart to Melbourne (via Qantaslink) From Melbourne to Doha (via Qatar Airways).  From Doha to Istanbul (via Qatar Airways) [In fact we landed about 30 km from central Istanbul at Sabiha Gocken Airport but Istanbul is so flamin' big that even that airport is still within what might be called a built up area.]  From Sabiha Gocken to Balat/Fener in old Istanbul (via Efendi Travel airport transfers - cost 60 Euros or A$90!!).  From Istanbul to Ayvalik (via Metro Turizm bus - 8 hours including a ferry crossing across the Sea of Marmara).  From Ayvalik to Mytilini on the Greek island of Lesvos (a.k.a. Lesbos) (via Turyol Ferries) and from Mytilini to Chios on the Greek island of Chios (via Blue Star Ferries).

Why then (the avid reader may well ask) has the Prop taken so long to put up - if that is the right word - his first post of the Grand Tour proper?

Good question.  Very good question.

It is not because - as in past peregrinations - the Prop has not had ready access to "le wee-fee".  It is not because censorship restrictions in Turkey are such that the Prop's idiosyncratic neo-Gonzo style of journalism puts him at risk of arrest.

No, the truth is, as Mr Paul Turner might say, rather more prosaic.

The truth is that the Prop and Mrs P have been flat out absorbing "kultcha" in the region and the Prop has simply been far too enervated (i.e., buggered) to put pen to paper- or to be more accurate, finger to keyboard.

In fact it is only because the desperately unlucky Pommies were shaded a day early in the second test at Lords that the Prop has, at last, found time to answer his reader's (sic) plaintive cries for news from abroad.

As adumbrated earlier, the tour commenced with a quite uneventful series of flights from Hobart to Istanbul.  There was the customary lack of leg room, swollen ankles and unidentifiable food and drink.  And, of course, there was also the wistful contemplation - somewhere over the Bay of Bengal - of whether it would have been worth the extra $6,000 each to fly Business Class. But ringing in the Prop's ears were the sage words of Peter Lyons Senior to his son of the same name (except for the "Senior") "So let me get this straight, you paid $7,000 for one night's accommodation?"

ISTANBUL

SOME GENERAL OBSERVATIONS

Its a bit hard to know where to start with Istanbul!  Its not at all like Moonah or Glenorchy and nothing at all like New Town!  More like South Hobart but with lots of mosques.... and about 18.98 million more people! 

Old Istanbul Stay Studio - not much room but good accoustic!

The Prop had secured lodgings at the keenly-priced and rather oddly-named "Old Istanbul Stay Studio"  The use of the word "studio" in this context is, perhaps, misleading.  If it was intended to convey that there was no separate bedroom then it was perfectly accurate.  If it was intended to convey the idea of some spacious upper-story loft, then it was not at all accurate.  In truth, the "studio" was a nicely renovated basement room in a traditional Turkish terraced building in Balat - the Jewish quarter of Old Istanbul.  The area is among the poorest in Istanbul with many buildings having fallen into serious disrepair.  However, as the economists dictate, they are is now undergoing "gentrification" (the buildings, not the economists) and are gradually being repaired and occupied by upwardly mobile middle-class types.

Crime is quite a serious problem in Istanbul.  All these men had their motorbikes stolen from underneath them as they waited at a red light!

"BALAT-Y-WOOD"

The same sort of thing happened in the Rocks in Sydney 40 years ago but with one evident difference: Ever since the area featured in the James Bond movie "Skyfall", Balat is now, almost daily, the scene of movie crews moving in to shoot thriller-type fillums.

Location, Location, Location. The house used in "Skyfall" that started it all.

 In the few days that the Prop was there there were crews from Germany and China.  The German movie is tentatively titled "Nick - Off Duty" (It could have been "Nick-off, Duty" but that doesn't make much sense -  still, German movies don't make that much sense.)  It is due for release early next year.  It looks like a "Beverly Hills Cop meets Inspector Rex in Istanbul" type of fillum, and so, probably not worth watching  - even with subtitles!

