Published in Australia by Sid Harta Publishers Pty Ltd,

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First published in Australia 2013

This edition published March 2013

Copyright © Di and Bill Perkins 2013

Cover design, typesetting: Chameleon Print Design

The right of Di and Bill Perkins to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Di and Bill Perkins

Counting Our Blessings — 69 Days in Europe

ISBN: 9781742982984 (ePub)

Digital edition distributed by

Port Campbell Press

www.portcampbellpress.com.au

Conversion by Winking Billy

This book is dedicated to those who, for one reason or another, have not been able to travel … may you share the journey with Bill and me.

CONTENTS

Index of Photographs

Preview

ITALY

Rome

Siena

Florence

Venice

SLOVENIA

Ljubljana

CROATIA

An Amazing Interim in Zagreb

Split and Rijeka

SLOVENIA

Return to Slovenia

AUSTRIA

With Albert and Maggie

HUNGARY

Budapest

Budapest to Prague

CZECH REPUBLIC

Prague

GERMANY

Prague to Berlin

Berlin

Goslar

HOLLAND

Goslar to Maastricht

Amsterdam 1

Amsterdam 2

Amsterdam 3

NORWAY

Towards Norway

Oslo

Across Norway to Bergen

Into the Fjords of Norway

Perfection

Another Day in Spectacular Norway

South from Bergen to Stavangar

Norway’s National Day from Kristiansand in the Far South

Finale for Norway

SWEDEN

Sweden, the Land of our Friends

Excursions in Sweden

Beautiful, beautiful Stockholm

RUSSIA

St Petersburg

Another Sunny Day in St Petersburg

Our Final Day in St Petersburg

Our Midnight Interlude in St Petersburg

FAREWELL

Bramber, Southern England

About the Authors

INDEX OF PHOTOGRAPHS

“The School of Athens” in the Sistine Chapel, painted by Raphael

St Peter’s Basilica, the heart of the Roman Catholic Church, the Mecca for worshippers around the world

With the map in hand and the Colosseum behind us, we are in heaven

El Campo in Siena — the focal point of the community

Across the valley of terracotta roofs to the 13th Century San Domenico Basilica where we celebrated Mass

The Cathedral of Siena with unique green marble; glorious singing emanated from here to the crypt below

This is Florence — the birthplace of the Renaissance and our modern cultural civilization

The fabulous Duomo in Florence that is being meticulously restored

Covers nonchalantly thrown over produce while the owners enjoy their siesta

Red tulips in Florence at the Lookout where David reached for the sky

Venice, the romantic centre of Italy, in the romantic country of Europe

Medieval beauty, modern technology and future vulnerability

The island in the middle of Lake Bled

Lake Bohinj where we first experienced snow

Unique architecture in Ljubljana

St. Mark’s Church, Zagreb

Our Angel Anna, and Linus with tulips and pansies in the background in Zagreb

A mega decorative egg in Zagreb that depicts the church where legend has it that the Croatians were kept imprisoned by the Turks

Beautiful Split

The long esplanade of coffee-drinkers

Looking down over Ljubljana from the Castle

The sculpture of the broken Euro and the ants

The pink cathedral in Ljubljana

Walking down the streets of Meggenhofen with Albert

The Aistersheim castle and moat, 850 years old

Beautiful Meggenhofen and surrounds (2 photographs)

The magnificent Danube River

The beautiful parliament in Budapest on the Danube

Shoes near the Danube River in Budapest with tributes from visitors

The weeping willow tree at the back of the Holocaust Museum; the name of every Jew who was sent to a concentration camp is engraved on the leaves

The wonderful group of law students from Budapest who shepherded us in Esztergom

Magic transformation of Buda’s palace on our final night in Hungary

Pansies were spectacular as we made our way up through these wonderful countries

Overlooking Prague from the Palace

Tombstones at the back of the Museum for Holocaust victims where 10,000 are buried

Memorial to the students who self-immolated in Wenceslas Square, Prague, protesting at the Russian invasion in 1968

Fabulous stained-glass window at St Vitus Cathedral in Prague

Bridge connection on the way from Prague to Berlin

Memorial commemorating the saving of a German child by a Russian soldier; it has been identified that this event coincided with the time of Hitler’s suicide in his bunker approximately three kilometers away

The bunker that induced Graham to remain in Berlin

The famous Brandenburg Gate built in 1791; the Berlin Wall cordoned it off during the Cold War

Under the Lindens in Berlin

“Ghost” stations that were closed off during the partitioning of Berlin as a result of the Wall

Two bricks that demarcate where the Berlin Wall was erected

A part of the Berlin Wall that has been retained

The Jewish Memorials in Berlin

The stately railway station that was bombed significantly during W W II, with only the façade remaining

Moving sculpture of mutual support of East and West outside the Reconciliation Church, Berlin

The carillon at the Marktplatz, Goslar

Homilies and wisdoms were wound around everyday life and ingrained into homes

The 1000 year-old hotel, Kaiserworth, in the Markplatz where we stayed in Goslar in 1984

Our abode, Hotel Goldener Stern, in 2012 constructed in the fifteenth century

Goslar Kaiserplatz that contains huge wall frescoes of events and leaders in medieval Germany history

Rammelsberg Mine that was in production for almost 1000 years

Slate was so attractive in this town of Goslar and its effect was similar to that of an armadillo

Keukenhof, a visual spectacular outside Amsterdam

Rampart at the entrance to Maastricht

The gated entry to Maastricht with the portcullis markings intact

White asparagus was the flavour of the season right through the northern countries

Quaint buildings along the canal in Amsterdam

Such peace in cities with canals, bridges, boats and bikes; the beautiful canals of Amsterdam

More structural fascination in Amsterdam

Classic parking that defies belief; sometimes there is a miscalculation with disastrous consequences

Almost out of a fairytale setting, with the multiple turrets

Sending you a bouquet of tulips from Keuekenhof, Holland

Windmills in Holland are a constant reminder of the ingenuity of the Dutch who redeemed their land from the sea

The magic of the Fjords in Norway

The irrepressible rape cultivations that followed us through our journey

Let the show begin

The red oxide, the tribute, the train and the snow en route to Bergen

Romantic for Aussies but nuisance value for residents

Beautiful Bergen on the west coast

The view looking out from our bedroom at Flam, at the top of the deepest and longest fjord , the Sonje, in Norway

One of many villages on the fjord where peace and beauty abound

My hunter and gatherer, my strength and my shield (against the cold as well!)

The mystical element on our journey from Flam to Mydral was poetic

The snow never ceased to enchant us

These red-oxide houses were symbolic of the Scandinavian architecture, the paint being a great protection against the elements

A group in national costume outside the old church in Voss

An Ann of Green Gables home in Voss

A village nestled along the Hardangerfjord

A church in Ulvik, on the Hardangerfjord

Spectacular bridges spanned large tracts of water on Norway’s coast

Villages south of Bergen with their functional homes

The old wooden homes and the Methodist Church joined together in Kristiansand

Children in national costume participating in Norway’s National Day, Kristiansand

“Danvikshem” which is now a nursing home. This beautiful building looks prestigious and it is sometimes mistaken for the more modest Castle of Stockholm

One impressive bell-tower on the island of Sandhamn

The beautiful Stockholm Archipelago

The rocks, the pines, the water and the homes on the Stockholm Archipelago

The fabulous ballroom in the Town Hall, Stockholm

The cantilevered bridge beside the boccia court and restaurant

The Sala silver mine to which Hans took us in Sweden

A painted model of the Vasa in the Museum in Stockholm

The illuminated, luxury Elite Hotel in which we stayed with Anna and Ulf in Sweden

The Cathedral of the Spilt Blood

The opulence of The State Hermitage Museum was breathtaking

The State Hermitage Museum

Bill standing beside a grandiose, marble container, The State Hermitage Museum

The Chapel of Catherine with beautiful lilac in the grounds

Crypt of one of the tsar’s family in the Chapel of St Peter and St Paul; Catherine the Great and Peter the Great were buried in this church

Tribute to St Peter the Great by Catherine the Great, both intrepid reformers. The huge granite pedestal weighing 1600 ton took nine months to transport from the Gulf of Finland. During the 900-day siege of Leningrad in World War II, the Bronzed Horseman was protected and survived intact

Fantastic design work in the Cathedral of the Spilt Blood

A Russian cosmonaut suit in the Space Museum on the Island of St Peter and St Paul

Ceilings and foors were as fascinating as what hung on the walls… A museum near the Cathedral of the Spilt Blood

Driving through Surry in southern England

A street party in London on the Queen’s Jubilee weekend

Standing at Michelangelo’s Piazza overlooking Florence

We give to you a résumé of missives and reflections from a self-planned holiday primarily through the old Eastern Bloc countries, Holland, Scandinavia and Russia. Our last big European venture in 2005 covered the southern part of Europe, France and Belgium, and this present holiday presumably will be our last, so we particularly savoured every aspect of the journey. During these few months, we met so many generous folk who enriched our experiences in their country and to whom we are indebted.

A selection of Bill’s evocative photographs has been included.

Preview

Good friends brought us to the airport in March, 2012, and partly calmed our inner concerns. Before this long holiday, considerable organisation was necessary to make and confirm bookings, to minimise the amount of clothing we packed while ensuring its sufficiency, and to maximise security of our home during our absence. The preparation of updated wills prior to our departure was necessary, though emotionally exhausting as it addressed our own mortality. Boarding the plane we braced for the thirty-hour trip, knowing that this would be our last long European trip. The excitement factor of discovery had not kicked in yet — it was a matter of getting over the hurdle of the journey. In truth, leaving our girls and our two grandchildren for such a protracted time was daunting. As we walked through first class in the Qantas plane, the steward said rather officiously, “Don’t break stride.”

Without its usual wonderful arrangements of orchids, Changi Airport looked slightly sterile — so different from the terminal of which we had nurtured fond memories. We struck up a conversation with a couple from Frankfurt who come to Sydney every year to avoid the European winter; conversely, we were hoping to enjoy their snow. An English couple from the Cotswolds spoke about the wild flowers, especially bluebells that were abundant in the woods in England at this time of the year. Looking around the airport, it was easy to believe that Singapore was indeed the crossroads of the world. What a dastardly hour of midnight, after a long stopover, to be re-embarking for the long haul to London. Many young children ran around laughing happily, thankfully working off their energy before boarding for the trip to London.

Our safe arrival in London signalled the actual start of our marvellous journey — and we relaxed. The third and final leg to Rome began and we almost had a spring in our step. Flying over the beautiful country in southern England, the recognisable regions and landmarks in France, and then to peer out onto the snow-capped mountains of Switzerland and northern Italy, we were now mentally prepared to embark on this fabulous holiday!

Rome

Friday, 30 March, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

We have just completed a fantastic day at the Basilica and the Sistine Chapel followed by the best Neapolitan pizza with anchovies and some tiramisu. Life is pretty tough here in Italy! No wonder the men hum and sing, the women dress so beautifully and walk tall. I have once more fallen in love with the cadence of the language, the lilting intonations and the continuous hand movements to accompany the vocals. I have refrained from asking a mother almost operatically summoning her child in the most mellifluous tones if she would mind replaying it — don’t want to be locked up. Can’t find the apostrophe or the dash so please forgive; the iPad is too sensitive for my eager fingers.

Had forgotten the degree to which we loved Italy but it is all coming back so quickly … this southern shoe of Europe is a treasure of an in-progress archaeological dig combined with the highest cultural collection of art (Paris would reject this competition). Yesterday we flew in from London and immediately became nostalgic as we emerged out of the low smog cloud of London to see the beautifully clean-cut pockets of farms in southern England, Brighton and the English Channel. France looked so like England it was hard to believe they have been enemies forever, that so much blood has fertilised their soil. We could even pinpoint the landmarks of Paris from the air, then the tranquil Dordogne and Avignon. We knew the next part of the journey would be magic — found the dash — coming in over the Alps, which must have been Switzerland, and the sharp-peaked, rugged, ragged mountains were snow-covered. After the Alps, Northern Italy looked green and welcoming. We assumed it was Tuscany as the pockets of land were almost artistically sculpted like leaves, with trees separating the fields. Still the smog-fog-mist continued. How we under-rate our blue skies at home in Australia.

From the airport, the bus took us into the middle of Rome to the termini where the gypsies appeared to have been cleared out and we felt safe. Our pulses raced and the Rome-fever gripped us once more. There were so many excavations, we were awe-struck: Rome is one living archaeological dig! Glimpsing the Colosseum once more, it was even more profound than we remembered it — just enormous. After checking in to our accommodation, we wasted little time in venturing out to re-visit the Colosseum on foot and encountered a huge number of police — one was even able to ride a motorbike and semi-stand on it while commanding the attention of drivers. It turned out that we were near the President’s — found the apostrophe — Palace. No wonder the presidents here develop mistress habits; there certainly is ample room to hide several since the palace is enormous. The great abundance of security and police, with horns blaring, whistles blasting and a cacophony of sirens contributes to absolute aural chaos. We rediscovered parts of the Forum, the old city walls and many magnificent buildings before being re-acquainted with the absolute grandeur of the magnificent Colosseum. Standing at its base we once more congratulated the makers — how impossible to build it so beautifully so long ago.

Our sufficient hostel, M & J Hostel, near the termini was on the second floor, thus creating a difficulty with lifting heavy suitcases, but the folk in reception were helpful. In this building built to last, there were high ceilings, generous tall windows and a window seat facing out on to similar apartments. Everything was rectangular — the grey tiles, and the low, red toilet seat were disarmingly large. Twin beds were regrettably appropriate last night as we were totally knackered after the 30-hour trip here.

Church bells pealed, reminding us of the Roman Catholic foundation of this nation. Lovers walked arm in arm in this young people’s paradise; women dressed so elegantly and men wore suits. There are Somerset Maugham-type shutters and many, many apartments. Trying to get money from the bank machine was difficult and I particularly appreciated the kindness of a Frenchman who took me inside the bank, for security, to get some euros. This morning we had a fabulous conversation with an Argentinean chap who deals with drug-children and their families. He says that the answer to the problem is a set of rules, all of which start with “NO …” Re-education of the parents as well as putting out parameters for the addicts is the solution. Surely travel is about meeting these amazing folks — and learning from them.

Tomorrow we are off to Tuscany and Siena. What a total blessing it has been to come back to drink in this culture, the Michelangelo and Rafael gifts to posterity and to feel the spiritual purity and beauty of St Peter’s. Somehow coming back a second time — and we know it will be a last time — makes it so poignant and precious.

We send you our love,

Bill and Di

Siena

Sunday, 1 April, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Young ones in Roma revelling on a Friday night created a suitable finale for us … laughter, more laughter and “Grazie”s echoed up the empty streets. Exiting this marvellous city was without incident once the initial validation of our Eurail pass was effected. There is an urgency to find the correct train, the first class carriage, the seats, then deposit the luggage safely. Once we settled into our seats on this our first Eurail stint, it was great to get into decent conversation with a Canadian couple whose daughter was spending six months studying in Florence. Together we waxed lyrical about getting out of the sadder parts of Roma and into, literally, the fresh air and blue skies of Tuscany.

The rolling hills were covered with naked shrubs and trees, some of which were beginning to show the slow sprouts of spring. Based on limestone, the area was prolific in farm produce with only a few sheep and cattle. Some farmhouses and cottages were long deserted with the terracotta roofs concaved. The dilapidation confirmed what Lonely Planet said about the ageing population of northern Italy. While the mist on the far hills was typical of Tuscany, the clarity in the air was almost invigorating. Peach, apple and pear blossoms added to the beauty of the farms while vineyards confirmed this was a winemaking area. Reaching a tiny village called Chiusi, we were offloaded onto a bus and enjoyed a winding, hilly journey through small villages with their narrow streets — an intimate trip as we could almost reach out to touch the windows and shutters of the stone buildings. Castles and villages in elevated positions almost merged in with that diagnostic terracotta ambience.

Siena is a medieval walled city constructed across several hills. After checking into our accommodation, Hotel Chiusarelli, that proved to be luxurious and provided a most generous breakfast, we began to explore the maze of narrow streets and interminable steps. Tourists, many of whom were school children on holiday tours, Japanese groups, individuals, couples young and old, all trekked through the cobble-stoned enclosures between the buildings admiring the quality garments and articles in the various shops. Coffee shops and pizzerias were a constant feature and we enjoyed a pannacotta before embarking on a tour of the feast of museums and cathedrals this city boasts. Many Italians evidently are drawn to Siena, perhaps because of its religious significance. Art in the cathedrals emanated from the thirteenth century and Siena was an important town in the southern trek of the pilgrims. As Bill and I explored the bowels of the earth under the fantastic Duomo, we were treated to the most wonderful harmony of hymns from above.

Determined to attend mass at another cathedral opposite our abode that night, we shared a memorable event. Upon entering, we immediately felt like interlopers. The mass in the crypt had begun, the service was either in Italian or in Latin, of which we understand nothing, except the “Amen”s, but once more it was an opportunity to admire the cadence of the language that I love. Admiring the sculpted contours of the unadorned ceiling, and the strong colours in the long rectangular stained glass windows in the side, we were brought back to reality when the collection came around and we needed to scrabble for some euros. The next phase was the announcement for the greeting of peace; our cover was blown as only English came out of our mouths. All through the mass I expected a booming request for “those Australian, non-Italian speaking Protestants at the back to stand”.

A great experience and the resonance of the priest’s voice and the beautiful singing in this medieval space were soothing. Being Palm Sunday we witnessed palms being carried in the streets while many individuals in church carried olive branches. One dear old lady scrambled through the rubbish bins near the exit of the cathedral, searching for more than just individual leaves. She appeared desperately intent on her mission. I approached a well-dressed woman with several olive branches in her hand and explained in English the need of the other woman, then took her by the hand over to the poor-looking lady. They talked animatedly and we witnessed a happy sharing of the symbolic part of Easter preparations.

In Siena, soaking up the sunshine on our balcony while listening to the bells pealing in unison echoing across the valley, we looked over a famous soccer oval that would be alive tomorrow. We heard the lawn mowers roaring from the time we arrived, preparing for Sunday’s big game of football. Football is the second religion of Italy. The greens were manicured within an inch of their lives and we watched a tall black African mark out white lines around the goal post. Unfortunately, he then walked white footsteps right across the verdant green that had been so carefully tended; his disbelief and consternation were palpable from a distance. After the match we were swamped by a great cross-section of folk who had cheered the home side of Siena to a victory of 1-0 against a strong north-Italian team — no drunken hooligans, just groups of boys walking past yelling out (overtones of West Side Story). Having produced this musical in Mount Isa in 1990, I felt an automatic association of the lilting allure of the Italian cadence with the excitement of theatrical production.

The Piazzas are the hubs of activity in these villages that have no parks — the fortress-like structure of towns was deliberate for protection, so inhabitants socialised within the walls. Sitting on the cobblestones of El Campo Piazza we watched as groups of young ones shiacked around, some playing competitive leap-frog, fathers chased their small children, photos were being taken, and everyone was just revelling in the sunshine. This is a place of community activity — confetti lay in the cracks between the cobblestones and bi-annual horse races around the perimeter of this main piazza are popular calendar events. There is music, music everywhere … such a sense of aliveness where men talk with their eyes, meeting and greeting with fervour.

The solidarity of the family and the community is accentuated by the traditional hold of the church that pulls the fabric of society together. Listening to the pealing of bells from the various cathedrals across this small city, one cannot ignore that the Catholic Church is still alive and well in this part of the world. The Duomo is a tribute to the faith that has supported these people through the Black Death, the Crusades, the Incursions, Wars and now political ineptness and corruption. Its stark beauty, architecturally, artistically and sculpturally, is a continuing drawcard for admirers worldwide.

Have to sign off on Siena since we leave shortly to Florence by train. Just a magic city — such a privilege to be having this holiday.

Sending much love to all of you,

Bill and Di

Florence

Wednesday, 4 April, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

The last time we came to Florence in 2005 was unforgettable. On the top of a double-decker open bus, with classical music filling our souls, and looking down into a misty valley pin-pricked with pencil pines, then the revelation of this huge cluster of signature terracotta roofs denoting the birth-place of the Renaissance. Fantastic! This time we arrived by train, watching the lovely countryside with the lime green of new growth on the plane/chestnut trees, and the lack of erosion, despite the steepness of the hills. The large variety of mosses growing on the terracotta roofs, the wood piled up neatly and backyards so cultivated with vegetable gardens and the wisteria with its purple magic — what an introduction! The many small, pretty villages and a few industries gradually morphed into industrial landscape, affluent centres with bored youths, then our Florence …

Statione di Santa Maria Novella is such a romantic name for a rail terminus — it just flows off the tongue. We dragged our luggage over the cobblestones to Hotel Abaco, a 15th Century building with 54 steep steps to our comfortable room with 4.5m high walls, and a raked ceiling of oak beams. In this sturdy home that has withstood regular little earthquakes, there are no squeaks as we walk along the rug-runners in the corridors edged with subtle floor lighting. The necessity to carry our suitcases up numerous stairs makes one able to walk past any enticing goodies that weigh more than a whisper, and confirms the ageing of our bones and joints. Our hostess could not be more helpful — married to an Italian chap, this Japanese woman showed me how to move things on the screen of the iPad. As a tourist in a foreign country, you observe and generally you learn. Life is still one of indulgence here: pannacotta gelati must surely be the food of angels and having nutella for breakfast is beautifully decadent. We learned to have coffee standing up at a bar instead of sitting down and paying double, and found that blood orange juice tastes fabulous.

The magnetic Ponte Vecchio, that was spared bombing in WW II, and the magnificent Duomo, were our first points of reference. Being slightly familiar, these landmarks take on extra significance. The Galileo museum excited Bill but, except for the Mathematics applications, did little for me. The WOW factor of the chapels, the art and the sculpture was ahead. Florence is afloat with tourists and we miss the normality of Siena. The sharp Italianness is diluted but the tight jeans, the high heels and the attitude are still significant yet there is greater evidence of foreign ribaldry. We lie in bed ready to watch Italian drama — all in Italian — on television, while the young ones are just coming to life. Florence is almost a rite of passage for all those who revere art, so we must not be selfish.

We happened on some awesome chapels and little-acclaimed palaces today. The genius of Michelangelo through his architecture, his sculpture and his art is apparent in what we have soaked up today. In the Crypt of the Cappelle Medicee that he designed, you feel the harmony of the intersecting vaults of the ceiling that are the epitome of simplicity and beauty. Marble pillars and marble floors accentuate the wealth of the family. Many Medici rest here, either in vaults or under our feet, and there are parts of their bodies (reliquaries) kept for posterity in ornately decorated containers of ebony, gold, crystal, or brilliant azure, embedded with jewels. It is a banal concept keeping these bones, but interesting.

The Basilica di San Lorenzo was neck-achingly fabulous, with scenes and designs created from such a range of marbles. There is so much exquisite art, sculpture and architecture. The reality is that the modern world is seriously indebted to the Medici Family from Florence as they were the financial backers of the cultural Renaissance. Without their support for these artisans, our world would be a poorer place. Another building that Michelangelo designed for the Medici family was a reading room. There were grey sandstone steps (curved parts on the side looked gorgeous), high ceilings with excellent designs in rich wood, and leadlight windows for natural light. This room contained a series of reading benches (with high backs, a little like church pews) that were slanted to accommodate the reading books. At the entrance to each pew was a list of the volumes available in that row. For security, the woman explained that the books were attached to chains. How ingenious and how precious were books in an era when literacy was not common and how far we have come with computers.

Have fallen in love with David and his magnificent body and made a beeline for him at dell’ Academia. We, along with many others, stood in total admiration at the majesty of Michelangelo’s creation standing above us on a pedestal. The transparent dome above David virtually created a wide halo effect and we sensed that we were in the presence of not a master, but the master. We moved silently, almost reverentially, around the sculpture, intent on examining David from every angle. Eventually we had to move on, but by the end of the rest of the gallery, we were “Madonna-and-Child”ed out. It is impossible, nevertheless, to resist going into another gallery to experience the awe of the magnificent art treasure in this city. Today has been a soul-saturating day with time at the exhausting Uffizi, the marvellous San Croce (thanks Bill Kable) where Dante, Machiavelli, and Michelangelo are buried. As a finale, we took a bus ride to a vantage point so we could tie up Florence in the same way as we first saw her in 2005. Fittingly, a mega statue of David, reaching into the skies, stood resplendent at the Michelangelo Piazza.

The Duomo was all we anticipated and we marvelled at their capacity to build such monuments before cranes were the norm. Of course, the degree of detail and the sheer beauty of the final outcome, defies belief. Trying to absorb so much ensures we sleep well at night.

Tomorrow we head to Venice and leave behind this Medici-facilitated-Renaissance, unforgettable Florence …

With much love

Bill & Di

P.S. ON FLORENCE

This little machine gobbled up a few paragraphs on Venice so I apologise for being so brief last night. Just a few vignettes to put the human touch on our time in this marvellous city. Wisteria greets us in unexpected quarters, draped over fences, columns, embracing walls. Orange trees in courtyards are heavy with perfect fruit. Puffs of plane-tree flowers wafted over coffee or wine drinkers as they celebrated the Uffizi. At Michelangelo’s Piazza, garden beds of pure red and white poppies asserted the coming of spring … One of the most poignant moments was walking into the Basilica of San Lorenzo where the intense beauty of the organ music integrated with the soaring arches of this early Florentine basilica — the sheer beauty brought tears to my eyes. No wonder the churches here are packed — the music accentuates the spiritual experience.

Being unable to understand a language does not preclude communication. At the Uffizi, I innocently, and possibly stupidly, asked an attendant in full detail in English if there were any French Impressionists at the end of the gallery. She listened and then, in perfect Italian, gave me a whole long explanation, replete with the accompanying hand gestures. Grazies were exchanged and we wandered on our way, keen to rest our weary feet. Her booming voice followed me, “Mother! Mother!” with lots of Italian hand gestures and we both understood her concern that the straps of my bag and the umbrella were touching the sacred floor. My body must have been sagging more than usual. The Palazzo Medici was not even mentioned in the Lonely Planet but its fabulous wealth and richness is such a legacy from bankers and financiers to western culture. Entertainment rooms are similar to those of the Sistine Chapel.

Another incident once more brought home the importance of not judging a book. As we stood in line at the Duomo, a doting German mother and her son with dishevelled hair and a glint in this eye were talking in deutsch. He nonchalantly rolled a cigarette with long pieces hanging out the end, but then could not find his lighter; not to be deterred he approached a passer-by who obliged but then the lad was relegated to move away from the queue — by his Mutter! (Church bells are pealing as I write.) Later we got into deep conversation with the lad who is from Munich, studies art in Vienna and is writing a paper on Brunelleschi’s dome of the Duomo — and is soon off to Africa to do some volunteer work! The opportunities for young ones in Europe to study art are mind-blowing; for those of us from the southern hemisphere, it is heaven.

The street cleaners have been busy. All noise reverberates in the narrow streets and last night’s revellers who returned to their pensions happily singing, certainly reinforced that this is a city of love.

See you in Venice …

Venice

Thursday, 5 April, 2012

As the train edged through the tunnels, past the luscious farmlands that melted into industrial cities on the lowlands, we experienced a heightened sense of excitement to be returning to a city that holds irresistible magic for everyone everywhere. Appropriately the mist/fog/smog hung around to emphasise the ethereal quality of Venice. The railway bridge from the mainland extended over calm, pale waters in which markers stood as sentinels, one supporting the other. That first glimpse of the bridges and the Grand Canal reinforces the aura of love this place holds for many, apart from Casanova. Our last time here in 2005 was brilliant and that joy is now being consolidated. There are lots of stalls with Murano glass, classy clothes, masks and every manner of memorabilia. This city is indeed an international Mecca and true locals must despair of the almost permanent influx of tourists. Regardless, it is all helping put Italy more in the black, or less in the red, from a national financial perspective.

The water in the canals is much, much cleaner than seven years ago; there is no odour although some buildings are clearly suffering from the effect of rising sea levels. We passed several solar farms on the way from Florence so there is an awareness of the repercussions from continued global warming. Exploring with a map in hand, we became absolutely lost and resorted to buying tickets on the vaporetto to go down the Grand Canal to Piazza San Marco. Travelling involves a lot of trust and when we purchased the ticket, the boat went off in the opposite direction. We were treated, thankfully, to a circuitous trip all around the island complex, being able to admire the many, many domes of the varying cathedrals, as well as note the similarity of some of the architectural designs to those of Moorish origin in the Alhambra in Spain. Finally disembarking at the famous piazza, our joy was unbounded. The world was there — all ages, all religions, and all cultures.

Could life be better than sitting at San Marcos in Venice with my David (aka Bill), having an apricot juice, being serenaded by an ensemble playing jazz and selections from Andrew Lloyd Webber? We looked at the breathtaking Basilica that is slowly sinking into itself; the fantastic marble floor was undulating when we went through seven years ago. Semi-minarets adorn the top and four commanding brass horses, retrieved from Constantinople, have historical significance. Water constantly inundates this part of Venice and waiters deliver drinks via heightened duckboards, dressed in their penguin suits. Young guys were challenging themselves to catch a pigeon but with no success. Seagulls looked so elegant and enormous, like mini-alba-trosses. Wagner was a regular visitor to this square and as we watched the toe tapping and hip-movements of those who stood to enjoy the music in 2012, the desire to create music in this seductive environment was understandable.

Today is our last day in our beloved Italy. Have awoken to the continuous music of a whistler singing of his love of the world, down in the piazza! What a way to start everyone’s day! This melodious gift (still continuing after 20 minutes) was only interrupted by the clicking of the wheels of pull-along trolley bags as tourists made their way to the stazione, and the gentle ringing of church bells across the piazza. Moreover, the maker of this spontaneous music is sweeping the area with a large, old-fashioned broom.

The quaint custom of trust in nonchalantly throwing covers over the displays of fruit, or else closing up shop for an hour to have a siesta at 1.30pm, appears to have declined over time. It was cold yesterday so it will be thermals today, especially as we are travelling by train via Austria to Slovenia. Hoping to see lots of spectacular mountainous scenery. Will try to get some photos up once we have wrestled with this little machine some more. We are just absorbing every nuance and trying to commit all these experiences to memory.

Love,

Bill and Di

Ljubljana

8 April, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Our exit from Venice was one of calm and then absolute chaos. The cathedral opposite our abode was beautiful inside — pure marble pillars with little ornamentation; serene, with a body and crosses covered in purple cloth. In memory of the woman in Siena, I picked up a small branch with olive leaves from the container at the door of the church. The second church we entered was more ornate with a holy area at the front that picked up filtered sunlight. Walking nonchalantly to the termini, we searched for our train to Villach in Austria. The name of the train was not displayed. Anxiously I found an official who became unduly agitated, circled the “bus” word on the Eurail pass and almost yelled to go to platform 11 because the train that went across the water to the mainland left in 1 minute at 11.03. Action. Running, shoving heavy bags on, then realising the dreaded Eurail pass had not been validated, earning a possible heavy fine. Thankfully, the young conductor was understanding and just charged us for the rail trip.

It was with great relief that we eventually, in Mestre, found the correct bus on which we were scheduled to travel and just sat back to enjoy an exceptionally spectacular trip via Austria to Slovenia. Vineyard after vineyard, in orderly fashion, accompanied us as we exited from Italy. Once we left the flat lowlands of Italy, the country soon became mountains covered with fir trees, scree slopes, evidence of slippage, some waterfalls and lots of elms with soft autumn fall on the ground.

Another adrenalin dash from the bus to the Slovenia-bound train at Villach but the efficient Austrians provide lifts at stations so the stress was reduced. Folk we encountered all along the way were chilled and urged us (or me) to just settle! As we crossed into Slovenia, a young fellow in jeans, “the police”, joined us in the apartment and asked to see our passports; he seemed bona fide so we complied, with some reservation. Sitting down and chatting to us about what to see in Slovenia, he set our concerns at rest before asking many questions about Australia. This was the only time we saw a policeman in civvies, but we had to trust our instincts.

There were lakes, streams and rivers, totally quaint villages nestled in at the base of the mountains or along the river flats of Slovenia, with their alpine roofs, their vegetable patches at the back, pink peach blossoming trees, the brilliantly vivid yellow “broom”, and the inevitable spire or two piercing the sky. What a visual feast. At one point on the journey, we stopped for a considerable time at a station and it was so quiet, I could feel my heart beating loudly in my ear. Locating our very modest hostel (up 60 stairs) was not difficult as it was relatively close to the station. For us, a bonus is having a double bed and, for Bill, it is also about having a wall-fixed shower. Our room at the Alibi M14 Hostel, had a broken window, but the room was really comfortable and overlooked a central park area. Booking cheaper accommodation does have its drawbacks with basic amenities, but often you meet more interesting people. In this particular hostel, cooking facilities brought disparate groups together, as did the computers; the staff was helpful.

We began to appreciate Ljubljana from the beginning with its wide streets, its modern architecture (the same architect who designed many buildings in Prague), and a river running through the middle of the city, the stand-out pink church, the scarcity of cars and its cleanliness. Dining at a typical Slovenian restaurant and being attended by mature waiters dressed in their national costume, we enjoyed Slovenian goulash, with baked polenta and salad. One special treat was real blueberry drink and our final delicacy was sharing a typical Slovenian apple-type-strudel. (Sorry, some of the keys on this machine in the dining room of our hostel are juxtaposed and it is like using a manual typewriter. If there is a real computer around, the iPad is sacrificed.)

Rugged up, so excited to be in a city where surrounding mountains were topped with snow, we wandered — into a dark, wooden wonderful little den that seemed so Austrian, and seated ourselves at a high bench that was just solid wood. An old chap sat at a corresponding bar talking to a younger fellow drinking coffee and perhaps something else. Even after the young chap left, he continued to talk to himself and we wondered just how much he had witnessed in Slovenia through Tito’s communist era. Would have loved to discourse with him. The waitress informed us they do not normally prepare breakfasts at this venue but, would we like some eggs and coffee? Perfect!

The Saturday markets alongside the river were huge — people obviously come to shop, bringing their trolleys to carry their purchases from the enormous collection of fruits, vegetables, breads, cheeses, meat, etc. Cognisant of the need to keep fresh produce cool, we limited our purchases to fruit, a baguette and a sizeable hunk of cheese (totally decadent and the rind was also edible). A trio of mature musicians played lively music that created a wonderful atmosphere. Just love the feel of this city that is so sane and slow, without the infux of tourists that we experienced in Italy. Look forward to coming back to this beautiful part of the world after our trip down south.

Yesterday we caught a bus down to Lake Bled that is one of the renowned hotspots in Slovenia. Even the bus trip had us in raptures, despite the gentle rain and the overhanging clouds. The mountains looked magical as did the villages with their black roofs, the spires that punctuated the sky and the alpine ambience. The bulbs — daffodils, tulips, freesias, etc. — are vivid and joyful. Despite our accommodation being assured by the lass in the hostel in Ljubljana, everything fell apart when we arrived in Lake Bled. We stood under the umbrellas in the rain, trying to make alternative arrangements by phone, the dubious phone, which had an international simcard but had proven less than reliable.

Eventually a godsend woman came to pick us up and brought us to a well-named hostel called “Traveler’s Haven”. It is absolute heaven with clean, solid accommodation, heated floors, and lots of youngies from Portugal, South Africa, Canada, America and New Zealand who have worked in London for a few years. We gained so much stimulation from these fellow-travellers: lots of laughter, cooking up meals together and sharing information. Bill and I walked maybe 8km around the fabulous lake that is famous for its turquoise-coloured water, the island in the middle with the church that is located on it. Both of us looked a spectacle — a pair of wusses — dressed in our warm gear with water-proofed gear, plus umbrellas. Everyone else, though, was warmly attired as the forecasts were for 25cm of snow in central Slovenia tomorrow. Reputedly 5cm of snow fell in this area last week so the temperatures are consistent.

Bill is cooking up our eggs for breakfast, bless him. We will return to Ljubljana after a bus-ride to Lake Bohinj today and then we head down to Croatia tomorrow. Lots of “oldies” are returning from church, Easter Sunday, dressed in long black coats — the bells have been summoning them for some hours.

Love

Bill and Di

PS SLOVENIA

Yesterday was literally a day of magic for these two Aussie, desert, bush kids. Our Traveler’s Haven was perfect accommodation and we had great company with the young ones who shared stories and their lives. Bill cooked up a storm at night and for breakfast, the floor tiles were heated, the linen was pristine white, everything was “Austrian” perfect. We took a bus down to Lake Bohinj, knowing how much we had loved Lake Bled. The scenery was spectacular as we drove into higher altitudes, passing beautiful villages huddled into the valleys, their window boxes full of flowering bulbs, their neatly-stacked wood-piles either covered or under awnings. Certainly folk were prepared for the cold winter; however, the snow had been atypically light during the current season. It had been raining reasonably solidly since we arrived and, as we came closer to the far end of the lake in the bus, we could see the puffy clouds at the top of the mountains that were sending down powder puffs of snow! The excitement factor was high enough then but after we disembarked, we followed a trail up into the forest. I was warmly attired but Bill had misjudged and dressed too lightly so suffered with the cold conditions. The river was a surging light-greenish torrent, the birds were happy with life, and the path was bordered by all manner of spring wildflowers. Looking up the steep embankments of fir trees with the heavy undergrowth of fallen autumn debris on the lichen-covered rocks, we were in heaven.

As the path became steeper and my breathing became more laboured, we decided to return to the small village as we had been walking for an hour and Bill was so cold. We came across an open area and then … small flakes of snow began to fall, random-sized pieces, softly falling pieces, but unmistakably snow — absolutely wonderful! Last week it was 20 degrees here so how lucky are we? Still marvelling at this magic we retired to a restaurant to enjoy excellent vegetable soup. Life is good, and we appreciated the marvel of being here. As we waited for the bus to return us to our Haven in Bled, we huddled together under an awning watching the mountains at the end of the valley become whiter and whiter as the Casper Clouds sprinkled their dusting. To the side of the valley, the trees looked like fine lace as they stood tall, covered with snow. Fantastic day! Happy Easter Monday everyone.

Love to all,

Bill and Di

An Amazing Interim in Zagreb

9 April, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Easter Monday dawned with clear blue skies and as we headed off to the railway station in Ljubljana, we looked ahead to see mountains clad with substantial snow. The temperature was very cold but invigorating. Clambering aboard the very crowded train to Croatia with our cumbersome luggage, we eventually found two seats together. With no first class available, we needed to accept what we could get. These seats, however, were meant to be because we had, as travelling-companions, two wonderful young people who educated us about many things. We were intent on taking in the fast-flowing Soca River, the emerging spring green, the neat Austrian-style farmhouses. Nevertheless, we soon fell into easy conversation with a blonde-haired Croatian lass who was returning, sleep-deprived, after a 30-hour trip from Lyon in France.

This angel, whom we have named Anna, introduced us to Zagreb as no one else could have. Moreover, we had the deepest conversations about Croatian politics and corruption, the high degree of unemployment in Croatia, the effect of the war on her country, but mostly she spoke of hope and the future. She had great pride in her country and her city. Anna, obviously highly principled and religious, had attended a Solidarity Conference in France — a group intent on working towards a united world in which race and religion were non-discriminatory. 98% of Croatia is Roman Catholic and during the Communist era, it was wise not to speak of your faith or you would suffer. When we walked with her for three hours in Zagreb she took us into the magnificent Cathedral in which she sang solo regularly, and we saw a Croatian man who was lying in state, awaiting validation of his impending sainthood. This man had resisted pressure to reject his faith, was tortured and finally killed. We talked of Tito and Anna said that many statues and boulevards that were named after Marshall Tito have since been dismantled or renamed.

Anna was observant enough to comment that a Croatian woman opposite us who was pandering to her recalcitrant son who treated her abominably, must have a bad relationship with her husband. Later she explained that Croatian women do all the work so Anna was still waiting to find a man who would share the domestic load with her. While we discussed how inhibitions dissipate when you are travelling, I told of my rendition of Santa Lucia in Naples in 2005. Quietly beginning this beautiful song, Anna then joined me in Italian in her most melodic voice — she is a music teacher, so this was a very special sharing.

Opposite Anna was a very sleepy, tall, Swiss fellow who proved to be quite charismatic. Named Linus, he spoke such wisdom it was difficult to believe he was merely 22 years old. He related how, being Swiss, he had to do military service for 14 months and, after some months, he decided this form of service was not for him so elected to undertake civilian, humanitarian service as an alternative. In this context, he was travelling to Sarajevo to witness the twentieth anniversary of the start of the war between Bosnia and Hercegovina. There is a square in which 19 000 people were killed and, to commemorate this horrific event, there would be 19 000 red chairs placed in the square. Linus would photograph and write about the event. (The BBC records the number as being 11, 541 killed in the square.)

Linus related how Dubrovnik had been rebuilt after the war — that it was easy to reconstruct buildings after the war, but impossible to rebuild people and lives. He recounted that there is a city in northeast Croatia where the evidence of war is still poignantly real, as buildings have been left in their forlorn destruction. The people walk scared, haunted and empty. Perhaps all politicians in war-torn areas need to visit these places to be reacquainted with the futility of war. Linus shared his Swiss biscuits with us, while Anna shared her honey cake from France. Linus related that in Serbia, Tito is like a hero. He also said that in Switzerland, dexterous handling of the historical teaching of the Balkan conflict was necessary because it was still so fresh, and fights broke out in the playground. He maintained that Sarajevo is a place where Bosnians can marry Serbs, Croatians can marry whomever, and they can live in harmony. In other parts of this area, there is still friction. Linus liked Australian girls because they drank beer, and Waltzing Matilda was his favourite song. He was off to Africa to do some more of his civil service and then to Borneo where there is an international music festival; he assured us we will see him in Australia early in 2013. Anna, Linus, and we two became like family, sharing heartfelt concerns.

Putting our gear in storage at the railway station, Anna then acted as our in-tourist guide through her home-city. What a beautiful city, with generous parks featuring gardens of poppies and pansies, tall trees with camouflage bark, bandstands, several music groups entertaining passers-by. The buildings were lovingly decorated, perfectly maintained and distinctive. The city was breathtaking and such a revelation — our only previous knowledge of Zagreb was coloured by the sadness of war and destruction that we saw on the news. The cathedral was spectacular and Anna shepherded us gently around inside during the service, pointing out the inscription on the back wall from the Middle Ages, and an ornate, embroidered covering from the seventeenth century. The atmosphere as the service progressed was unforgettable, the singing bringing tears to our eyes. Folk sat in the side pews made from very heavy wood, exquisitely carved. Bill noted a particularly graphic depiction of Christ on the back wall and the incredibly high spires were reminiscent of other spectacular ones seen throughout Italy and the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona.

Outside in a park, there were amazingly huge, 2m high, fabulously decorated eggs with colourful paintings depicting various parts of the Croatian area. Anna recounted the story of an old woman who ingeniously devised a way of getting rid of the Turks who had them surrounded in the local church, determined to starve them out. This was painted on one of the eggs. Another attractive church had a tiled roof with symbols representing all parts of Croatia. Various statues of Croatian heroes were most evocative and strong. We wandered amongst the old part of town, then sat to enjoy a typical Croatian lunch of delectable sausages, potatoes, dips, etc. — similar to the Turkish mezzes. Bill tried the local beer while I savoured another apricot juice. Anna explained that the more spires that were built in a community, the more travellers would be encouraged to stay because they thought it was a wealthy town. Finally, it was urgent to hasten back to the station to complete the 7-hour train trip to Split. It was a last-minute dash of running and then Anna imploring the woman to open the door to our carriage. This 3-hour sojourn in Zagreb was just such a high point; Anna is our Croatian saint and we are deeply indebted to her.