On location with the crew of "Nick- Off Duty" or was it "Nick off Judy".  Who cares?

The Chinese fillum appeared to be altogether more complex.  A lot of exaggerated fear and running about, leaning on buildings and looking bewildered followed by meaningful glances passing between the male and female leads.  Even though the Prop and Mrs P were granted unprecedented access to the Director (in fact the Prop and Mrs P got a bollocking from the Director after accidentally walking into a scene and were made to stand next to him during the next "take") his artistic intentions were not made clear.  There was no dialogue - not even in Chinese, so the Prop predicts that this one may be a bit of a stinker.  Still, in a place like China, if only 1% of people like it, it will probably be a big hit!

Our local green grocer

THE INCDENT AT GALATA TOWER 

The Galata Tower (centre of pic). Scene of the Incident

On Suday 12 July, 2015, the Prop and Mrs P, like many millions before them, decided to climb to the top of the Galata Tower to take advantage of the stunning views of Istanbul and the Golden Horn.  The Galata Tower is situated in the Galata/Karakoy area of Istanbul  - and this is almost certainly how it got the name.

Originally built in about 1203 at the time of the Fourth Crusade, the tower burnt down and was re-built by the Genoese in 1348.  Given this history, the Prop was surprised to find that the tower is equipped with two lifts which, for the princely sum of 25 Turkish Lira (A$12.50) will take visitors almost to the top of the tower........when they are working properly!

On this day, one of those lifts was not working properly!!

Oblivious to the danger that lay ahead of them, the Prop and Mrs P were ushered into lift No. 2 with a Chinese couple and a young Turk and his somewhat overdressed and over-made-up female companion.  The lift doors closed and lift No. 2 began its gradual ascent.  Then, without warning, the the lights went out, the ventilation fan stopped...and so did the lift! (I say "without warning" but when you think about it, it would have been very strange if there had been an announcement to the effect that the lift was about to lose all electrical power and to stay calm until power could be restored.  Still, such an announcement may have been of some benefit given the events which followed.)

So, two Chinamen (not the preferred nomenclature, Dude), two Turks and two Australians walk into a lift..... and the shit hits the fan, which as I said earlier, had stopped working.  There we stood in stifling heat (it was 33 degrees outside and a good many more inside the lift compartment) and complete darkness - until the Young Turk turned on the light on his mobile phone.  Thereupon he reached past the Prop and began banging randomly on the lift buttons none of which was illuminated and none of which responded - save for the "Emergency" button which gave out a barely-audible and pathetic buzzing sound.

The Prop sought to assure the Young Turk that there was no point to his continuing to thrash the lift buttons as they operated on electricity and that was the one thing which they presently did not have. Besides, it was already hot enough without the Turk using up excess energy by pressing buttons and shouting loudly!  Alas! The Young Turk spoke no English and the Prop spoke no Turkish, or at any rate none which would be useful in the circumstances then prevailing.  

It emerged, by the light of the Young Turk's phone, that his companion was waving a large hand-fan to cool herself which, incidentally, also helped move the air for the rest of us. 

Perhaps 10 or 15 minutes passed with the Young Turk renewing his attack on the lift buttons every minute or so sometimes with the aid of the light from his phone and sometimes without - but always with the shrill vocal encouragement of his meretricious companion.

The stoic Chinaman and his friend remained mostly silent  Occasionally he said "fuck" to himself under his breath - but little else.  What power that word continues to have, even for those whose first language is not English!

After perhaps 15 minutes - by which time things were becoming increasingly humid and fraught inside lift No. 2, the lights came on and the ventilation fan whirred back to life, the lift shuddered momentarily and then all was darkness again!  

His hopes fleetingly raised and then cruelly dashed, the Young Turk became enraged.  He gave up on the lift buttons and began kicking the lift doors and shouting, in what sounded like rather threatening terms, to persons unknown whom the Prop supposes the Turk thought must be out there somewhere and doing nothing to help him.