Love to all,

Bill and Di

Split and Rijeka

Wednesday, 11 April

Dear Family and Friends,

After leaving Zagreb, euphoric from the caring hosting we had received from Anna, the long journey of seven hours to the coastal town of Split was not appealing. While the villages of northern Croatia signalled a degree of wealth, we noted the deterioration became more pronounced the further south and west of Zagreb we travelled. Homes were deserted, buildings in disrepair, total factories disused and damaged. The further we travelled, the incidence of homes decreased markedly, the land became less arable with some very rocky, inhospitable terrain. Only today in Split have we learned that this area, which is an important connection point between the capital and the coast, was severely affected in the twenty years of war.

Nevertheless, the country through which we journeyed was spectacular. Dominating mountains bore evidence of recent, heavy snowfalls. We climbed and climbed mountains where the snow hung on the branches of fir trees, where the stalactites hung from protruding rocks and small waterfalls down the hillside had been caught, snap-frozen in time. It was magic for us to be travelling through this fairyland. Eventually the mountains became so steep that looking down the escarpment was rather scary — I swear it was almost as deep as the Grand Canyon — and the train appeared to be swaying from one side to the other, gaining speed and momentum on the mountain slopes but slowing down on the flat parts of the line. When we travelled over a high, high bridge that looked like a Roman aqueduct from a distance, I resolved that we would not make a return journey on this train as it was too scary. The vistas were fantastic; it is a trip to be recommended for those without fear. The difficulty of construction was obvious because it was a single-lane railway line and we frequently had to stop at stations, waiting for a train coming from the opposite direction. The prevalence of national parks in Croatia made it inevitable that we would pass through wilderness country. We wondered what the remaining folk out here did for a living. Evidently there might have been some animal husbandry in this area at one time as rock fences demarcated paddocks. However, the closer we got to Split, the less likely it seemed that anyone could eke out a living here.

With numb bottoms after seven hours on this part of the journey, we eventually saw Split below us and Bill recounted that it was as if we were coming in on a plane, so far below were the lights of the city. It was a blessing to be there at 9 pm, to catch a taxi to our designated hostel, but then a shock to find no-one there but a phone number on the door. Thankfully, my unreliable mobile phone worked at that time (and hasn’t since), and our exuberant host appeared to transport us to an apartment, read “attic” up 64 steps, but still a good bed with a heater. Temperatures have been low so we were thankful for the warmth.

The next morning was beautifully fine and this lovely town acquitted itself well. Our fellow travellers have rated Split well below Dubrovnik but we made the most of Split with its old Emperor’s Palace from the third century and the many buildings that were part of it. The Emperor was not terribly charitable as he had his wife and daughter killed (eyes gouged out) for converting to Christianity. A group of mature priests sang absolute angel-harmony, unaccompanied, in a cloistered area and the resonation was fantastic. One poor woman was selling lace tablecloths made in Bosnia so I succumbed and bought one for Maggie. We wandered along the huge esplanade (perhaps 500m) on which a succession of tables and chairs were arranged — perhaps six deep. This location became crowded with locals as well as tourists.

A sense of the colonial was captured in the whole atmosphere — music playing, old men sitting around talking, walking together, and inevitably smoking, old men without teeth, with many stories to tell. Felt very relaxed, and relieved to find the one Laundromat in town for the accumulated washing and to be able to gather local knowledge. Walking to the top of a vantage-point hill, we looked down over this pretty medieval village with its rust-coloured roofs, ringed by ugly newer high-rise apartment blocks and further enclosed by the dramatic grey, foreboding limestone mountains. The blue of the Adriatic was phenomenal on this perfect day yet we had little inclination to travel out to the islands. Wonderful to be able to take in the relaxed way in which repairs were undertaken, rock walls casually built; groups socialised and were openly demonstrative. We had had a full day of travel to get to this unique UNESCO city and absorbed every nuance of it.

Making our way down to the bus station early the next morning, we had little idea which route it would travel to Rijeka but had been told previously that the route would be inland so we would not see the islands. As we snaked our way out of Split, this journey proved to be yet another one of a lifetime. Eight hours, however, with stops at all the little villages along the coastal route, allowed us to savour what many folks enjoy on their boat journeys in this unique part of the world. The first half of the trip was particularly picturesque as we viewed one village after another built on the peninsulas, the islands, and the curved bays of the coastline. In these villages were many marinas and fishing was obviously an important part of their lives. One perfect little village, Koznuk, was built on a peninsula that jutted out into the aqua or turquoise sea. Villagers hopped onto the bus for short distances, carrying paper bags with produce from the markets, meat from the butchers and bread from the bakers. With their prolific vegetable gardens and fruit trees, these villagers along the coast would enjoy a comfortable life. Generally Croatians don’t have an easy life: money is scarce, unemployment high, and they rely so heavily on the tourist dollar. Our host in Split told us the Croatian economy was “stuffed” and he saw little hope for it in the immediate future. They hope to enter the EU soon.

Geographically, we kept being surprised by the domination of the limestone mountains that never left us, and snow still clung to the highest regions. There were gnarled old tree trunks and vineyards on the side of the mountains in the south but the further north we progressed, the thicker the accumulation of rocks and rock walls around empty paddocks. The country became more harsh and formidable with little sign of habitation. The bus drivers were, thankfully, particularly adept at swinging the archaic bus around the interminable steep corners of the road and we seemed to be climbing one mountain after another, especially as we proceeded up the coast. We were so very high that the desolate islands off the coast in the second half of our journey appeared like mirages below. The weather was closing in and we kept remarking how phenomenal this journey was. As we drew closer to our destination, prosperity was evident in the villages, restaurants and accommodation for tourists during the summer months. At last we sighted Rijeka but, unfortunately, a concentration of pollution in the air detracted from its initial appeal.

Rain began to torrent down as we found our home for the night up 90 plus steps — we felt we were getting too old for this, since our backs are not strong. People are particularly kind in such hostels yet they operate in, essentially, third world situations. Hostels in Croatia are not for the faint-hearted — still, we are so blessed to be having this fabulous holiday. Last night we enjoyed a marvellous meal, perhaps the best bass fish, and chicken cooked superbly. Our breakfast place in Rijeka was in a lovely café with huge chandeliers covered with plastic to counter the dust. These folks don’t have much, they don’t expect much from life, and perhaps they are just thankful that the war has finished. There were many, many old men, many of whom hobble — possibly a legacy of the war. Generally, folk here will never have enough money to get out of Croatia to see the rest of the world so they can come back with fresh insights. The Laundromat lady in Split said she had holidayed up in northern Croatia, that they had no need to travel outside of the country; that they had everything. What a beautiful, soul-contented philosophy.

There were noticeably fewer churches here and the cathedral was barred up so we could not enter. Pigeons are the universal bird and they come in all colours in Croatia. Tulips in Rijeka are prolific with stunning black ones. Some of the streets are tree-lined and becoming beautiful. There are trendy shops and well-dressed women but smoking is the common curse. Many lovely ornately-decorated buildings, lots of graffiti and rusty old buildings indicate this city is still recovering, financially. In a former life, Rijeka was a sugar-cane port so we speculated on whether the barren islands were in fact the previous farms.

We are headed back to Slovenia today at noon and it will be like coming home. Really looking forward to seeing Albert and Maggie in Austria in a few days’ time (sorry, can’t find the apostrophe … did insert when reviewing). It will be like having family; there has been the odd time when I have become a little homesick.

Much love to all — count your blessings; we have so, so much.

Bill and Di

Return to Slovenia

Thursday, 12 April, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Exiting from Rijeka was on a very positive note as Bill succeeded in finding a universal connection plug for my iPad. Today in Ljubljana, he has once more been successful in finding a connection plug for recharging the camera and the mobile phone — he is my hero! Unfortunately I carelessly left the international transformer back in Venice. When we departed Croatia, the weather in Rijeka was fine, the plane trees formed arches over the streets and we enjoyed a delicious octopus salad for lunch, accompanied by our favourite blueberry juice. The trip back to Slovenia was easy with a last vista of the beautiful villages on the Croatian coast, unfortunately enveloped in a smog-mist. One woman at the railway station summarised Croatia: “This place has the smell of another century. I would not recommend it, living here.” This particular woman from Bulgaria, married to a Macedonian, had a port full of books that were particularly heavy, so Bill helped her. A professor, she was teaching Slovenian to little ones of 6-7 years in the lower Balkans. So many folk here are trying to mop up problems of the past to make a better, unified future for their country that still gives dignity to individual cultures.

Border controls were in operation and we had to show our tickets and passports several times. This time, however, the Slovenian Police were in uniform so we wonder whether our jeans-guy might have been an imposter. There is so much trust involved in travelling. As we progressed into Slovenia, the country became noticeably more arable, more tended, and more wealthy. The farmhouses were well kept, nicely painted and the lawns beside the attractive fower gardens replaced the absolutely utilitarian vegetable gardens of Croatia. These are, of course, broad generalisations. We adored coming back to Slovenia with its Austrian-perfect feel where the woods dictate to the agriculture, rather than vice versa as seems to happen in our country. We have learned that Slovenia has 60% forest and Croatia has 80% national park. While evidence of the harsh limestone mountain base persisted, the topsoil appeared more productive than in Croatia. The story of Little Red Riding Hood would be pertinent over here because there are so many woods — but little evidence of animals. We counted only two cattle between Zagreb and Split and another ten between Rijeka and Ljubljana. A collection of some ten long-haired sheep, the odd goat, and just a few birds — that is the sum total of wild life we saw. Whether all the birds have migrated for the winter, we are unsure.

Somehow it feels like returning home when you come back to a hostel for the third time … We have just been down this beautiful wide, cobble-stoned street with the pink cathedral at the end, crossed over the river with three foot-bridges, and returned to our favourite restaurant for breakfast. Being accommodated with delectable fried eggs on thin, crisp bacon and freshly-cut white and brown bread was totally divine. The old chap was there again and we got into conversation this time. Despite his weathered appearance he is only 70, speaks a little English as he was a technician, has no family (but said the waitresses and others who came to the restaurant, were his family — he indicated this with a wave of his hand) and has lived in Ljubljana all his life. He reported that the snow has decreased over the years; there used to be 2m of snow in a town nearby. It was lovely to be able to make a connection with this man whom we had previously observed with interest. Many older people we encounter on the streets will not return a greeting despite a smile, nod and greeting; it is such a delight when our greeting is returned. There must be much residual suspicion and fear from the turmoil from so many decades. The fower markets were in session as we returned and the perfume was exotically overwhelming.

Yesterday we spoke with a young English couple, staying at the hostel, who had just been to a wedding in Bosnia. They recounted the tough time, some twenty years ago, this Bosnian family had endured in trying to escape the Serbian-Bosnian War. They escaped through to Italy because, once you are already in that country, you can’t be thrown out; entry, nevertheless, was difficult. Eventually the father also escaped but he knew the possibility of joining them was remote. Ultimately the family was reunited and lives now in the United Kingdom. In the Bosnian hometown of the original family, adjacent plots of land were reserved for each family member. One empty block stood out; it was the one reserved for the brother who had escaped — a very poignant reminder of the solidarity of family yet the reality of war. The wedding reception was held in a marquee in the grounds of a castle ridden with bullet holes and evidence of devastation from the war. The father was so proud that sixty people had come from everywhere in Europe for the wedding.

Enjoying a Slovenian dessert at the top of a skyscraper looking out towards the snow-clad mountains was heavenly; we cannot get enough of the snow. Now during our last day here in this idyllic little country of two million people, we highly recommend Slovenia as a destination — few cars, lots of bicycles, fantastic vistas from the castle on top of the hill, and excellent food at cheap prices. We learned that Slovenians are wary of Turks as, centuries ago, Turks came up to pillage, rape and take the children — as a diversionary tactic to get to Vienna. This distrust has been handed down through the generations. A wonderfully symbolic sculpture we saw captured strong sentiments: metre long ants worked together to destroy the euro. It was not difficult to decipher the subtle, interesting implications: that the more wealthy nations are quietly screwing some worker nations in the EU.

Tomorrow will be a fantastic trip to Austria to our good friends, Albert and Maggie, so you will have peace from here for a little while. God bless you all; we treasure your friendship. I hope the photos (which I don’t know how to put as an attachment, sorry) have not stuffed up your inboxes. Getting the emails and photos downloaded and away is fraught with issues, so please bear with us.

Much love to all,

Bill and Di

Amazing Austria with Albert and Maggie

Saturday, 14 April, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Our arrival in Austria lived up to our expectations: snow-capped mountains, glaciers, forests, valleys of hamlets of perfect Austrian homes, healthy farms. But no animals! Our significant efforts to ring Albert from Croatia and Slovenia were unsuccessful and most frustrating. A kind gentleman on the train at Salzburg interpreted Albert’s phone number and then rang on his own phone so our dear friend of 43 years from Mount Isa could come to collect us. It was such a relief to make contact. Travelling confirms the basic goodness of our fellow-humans and we keep being surprised and thankful. After Salzburg the country became more undulating than mountainous and we realised that there were no fences between the paddocks, making for a seamless, integrated effect in the fields. The creeks were brimful, meandering and edged with vegetation. Our reunion with Albert and Maggie after seven years was just wonderful. At last we were with friends who would look after us, and we didn’t have to think and plan; our self-imposed hectic schedule was demanding and we relished the opportunity to relax. They are like family and we learned so much through their love and hospitality. Our plan is that they will come to Australia next year so we can try to spoil them in the same way they have us.

Meggenhofen is an idyllic village that is typically Austrian: ultra clean with flowers in profusion. The streets curl around the homes; there is a surprise at every rise and corner. Arriving once more at the Gotthalmseder home, the enormous comfort of familiarity brought a lump to our throats. A backyard with summer vegetables under wraps for the frosts that were still coming, the huge willow trees that Albert had pruned with a handsaw, the red and black currant bushes from which Maggie made the most delectable jam. And inside in the warmth, we re-experienced the precision of Austrian scheduling, (breakfast will be ready at 8.05), the absolute of Austrian hospitality (looking precisely to what we would like to see and do), and the bliss of friendship with lots of laughter, reminiscing, and philosophising. Albert is a perfectionist with English but I was really stretched with my deutsch to speak with Maggie. We were treated to the most luxurious breakfasts (pork sausages wrapped in bacon, eggs with capsicum, tomato and mushroom, fabulous bread rolls with cheese and meat, and tasty jams — plus juice and coffee). Our dinners at night surpassed anything we could be served in a top restaurant. Maggie is such a busy beaver and so thoughtful. We were very spoiled and felt absolutely blessed.

Walking with Albert up through the village in the gentle rain, we returned to the beautiful church and the adjacent graveyard in which his parents are buried. The graves are a floral spectacle with fresh pansies growing in most plots. Families are born, live and die within such a small radius (perhaps 10km), that the plots are maintained with great assiduity. Walking through the spruce forests with Albert, over the thick, squishy carpet of pine needles and cones, I kept my eyes open for deer, refusing to believe they would not be around. The shooting season starts on 1 May and the deer hides are conspicuous in the fields. The puzzle of ‘no farm animals’ was solved — they are inside barns, out of the freezing weather. Their confinement enables the fields to remain unfenced, giving an appearance of freedom and continuity to the farmlets on hills that dip quietly at different orientations.

The contour lines, the variation in cropping and the curved roads over the properties, convey the concept of Austrian respect for their environment: lots of green crops, energy grass (tall 2.5 m dried grass), small tinges of the yellow rape crop, and healthy areas ready for planting. The forests were being thinned and replanted regularly, with spruce yielding E80 per cubic m, and oak E250. Once more we walked to Albert’s childhood home and felt the magic of the area and the continuity of the generations. We realise again that Albert was a tearaway in leaving Austria and his family to come to Australia for almost a decade in the early 1960s.

Walking inside an 850-year-old castle, in Aistersheim, with a moat around it and sighting documents that were dated 1620, was phenomenal. Castles would be incredibly expensive to maintain and to heat, now we have all become soft. Another memorable trip was to Kopfing where we walked above the treetops, drank in the upper-Austrian landscape and, then, almost on cue, it began to snow! Small, gentle flakes admittedly, but enough to create the magic for us. These days with our friends allowed us to meet more members of their family. We listened to the organisation of a funeral for Maggie’s brother and to learn how this event differs from that back home. We saw the finished home of Gabi which was still in progress in 2005, touched the unborn bub of Nadia’s, and met their grand-daughter, Sophia, with whom I will “facebook”. Life at Meggenhofen was a haven for us, and we sadly left via Vienna for Budapest yesterday.

Watching Albert almost skipping along the country roads, asking directions with that quirkiness that is typical Albert, we just felt the hands of time had been turned back. We had been single with Albert in the Staff Mess in Mount Isa in 1969 during our partying, single days. In those days Albert drove a Mini-moke, loved his red wine and his Austrian heritage ensured he received a lot of attention. He returned to Meggenhofen, saw, courted and married Maggie who hailed from this very area in Austria. We retained fond memories of their hospitality and warmth from our 2005 trip, so it was marvellous to be able to return. Hearing Maggie in the kitchen in the mornings was confirmation that the industry of the Austrian housewife is epitomised in her. Bless her …

Love to all of you. It was 7-17 today so quite warm but scarves are still good for the draughts.

Bill and Di

Budapest

Saturday, 21 April, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Leaving Austria was a wrench and as the train wound its way through the industrial north of Austria, we re-appreciated the idyllic nature of Meggenhofen. Much of the country further along was similar to the Darling Downs in Queensland, except for the enormous Danube River, some outstanding castles and glacial till, which was a legacy of the Ice Age. Vienna, unfortunately, was a non-event as we merely changed trains, got the iPad rectified in 2O seconds flat, then found the correct platform for Budapest.

This last stretch of travel introduced us to a charismatic, beautiful Hungarian woman whose English was polished thus enabling us to have deep conversations. She was marking papers and my first assumption was that she was a teacher; however, it transpired that Evamaria is agitating for an improvement in the basic standard wage as she feels that unemployment will create dreadful problems in the near future. Evamaria said there are many poor people from Africa living on the streets. This tall, blonde lady assessed the social services in Hungary quaintly as “the scissors have been opened too far.” Coincidentally, I was wearing the Stop Coal Seam Gas (in French) tee-shirt that Kath Hastings kindly bought; it was great that we shared a common passion of protest for the common good. We discoursed on the status of women in Hungary and Evamaria said that when she returned to Hungary after living abroad, the inequality between the genders impacted on her. Commenting that Bill was a good husband, we learned that Evamaria’s choice was not good. It was so lovely to meet this handsome woman; we spoke of the corruption in politics and the need for women to be involved. Facebook has cemented our friendship, which is superb.

Arriving in Budapest was a shock. The graffiti along the tracks betokened to us a disgruntled people and a more backward, worn economy. We were on our guard against the “taxi”, “taxi” insistents on the platform as per warnings in the Lonely Planet. Trying to secure a map so we could reasonably estimate the distance and thus the price (in hindsight, heaven knows how since we needed the right conversion rate of Hungarian Forint to euros), I approached a Hungarian fellow who assured me that those up on the platform were indeed Mafia. Finally we secured a taxi at a high price, but to arrive safely at our hostel, Hotel Rila, was a blessing. Young ones coming home late, and particularly loudly, disturbed our first night. This hotel has good amenities but, since it was previously a Social Workers Hostel, the walls are paper-thin. I rang reception when the noise did not abate, then went to the offending room and was offered an apology. Moving in the middle of last night to a more commodious room, we were a little cold. When Bill inquired this morning about the effectiveness of the heater, he was told it only comes on between 5-6am because it is summer outside.

When we booked in, the male receptionist declined to take our passports to record details. He said proudly: “We are a free country.” Knowing that Hungary has lost two-thirds of its country over the last century and that they have been through two devastating wars as well as forty years of restrictive Communism, it is amazing the country is rebounding as well as it is. Our first day in Budapest assured us that these people have plenty of spunk and a proud history. The old palace, the historical museum and then the absolutely beautifully clean St Matthias’ Cathedral, were impressive. Refecting how the Duomo in Florence looks as though it will never be fully cleaned, we were in awe of what Budapest is achieving. There were several homeless people around the streets and bridges in Budapest; some were going through garbage. We saw graffiti galore in the suburbs and on trains (Bill said it rivals the graffiti in Naples), and volumes of rubbish dumped along the side of the railway line — but after walking around today we sense Budapest is a grand old lady that is just coming to life again.

The centre of Budapest is fabulous — you can stand in absolute awe at the old buildings with their unique, intricate decorations, all distinctive and now, generally, in good repair. The parliamentary buildings here are some of the most beautiful — situated on the Danube, they resemble a palace of high quality and inside they are even more impressive — almost rivalling the mighty Basilica in many respects. Despite this opulent environment, corruption is rife and we were informed that Hungary is suffering financially because it is not one of the powerful members of the EU. Being Saturday, we could not go into the synagogue or the Holocaust Museum; however, we examined a garden where tombstones lay against each other, the ending date for each person being recorded as 1945. It is sobering that many Jews passed from or through this beautiful city on their way to Auschwitz. Yesterday as we gazed at the multitude of train lines, then the fact that so many disused tracks led off into the bush, we wondered at the stories these tracks could tell.

At the back of the Jewish complex was a huge sculpture of a silver weeping willow tree with the names of Jewish victims inscribed on its leaves. Thanks to you, Darcy, we went to see the steel walking shoes that are symbolically placed on the bank of the Danube. This poignant memorial was created by Gyula Pauer and Can Togay: these sad, twisted shoes (women’s, men’s and children’s) honour the tragic annihilation of Jewish innocents, killed by militiamen during World War II. In this case the Jews were ordered to take off their shoes at the river’s edge, they were shot and their bodies were swept away by the Danube River.

Broadly, also, they could also represent the enormous loss of Hungarian life through the devastating period of Communist suppression. It was instructive to stand and reflect on the trauma most European countries have endured over the last century. In silence we reflected on the impact of these horrors on them as individuals within their nations, and how the events have contoured their relationships with their neighbours. Living cheek by jowl with other countries with which they have such a long, chequered history, there is bound to be intermittent friction or hostility. The creation of the EU may have united the currency for most countries in Europe, but it has done little to eradicate the underlying tensions, prejudices and anger that are so deeply embedded. Of course, Jewish persecution is certainly not a new concept but the Holocaust represented unbelievable depths of inhumanity. These shoes epitomised this tragic plight.

The marvellous St Stephen’s Cathedral was an opulent place of worship with much ornamental gilded decoration, with fabulous red marble pillars, but so many tourists. Walking down from the top of the cathedral dome, we stopped to read the history of some priests. They stood by their faith despite dreadful torture by the Communists up to the 1960s when a tacit rapport was reached with the Holy See. Reading their comments, which indicated that their time of imprisonment was, for them, the high point of their lives, is testament to a faith that brought them and others through the most unimaginable traumas. There has to be something profound in a faith that will allow victims to tolerate the worst of human abuses without reviling the perpetrators. It is this element of forgiveness as exemplified by Nelson Mandela that identifies individuals as giants amongst men, who can look beyond the temporal to the spiritual and realise that we are all formed from the same clay.

The dark eyes of the older people, moreover, who walk past us without engaging at all, enable us to partly understand their distrust and their sense of betrayal by governments and, often, their fellow men. There are lots of strange mullet hair-dos on the young men; the older women generally dress conservatively (perhaps 1950s style), while younger ones are very upbeat with real emphasis on the eye-makeup. Hot soup, or the traditional goulash, was a superb introduction to their cuisine, but our minds were so busy absorbing their culture, that food for the body was not so important. Many men are in uniforms, many men stand around doing little but talking, people carry bread and groceries home and the metros are packed to capacity.

Deciding on the destination in the metro, the correct line, and securing the ticket from the machine using the right money when all directions are in Hungarian, is quite a feat — but Bill, bless him, has become adept at this exercise! Some of the stations are highly decorated with beautiful pictures of the parliamentary buildings on the Danube and others have attractive tiling. We thought of the Moscow metro with the incline and the depth of the escalators, but have been informed that Budapest had the first metro in Europe. On the outskirts of Budapest, one has the feeling that this is a sad city of some 40 years back in time; however, the heart of the city is flourishing.

Yesterday, we had our country experience, travelling north to Esztergom, passing through small towns where homes had large back yards, vegetables plots, pear and cherry trees, and huge gardens of red poppies. Compared with life in the cities, it must be easier for subsistence living in these small towns. Nevertheless, the country areas bore the brunt of brutal collectivisation during the Communist era. One old chap walked beside the railway line, talking to himself, shaking his hands — we wondered whether he was a casualty of the totalitarian regime. Poplars grew out of the roofs of disused, abandoned stations. Our mission was to see a palace from the third century and a cathedral that was incredibly beautiful, with amazing walls and columns of bluish breccia. It was the third largest cathedral in Europe after the Basilica in Rome and St Paul’s in London. One transept of special red marble had survived the Turkish invasion that lasted 15O years. Esztergom, the former capital of Hungary, was strategically located on the magnificent Danube River.

Our introduction to this interesting city started on the train when we heard continuous laughter from a gaggle of girls, in love with life. When we alighted, I complimented them on how good it was to hear them so happy and they invited us to walk with them through the township to show us the points of interest. They were a breath of fresh air, university law students who were just a splendid advertisement for the youth of this country. Despite the disrepair of the buildings, the peeling of plaster from buildings, the decay of footpaths, they were proud of their country. When we climbed the hill, they pointed out Czechoslovakia that lay on the opposite side of the majestic Danube — this used to belong to Hungary, and occasionally tensions arose. Although it is nearly a century since Hungary was reduced to a third of its size, the pain of this loss has not been forgotten, and this is handed down from one generation to the next.

Once again, we learned how having a faith during the Communist era was dangerous for their parents and grandparents. What a strong, underlying commitment was their faith — their individual beliefs were of the life-and-death dimension yet their collective adherence created such a strong fabric within the community. This fabric was also, essentially, impenetrable to the totalitarian regime for those who clung to their faith. Unless you are tested, do you really know the strength of your beliefs? It was impressive to us that these young ones wanted to visit places of religious and cultural significance on their holidays — they were rightly proud of their rich heritage. Once again, we felt privileged to have met them.

For our final night in this history-rich city that had initially filled us with fear, but during the last four days we have learned to understand and admire, we travelled in by metro, sans maps, to see the lights of Buda across the Danube. The default position of vulnerability, however, resurfaced when a group of young revellers made us feel uneasy; striding out with purpose, I pulled my bag closer under my arm. We deliberately avoided the darker parts of the streets, and so reached our destination without misadventure. We learn so much about our coping mechanisms when we venture into the unknown.

Enough, enough … Fantastic country … visit it before it becomes too sophisticated as the contrast is part of the enlightenment. Amazingly resilient people! Tomorrow morning we are off to Prague — sleep well …

Much love

Bill and Di

Budapest to Prague

Sunday, 22nd April, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Imagine sitting in a classy, huge, deserted restaurant next to the Danube, with a gas fire going up a tube producing a light that keeps you physically and psychologically warm, having a glass of white wine and eating the largest, most scrumptious crème brûlée with the Love of your Life. Looking across to Buda we watched the emerging magic light show of the palace/castle and then the separate little fairyland of St. Matthias Church and its precincts being illuminated. Our last night in Budapest … Leaving places you know you will never see again tugs at the heart but …

Bill did the research work on how to get to Keleti station for our departure to Prague which simply involved catching a tram from close to our hostel. Standing at the stop on the ensuing morning, a young chap answered our question about buying tickets with a shrug of the shoulders and outward gesticulation with the hands, saying “No control”. Were we part of the corruption and avoidance of taxes scenario too? Our consciences were clear as we had contributed to the struggling Hungarian economy by previously paying when those over 65 can travel freely. On our journey to Esztergom, we were concerned when the conductor took our tickets away to confer with others. We experienced such relief that they were returned and someone translated for us that we did not have to pay because of our age.

At the railway station where food is so cheap, we enjoyed a cooked breakfast at a restaurant with enormously-high ceilings, chandeliers, a grand piano, a large flat-screen television, black-vested table service and a toilet which cost 50 cents — a great finale to a fantastic stay! Graffiti was on everything, including the gas/water pipeline, and it prompted Bill to remark as we headed towards Prague that a spray-paint business would be profitable in Hungary. For me, the negative impact of graffiti has diluted and, in some respects, I applaud rebellion in these countries that have seen such oppression. You embark on a holiday with fixed ideas yet you apply the theory of relativity with regard to values. The country was beautifully lush and the rubbish along the track diminished as we travelled into Slovakia where the country was flatter, larger tracts of land were cultivated and the lush green contrasted with the vibrant yellow of the rape crop. Once more the country cottages had huge backyards in which healthy vegetable gardens prospered.

An American chap got on at Bratislava and my original thought was that he looked smooth. However, once he fluffed himself down and brought up a younger woman from second class, he identified himself as a loud-mouthed American whose voice dominated the carriage for the next five hours. We heard of his Julia, in year 1, how he did his PhD in science in 2.5 years, how he played and sang on tour with Jamie Lee Curtis, how he is a guest speaker at his chalet, how he sings Elvis songs and all rock songs, how his wife has written children’s books, how he himself has written several books on consciousness and that cosmic consciousness is what people might call God, etc. … Upon subsequent internet investigation, this fellow was bonafide, so he had a lot about which to boast! There were times when I would have relished the opportunity to debate the theories he espoused, but I resisted — for Bill’s sake. It was a relief to pull into Prague to find that the stations were not rife with Mafia-type taxi drivers and to have some peace from the self-promotion of this chap.

Rain was coming down as we found our abode, Pension Brezina — we were so grateful for a lift (no matter how miniature) to our fourth-floor room, for the clean linen, good shower (Bill hates the hand-held ones with a passion. Passion is good!) as well as the extensive breakfasts. We enjoyed our first night in this popular, party city with succulent trout topped with almonds at the nearby Irish restaurant. Prices are so reasonable and you certainly get quality.

Once more, we feel so fortunate to have been born in Australia where toilets are free, the air is generally clean, employment is high, we can earn a good standard of living and then afford a holiday such as this. Many, we know, do not enjoy the luxury of our experience, so we treasure it all the more. This week, a young lass, Jordan Collier, one of my excellent students from Canterbury College, lost her long, courageous fight with cancer — life is so short and so precious. My heart goes out to her parents in this difficult time. Once more it reinforced to us that every day is precious.

Love to all of you,

Bill & Di

Prague

Wednesday, 25 April, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

What is all the hype about Prague? Is it the uniformity of the old buildings, five storeys high, each with its individual ornamentation, design and colour? Green space is not as evident as in Budapest, nor are the buildings being restored to the same degree. Instead, one has to look beneath the veneer and appreciate the beauty of the art, the culture and the history of this popular city. Prague is much smaller than Budapest, so we just explored yesterday with a map, and the sun as a general guide, absorbing the tourist-packed city. Wandering past the Municipal Hall, we booked to see a concert since we were disappointed at not being in Prague when Swan Lake was to be performed. In order to maximise the luxury of the night, we dined at a precinct adjacent to the venue; Bill ordered a decent steak while my choice was salmon accompanied by potato lashed with prawns and herbs.

The concert was held in the exotic Municipal House with dramatic sculptures on either side of the stage, a leadlight dome, and exquisite lighting and frescoes; we soaked up Mozart and Dvorak played by the Prague Orchestra. Six violinists, a double bass player and a cellist received thunderous applause from the whole audience, with one exception. A little miss of perhaps eight created a drama of her very own in the group of seats in front of us. She sat by herself for half the concert after which her mother came to sit beside her; Missy moved imperiously six seats down and put her fingers in her ears refusing to absorb the melodies. After a time, she sat next to her mother who placed an arm around her shoulders but she was not forgiven because Missy once more moved. The universality of relationships!

Hearing a hacking cough in the seats behind us in the theatre, I had a sense of foreboding, which was realised during the following weeks. Since we were going to the theatre, I made the mistake of dressing too lightly, just to be more elegant. The down coat was swapped for a stylish woollen Norwegian jacket and I rued this decision as my lungs were precarious at the best of times. We had maintained a hectic schedule on the trip and it did not need much to tip the scales. Equipped with two lots of antibiotics and prednisone, I felt reasonably confident yet harboured a nagging sense of destiny.

As we meandered our way along the Vltava River to find the synagogue with the museum, we reflected on the fact that Prague has arguably benefited from being invaded in WWII, in post-war considerations by the Allies. This aspect was commented on in Hungary, with a degree of indignation. The small Jewish Museum for Holocaust victims was totally packed with women and kippah-wearing men; generally, we felt a stunned, tangible silence or heard quiet murmurings. We walked upstairs to the top of the chapel to be confronted with a multitude of names on every wall — written small, inscribed from one side of the wall to the other, from top to bottom. These names were those of all families from the ghetto established in this location who were sent to Terezin Concentration Camp; subsequently they were transported to their death at Auschwitz.

I choked up and felt ready to sob at what man can do to man, to women and to innocent children. Jews were seen as outsiders for many decades before Hitler, and were confined to the ghetto with a wall surrounding it (Sigmund Freud lived in this ghetto). Regardless of this alienation, they were able to summon the courage to pull their community together when they were deported. Intelligent people instructed the children as these young ones represented the future; moreover, diversions from their oppressive plight were best served by keeping busy. One far-reaching woman taught children art by scrounging scarce resources, and had them draw their observations. All these unique pieces were then stored in two suitcases and buried: what a tragic treasure-trove for posterity.

In the cemetery behind the museum, tombstones were intersecting, overlaying, trees had grown around some of the monuments and ten thousand people were buried in this confined area, in some cases ten people deep. We walked out sombre and full of awareness about the inhumanity of man — yet filled with admiration for the courage of those who helped innocents to escape. There were good people on both sides in the war. We just need present politicians to learn from the devastation of the past — the evidence is there; it just needs to be consulted constantly!

One is continually conscious of social interactions and it is pleasing to feel part of a positive community; there is spontaneous love on the streets with beautiful embraces; passionate “snogging” continues for the duration of the ride down the precipitously-steep, long and fast escalators. We welcome this as a healthy antidote to the tragic history that saturated this soil for over four decades. Last night partygoers rambled raucously down our street. This is a party town, abuzz with tourists and business, so it is difficult to identify characteristics of the typical Czech. Women push their prams on the escalators, young ones run so effortlessly and quickly down the stairs to the Metro, articulating only the lower part of their legs. Meanwhile, I wrap the scarf more closely around my neck, pull Chris’s downy coat in closer in anticipation of the tsunami of cold air that will hit as soon as we get into the Metro, air generated by the whooshing of the train along the tunnels. Environmentally-friendly trams approach at great speed and caution exhorts us to remember that the brilliant Gaudi was hit and killed by a tram in 1929 in Barcelona.

Yesterday was a trek up to the palace; don’t know why they built on hills!! Yes, it is obvious — the vista was excellent and, more importantly, it was essential for security. The Cathedral of St. Vitus was astounding inside, enormously high with the most vibrant blue, red and green leadlight windows. Too many tourists (this is said hypocritically, since we contribute to that problem) unfortunately deprive one of the opportunity for reverie or drinking in the beauty. Retiring to the Basilica of St George, built in 973, we found it far more peaceful. Knowing the great Charlemagne had walked in those corridors, made it particularly significant. Conversely, today we saw photos of Hitler standing at that very place so the sanctity of the image was somewhat tainted. This morning at breakfast a bronzed, tall, good-looking Aussie from Western Australia joined us and we shared stories. I thought he might be good for Josephine, but Bill felt he was a party animal — so I resisted giving any contact details!

Our absorption of material at the Communist Museum was so pertinent because we have lived through this era of the Cold War; we felt the fear from the Bay of Pigs confrontation and celebrated the bringing down of the Berlin Wall. While the harshness of the regime was on display, the resistance of the general population, once the true colours of Stalin’s control became apparent, was highlighted. It was sobering to see the exact place where two university students self-immolated in the famous Wenceslas Square in 1969 in protest at the Russian invasion. This occurred in the same year Armstrong walked on the moon and we danced away the nights in Australia, oblivious to the desperate fight for freedom occurring in other cities on the globe. There has been no shortage of courage or determination as these eastern bloc countries have striven for democracy. As you in Australia have today (25th April) celebrated Anzac Day to honour those who paid the ultimate price for freedom, so we pay tribute to all nations who have lost some of their finest through political wars. We salute the nobility of personal sacrifice for an altruistic cause to improve society.

I have just had an interesting conversation with the laundry lady, asking her if the metro station “Pavlova” is named after the famous dancer, Anna, or the psychologist who created the concept of Pavlov’s dogs. Not quite understanding my question, she inquired if I wanted to dance, and then explained she was Russian, from the Ukraine. Prague is a fabulous city; we have loved the architecture, the history and the culture. We nomads head off to Berlin tomorrow …

Much love

Bill and Di

Prague to Berlin

Thursday, 26 April

Dear Family and Friends,

Walking down our beautiful street to the station in Prague, a great sense of exhilaration and thankfulness came over us; basically, we are country kids who need these green interludes between the busyness of city-exploration, to calm our souls. So often we remark how lucky we were to have this protracted time together, working out timetables, making decisions, and just relaxing and learning. My old suitcase gave up the ghost in Prague since the cobblestones were particularly pronounced and one of the wheels split. A replacement was purchased at a supermarket and we ritualistically farewelled the old one. On our final walk down Legerova Street to the station, we were so pleased to find the discarded one had been picked up from the footpath, to begin a new life. Prague has a wonderful station with lifts and great signage so we could easily identify our destination platform. Having the technology to be able to ring my sister, Jude, for her birthday, from the dubious mobile was so satisfying.

The rail-track followed beside the full, wide Vltata River. We saw many fishermen, walkers, runners, some guys lying on the jetties and women just walking the baby or the dog. Fully-laden cruise boats sailed along this river that joins the Elbe River further on, in Germany. Over the last few decades, melting snow in the springtime has caused devastating floods in Prague and Budapest; flood-mitigation was therefore a priority and we saw many locks on the river. Blossoms were in abundance and some fields, again, were a shock of vibrant yellow rape crop that contrasted with the verdant green. Still, minimal fences exist even next to the train line so the train horn sounded as it edged past rail crossings and, hopefully, deer were protected. Great, great excitement as I spotted a pair of deer in the forest! This was a fervent hope since Austria so we celebrated a Eureka moment — and then we saw lots of others! Hopefully the deer are aware that the shooting season opens on 1 May and they need to avoid the deer-hides that vary so much in their construction and, presumably, their effectiveness. Mistletoe is so abundant in every country we have visited, standing out starkly in the denuded, deciduous trees; sometimes it just hangs straight down but frequently it forms into large, spherical balls. Maybe it is an indicator of love if one takes a risk to retrieve the mistletoe from the precarious-looking trees, thus the tradition at Christmas.

The fields morphed into mystical mountains, well clad with spruce and the lime-coloured trees that I surmise now are linden. Castles sat proudly on the top of a few mountains and an arched bridge connected the peaks. In our carriage, a family opened their champagne at 8.30 am and their laughter for the five-hour trip was uplifting. A conductor walked past and it seemed he had a huge ring in his face; when he turned around, however, there was a handlebar moustache with perfect rings of hair at the end. Our summation was that surely they must have been sprayed to stay intact.

As we crossed the border from the Czech Republic into southern Germany we saw little geographic change: perhaps the country was flatter, the villages were still beautifully nestled up on the sides of hills, in the valleys and beside the river. Those tiny shacks or caravans beside the line with their extensive gardens could almost be weekend or retirement batches. The smell of fresh herbs permeated through the air-conditioner in the train. Getting closer to Dresden, evidence of disarray and destruction was pronounced. A succession of buildings lay dormant, vandalised or had been bombed and lay unrestored. The strong evidence of recycling that we saw tied in well, environmentally, with the prevalence of alternative energy sources — solar and wind. Interminably long trains carrying new cars are testament to the strength of the Czech and German economies. Industry intensified as we edged closer to Berlin.

Twenty-two years ago we met this charismatic guy called Graham who is a friend of my brother’s. For five hours as we conveyed him to Brisbane, Australia, we had the most interesting conversation with him. Bless him; he met us at the railway station in Berlin, keen to show us his city. A brilliant eccentric who has lived in Berlin for the past fifteen years, the loves of his life range between women, beer, journalism, completing his book (that has been an obsession of research for 15 years), interviewing Neo-Nazi groups and prostitutes, riding his bicycle everywhere in Berlin, and loving life! Quite a character … years ago I said he is not someone you would introduce to your daughter as he could charm anyone. He has slowed up a bit but the same might still apply. Graham gave us the most superb tour of Berlin for 10 hours, taking us to the bunker that first caught his attention and induced him to remain in Berlin. The inscription on it read: He who makes bunkers, drops bombs: in deutsch (German) of course. Anything that is curiously different always appeals to Graham, so he stayed, learned the language, and has lived on the smell of an oily rag for years.

He taught us about Allied bombing raids over Berlin (the night 1000 were dropped) and why the initial raid on Berlin failed — the smoke from the initial raid did not lift, thus precluding accuracy. Dresden then was selected to receive the 2 X 1000 bombs. We saw bunkers that accommodated 15 000 people and the walls are so dense that no explosives can blow them up (all constructed with slave labour during the 1930s). Hitler would be horrified that, despite trying to cleanse Germany of foreigners, they are now living in high-rises literally embracing this enormous bunker. We visited Check-Point Charlie at the American entry into West Berlin. Two lines of bricks demarcate where the Berlin Wall was erected. Its demolition in 1989 was a symbolic deconstruction of the Cold War and a cause for world-wide celebration. Parts of the wall still exist and continue to send a chill of remembrance up your spine. We learned of the “no man’s land” where young men lost their lives trying to cross from the East to the West. One church still retains the evidence of bomb damage.

Graham showed us how to detect residential areas that were hit by bombs: the newness of the buildings was a direct indicator — total restoration meant obliteration whereas new top foors indicated partial bombing. Gaping holes in the earth were blatant testimony to the reality of World War II. One huge, multi-level, modern, efficient train station was constructed after the wall came down since the old station had been partitioned between East and West Germany. “Ghost” stations that were either blocked off or had East German guards standing sentry still engender the fear generated through the Cold War.

Graham shepherded us to the covered site of Hitler’s bunker and also to the point to which the Russians had advanced on the same day that Hitler committed suicide. Erroneously, Hitler had purportedly nurtured the hope that the Allies would choose his side rather than that of the advancing Communists. A memorial area to Jews contains sombre, large blocks of granite placed randomly over a tract of land halfway between the Chancellor’s buildings and the Reichstag; in fact, ironically, the monuments lie directly above Hitler’s ashes. All this we were viewing in the ever-lengthening night as Graham’s enthusiasm for sharing his adopted city with us did not wane, though we were wilting. He dived across busy roads, leaving Bill and me gasping and motorists blasting their horns at this nonchalant Australian.

It is lovely to see the large cross-section of nationalities here in Berlin; we were told there is a positive emphasis on de-discrimination in Berlin nowadays. The past contours the present because it is the foundation stone of the future. Graham advised us to keep away from the workers’ area on 1 May (we will be gone) because it is Labour Day and there will be fireworks, bricks thrown, and total chaos — a tradition. While in that multicultural area, we indulged in the most protein-rich meal — mine was a pork knuckle with fabulous crackling, sauerkraut and bread, while Bill’s was half a chicken cooked with crispy skin and bread — no salad or accompaniments. With cherry drink, however, everything tastes exotic.