Meanwhile the Prop, Mrs P and the Chinamen (sic) tried to remain calm with darkness, sweat and the mad Turks all around.

Two or three minutes passed and again the lights came on and the fan whirred, the lift juddered and failed.  We were all plunged back into darkness for a third time!

There was a grille in the roof of the compartment which seemed to be providing some ventilation so the Prop was reasonably confident that oxygen depletion would not be a serious problem.  However, it was getting ever hotter and we all were all now wringing wet with sweat.  None of this was helped by the the Turks who were, by now, like whirling Dervishes, in a trance-like state shouting and kicking the lift doors. 

The Chinaman could take it no longer.  "Shut up!" he exclaimed so loudly that the Turks were brought back to reality in an instant - and for an instant or two did shut up.  But not for long.

Again more shouting and kicking.

Then the Turk hit upon the idea of forcing open the lift doors.  Applying considerable force and after several unsuccessful attempts, he finally managed to force open the doors to reveal.....a sold concrete wall!

Meanwhile the Prop had discovered that it was possible to force the perspex sheet covering the ceiling light upwards and so allow an increased flow of air into the compartment.  This provided some minor relief...but it was not enough to placate the Turk!

Maybe 2 or 3 more times over the next 15 minutes the lift suddenly came back to life - only to die again just as quickly.

Finally we could hear voices above us.  They struck up a conversation with the Turk.  Then the lights and the ventilation fan came back on.  Our Turkish bath was over! But the lift was still stuck!

Although the Prop could not understand what was being said it became pretty clear that the problem now was that the lift would not move because the doors had been forced open!!!!!

The Young Turk set about reversing what he had earlier done and, at length, managed to get the doors to close.  Then, almost instantly, the lift began to descend.  A few seconds later the doors opened and we were back on the ground floor.  As we tumbled out of that little stainless steel cell a man offered each of us a paper towel - but no apology nor any refund nor consolation nor anything!

The Turk and his companion ran out of the tower never to be seen again.

The Chinaman weighed up the situation and together he and his companion left without ever getting to the top of the Galata Tower.

The Prop looked at Mrs P and said "Bugger it - we paid good money to get to the top - Let's take lift No. 1".

And so we did.  

And it was well and truly worth it - 25 Lira that is, not the time stuck in the lift! 

The view from Galata Tower- worth the money

The New Mosque from Galata Tower

In the aftermath of the Galata Tower incident, and after time for mature reflection, Mrs P who had remained admirably calm and collected - if not cool - throughout, was moved to observe that it was a good thing that we had not perished in that lift.  "It would never do", she explained, "for the boys to have to tell people that their parents died in a lift in Istanbul."


Two days later and the Prop and Mrs P are on an 8 hour bus trip from Istanbul to Ayvalik on the western coast of Turkey to catch a ferry to Lesvos the following day.  No, the bus was't hijacked and it didn't break down.  In fact it was a very enjoyable journey.  The bus was fitted with satellite TV and free wi-fi  as well as free tea, coffee, soft drinks and snacks - and all for 75 Lira (about A$35.00)

Istanbul Otogari - 6,000 buses come and go each day

Overnight in Ayvalik which is pleasant enough but nothing to write home (i.e., blog) about.

The Ayvalik to Mytilini Ferry - Not as safe as it looks!

Then by ferry to Mytilini

More soon(ish) 

    

"Even the longest journey begins with the first Blog post"

ISTANBUL 

TO  INVERNESS

(WITH A LITTLE BIT OF RUGGER IN BETWEEN)

...IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF MARCO POLO...*

[*Well, not really.  Marco pretty much went in the other direction - and didn't play Rugby. ] 

"Even the longest journey begins with the first Blog post"

(Recent Chinese proverb)

PROLOGUE

The not a few avid readers of The Peregrinations will have noticed that last year's "Journey to the Centre of the Earth" appeared to end rather abruptly somewhere between Uluru and King's Canyon.
Some readers feared that the Prop may have fallen foul of those itinerant Maricahi desperadoes, the so-called "Ess Gees" (See KULGERA to YULARA (ULURU [AYERS ROCK]).