Graham shared so much of his interesting life with us and when his book is launched, there is a high probability it will be made into a movie. His amazing historical breakthroughs will rock the world — he just needs to get it all written up. Graham takes life casually and as he walked us and “metroed” us around Berlin last night until 12.30 this morning, and then had to collect his bike from the station, jump a train (usually ok after 9 at night he assured us), then ride home through the forest for half an hour, we were amazed at how many lives he must have. He took us to a special hill in Berlin — a man-made, gun-emplacement hill from which enemy planes were shot down; now it is a tourist landmark, ironically, constructed from the rubble created by WWII Allied bombing. Only recently seven Australians were discovered in their plane that had been brought down — it had flown 30 km before it had landed and exploded. The tour was a total whirlwind; we felt when we returned “home” to the Grand City Hotel after midnight that we had been given the most wonderful overview, so for the next few days we could mop up on detail.

Leaving you now with much love,

Bill and Di

Berlin

Sunday, 29th April

Dear Family and Friends,

Our introduction to this large city and country that has played a pivotal role in world history over the past six centuries, was one in which we breathed in Graham’s love for the vitality and the freedom he has found in this place of regeneration. For us now, it was time for the small-print metro maps, trying to get our own orientation. Our heads were in a whirl and the amount of detail on the maps made reading particularly difficult. People are friendly, however, especially when they see you are lost. The young ones are trendy with short, tight and “out there” in dress being the norm, while for the mature Berliners, there is dignity and couture in their attire.

Our first point of re-visit was Check-Point Charlie: we read about the installation of the wall, saw photos of internees constructing it, and tried to visualise the logistics of building the wall, with reinforced concrete, to demarcate a quarter of a city and a quarter of a country. During almost thirty years, the lives lost of those trying to escape totaled close to three hundred. A modern Reconciliation Church was erected to replace a Protestant Church in the Death Zone that was demolished by the Russians in the 1980s. Every weekday a memorial service is given for each individual who lost his life in his search for freedom. One poignant aspect outside the church was a field of green grain crop into which a path had been ploughed; at the end of this short intrusion was a memorial from the demolished church. Around the perimeter of this greenery was a line of dead bushes, no doubt symbolising that life continues despite death.

Seeing the Reichstag stirred memories of learning about the origin of Hitler’s rise to power in 1933, following a deliberate fire to alter voting results. The Reichstag has been restored to its former architectural glory and now both the German and the EU flag fly together. A short walk brought us to the highly-symbolic Brandenburg Gate where Napoleon was handed the key to Berlin in 1806 as his army devoured Europe. The underground railway has a large, wonderful painting capturing this event. An event that was highly significant during a volatile period in the Cold War was President Kennedy being greeted at the Brandenburg Gate. The Berlin Wall effectively prevented movement through the gate. We had to keep reminding ourselves that Germany, as a totality, is actually younger than Australia since its unification occurred in 1871. Discussions of broader German history arose between us, not only about the wars that contoured the twentieth century, or Germany being the direct interface between the east and the west, but also the impact that Martin Luther’s revolution has had on the world of religion. Having even a smattering of history is important to be able to appreciate travel.

Another visit of maximum impact was the Topographie des Terrors that essentially outlined the rise of Nazism in Germany and then traced it through all its phases. This museum, symbolically, was located on the grounds of the old SS buildings where torture and death were daily events. Much of the outside was barren rock; this was replicated inside the building where a significant amount of rock was countered with a calm, square expanse of water, to good symbolic effect. We were very surprised no effort was made to white-wash any sense of collective national guilt, yet all the time one had to consider why Hitler did receive such overwhelming support from the general population. One can surmise with reasonable accuracy that the beginnings of Hitler’s rise can be traced to the harshness of the Versailles Treaty. Two aspects of Hitler’s reign were important. Firstly, it was enlightening to learn that the Dachau Camp was established in 1933 (almost immediately Hitler took over so opposition was easily eliminated) and, secondly, the high education of leaders in Hitler’s various programmes precludes them from being categorised as gullible (an incredible number of PhDs in Chemistry, Law and Medicine were amongst them).

This exposition of the Nazi machine at the museum was explicit, educational and chilling. It beggars belief that Neo-Nazi groups exist in the present Germany and elsewhere; it is beyond comprehension that anyone can doubt the authenticity of the Holocaust. This museum was the encapsulation of proof of the ultimate of man’s inhumanity to man with irrefutable evidence of the Holocaust. The Jewish issue was central to Nazi philosophy and this race would be eradicated. Nevertheless, the plight of so many other groups was precarious because they did not conform to the image the Nazi machine wanted to achieve and they stood in the way of the Nazi’s ultimate goal of the purification of the Aryan race. Homosexuals, mentally and physically handicapped people were treated in the same way as political dissidents: all were taken into “protective custody”.

Three things really came home to us during the viewing of these amazing photos and write-ups. Firstly, the concept was pushed that Hitler did indeed have the support of the populace through lots of sweeteners and false promises. Secondly, the means of torture and death were beyond comprehension (I could not bear to see the hangings of dissidents and Bill pointed out that one tall chap had his feet held up so the hanging would be effective; seeing individuals standing lined up on the edge of trenches partly filled with dead bodies as they waited for a bullet in the back of their head, was beyond chilling). Finally, seeing photographs of male and female officers involved with the running of the death camps during their recreation times, so jubilant and relaxed, was sickening. We commend Germany for sharing their story with the world. It has taken courage and only through explanation, reconciliation and forgiveness, will all the generations be able to move on. Knowing that similar atrocities are being committed elsewhere in the world at this very time does not augur well for the human race. Political leaders need to visit this museum to appreciate their responsibility to the world.

On one of our train excursions in Berlin we met a chap who was pure gold. As a conductor who knew where we were going, he shepherded us and shared his story. His father was a Hitler soldier and served from the beginning of the war until the end, on the Russian front as well, in the heavy artillery. When this fellow (his son) was growing up, his father’s words of wisdom were to his son “never pick up artillery” . This chap then, to avoid military conscription in West Germany, headed to West Berlin so he could not be conscripted, joining many other deserters. These young men prompted a political comment that West Berlin would be the dustbin of the world because of the no-hopers going there. His father gave up wanting to be a hero; it was just a matter of keeping your head down and being happy for every day. At the war’s end, he wanted to be captured by the Americans (as did everyone) but instead was taken by the Soviets to a gulag in Siberia for five years.

His father was thankful to the Red Cross who protected the Germans but his father commented on how harshly the Soviets treated their own people. Repercussions from the war for the father were twofold: he could not stand telephones (because each time a messages for action in the field came it was by phone), and he had an insatiable appetite (because he had been so hungry). Our “friend” said that when the wall came down, it was discovered that the education in East Germany had been better than in West Germany (because there had been more public money thrown at it) and the East Germans were better qualified, gained better jobs and grew richer than their counterparts in the West. Moreover, the heating system was better in the East because it was a decision made by government and carried through, whereas in the West where discussion ensued and consensus was seldom reached, the cost for heating was exorbitant — essentially the cost of another rent.

Today is our last day in this city of the past and the city of the future, with magnificently wide, tree-lined streets, an air of wealth and prosperity and a social attitude towards dining alfresco, embracing the first real beginnings of summer. This is now a modern city with new architecture to replace the gracious old buildings destroyed in the wars — Berlin is seen as a progressive city because of the glass and steel constructions and amenities, but we were more impressed with its reconciliation with the past. Via the metro, we visited the renowned Museum of Natural History with the largest brachiosaurus skeleton in the world, a fabulous collection of fossils, including the best-preserved archaeopteryx (Bill is dictating). The incredible mineral and rock collection and the whole geological display were tied in to the plate-tectonic theory. Lots of hands-on contact with the visuals for information; many families with young children were visiting and it is impossible to ignore that these kids are going to be switched on with regard to science.

Holy Mackerel … Just saw about four police dragging a guy (he was limp and not resisting — dragging his feet) along the footpath; this has drawn a lot of interest from the general public who stood and watched as he was being filmed by the police. Reality check. Graham is coming to join us for dinner tonight so must check and finish this email. Typing at the railway station, with a half-hour limit, stretches the compositional and the typing skills. Tomorrow we are off to Goslar where we had a nostalgic few days in 1984 when Bill went down the Rammelsburg Mine before we flew to Moscow so Bill could present a paper at an International Geological Conference. Good night and God bless you all.

Love

Bill and Di

P.S. We tied up Berlin with a great steak night for Graham who rode in 40km to have dinner with us. So many folk, even old, ride bicycles here. Walking down our boulevard street of beautiful lime-green linden trees, we heard the agonised clunking of an old East German car trying to get going. I recognised it as the same one driven by a dignified older lady who had parked in that spot earlier in the day. As the vehicle eventually responded, a pall of smoke hung in the air of the wide, tree-lined street, before the car hurtled down the boulevard. Diners outside were unimpressed! Within four minutes a police car came to investigate.

P.P.S. As an adjunct to this posting on Berlin, I would like to share an email conversation with a dear friend from our single days. Ulrica lives in Canada and is a spiritual woman who has a therapeutic clinic in which she performs massage. After she read about the museums we visited and our reaction to the horrors of the Nazi regime, she shared with us the following incident, stating that she was puzzled as to why she was sharing it because it distressed her to the extent that she did not talk about it.

After reading your Berlin WW2 impression I came to think of an episode that I would like to share with you. It happened quite a few years ago, to one of my patients. A young lady, a mother of one, had been in a car accident and was quite beaten up and traumatised. While she was lying face down on my examination table and I was poking around on her upper back she suddenly, totally out of the blue, started to cry. It was a heart-breaking loud cry, almost a scream. I, of course, moved off the spot. She turned her head and said, with a totally normal voice: “What was all that about? It was not sore. I just could not help myself from crying.” It was just like the switching on of a tap. She was totally normal again. With her permission I got back to the same single spot on her mid-back, slightly to the right of the spine. It was only about an inch in size. Exactly the same thing happened again. A third and last repetition had the same outcome. She could not feel pain just an enormous uncontrollable anxiety. Physically there was nothing wrong with that part of her back. We were both baffled.

On her next visit she told me a story I never will forget. Apparently she was a Jew. Her mother, as a child, had been made, by the Gestapo, to stand and watch them shoot her mother, my client’s grandmother. The grandmother was facing the stone wall and the entrance of the Nazi bullet was exactly the same spot I had found on my patient’s back. Her mother had never spoken to her about the execution. It is typical of the Jewish-Nazi survivors not to talk about what they have experienced during the war. It hurts too much. These two (mother and daughter) now did talk and my patient recovered quickly thereafter.

To me this is a strong proof that deep traumas last for generations.

I hope this does not put a damper on your wonderful travels. I do not know why I suddenly wanted to share this with you. Generally I do not talk about it. It stirs me up too much.

Have a wonderful trip.

This discovery almost confirms modern findings that memories are stored in parts of the body, in the tissue cells as well as in the brain. What it does demonstrate, however, is that these memories can be handed down from one generation to another through the genes, without any verbalisation of the event that created the memory.

Goslar

Tuesday, 1 April

Dear Family and Friends,

Exiting Berlin at treetop level we appreciated how leafy, green and uncluttered the city is, with canals similar to Brugge. Our journey towards Hanover revealed flat farmland of green pasture, acutely yellow rape fields, wind farms, forests of spruce trees denuded of the lower branches to reveal a reddish bark, and huge woods of those translucently-lime linden trees. White asparagus is the rave on menus at the moment here and many fields of this delicacy were protected from the elements. Eventually we moved into more rounded hilly country with lakes inhabited by white swans, brim-full streams, and picturesque villages with church spires nestled into the valleys. There were signs of industry but not much pollution, token castles on small mountains, and one in particular with multiple steeples/towers. Listening to the toddlers saying “nein” I realised that the mandatory “no” that accompanies our little ones during the “terrible twos”, would vary with the language base. “Mama” and “Papa” resounded through the crowded carriages.

Returning to Goslar after twenty-eight years is especially nostalgic. Walking from the railway station pulling our bags, we felt the magic of this simple town in which the streets wound of their own devices, homilies were written around the girth of homes, the slated walls of homes looked as though they had stood an eternity of history and each roof had its own attic window with different designs and individual positions. Goslar possessed the same magic I remembered from 1984 and it was marvellous to walk towards Hotel Goldener Stern built in 1510. The ceiling above the stairs in our abode is low and you can feel the centuries creaking as you move along the hallways. As we meandered down to the village square, we experienced a sense of timelessness and were suitably awed. Noise grew as we approached the familiar Marktplatz and soon we happened on a large community activity. This yearly event has been celebrated for the last millennium. Walpurgis Nacht is a festival of the witches who are burned at midnight, as a welcome to the first day of spring and as a good omen for the following year. Effigies of witches and devils adorned the buildings in Goslar and waitresses took their fancy dress to the nth degree of seriousness, refusing to smile through their frightening witch make-up.

Band music, singing, stalls selling souvenirs, all variety of foods, drinks, with lots of folk sitting and standing around basking in the festive atmosphere. Immediately my eye was drawn to the Kaiserworth Hotel on the edge of the Markplatz where we had stayed in 1984. I gazed at the column beside which I had stood in deep conversation with an old, toothless German woman whose husband had been killed on the Western front. She just wanted to die and her daughter could not understand. Languages do not come easily to me, but this particular occasion confirmed to me the importance of persevering with another language, even when you are so aware of your inadequacies.

The carillon that mesmerised us years ago was still there: every three hours, figures 1.5m in height emerged and moved around to depict a story promoting mining, the vital industry of the Harz Mountain area until recently. They portrayed the reception of the king, and the mining activities of the Rammelsberg silver-lead mine that Bill had visited. This zinc mine had operated for just shy of a thousand years. Once more this ancient concept of the village square or market place captivated us and we were transported back centuries.

Walking down the quiet, cobble-stoned streets of this UNESCO-sponsored town, we felt such a peace and wonder that these buildings had withstood invasions, wars, the Reformation movement and enormous social change. Some houses that were built wobbly still looked wobbly, but they stood. The slanted slate on the walls, the plastered walls with the black beams across them in the English Tudor-style, the varied engravings and writings outside — all captivated us. I engaged two older women in conversation on our way home, telling them in deutsch that we had returned to Goslar specifically after 28 years because we loved it. They were so warm and affectionate, taking my hands, then arms and communicating their pleasure.

As we lay in bed, watching a documentary on television on the demise of the Nazi leaders, we were distressed to see the five beautiful children of Goebbels who died with their parents in the bunker. It seemed this was our last grim finale for the atrocities of World War II in Europe. Last night was so, so comfortable with the thick feather doona, the luxurious pillow, the warmth of a water heater and being able to look out onto a tree, and tiled roofs.

Love to all,

Bill and Di

Goslar to Maastricht

Wednesday, 2 April, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Before leaving our medieval town in the mountains in North Germany, we posted a letter of congratulations to the editor of the local paper, and pulled our luggage to the Bahnhof. Yet again we were awed by the piercing yellow rape cultivation adjacent to the vibrant green on rolling hills, with woods and forests behind. The translucent green of new leaves contrasted with the hardy green of the spruces with reddish-brown bark. Numerous waterways came into view; industrial activity and pollution increased the further north we travelled and the closer we came to Holland. To counter this pollution, there is certainly a big push on wind farms and solar farms.

The basic kindness of folk kept surprising and pleasing us. We were instructed — “go quickly to catch that train”, “go to that other station because it has just been changed”, “go to the front of this train because it is going to split in two further up and you need to be in the first part to get where you want to go”. We had five changes of trains, with time limits of 6 or 7 minutes in between and missed one lot of connections because a train was delayed. People helped with the heavy suitcase on and off the train while a Turkish-Dutch chap offered to give me his umbrella since it was pouring outside. A woman from Africa played with her little boy in the pram; he had the deepest, most infectious laugh and everyone was captivated. An older, fit couple, with their walking sticks welcomed us into their little area in the train and were particularly interesting. We were pleased to arrive at our new home, “Villa Loca”, in Maastricht, a city in a thumbnail part of Holland that used to belong to Belgium. With a whole floor to ourselves, breakfast provided, heated floors and great hosts, we feel totally at home.

Maastricht has many remnants of the Roman to medieval times with excellent walls, towers, an entry point through a city wall that still retains the crevice for the portcullis, and the remains of a Roman temple and their baths. Cobble-stoned narrow streets, which permitted only pedestrians or quiet, stealthy bicycle traffic, were wonderful. Cyclists sat up so straight and rode with such determination. There is so much of the Belgian architecture that we remember from Brugge, with the stepped sections of the facades.

Fashion shopping is popular and coffee shops and eating areas are well patronised. Owners even provided blankets (fabulous orange!) for their customers who enjoy alfresco dining. Pampered dogs travel on the train, go shopping and into restaurants. Because of the relaxed but high-quality nature of living, this city has been described as a small Paris. Many different languages attest to the popularity of this city, which is renowned for its universities. Thankfully most speak English although I had to use my deutsch today and I am acutely aware that speaking German in Holland may not be politically correct. To hear little children speaking German so effortlessly I assume they are super bright, because it is so difficult for me.

Churches and cathedrals, thankfully, preserve the architecture of society for posterity. Not only have church spires created a sense of civilisation throughout the centuries, but the paintings in churches taught culture and biblical stories to all the congregation and the words on walls were perhaps the only writing many illiterates every saw. Cynically, one could also state that some churches were also effectively high-level burial grounds for influential people in the community. Most marked is the difference we noted between the Catholic churches with their ornate designs and windows, and the more functional, practical Protestant churches with an austerity that befitted their criticism of the churches of Rome. The pulpits alone, in Maastricht, are elevations of intricately-carved wood, otherwise the churches are very modest.

We have been thinking of all the wonderful Dutch folks whom we have been lucky to count as friends. Yesterday as we arrived in Holland, women with their handsome broad features, blond hair and blue eyes reminded us of the MacHunter family who were our adopted family in the mining town of Mount Isa, Australia. There is so much history in this beautiful city of Maastricht with the parks, Roman ruins and wonderful buildings from the seventeenth century. We have enjoyed their delicious signature dish of stew, and, of course, a coffee has to be accompanied by a gooseberry pie. Off to Amsterdam tomorrow. Hotmail is out at the moment, so the wheel is being reinvented.

Love

Bill and Di

Amsterdam 1

Saturday, 5 May, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Holland dispelled our beliefs that it was one solid, flat mass of country and instead we found there were wooded hills with much cultivation, invariably (especially as we got closer to the capital) separated by small canals. Horses of all descriptions (normal, draught and Shetland) were common, Friesians increased in numbers, and there were baby spring animals of every description. Ducklings tested their talents in the canals that bordered the railway line and will undoubtedly appear on a dinner plate when they mature. At the railway stations the enclosures for bikes, with roofs, were enormous compared with the space for cars.

Disembarking at Amsterdam, we were immediately confronted with the reality that this city has been reclaimed from the sea. Canals were almost as prevalent and were similar to those in Venice; however, the water is a deep greenish-brown compared with the healthy blue of Venice’s. Bicycles have priority over every moving vehicle including trams, buses, cars and, of course, people. It is important to check both directions a few times as they are ridden with deadly speed. In Maastricht people could text and talk on their mobiles as they rode but here, where the streets are narrower due to the canals and high traffic density, there is pure concentration. Cars, miraculously, can be reverse-parallel parked close to the edge of the canals.

Prior to arriving in Amsterdam, we had been in contact with a dynamic young Australian woman who now calls Amsterdam “home”. The daughter of very close friends from Mount Isa, Erin is theatrical, intelligent, and interesting; as she ages, Erin will be proud to be regarded as totally eccentric. Finding our way through streets that were cordoned off, past trams that were stilled, and over the canals, we suspected the maps lied as we appeared to be in a warehouse, industrial area. It was with great relief that we saw the name of the up-market restaurant and were so pleased to be re-united with Erin after many years. A flamboyant, beautiful redhead, Erin looked the elegant part as the Maitre d’ of this large up-market restaurant. Erin has grown into an unforgettable woman and we adored having time with her. Her Dutch language skills are perfect and she meshes in with the culture of this laissez-faire city so well that she is perhaps the epitome of what is quintessentially “Amsterdamian”.

Yesterday was Remembrance Day in Holland and at 8 pm sharp, the whole of the country stops for three minutes’ silence to respect those who died in all wars. The following day is Liberation Day when Holland was relieved of German occupation in WWII. There were big celebrations last night and the Queen was to appear at the palace, in The Dam, for that special time. While the Dutch flag is red, white and blue, the national colour is orange so there is a fair sprinkling of this energetic colour around the city. As we sat ensconced in Erin’s restaurant, eating a delicacy of raw veal rolled into small balls, we heard Erin call the patrons to a respectful two minutes’ silence, in Dutch. This event was particularly moving although one fellow did not understand the request and continued to eat and talk not observing the sobriety of others.

The weather here is bitter with winds that come from the North Sea and the Arctic. Lots of thermals for me while, for others, it is hooded jackets with fur. Our abode, At Our Place, is basic and it reminds me so much of living in a boat, a small boat. The staircase is steep, narrow and winding, with a rope on one side to assist with the ascent. While our room is toasty warm, there are sharp breezes that catch you on the way to the toilet, and in the toilet, in the dead of night. Real estate in this part of Amsterdam is on a premium so we are lucky to be central. The facades of many of the three-storeyed buildings lean towards the street. So much of this reclaimed land must be compromised by the underground waterways, as the canals are so frequent. It is lovely and romantic with so many boats, bridges and trees. Because it is impossible to get large pieces of furniture up the narrow, winding stairs, each building has a large hook mechanism at the top so goods can be hauled up to any of the higher storeys, via a window that will be removed to facilitate the entry operation.

The Rembrandt House was impressive. Seeing where he lived, the bed cupboard where he slept, the methods he used for his fabulous etching work, the room in which he had his students, his models and his prospective buyers, was awesome. The Dutch Resistance Museum was also excellent, especially since our dear friend, Pieter MacHunter, was involved with this movement. It was beautifully explicit with outstanding photographs. We walked past the Jewish area and were shown, by Erin, the tram tracks that were specifically laid so the Jews could be taken away more easily. A friend of Erin’s showed us a plaque in front of her shop which commemorates the place where babies from the Jewish orphanage were handed over the fence to children who hid them and quickly took them away on the tram, avoiding German capture. It has been a gift having Erin show us her beloved Amsterdam, the buildings, the bridges that open up or else cantilever around to allow the larger boats to pass into the bigger canals.