Other readers assumed other things.

All of them were wrong!

Unless they assumed that the Prop, having made it to the halfway mark of the journey, more or less ran out of steam.

But now is not the time to dwell upon past failures nor for the Prop to publicly flagellate himself for his all-too-obvious literary shortcomings. No!

Now is to time to look forward! For the "wanderlust" (and Rugby World Cup) have come upon us again. On, on!

In a matter of a few days the Prop and Mrs P (both of whose wrists are now fully functional: See PAMBULA BEACH TO BERMAGUI TO BEGA TO BERMAGUI TO BEGA TO BERMAGUI TO BEGA etc...) will immerse themselves in the byzantine pleasures of  Byzantium...Constantinople..Stamboul...Istanbul.  Call it what you like, this dazzling cosmopolitan metropolis of the Near East sets the imagination afire.

Then on to Greece! This dazzling cosmopolitan country has set the European Monetary system afire!

The Prop has reason to expect that he may soon be contacted by the IMF/World Bank/ EU/ Angela Merkel/Alexis Tspiras et al. to mediate the "Greek Debt Crisis".

Yet another working holiday looms!

Despite tough talk from both sides, the Prop is confident that he will restore stability and prosperity to the EuroZone. However, and against the possibility that he may be completely wrong on this score, the Prop has made arrangements for ready access to vast quantities of the spondooliks (which, paradoxically [which is a Greek word] is possibly a Greek word?).  The Prop estimates that, with a 10 o'clock start and time off for a siesta each day, this should take about a week.

Then on to Serbia, Montengro, Croatia, Hungary, Austria, France, Spain (leaving no Euro unspent) and thence to the United Kingdom where the Prop will take up a position at Oxford.  (Actually a rented house in Woodstock - about 10 miles out of Oxford - which has several chairs but no professorships.)

At length, the Prop and Mrs P will reach Inverness and attempt to discover whether any of the "four and twenty virgins" from that famous town ever made it back alive after Rugby World Cup 2015.

So, dear reader, strap yourself in (or get some one else to do it for you if you are that way inclined) and watch the rich tapestry of "Istanbul to Inverness" unfold before your eyes.

On the other hand, if the Prop runs out of steam yet again or the Greeks run out of  currency, the Blog may, like the Serbian Railways so often do, grind to a halt somewhere east of Bar.          

NEXT: The Doha Round - Like Qantas, Qatar Airways does not need U!

     

   

KULGERA to YULARA (ULURU [AYERS ROCK])

After the excitement of the previous evening, the Prop was keen to get under way as early as possible -  and in any event before the "Dancing Deutschers" had a chance to locate him and again attempt to persuade him to "cut the rug a bit" in their lewd and inimitable style.

However, before departing, the Prop thought it prudent to check the level of hydraulic fluid in the Troll - just to make sure that the $10.00 repair effected in Coober Pedy the previous morning was holding fast.... Alas! You get (as they say) what you pay for, and in Coober Pedy $10.00 does not pay for that much.  It most certainly does not pay for adequately repairing a leak in the power steering! 

Still, things might have been much worse - it only required about 200ml of fluid to completely re-fill the reservoir, from which it could be inferred that the leak was slow and/or only occurred when the pressure in the system was at its maximum (e.g., when turning the wheels to full lock whilst stationary)

Power steering resevoir replenished and dancing German backpackers successfully avoided, we set off for Yulara.

The turnoff from the Stuart Highway on to the Lasseter Highway at Erldunda was heralded by a brief period of manic activity by the Prop's mobile telephone which, having come within range of a mobile telephone repeater for the first time in 48 hours, suddenly and very noisily, sprang to life.

Taking time to read the plethora of urgent messages informing the Prop of any number of unmissable bargains in the wine, camera, motor vehicle, underwear, power tool and marital aids (I wonder why I get those?) departments, the Prop cleared his inbox and his mind and set the Rig on course for Yulara - the very centre of the Earth and a mere 500km there and back.