There are lots of sex shops, coffee shops (where dope is smoked presumably, but now cannot be sold to foreigners), and there is the red light district (which we did not see). One current custom is for the English to have their hens or stag night/weekend in Amsterdam so there were some curious outfits in the streets. However, this is a city that accepts anything and everything …

Night, night …

Bill and Di

Amsterdam 2

Sunday, 6 May, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Amsterdam’s magic is just beginning to work on me. (A good friend, Professor Gordon Lister replied in an email “It’s the cookies” … No, Gordon, we did not see or eat any!!) This morning the skies cleared and the sharp wind dropped. Walking along the tree-lined canals bordered by small boats and crossed by numerous bridges on which bicycles were locked, we felt the peace of early Sunday morning in this beautiful city. The serenity of no cars, no trams and no bikes as we made our way to the Anne Frank House was perfect. It gave us time to reflect on the major part Dutch sailors played in the discovery of the New World and in establishing the spice trade. There is a special tower in Amsterdam where wives assembled as their men set out on their perilous journeys into the dangerous unknown. Yesterday Erin took us to a bar that permitted sailors returning from their adventures to bring their trophy monkeys into the bar, whereas normally this was forbidden. The Dutch have a quaint saying if your ulterior motive is exposed: “Now the monkey is out of the sleeve”. This whimsical sense of humour possibly developed because they had to solve so many environmental issues — and they did so with such ingenuity. The Monkey Bar was, fortuitously, close to the red light district so the two needs of drinking and carnality were serviced in close proximity.

Walking through the sensitive exposition in Anne Frank’s home, where her family and others sheltered for two years during World War II until they were betrayed, seemed to be the natural end of our sad journey with the Jewish holocaust. Actually being in the same space that they occupied, walking through the bookcase that disguised their hiding place, climbing the steep stairs to the attic where Anne could look out to see blue sky and the chestnut tree, was like walking on sacred ground. Her words of wisdom, introspection, and honesty for a teenage girl were remarkable and the summary given by her father when he finally read the diaries was very emotive. In this multi-cultural city that hosts visitors from all around the world, this home attracts much attention. The final section of the display was confrontational: a series of controversial scenarios involving freedoms and restrictions made us re-think our own liberality and implicitly encouraged us to be less judgmental of others.

While pea soup has been our staple meal here, today we enjoyed the most enormous pancakes — Bill ordered Mexican and mine was Greek. Every national food is represented here. We walked around the old Jewish area and found many seats deliberately located at the front of homes for the use of passers-by. One bench carried a sign: “Please sit here and relax but don’t smoke weed or other funny stuff because there are children upstairs”. While the gardens are colourful, there seems to be more randomness and less regimentation than we saw down south. Erin explained that the lower floors of residential buildings usually have windows without curtains or blinds. This accords with the Calvinist philosophy that the inhabitants have nothing to hide. The flip side of this coin, however, is that passers-by have the manners not to look in. Huge pot plants at the front of homes are evidently perfectly safe.

Erin joined us for a cuppa and was an astute guide through this new part of town as well as the lovely Botanical Gardens where displays of slalom roller-blading created much interest. Our time in the Van Gogh Museum was abbreviated and slightly disappointing for me, the ultimate Van Gogh tragic, because so many of my favourites are housed in other galleries throughout the world. Moreover, my coughing was so acute, loud and persistent, that tears streamed down my face; viewers distanced themselves from us as I sat hunched over on a seat. One kind woman brought some water over for me, and the attendants asked Bill if I needed a wheelchair. Things were desperate and I was totally exhausted. My mantra in Amsterdam was “I’m not going to die in Bloody Amsterdam!” Caustically, I commented later to Bill that the Brits didn’t have to send their convicts all the way across to Australia. It would have been sufficient to send them across the channel to Holland. This jaundiced view would have been different, had my health been better.

Erin explained that there is an annual canal ice-skating race that occurs if and when the water has frozen over sufficiently to ensure absolute safety. This event is much anticipated and the temperatures of the canals are monitored carefully and duly reported. In this last winter, the temperatures just missed out on reaching the safety threshold on a few of the canals in the circuit, so the potential competitors were most disappointed.

Tomorrow is our viewing of the tulip fields, which will be a breathtaking visual spectacle. Sharing authentic Indonesian food with good friends from Isa days, Judy and Harvey Smith, as well as Erin, will be our finale for this nautical city that has finally charmed but almost killed me. We intended to share a dinner with the Smith family in Brisbane before we departed on this trip, but discovered our visits to Amsterdam would coincide so figured it would be more exciting to say: “Meet you in Amsterdam!”

You will now be left in peace till we are in Norway, after two train days, with a stopover in Hamburg.

Keep well, keep warm … we send you lots of love,

Bill & Di

Amsterdam 3

Monday, 6 May, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

This morning we walked in heaven … where century-old stately giants allowed the filtered light through their spring leaves; where streams meandered at the base of naturally-contoured hills; where swans and cygnets, ducks and ducklings cavorted in the running water; where fountains and quirky statues greeted you unexpectedly; and where the arrangements of tulips of unbelievable colour-combinations appeared around many corners in the most aesthetically-pleasing garden designs. This was the WOW factor to the nth degree and we could have wandered for hours admiring the Dutch creativity and capacity to harness beauty. This is such a legacy that people from all over the world come to enjoy Keukenhof — and the Dutch themselves visit to marvel at this yearly spectacle. We send each of you a bunch of tulips from Amsterdam!

As we walked, Mr and Mrs MacHunter, who were like our Mount Isa parents as we brought up our own children, were with us. Each of our children was given a Delft name-plate that they treasured, by Mr and Mrs Mac; we learned, through them, how to make pancakes and soup; they taught us that small things are of great significance and memorabilia maketh a home; they taught us that family is the building block of everything and even when times were tough, their love supported us totally. How blessed we were to have come within their ambit. Thank you, Mr and Mrs Mac, and precious Oma.

Towards Norway …

Wednesday, 9 May, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Meeting with dear friends from Mount Isa for dinner last night at a typical Indonesian restaurant in Amsterdam put the icing on the cake for us. It was wonderful to share stories, hear their plans and know we will touch base again in Australia, having enriched our relationship. Saying good-bye to Erin, who has been just marvellous, was not easy but walking back to our abode via the multilit canals bordered by overhanging trees, with ripples catching the light from the arched bridges and the boats, we can see why she loves living in Amsterdam.

After being re-directed to different connecting trains at the stately Amsterdam railway station, we relaxed on the platform, destined for Hamburg as a stopover for Oslo. On the platform, we met a young Finnish chap who talked with us about having found the mother of his children (future). Seriously in love, drugged with love, and it was beautiful. In contrast, we sat with a Dutch woman who nursed her dachshund that had had its tail set alight by a crazy guy before she rescued it. We talked with a couple embarking on a three-day cycling tour around northern Holland with their two young boys. Another older couple had just completed a trekking holiday. There is such fitness over here — admittedly, short distances and flat country help.

Hamburg is just another city so we were content to retire early at the hostel, A & O Hamburg, after sorting through photos for you. Another marvellous train journey! German countryside with those spirit-lifting, piercingly yellow raps (deutsch) undulating fields; now many were located beside the sea as we make our way up Schleswig-Holstein to Denmark. Just love the light-coloured green on the many trees, knowing that as the spring merges into summer, this translucency will morph into a dark green. Wind farms are frequent. A lovely young Danish lass who works in spare parts for a shipping company has just been on the boats to inspect the destination for the parts she makes — a piston measuring 2.5 – 3 m, and with 12 cylinders. All double Danish to me, but Bill is impressed. We are on a ferry across to Denmark now, and totally savouring the luxury of sitting in a restaurant on a still sea, with the emphasis being on the “still”. Our train is on the ferry following along behind us.

Four countries, four modes of transport (rail, bus, boat, car) in a 14-hour journey; Europe is so small. How wonderful to see Denmark, which is wooded and pretty — people are impressed with “our Princess Mary” as they say she is very kind. More sea with huge bridges connected Denmark to Sweden. We see lots of animals, and individual farmhouses (rather than being collected together in a village) and there is the diagnostic red-oxide colouring in homes. I spoke with two impressive teachers who were returning with 18 students from an exchange in Germany. The older of the two is ready to retire as the worldwide trend towards super-documentation and accountability impacts on their profession in which wages are low and strikes are in the wind. Students were ragamuffin 15 year olds so I felt at home with them. Some small mountains were creeping in, and as we moved up the Swedish coast, the lakes and rivers reflected the bordering pines. It was still twilight as we encountered Norway and we realised that this is indeed a maritime nation with boats lining all the inlets. It was pleasing to arrive at 10 pm and catch a taxi to avoid the rain.

For the last four hours of our trip we had deep, instructive conversations with a bright guy who wanted to disappear into his shell; he responded so well when asked if he had a headache because I had a Panadol. Initially, he fidgeted and gave the appearance of being bored and upset that we had intruded on his space. His attention turned to his computer on which I was convinced he was completing some work, but instead it was a computer game. This gentleman explained that he had been working till late the previous night and in a meeting all day. An Icelander executive, this chap was able to synthesise the differences between the conforming Norwegians and the spontaneous Swedes as being analogous to the older brother and the younger brother. He informed us that Norway is especially rich because of the oil but it is only allowed to spend one percent of the interest from the profits from the oil in any financial year because the windfall also belongs to future generations. Our government in Australia could take note!

Our interesting companion spoke of growing up in Iceland and playing amongst the lava. He predicted that the volcanoes in Iceland are due for a mega blow within the next few years and that the implications for air travel, when this transpires, will be devastating. Speaking of the tragedy that beset Norway a year ago (when a crazy right-wing guy, Anders Behring Breivik, shot 92 young people), he said that Norway is traumatised since the court is processing each death individually. The bombed area of Breivik’s destruction in Oslo remains cordoned off. We were told that this murderer is the second most hated man in Norway, after the Norwegian Nazi-collaborator leader, Vidkun Quisling (1887-1945) who was tried and executed at the end of World War II. Our friend shared intimate details of the social problems of his children and our automatic conclusion was that they may have inherited their father’s social discomfort, and possibly a keen intellect that would differentiate them. When this gentleman left, he shook our hands and thanked us so warmly for our companionship, saying he had enjoyed the conversation very much. This was a gratifying breakthrough.

Good night and God bless …

Bill and Di

Oslo

Thursday, 10 May, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Despite the constant rain, we have taken a bus around this small city of elegant buildings, few high-rises, many individual stately homes, collections of business buildings of perhaps four storeys, with exquisite ornamentation and also more modern ones with strong, clean lines. Trees along the streets and in the many parks reflect the spring and Oslo appears to exist in a bowl with many surrounding hills dotted with homes amongst trees. The harbour is the prominent point and massive liners are in port, one tooting its farewell. There is a reasonable presence of uniformed men and women checking on folks in the streets and at the railway station. Our acquaintance said last night that Norwegians were concerned that the attack last year may have been Al Qaeda; Norwegians were relieved when the truth emerged but now there is shame and anger that it was one of their own. Perhaps this has galvanised the police into providing a greater presence than usual.

How to define the attributes of Norwegians generally? Our friend on the train said Norwegians will always do the right thing, are family-oriented, conservative and the country is rich. Years ago, Norway wanted to join with Sweden but now the boot is on the other foot. Unemployment is almost non-existent and many Swedes come across the border to capitalise on the high wages while Norwegians go across to Sweden to take advantage of the lower shopping costs. From Holland onwards we have noticed the height of young ones increasing and here blonde hair and blue eyes predominate, although there is a large representation of different skins and clearly an identifiable contingent of Muslims. Everyone, but everyone, is helpful and most speak English. Food-wise, there are lots of irresistible pastries; having scrambled eggs with smoked salmon for breakfast was great, but the large amount of salad accompanying it was strange for us.

In Oslo, individual homes predominate, although there are some high rises and apartment blocks. All homes appear to be wooden which makes sense given the natural abundance of forests in Norway. Reportedly, all have internal heating (usually with hot water from the basement), the floors are heated and double-glazing is the norm. We are told that last week they had 8cm of snow in Oslo. The opera house is on a peninsula like ours in Sydney, except large expanses of white marble at conflicting angles capture the glacier concept convincingly. Everything is so neat, clean and organised — the word “civilised” kept coming to mind with regard to amenities, to the economy and to social infrastructure. Having play areas on the trains for children is one example of how there is commonsense planning from the highest levels.

My lungs finally caught up with me after the antibiotics proved ineffective and it was not wise to remain on the prednisone indefinitely. A visit to the Emergency Department in Oslo highlighted the commendable efficiency of the Norwegian health system. I was processed quickly and interviewed by two nurses who typed copious notes, then directed me down (with a card and a number — you need these for everything here) to wait for the doctor. All staff including doctors dressed in those casual M.A.S.H.-type outfits except the colour was white. The doctor’s room was very plain, and she was fast yet comprehensive in her questioning. Evidently there are few private doctors as most work for the state and the system works beautifully. Diagnosed with atypical pneumonia (despite having a preventive injection in Australia), I was given strong penicillin. We had a sense of relief that the illness that had dogged me since Prague would now be brought under control.

Speaking in German with a grandmother, a daughter and a grand-daughter who stayed in our hostel, Oslo Hostel/Hotel Apartments, was gratifying; they were very warm and were taken with our love for their country. All the angst of learning German has been repaid many times over on this trip.

Night, Night …

Bill and Di

Across Norway To Bergen

Friday, May 11, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Our dream of coming to Scandinavia to see our friends in Sweden and the fjords in Norway is becoming a reality. This morning the rain continued so we caught a fast taxi driven by a Pakistani to the station, picked up some bacon and eggs and found our seats on the train. We settled down knowing this was going to be the seven-hour trip of a lifetime. Initially, we were content to admire the stately, not ostentatious, homes on the outskirts of Oslo, and soon we were in country of rolling hillocks with paddocks either cultivated, or lying fallow. The woods seemed, once more, to fold around the non-rectangular fields and to reinforce Norway’s careful stewardship of the environment. Hills became thickly-wooded mountains and large, clear lakes reflected the beautiful variety of trees around them. A swan sat on its twigged nest in the water near the railway track. Many animals were in fields — evidently the law in Sweden states they have to be outside, so perhaps this applies also in Norway. As we looked across the lakes, we tried to envisage them all frozen over in the winter and skating races occurring. Huge, steep cliffs have been carved out by glaciers of previous times and the soil in the fields was dark and healthy, full of humus. Tunnels became more numerous as we climbed higher and waterfalls catapulted from the mountain-tops beside the line. Rivers below became racing rapids and it was clear why Norway supplies all its own power needs with hydro.

Very soon, small snow drifts hung around the lower areas in the forests, then, as we gained altitude, the trees seemed to stand with black feet in the growing volume of snow. Trees became heavy with snow, and we could identify ski runs and chalets, and view clouds delivering more snow to the mountains. Our adrenalin pumped as we realised the snow was increasing exponentially! Soon houses were encroached upon with the larger drifts — essentially, this was becoming a black and white movie where features became silhouettes. Skeleton trees, mountain-sides of snow with houses merging into the snow, threatening to be gobbled up by the mounds reaching up to their windows, roads dug out of the aquamarine-tinted snow up to two metres in depth, running creeks carved out deep gutters in the snow — fabulous! Very soon the intensity of the snow whiteness became blinding, especially as we emerged at lightning speed from the tunnels that harboured drifts of snow. The pristine whiteness of the snow was unbelievable for us and we could not suppress our excitement. This crescendo build-up brought home the magic of the image of Christmas particularly as we watched snow actually falling, a mother making a snowman for her child, someone ducking off the train to roll a snow-ball and create chaos, and groups of skiers boarding the train. This was indeed some rail trip!

Only two weeks until their official summer season and yet it is snowing. As we descended from the treeless alpine region, the trees began to reappear, mosses and lichen adhered to the huge glacial rocks, the lakes returned and the snow disappeared, except on the highest peaks. This is one amazing country. There are so many quaint villages along the way, most clinging to the side of the generous lakes. Our arrival at Bergen was the easiest arrival of any — it is a beautiful, smaller city, set on the sea and surrounded by hills; it felt relaxed. Our abode, Marken Gjestehus, is very comfortable with a kitchen, computer, wifi, and the most helpful hostess who allowed me to use the office computer to book accommodation for our next foray in Norway. We have arranged to travel up two fjords and then on a rack railway that is supposedly beyond compare. We just count our blessings to be here.

The winds here are bitter, from the North Sea and the North Pole. There are thermals and Vicks for me whereas it could be hot toddies for others. Bill is far more resilient although he has resorted to his long johns.

Sending you love from this beautiful country,

Bill and Di

Into the Fjords of Norway

Saturday, 12 May, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Exiting the quaint, beautiful town of Bergen where it snowed last week, we were promised a clear day, despite the freezing wind. Boarding a large catamaran in the harbour and sitting in the middle right at the front, we thankfully sailed smoothly within the protected reaches of islands (of which Norway has 60 000) heading north, up the coast. There are many remarkable, high bridges connecting islands and we re-appreciated how practical and enterprising this nation is. Initially there were villages of modest yet sturdy cottages along both sides of the coast, nestled on the mountains; however, we soon sailed into raw country with rugged, rocky mountains bordering this sheltered part of the passage. There were many slate roofs and the conservative white-painted homes with trims, or else the red-oxide homes; the occasional church steeple completed the scene.

Proud Norwegian fags few strongly in the brisk breeze; our captain negotiated the infinite number of islands, the narrow passages and the various landings at the villages, with consummate ease. In a godforsaken part of the coast was an enormous oil refinery, with snow-clad mountains behind it. Quaint, small fishing villages were comprised of cottages surrounded by lawn. The typical red batches increased as we headed inland; mountains bordering the fjord were capped with large quantities of glistening snow. This is idyllic country but just too cold for comfort. I enjoyed the vistas at the prow of the boat, protected from the gale-force winds. Bill was braver but struggled to open the door to return into the cabin after a photo effort on deck.

One memorable conversation was with a Serbian doctor who is working in Norway. Her Croatian doctor husband was with her and when we spoke English, it seemed our contact would be short. Instead, she inquired if I spoke German and this opened a wonderful exchange. Learning English was too much for this woman (she spoke five languages already) and she explained how much she loved speaking German. For five years during her university education she had lived in Germany, thus her fluency and her love of that language. A dilemma in Norway was that she was brushed aside whenever she spoke German. My simple explanation was that, in all likelihood, this rejection revolved around the betrayal of the Norwegian people by Quisling who was a Nazi-collaborator. Understanding perhaps one-third of what she said at rapid-fire pace, I gained some insight into the painful issues that many folk in Europe have contended with for so long. We talked of the inanity of war, the concept of Family that needs to be nurtured between all peoples, and the exquisite beauty of the magnificent country that was unfolding in front of us. This was a precious contact with such an open woman.

After six hours we disembarked in this little village of Flam into which there are five rail-tracks. Flam is famous for its UNESCO-listed 20.2 kilometre rail link to Myrdal that has a gradient of 55/1000. Tomorrow, we travel on this railway, the steepest adhesion railway in the world. Smiles are hard to find here, but then the arctic wind encourages one to pull everything in.

Sleep well in your cosy beds. We look out over the fjord with heavy snow on the top of the mountains that guard the entrance to this idyllic part of Norway. The twilight here ensures most retire late and rise late.

With love

Bill and Di

Perfection

Sunday, May 13, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Looking out our window onto the fjord, we see the softly-falling snow on the peaks and watch it advance towards us in a promising cloud. To the left is an enormous, docked ship on which thousands are enjoying their breakfast. Wrapped safely inside our little paradise, we feel the serenity and softness of time. Only the fluttering of the long triangular Norwegian flag hoisted high outside our domain breaks the quietness of this spiritual time. You are in our thoughts as we begin to walk down to the train that will take us on our world-heritage trip. We marvelled at the spectacular engineering that facilitated the zig-zag climbing of mountains caked with snow and then we were awed by the sheer force of Mother Nature in the massively strong waterfalls, both concentrated and long. Vistas down the ravines and the valleys were breath-taking. Bill tried to record the five loops of railway track, a line that took twenty years to construct. As we approached Mrydal, the snow became thicker, falling more insistently and then lying as flakes on the platform. It was easy to understand that all-year skiing occurs in this region.

Our companions in the train were predominantly “oldies” from the large cruiser in Flam; many snoozed as we passed this Christmas card magic — possibly because they participated in the later session of dancing last night (of which we heard them talking in elated tones). It was wonderful to see lots of camaraderie and stirring amongst them. Chaos ruled in Mrydal as some of the group got on the wrong train, but thankfully the situation was retrieved. Walking in the horizontal-falling flakes of snow on the platform at Mrydal, the preciousness and privilege of our adventure buoyed us.

Our hour-long train ride from Myrdal to Voss was as spectacular as when we completed it on the Oslo-Bergen day, and we drank in the black-white landscape of skeleton trees, mirage houses, protruding black boulders and creeks that gouged out their path in the deep snow. It presented an almost two-dimensional scene, the strong white dominating the black, with the sun trying to break through the snow clouds. The guide for the ship group explained that the swiftly-flowing river hundreds of metres below the track was used for adventure rafting; a proposal to use this river for hydro-generation had been recently quashed in parliament. Her intimation was of a confict between greenie-environmentalists and developers; a world-wide phenomenon.

Voss is a gorgeous town located around a generous lake and ringed in by snow-clad mountains. My fondness for this place derives from an association with a chap on the train from Oslo. He heard my banging, my yelling, my kicking and my cursing when the toilet door refused to unlock for me and he rescued me. This lovely chap and his family alighted at Voss. Seeking refuge from the howling wind and slight rain, we went into a cafe to enjoy a hearty tomato soup with four half-boiled eggs in it. Two women, dressed in national costume, informed us about a Confirmation Service at the church opposite the cafe where most of the congregation was also attired in national costume. These women obliged for a photo and we trundled over to inspect the church, dedicated to Saint Michael, built in 1277 with the steeple completed in the Middle Ages. This unique building looks great set amongst the deciduous trees and, thankfully, escaped the bombs in W WII that laid most of Voss in ruins.

Bill is truly the hunter and gatherer in this expedition. He is out doing some exploration while I keep out of the cold, bless him. We have a few hours to kill before catching a bus to a tiny place called Ulvik, which overlooks the second fjord along which we will travel back to Bergen. I look out at the silver birches swaying strongly in the winds from the snow, and am thankful to be in here.

Love to you all,

Bill and Di

Another Day in Spectacular Norway

Monday, May 14, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

In the twilight yesterday our bus drove around the Hardangarfjord revealing some spectacular waterfalls, rivers with strong rapids, villages snuggled onto the steep mountainsides, cleared areas where apple and peach blossoms are about to spring into life, and snow clouds hovering around the top of the snow-clad mountain peaks. The road was such that we hoped the surly driver had a loving wife. The tunnels were long but well lit; Bill was fascinated with a round-about in the middle of one tunnel, providing alternative destinations. Great engineering feats. Our dour driver took us for a drive around his beautiful hometown called Ulvik, before dropping us right outside our modest hotel: this was most appreciated since the rain was serious.

Our timber abode affords us a spectacular view of the fjord backed by snow-clad mountains. Yesterday in Voss, I said a prayer for the sun to come out in the morning and for my lungs to clear. Sure enough, the sun was out this morning and the sky was blue, accentuating the beauty of this region in Norway. Pure air, pure joy! A walk beside the fjord before breakfast and a coffee at an up-market hotel right on the fjord enabled us to speak with a Scottish waiter who has returned to Ulvik for his sixth season of work. What a life — soaking up the best of the best that nature can provide. Our accommodation host here is from Coventry and has that inimitable English sense of humour. The creation of the EU provides such flexibility for employment. A wonderful Pommie who spends half his time in France and half here in Norway conducting tours was a godsend in setting up an alternative email address for me. We could then send the photos to our daughter, Josephine, to forward to all of you. Enjoy! Bill is out doing the Armstrong-Jones thing while I remain inside protected. Looking at the substantial flag pole outside (about 15 m high), and knowing there are so many homes and businesses that fly their Norwegian flag, we can only assume they are rightly proud of their country.

Once more we head towards Bergen, by catamaran up the Hardangerfjord. It was totally spectacular, the ruggedness accentuated by the wild weather that created white caps and rough conditions. Bill stood out the back of the boat letting the icy winds whip around him, but enjoying the freedom and abandon of this communion with nature. Normally the orchard blossoms of peach, pear and apple trees make a picturesque display at the base of the towering mountains; however, spring has not yet arrived and today the snow clouds continued to hover over the peaks. So many homes perched high on the hills; the villages nestled in comfortably and as we called in to various small ports, the quaintness of the homes re-impressed us. So much snow, so many waterfalls literally flooding out of the mountains, so many rapids on so many rivers.

At the end of our catamaran journey we boarded a bus to complete the journey to Bergen. The scenery was no less spectacular as we climbed up into the snow country again, once more being immersed in the black-white beauty of mega snow-cover. Even more dramatic impact occurred with the voluminous waterfalls and we just appreciated how tough Norwegians must be to live in this challenging environment. I will never think lightly of Norwegian sardines again, knowing how difficult it must be to catch them!

Tomorrow is a trip from Bergen to Stavanger by boat, hopefully in the calm protection of the islands … or else the Travacalm might be needed.

Much love,

Bill and Di

South from Bergen to Stavanger

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Thankfully the day dawned with no rain and no wind so it was perfect for pulling our bags down to the ferry in this UNESCO town. Once more our boat looked substantial and we sought a vantage point in the centre front of the boat. As our catamaran glided past three large ships and the historic three-masted sailing boat in Bergen Harbour, we moved into protected waters between the multitude of islands and the mainland. With so many mountains, Norwegians need to build tunnels; with so many islands, they need to build bridges, and yesterday there were plenty of magnificent ones, sufficiently tall to allow huge vessels to pass underneath. Grey rocky outcrops (Bill says possibly gneiss) were generally covered with moss or with very low shrubs; occasionally a collection of trees relieved the blandness. Many islands rose abruptly from the sea and the vestiges of snow were visible on the distant mountains, partially hidden by cloud.

More habitation on some of the bigger islands where bridges connected them to the mainland, was clear. While closer to Bergen we noticed differentiation in the housing, further south beautiful little villages of white wooden houses with predominantly slate-coloured roofs or the red-oxide cottages, were perched on the hillsides amongst green cultivation. Even further south, there were sheep. Fish farms in the tranquil waters between the islands attracted seagulls.

As we glided into Haugesund, halfway to our destination for the night, it was clearly a town with big money invested. Contemporary terrace apartments and huge numbers of modern glassed buildings, all betokened the presence of oil money. Traditional buildings interfaced well with this new phenomenon, yet I wondered at the disparity in income between those who directly earned the big salaries from oil and those who were in either the public service or enterprises such as tourism who felt the brunt of rising prices. Women with their children sat by the water waving as we briefly stopped at the tyre-protected jetty; were their dads away on the rigs for weeks at a time? We were later informed that the oilrig workers have two weeks working on the rigs and four weeks off. Two large diving boats were tied up at one particular port and several large catamarans emerged from various fjords.

Generally the sea was as smooth as glass, except for when we passed across the mouth of a fjord when the boat rocked. Perhaps the formation of the fjord creates a wind-tunnel effect. Thankfully, only a few times, for a short stretch, were we in the open sea with a large swell. We were so thankful that the weather was gentle, unlike that of the previous day. Returning to the protection of the islands was always welcome. My admiration goes out to Jessica Watson, our young Australian sailor, for facing the elements and dealing with technology, by herself and achieving a round-the-world solo guernsey. Gutsy girl! A chap behind us snored for 4.5 hours, but I have to acknowledge that the gentle rhythm of the swell was very sleep-inducing. Locating our accommodation in Stavanger involved following many red herrings. Finally we arrived and it was a relief to have an afternoon nap in the beautiful sunshine that flooded in the tall generous windows.

Stavanger was certainly an oil town, with many executives breakfasting with us the following morning at an up-market hotel. The previous night we had enjoyed quality fish and beef at high prices, but Norway is not a cheap country in which to live, or to visit. Evidence of the fervour that was to engulf the country tomorrow with the celebration of Norway’s National Day was obvious in flags, bunting, costumes, etc.

Night, night … well, the sky is barely dark so it seems a little premature to say this!

Bill and Di

Norway’s National Day from Kristiansand, in the Far South

Wednesday, 16 May, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Our journey by train through the spine of Norway from Stavanger was spectacular with a continuity of blue-green glacial lakes, rapids in swiftly-flowing rivers, long waterfalls, huge grey-bulbous mountains of granite with straight fracture lines, deep chasms, pastures with fat sheep and extra fat twin lambs, and then we were sucked into the blackness of the many tunnels. Fine weather in Kristiansand omened well as we pulled our luggage against the strong winds, referring to a map periodically. Near the sea in a modest room, we needed to walk only a short distance to a great restaurant: our dinner was the most succulent turbot fish (flat), eminently appropriate when we were in a fishing port.

Today is Norway’s National Day and in Oslo children would be marching in front of the Royal Palace to be acknowledged by the royal family. We were encouraged to remain in the south to witness their full-on celebrations on this important day, especially poignant in the light of the shooting atrocity that occurred almost a year ago. There were bands with bright uniforms, lots of energy and some people danced out the front; many children’s schools carried their distinctive banners and some were dressed in their national costume; most children were singing in Norwegian and some were hopping to the music. This was one huge festival with much excitement and camaraderie. They are certainly a strong, striking-looking people with many natural blonds and many tall folk. When they uttered their mottos or whatever with such strength, it was easy to see them as descendants of the Vikings.

The fabulous national costumes were varied (different designs for different areas), particularly elegant and flattering in design and embroidery, and evidently warm, being made from wool. Women were thus attired although many young ones bravely wore minis or thigh-high stockings and shorts. Men looked debonair in their suits or knee-length pants and knitted stockings; one gentleman at the Kilden was wearing a kilt; whole families, including small children, were decked out proudly. Costumes are handed down from one generation to the next and we perceived this heritage, this tradition must be such an integrating element. Listening to new immigrant Africans playing the bongos to a great reception and watching some national-costumed ladies jigging to the enticing music, we sensed harmonious assimilation.

As we enjoyed a coffee, we learned so much from one chap who originally came from 1900 km north of Bergen, well inside the Arctic Circle. He shared with us some very interesting statistics about the economy of Norway, stating that there is very little difference between the incomes of various workers, except for lawyers who can charge “big money” or those in private business. Teachers earn between 320 000 and 450 000 per year (krona — 7 krona equals 1 euro), a cleaner would earn 240 000 while those on the oilrigs earn 600 000. He told us that Norway has voted twice against joining the EU and that Switzerland and Liechtenstein also have not joined. Analysing the problems in Greece, he pointed out that men retire in Norway at the age of 67, whereas in Greece it is at 52. Moreover, in Greece the pension given to a man on his retirement goes to his wife when he dies, and if she has gone, then to the unmarried daughter. Nominal “divorces” occur to capitalise on the windfall of generous pension inheritances. Thus, he opined, such economies pull the euro down.

We joined a church service in the modest but beautiful cathedral in which candle chandeliers enhanced the ambience. The church was totally packed with most in national costume, singing like angels. We could only pick out the odd word and “Amen”. Yesterday we walked through the old part of town that is essentially a continuous collection of white wooden two-storied homes: quaint, but undoubtedly awfully cold in this freezing part of the world, and an horrific potential fire trap. The Baptist Church and the Methodist Church were in this area, joined to the houses, as part of the whole community. Cannons fired as we enjoyed a fish-soup-for-the-soul. We are so lucky to have been on the sidelines, enjoying this significant day in Norway.

Our train is due soon to carry us back to Oslo and tomorrow we will be in Sweden.

Much love

Bill and Di

Finale for Norway

Thursday, 17 May, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Every train journey in this fabulous country has elicited gasps of disbelief at the remarkable and varied beauty of the terrain. Our expectations were not high for this final leg from the south of the country back to the capital; however, once more we were elated with the profound beauty of Norway. Initially, it seemed the train was travelling in the wrong direction but soon we were moving through huge hills of grey, folded gneiss with straight fractures. There were rivers swiftly flowing full to the brim, rapids, waterfalls, and mist, then sunshine. Enormous chasms released impressive volumes of water in this spinal cord of Norway. Rivers or lakes were beside us virtually all the way, the sun shone and reflections in the glacial lakes were perfect. At various points, the silver birch and spruce appeared between the virtually continuous flow of lakes, some featuring islands in the middle. Villages in the valleys, with their conservative red-oxide homes with white trim looked pristine and beautiful in the mist. We saw a succession of deer antlers along the roofline of one red shed. Just a few roofs adopted the strange, modern concept of using grass as a means of insulation. Dotted lines on the side of bitumen roads looked like tacking.

From the adjacent carriage, with the wonderful accompaniment of her guitar, a strong female voice delivered the jaunty Norwegian national anthem with such gusto, before getting into folk songs with equal energy and talent. Watching her packing up the guitar, I ventured into the carriage to exhort her not to get off until Oslo and to continue playing, because we were enjoying the music so much. The lady, so affectionate and pleased with the congratulations, hugged me and explained that they sang because they were free and no one would take that away from them. This was particularly relevant given the circumstances of last year. She and her friends were going on a sailing holiday and it would be a lively affair, she assured me. Their music added so much to the festive atmosphere of our experiences of Norway’s celebrations.

In contrast with the absolute joy these choristers gave us, seeing a wasted boy just across from us on the train, who seemed to be controlled by a dissolute friend, disturbed me. It took all my restraint not to engage him in conversation and tell him he was wasting his life — so much did he remind me of one of my ex-students, that I assumed some authoritative right to lay the cards on the table. I refrained, possibly with a sense of self-preservation and not wanting to put Bill in an invidious circumstance.

As we alighted from the train in Oslo, a sense of chaos reigned at the station and in the streets, which confirmed we had made the right decision to remain at Kristiansand for the celebrations. Many were drunk, and we felt vulnerable making our way to our booked accommodation at Sentrum Pensjonat, as loud, inebriated groups gathered and yelled. Finding our basic hostel at 10.30pm, I was surprised to be asked by a woman who had been snuggling up to a tall, black chap, whether we were just leaving — that she desperately needed a room. We suspect she may have been a prostitute, and this heightened my sense of tension in this city environment close to the railway station on a festive night.

While we were totally enamored with the rest of Norway that we had seen, Oslo afforded us the least joy. We leave this country with the greatest admiration for their conservatism, their wisdom in managing their oil windfall, and their stewardship of their rugged, outstandingly beautiful country. Though exceptionally expensive, our journey through Norway has, nevertheless, been phenomenal.

Much love,

Bill and Di

Sweden, the land of our friends

Friday, 18 May, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Our journey from Oslo to Stockholm was a dream as the tilt-train emitted a cicada-sounding noise that reminded us of Christmas at home, and virtually lulled us into somnolence. Lakes either side, dense forests on the lower mountains, farmlands that revealed good soil and those lovely, typically-red homes with white trim. Being reunited with Anna and Ulf Mautner after 3.5 years since their time in Australia was very moving, as our connection point is so strong — they are, in effect, our Swedish family. In November, 2008, an SOS phone call from Sweden from our single-day friends, Hans and Ulla, introduced us to their daughter, Anna, and her husband, Ulf. This adventurous young couple had decided to substitute the dark, cold winter of Sweden for a light, hot summer in Australia. Anna had been born in Australia so she was returning “home”, in one way. To complicate matters, they had with them three young ones and, at the time of the phone-call, were living in a one-bedroom unit in Melbourne, isolated, lonely and hot. Accommodation, through the Christmas vacation, was at a premium and the Australian climate was quite intense. Their visit was just prior to the historic Black Saturday bushfires in Victoria.

The dilemma for Anna and Ulf and their family of being isolated in a strange, hot country, was easily remedied. A few phone-calls to a good friend of ours, again with the Mount Isa connection, and to my youngest brother in Melbourne, and Anna and Ulf received the warmth of Australian hospitality for Christmas. Following their time down south over the festive season, they were intrepid in making their way up the eastern coast and their family and ours merged as they stayed first in Brisbane, then up at the Sunshine Coast. An artist and a teacher, Anna connected strongly with our second, creative daughter, Jacinta, and their laughter enriched every social contact we had. For the three children, the three Australian months were memorable: they were exposed to a new culture, a language of which they knew very little and they learned to swim like fish!

Our contact with this family had continued unabated after they returned to Sweden, and our present visit to Sweden was one which was most anticipated, on both sides. Anna’s Mum, Ulla, passed away in 2009 after decades of ill-health and it was good to be able to offer Anna love and support, albeit from the southern hemisphere. Ulf was a godsend in booking our Eurail connections from Hamburg onwards, as this could not be done from Australia. A plumbing misadventure in their home meant we were to stay with Anna’s father, our friend from our single days, Hans Fernberg. It was exciting to see Hans again and to know how well he is set up in his unit. Near the sea, close to the heart of Stockholm, the unit is spacious with lots of lovely light flooding in. We talked, laughed and reminisced for hours before hitting the sack.

Hans, an engineer, is also an accomplished artist and pianist. This morning he played a composition he had put together for our mutual friend, Ulf Rosengren, the beautiful Ulf who had also come to work in Mount Isa in the heady year of 1969. How precious are these friendships from our single days when we had no cares and where, living in the Mount Isa Mines Staff Mess, we had such a fabulous social time together. In 1988, I organised a huge reunion in Mount Isa for the “’69-ers”, oblivious to the sexual implications of this nomenclature, but merely trying to emulate the concept of the “’49-ers” who went to California seeking gold. Friends from all around the world returned to Mount Isa for the reunion and Hans and Ulf came from Sweden. After a weekend of almost non-sleep, Hans explained “I didn’t come all this way to sleep.” Hans still enjoyed a party and it was so kind of him to accommodate us on this trip. One of his lasting, resonating comments in 1988 was: “I had forgotten how blue the Australian skies are.”

The following day Anna and Ulf picked us up and it was a delight to see how their three little ones had blossomed in the intervening years. Our lack of Swedish and the young ones’ tentative English meant our verbal communication with them was limited; however, our rapport was still strong. Relinquishing responsibility for transport, nay, even for thinking, was such a relief. Over bridges in Stockholm with the Mautner Family and then, we ventured, by boat, to an idyllic island in the Archipelago off Stockholm. Anna and Ulf have friends who own a collection of exotic homes on the island, Ekna — wonderfully warm, interesting and generous people and we felt privileged to be their guests. Lars is an architect of renown while Ulrica is a textile designer. Their children are genteel, creative and polite — a great advertisement for Sweden.

A boat ride took us to a larger island, Sandhamn, where we walked around the village, over the rocky outcrops with steel anchor points embedded, up to the wooden church with the separate huge belltower, past the homes that had been transferred to this anomalous sandy island so the seamen could live closer to their piloting points. Our lunch was typically Swedish — herring in different herbal sauces, cheese, and fish casserole. Looking out to the bluest of seas, a marina, village and blue skies, we appreciated the gift of this haven so close to the city of Stockholm. The six children played outside when they finished lunch, completely safe in this paradise and free to explore. No cars on the island makes for soul-stilling peace. A boat ride back to Ekna and we kept marvelling at the multitude (30 000) of islands in this region of Sweden, and their variety (some were more rocky outcrops, others more wooded with pines, and of varying heights). The exquisite beauty of this paradise set in a rich blue-green sea washed over us in waves.

As is the custom, we sat mid-afternoon on the deck enjoying a coffee accompanied by delicate pastries made by Lars, and enjoyed much interesting conversation and laughter. Anna enjoyed a sauna before jumping into the 8-degree water with the four little girls. Bill and I retired to our luxury A-frame abode, with white-painted floors and ceiling that gives a fantastic sense of spaciousness. Lars designed the main house that marries the outside environment with inside living, while Ulrica used her intuitive talent for the interior design. Last night’s dinner of salmon with salad, was the perfect end to a perfect day in paradise. Looking at Google Earth and photos, we were able to see the new home Lars and Ulrica are building on an island in Thailand and in which they will spend a few months every year. Wherever this couple go, they will create beauty, harmony and friendship. Returning to the mainland, we felt we had been totally spoilt …

Love to all,

Bill & Di

Excursions in Sweden

Our third daughter, Corinne, flew in from Canada to join us for this Swedish section of our holiday and we treasured this gift of her presence. She joined us on our US trip in 2009 and now she has made the effort to join us here, despite having just bought a home in Toronto. Hans kindly organised a trip underground in a silver mine, Sala, operational from the early 1600s, that was situated an hour and a half from Stockholm. Ulf ’s widow, Barbro, who is quite a character, joined us — we missed her beautiful Ulf on this trip. Having a guide for the mine tour was informative and entertaining. To add some pizzaz to the event, he sang at appropriate locations to emphasise the acoustics of the huge cavernous areas in the mine. Water has filled the lower areas and I could imagine Phantom of the Opera being staged there. In fact, they do hold concerts and opera nights there. Couples can hire a comfortable, romantic room underground (with a heated floor, champagne, etc.) for their wedding night. A memorable tour, topped off by a relaxing lunch at the artificial lake that the King ordered his subjects to construct so power could be generated underground.

Another marvellous excursion with Hans and Barbro was to the Vasa Museum. A Dutch boat-builder was hired to construct this large ship, with ornate figurines on its prow and around the sides, to frighten off the Poles, who were giving Sweden some angst in the early 1600s. The King unwisely ordered that cannons be placed on two levels and, moreover, the construction of the keel which contained insufficient ballast, rendered the boat unstable. This exotic boat that was farewelled with great fanfare, only advanced a couple of kilometres before it tilted and capsized in the Baltic Sea, killing many. Merely fifty years ago, the boat was brought to the surface and the reconstruction effort has been magnificent. Moreover, the historical research, the documentation and the representation of those involved in sailing the Vasa, the lives they lived (from dental records, etc.) was amazing. A unique, beautifully executed project that impressed both of us immensely.

We three Perkinses inspected a church in the centre of Stockholm with a lovely steeple reminiscent of the Eiffel Tower. While the history was interesting, it was essentially a royal graveyard with only a token reference to any religious connection. Making our way up from Italy where the religious context in churches was so strong, we have graduated to the more subdued Protestant churches that are still authentically spiritual, to this church in Stockholm which is almost devoid of soul. The State in Sweden has taken over the churches and the resultant secularisation has, to my mind, compromised on the sanctity of the church itself. It would have been better had we been in other churches in Sweden so a more balanced consideration could be given. My apologies.

Another venue we inspected, however, ticked all the boxes for all of us. The Town Hall is where the Nobel Presentations, the Dinner and the Celebrations occur. It is a fantastic tribute to individuals around the globe who contribute to mankind in a humanistic capacity. Corinne was quick to point out to us discreetly that she considered there have been political, ill-considered Nobel choices over the past ten years. Working in the news industry for the past decade, Corinne is conversant with all international affairs. There were touches of the beauty of the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles — a small room of Bayeux tapestries in which people can celebrate their marriage (the longest service is 3 minutes, the shortest is 30 seconds); the palatial room in which Council meetings are held; the amazing gold hall which used 10kg of gold for gilding of the mosaics in controversial scenes; all ceilings reinforced the Viking heritage of Scandinavia. This is a fabulous building of which Stockholm can be proud.