(In fact, the Prop is reliably informed that the dead centre of Australia lies not in or around Uluru but over 100 km west at a remarkable geological feature known as Mt Conner (pictured).  Apart from its centrality to (and in) the Australian continent, Mt Conner is also notable for being regularly mis-identified by excited Japanese tourists as being Uluru itself.)

    Mount Conner - the geographical dead centre of Australia.  Sometimes mistaken for Uluru with a "flat-top".

On arrival at Uluru, the Prop sought out further (and importantly qualified) advice concerning "the power steering problem".  

   Uluru - a very big rock indeed.  Like an iceberg, more than 2/3rds of the rock is underground.  Of course, icebergs are not found in the desert - the bit of icebergs that you can't see is under the water - not under the ground.  In this respect (among many others) Uluru is quite unlike an iceberg.

Some way out of town and not that far from the communal "dump point" (For those who dont know what a "dump point is, just say it out loud and think about it.  The answer will almost certainly come to you.) lies the one and only mechanical repair shop in Yulara - indeed between Coober Pedy and Alice Springs, it would seem.     

After dealing with a group of indigenous motorists who had, unaccountably, lost most of the rear quarter or so of their station wagon somewhere down the track, Kurt (who was anything but curt) then turned his attention to another form of vehicle being driven by a small and very excited man.  This took quite a while as Kurt was unable to get the small man to accept that the fact that his vehicle had no brakes and one wheel missing made it ineligible for re-registration.  But as Kurt is the only man in town who can issue "pink slips" it really only ever was a matter of time.

Kurt then turned his attention to the Troll.  

Using massive quantities of degreaser and a large mop drenched in soapy water, Kurt washed away all trace of petrochemicals from under the bonnet before instructing the Prop to rotate the steering wheel this way and that.  At length, Kurt exclaimed that he had found the problem:  

"Your A- Frame's busted! Its gonna cost you a million bucks.... plus labour"     

As many readers may know, this is mechancical jargon meaning " You've got a pinhole leak in the high pressure hose.  I can't fix it here but I know a bloke in Alice Springs who can.  You'll be right to get to Alice as long as you keep it topped up with fluid."

This was not great news but, just as when one is suffering from a suite of apparently random sypmtoms one always feels better after they are given a name by a diagnosing doctor, so the Prop felt relieved to know what the problem was and that it could be fixed - at a price.

In retrospect, it may be that it was the comfort of this knowlegde which caused the Prop and Mrs P to drop their respective guards and which allowed then to fall into, what was by any measure, some very fast and loose company.  

As it happened a semi-professional troupe of itinerant mariachi musicians had arrived in Uluru that very same day.  

   Some of "Los Ess-Gees" a depraved band of fake mariachi musicians whose dissolute antics momentarily depraved the Prop and Mrs P. 

Plausible, charming and showing more aptitude for drinking than playing music, "Los Ess-Gees" (as they are semi-professionally known) invited the Prop and Mrs P into their depraved fold. 

Spellbound by their wicked, wicked ways, we quickly and completely fell into disolution.  Those of you who have seen "Wake in Fright" (d. Nicolas Roeg) will have some idea of the extent and rapidity of our descent into Hell (aka "the 'Yabba").  

Fortunately, we were abruptly brought to our senses when, at an al fresco desert diner, the enormity of "Los Ess-Gees" deception was exposed - none of them could play guitar and only the tall grey-haired one was able to say "Areeba, Areeba!" with anthing like a convincing Mexican accent.

   "Los Ess-Gees", exposed at last.  Dining al fresco in the desert and not an instrument in sight! Not musicians at all but a band of dissolute desperadoes!

    One of the unscrupulous "Ess-Gees" : note the ring of confidence!

   "Areeba, areeba!" Miguel (right) the ringleader of this band of mendacious mariachis. What IS he doing with his left hand? 

We were lucky to escape to Kings Canyon.......