Enjoying sea bass while sitting beside the Baltic Sea along which sailing boats, fishing boats, huge cruise boats and ferries travel, was heavenly. Playing boccia afterwards with the Mautner family and Corinne was like the conclusion to one amazing week in Sweden where we have been feted extravagantly and where we have been able to replenish our energies for the final part of our trip. Anyone who has the opportunity to visit Scandinavia will be just as impressed as we have been.

We send this to you from Sweden, with love,

Bill & Di

Beautiful, beautiful Stockholm

Our last week in leafy, statuesque Stockholm that marries the city with the sea, has been peppered with unique, fabulous experiences. Our Stockholm family and friends have been the architects of our unbelievable time in Sweden and our links have been forged so closely. Corinne’s intuitive city-navigation skills allowed us to totally relax and enjoy Stockholm to the maximum. As aforementioned, initially we were to stay with Ulf and Anna in their home but repairs to their home will take four months. Consequently, their whole family life has been in disarray and they have been located in various hotels. When we wanted to have the last two nights with Corinne, Ulf engineered that we stay with them in the Elite Hotel which was absolute luxury: a view across the sea to part of Stockholm with reflections and lights at night and a sliver of moon, completed the picture. We watched a bridge that lifted to allow boats to pass through and I went to sleep (perhaps at 11.30 with the extended twilight) admiring the pronounced contrast between the orange-red brick facade of the hotel and the intense blue of the night sky. Total luxury, and marvellous to be with our Swedish family and our daughter. How blessed we are.

Prior to this, Hans looked after us expertly, shared his wonderful unit near the waterfront (so much of Stockholm has a water view), and provided us with luxury breakfasts, appetising dinners, music, memories and laughter. We drove around to see his childhood homes, the one in which Anna grew up, the school she attended, where Hans used to ice-skate, play in forests or mountains of rocks and trees. It was lovely to go to the stately church where the services for Hans’ wife (Ulla) and mother were held. The grave for both of Hans’ parents had a red granite headstone with a rose and pansies planted in front. I picked up two snails from this area, and wrapped them in a serviette to present to Hugo, Hans’ grandson. Enjoying mussels in a salad with pork pieces, as we were fanned by the sea breeze, was one of many great cuisine memories.

Dropping in to Anna’s school to meet one of her art classes, I was surprised to find no uniform; the girls were really demure and quiet but some of the guys might be a challenge. One wore a skullcap while another carried his skateboard and kept stepping on the end of it, as if he was keen for action. The boys were restless but Anna was so soft with them — loving and motherly, yet firm. Fortuitously, I had received an email from a Canterbury Mum, south of Brisbane, Australia, relating how a huge python (in the process of swallowing a crow) was seen by a student who came running to report that “the snake had wings”. The students sat deadly still and listened as I recounted this story. There were high ceilings in the classrooms, security in the lifts (teachers alone had keys for them), and every child, teacher and worker at schools is provided with a hot lunch.

We wandered into Stockholm’s old town that has so many elegant buildings, usually five or six storeys high, some with strong, definitional lines, others with more ornate decoration. The variation and individuality contributes to the concept of a truly beautiful city. Black slanted roofs with attics and a huge variety of turrets and artistic flairs differentiated Stockholm from other cities. There is a randomness of beauty that enhances the whole effect of this city that features significant large hills of rock and forest. Dandelions grow tall, large and thickly in the median strips, yet they are not mowed until they have seen their season of yellow splendour. Narcissus grow in unexpected gardens on footpaths as if they are part of nature, while parks near the river/lake/sea are relaxedly natural. Many bodies were out making the most of the sunshine, some without their shirts. There are esplanades of lime-green trees, parks with quirky statues, adequate seating and appealing ambience. Purple and white lilac bushes grow along the roads; tulips create a fabulous display in all parts of the city.

The “old town” is an up-market version of other cobble-stoned medieval towns; however, the elegance in the couture shops sets it apart from other cities we have visited. A health food store owner revealed that he would be fined 500 000 krona if he was caught selling Melatonin that Sweden’s Pharmaceutical Board has not yet approved. Following his revelation in Swedish to our Isa friend, Barbro, he brought a packet out from under the counter for me, and Barbro immediately bought one for herself. A little illegality in the cause of good sleep. It is therefore appropriate that I bid you good-night!

Bill & Di

St Petersburg

Saturday, 26 May, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Leaving the security of Stockholm and family behind, we were anxious to see how Russia had changed since our time in Moscow in 1984. We watched the incredible mass of islands of the Stockholm Archipelago disappear before we flew across the Baltic Sea to the flat lands over Finland to Russia. Crops were green so we inferred there had been some fine weather and spring had arrived. A woman explained to us the appropriate metro stop for our hostel in St Petersburg but first we needed to catch a bus. The mini-bus put us very much in mind of our 1984 trip as it bumped along on an uneven bitumen road, with gears grinding and the motor labouring. The first metro was also a reality check after Sweden, as the train seemed to be divorced from the platform, a door in the continuous wall opening to the train only when it arrived. It reminded us of the “ghost stations” underground in Berlin when the Wall existed. The ear-piercing whistling of the train as it lurched along, and the clunking of the train itself intensified our concerns. As we changed metro lines, however, we welcomed a decided improvement. The longest escalator in the world, going underneath the river and measuring close to 200m in length, was impressive. The walls of the tunnels, moreover, were clad in marble with eye-catching mosaic frescoes of specific events in Russian history.

Securing directions for our new abode was not easy as English is not spoken; however, we arrived to find the huge wooden door of the Nord Hostel locked with only a phone number for contact. This is where I prayed that the cantankerous mobile would work … and it did! But the manageress was unavailable so we needed to go to a cafe to wait. This was not a problem so we enjoyed our first Russian meal in 28 years. Walking up the steps to the Nord Hostel, it looked as though the steps were shelled in World War II as they were pockmarked, the railings were broken and unstable and the building itself was filthy. The lass who greeted us was lovely and accompanied us, by taxi (because I climbed the stairs so slowly and was obviously so tired and so old) to another part of the city where couples could be accommodated. The names of the streets are written in Russian script, which is so difficult to read, and therefore to remember. Absorbing landmarks was the only way we could get our orientation. It was so pleasing to be given a commodious, clean bedroom and to know breakfast was provided.

After a good sleep, we headed off reasonably (and ill-foundedly) confident that we could find our way to the original hostel to pick up our tickets for The State Hermitage Museum that our hostess had kindly ordered on-line. We received lots of help with directions but ended up seeing more of St Petersburg than we intended, yet did discover landmarks worthy of investigation. Many beautiful buildings have huge drainage pipes down the front that would spill mega-litres onto the footpath, proving a huge inconvenience to pedestrians. The bases of these buildings are showing real signs of decay, and the concrete erosion is partly due to the bad drainage and, undoubtedly, to the amount of airborne salt from the sea, as well as periodic flooding containing a larger concentration of salt. Footpaths were uneven and tricky, but generally they were constructed from beautiful red granite.

We noticed also this afternoon that the canals were lined with this attractive rock. Just periodically the unpleasant smell of third world countries and bad drainage brought us up sharply.

Those of you who have visited the Hermitage will know the WOW factor that hit us yesterday. From the entrance through the ornate archway into the enormous circular piazza, Palace Square, enclosed by handsome buildings, to the park-like reception area within the Hermitage itself, we felt that this was indeed a place of Royalty, a place where enormous power resided and progressive decisions were made. If you walked through this magnificent building, just marvelling at the intricate, exquisitely-designed marble or wooden foors, or cast your eyes to the ceilings where the ornamentation in figurines, design, and painting was accentuated with extravagant gilding, you would have come away, totally awed by the opulence of the Hermitage. When you factor in the unbelievable richness of artwork and artefacts, you can only wonder at the forward-thinking attitude of both Peter the Great for establishing the city and emulating the European trends in architecture and culture, and Catherine the Great’s acquisitive propensity for European and Russian artworks. We revelled in Monet, Van Gogh (of course), Renoir (seemed like his basic, formative work), some of Picasso’s that took my fancy, Rembrandt, etc. Too many tourists, often in huge P & O groups, and thus the ambience of brilliant gold, marble and chandeliers is somewhat tarnished. It was a relief to escape the crush, knowing we had just experienced the epitome of Russian cultural richness.

Returning to our abode was less complicated and we were like fish swimming upstream as, seemingly, thousands poured past us in the opposite direction, preparing to party away the night in celebration of the birthday of St Petersburg. Peter the Great declared on the 27th May, 1703, that a city was to be built on this swamp, so it could be a bridge between Asia and Europe. Last night as I climbed into bed at 11pm, the sky was still reasonably light and yet I heard a succession of fireworks as part of the celebration. The visual impact would have been reduced with the twilight but sleep came easily for us. We heard much ribaldry, even this morning at 6am.

Will close this chapter, trusting all is well in your domain.

Love

Bill & Di

Another Sunny Day in St Petersburg

Sunday, 27 May, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

Today has been fantastic; somehow the second day in a new city is a lot easier as you get to know your way around. We moseyed down to the Basilica of St Catherine, an imposing church with a colonnade in a semi-circular shape resembling the Basilica in Rome. While the decorations were fabulous, the large number of people who entered hurriedly, crossed themselves with reverence, proceeded up to kiss a photo, crossed themselves again and then came down, was mesmerising; a cleaning lady, meanwhile, went up periodically to clean the photo. Several other venues in the church received less formal attention but we observed busy candle lighting and crossing and bowing, and yet nowhere could you sit down to soak up the ambience. In the midst of this frenetic activity, a priest was in the pulpit singing to a small, interested audience. The range of ages was interesting; while older women predominated, there were also lots of younger ones, even boys. The women all had their heads covered. Religion would certainly have been necessary to carry these older folk through the dark days of Communism.

We proceeded on to the Cathedral of the Spilt Blood, which was erected over the place where Alexander II was assassinated in 1881. Viewing this beautiful building as we walked along the canal, we saw strong resemblances to the zany St Basils in Moscow. We kept being amazed at how this beautiful city had grown from a swamp in less than three hundred years, with Peter the Great and Catherine the Great bringing civilisation and European expertise to make St Petersburg the showpiece it is. This church was beyond description, outside and inside: the mosaic work was incredibly detailed with the religious stories being perfectly reflected. Bill examined fabulous rockwork in a divider at the front with different minerals (including jasper, rhodonite, sard, etc.), as well as the floor that was a complicated pattern of beautiful marble. This church is an integral part of the highlights of St Petersburg.

Wandering through an adjoining park of refreshing trees with gravel paths that were being carefully raked, we happened on the Russian Museum; it was an imposing building that housed an absolutely spectacular amount of art that effectively covered the history of Russia. Without a crowd, we were able to drink in the splendour of the rooms with their extravagant use of gilding and design, the marvellous ceilings and the very large exhibits of art. Generally Russian artworks had been collected by the tsars, but some of these had been acquired when the Communist regime enforced the confiscation of private collections. Expecting more a straight historical collection, we were really impressed and only reached saturation point after a few hours. Older women sat quietly in the corner of each room, as minders, and it brought back memories of 1984 when women sat at the lifts in the huge hotels in Moscow, noting who entered and who left. Perhaps there is no retirement for anyone in Russia. They were particularly helpful, although few spoke English; they would rattle off their directions in Russian, and we would nod obediently and thank them in English.

On our way home, we located an imposing statue of Catherine the Great, set in a beautiful park with tulips, lawn, lovely flowering and highly-perfumed lilac bushes. The entire park, however, was cordoned off, possibly because of the revelry of the celebrations. We were impressed with the number and variety of birds here as they chirp and sing. After an afternoon sleep, it was time to find the enormous bronze statue that Catherine erected to Peter, which is set on a spectacular piece of granite. As usual, the hero, Peter, is seated on an energetic horse crushing a huge snake (his enemies); the horse is standing on a precipice (representing the future of change that he propelled). The celebrations continued, the parks were full of families, lovers and exhausted folk, there were loudspeakers for bands blasting out their music, and everyone was happy. “Burnouts” on the quieter roads were greeted with acclamation, and there was only moderate police presence. Another fabulous church architecture, another statue of Nicholas I, then we found our way home, pleased to have the canals as our guides.

We say goodnight from close to 400 kilometres from the Arctic Circle, realising our trip is coming to a quick end.

Love

Bill & Di

Our final Day in St Petersburg

Monday, 28 May, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

This morning our destination was the Historical Museum. We decided to walk rather than try the metros to give us a last, admiring look at the Cathedral of the Spilt Blood before heading over one of the bridges that afforded us fabulous vistas of the Neva River that dwarfs the mighty Danube in width. We knew this museum was closed on Thursdays but we were unaware that it was closed on the last Monday of the month. Darn! We knocked furiously on the closed door, the glass, and the windows down in the basement and, finally, this roly-poly man opens the door. I plead; he rejects: “Come back tomorrow.” “We can’t; we are leaving tomorrow.” He says he will see what he can do. Full of hope. “No, sorry, tomorrow.” At least he tried and it is good to see a small degree of flexibility in the Russian system. It would have been interesting to see how they depicted their history, and the degree of responsibility taken for the atrocities of the Communist era. Berlin had set the bench-mark for honesty.

Walking across to the Peter and Paul Fortress on an island, we admired the tallest spire of gold on top of the cathedral. In this cathedral we saw the tomb of most of the tsars, including Peter and Catherine, and more recently and controversially, the bodies of Nicholas II, his family and his servants who were butchered in the 1917 Revolution. The cathedral dripped gold and pure opulence — totally magnificent. A bevy of women with small paintbrushes refurbished the gold trimmings at the front, with scaffolding galore. Historically, it was not surprising that, when millions were starving, uprisings occurred in revolt against the indulgences of the royal family.

Our next visit addressed this very issue of dissent: we wandered through the torture and confinement cells on the island. My hero, Peter the Great, the progressive, had his rebellious son tortured and put to death in this jail. The history books certainly don’t reveal the full story! Many friends of Pushkin were imprisoned following riots in 1905; Trotsky spent time there, as did friends of Lenin’s; so many of the leaders of dissident groups were university students, some women. Many were executed. Life was serious and rebellion in Russia was high stakes. St Petersburg has been the fountainhead location of challenge for various regimes.

While in the fortress, we were shown real civility: although we did not have the requisite ticket to see the Commandant’s House, the older woman at the door just waved us in. The carved wooden furniture and the beautifully-beaded dresses were fabulous. Our second encounter was in the jail area when we needed to make a toilet visit. Initially the woman said we had to go outside to find one and when I asked if we could come back in, she responded compassionately, got onto her mobile and talked with another lady. We were then ushered upstairs, handed over to another woman, taken along another corridor, then handed over to a third woman with a key for the staff toilets. How kind they were — these are the things you remember.

Two incidents occurred throughout the day. On our initial foray, we saw two policemen standing at the back of one car and next to them, sitting on the gutter was a business man, in his suit and tie, who leaned forward dejectedly with his hands folded across his face. Another incident was seeing a car with the back half damaged and wrapped in plastic. By the way the young guy drove, it would be easy to understand how someone could run up the back of him. Still we admired the buildings, the beautiful parks, the number of birds, and the fragrance of the lilac. The fact that St Petersburg was deliberately created relatively recently, within the last few centuries, still confounded us.

We love and leave you from Russia. Tomorrow we fly to London via Copenhagen, and travel south to Sussex to see a dear friend of 93 with whom I worked in New Guinea in 1970.

Night, night …

Bill & Di

Our Midnight Interlude in St Petersburg

Our last day in St Petersburg, Russia, and we were relaxed as our ten weeks through Europe had been incident-free and fantastic. Strolling along holding hands, Bill and I were forced to walk in front of a busy bus-stand as a flood of pedestrians came the opposite way. A solid chap barged in between us, shocking me with his rudeness. Only after Bill and I re-grouped and had walked approximately five metres, did Bill exclaim “My wallet has been stolen — it has gone!” He patted his pocket in disbelief and I was incredulous. There had been a slight scuffle and jostling as we were severed apart and, undoubtedly, it was a well-orchestrated method of relieving tourists of their money. After confirming that it was indeed stolen, we approached a young woman to explain and ask the whereabouts of the nearest police station. Police at the metro were the logical choice and she led us in that direction.

Crossing a small laneway in her wake and walking a distance of some eight metres, I noticed something deliberately thrown at Bill’s feet. A wallet, a miracle, a conscience pricked? Surmising it might be Bill’s, we retrieved it and indeed it was his driver’s licence! Congratulating ourselves on this fortuitous turn of events, we were pleased that I had carried all the cash for the last few weeks. Bill checked quickly and confirmed everything was intact, so we headed home to our modest hostel. This was fortuitous as the police, generally, speak no English, so our trip to the metro would have been precious time wasted.

A re-check when we arrived “home” revealed that the thieves scored an ANZ Visa card as well as the Westpac Mastercard. The reality of this misfortune, that strikes so many tourists overseas, hit home — the inconvenience and the invasion! An Irish couple, staying at our hostel, was most empathetic and attempted to look up the contact numbers for the police. Meanwhile, we made two calls on my unreliable, dying mobile to Australia to cancel both cards. By this time (an hour after the theft) almost two hundred dollars had already been taken from the Mastercard; the bank said they would be able to identify within five working days the venue from which the money was taken. Further, with video surveillance, the thieves might be apprehended.

Our hostel hostess, A, arrived later in the afternoon and was concerned, but not surprised, at our misadventure. Promising to accompany us to the police station after she finished work was a generous gesture. She was, nevertheless, unequivocal in stating that little could or would be done and she queried the need for reporting it when the amount was relatively small. My insistence that every endeavour be made to apprehend the miscreants and have them punished, surprised her. (It is a good thing we did proceed with the official reporting since the Visa card had (A)$5000 charged against it, as it transpired on our return home.) Verification for the banks as well as insurance was important but the main imperative, for me, was that evidence be gathered so that the thieves might be apprehended. At 9:15pm a taxi took the three of us to the police station and the whole episode seemed a little surreal travelling to unknown quarters in the light twilight.

The police station was not distinguishable from other buildings; I cannot remember if it even had a sign at the front. When our hostess spoke into the intercom, the door opened. A solid, preoccupied policeman sat behind a wall of glass with merely an opening through which documents could be passed. He was equipped with a loudspeaker to talk with those of us in the waiting room.

A young Chinese student stood there forlornly with his computer bag. He relayed his story to our hostess that he had been robbed of $7000 (US) and he didn’t have enough to continue his architecture studies in St Petersburg so he would have to go home. In speaking with A in Russian, he explained that he had been at a bar and a chap behind the bar had procured the money from his card. We gave him our real sympathy as it would be serious loss of face when he had to return home. A, however, delved further to discover that this boy had been at a bar and, upon very direct questioning about whether he was drunk (and he admitted he was), whether a girl was with him (yes, and yes, she may have been a prostitute), and did he leave his card there when he went to the toilet (yes, he did). Silly, trusting, innocent boy who paid a high price for his imprudence. The police had secured a copy of his bank statement and, through A’s dissection of it, the true story could be deduced. This boy was especially grateful to A and she was going to continue to advocate for him on the following day. Her interrogatory strengths were impressive and she could well be a lawyer. A was a university graduate in linguistics and her English was excellent.

As we stood there, two burly, uniformed policemen ushered in a young, innocent-looking chap with his hands cuffed behind his back. This practice always distresses me as individuals are rendered so defenceless. During our four-hour sojourn at the police station, we never caught sight of him again. A young woman came in to report her stolen bicycle. She relayed to A that the thief was not at all bright as he was shimmying around, trying to avoid the video surveillance that captured his actions with great precision. In a spare moment, I asked A about the presence of corruption in Russia and her frankness astounded us. The answer was categorically in the affirmative and she indicated it is systemic and perhaps nowhere more so than here — and she waved her arm, indicating the police precinct.

At around 10:45pm we were taken upstairs to be interviewed by a young police officer. His English was zero so without our hostess, nothing would have eventuated. He asked so many questions; Bill’s passport details were recorded and photocopied. Bill had to sign various parts of the record and initial a map designating the area in which the theft had occurred. Time ticked on and I felt for the policeman who had to work these dreadful hours. We had, however, nothing but respect for A , who escorted us there, spoke on our behalf and virtually carried the night for us. She is a legend and we are totally indebted to her for this kindness.

Our arrival home by taxi, at around 12:30 in the light rain, was also memorable as there were no lights in the passageway to the courtyard, and after the police station, we were a little jumpy and feeling vulnerable. Getting into the courtyard was the first success but, without any light, we could not see the details on the keypad for inputting the numbers to get into the building. Even reading the numbers on our piece of paper was fraught with guesswork. I could finally just discern the “* the five numbers #” on the instruction sheet and felt where the keys were on the key-pad. Thank goodness the numbers I selected were correct and the door opened. Second success.

Walking up the first flight of stairs to the lift, the stairwell was so dark, we held on to the railing as we inched our way up the uneven stairs. The lift in the corner was in total, deep darkness and despite feeling round the entrance to the lift for the buttons on the lift, we were not successful. We discounted persevering with the lift because the total darkness inside it would have prevented us from seeing the floor numbers and our destination. Being confined in a dark lift for hours had little appeal. Not wanting to tarry in the darkness, we walked up to the fourth floor. The third floor was in darkness but a light shone from the fourth floor and we were relieved to see the entrance to our section of the floor. The security magnet key worked and allowed us into the next sanctum and the final test came with getting into the hostel section.

It was with great relief that we entered our abode, took off our heavy walking boots, celebrated with a cherry drink from the fridge in the kitchen and unlocked the door to our particular room. What a night — and how thankful we were to A for sacrificing a night of her life for us. We counted our blessings — there had been no violence in the theft of the cards, yet we shared a lingering sense of unwanted invasion.

Love to all,

Bill and Di

Bramber, Southern England

Wednesday, 30 May, 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

We are in the final few days of our holiday, staying in this totally quaint village of Bramber in southern England, at the Castle Inn Hotel, revisiting an amazing friend with whom I worked in New Guinea in 1970. Hiring a car here was logical so we could take Suzanne to places she had not seen for decades; at the age of 93 she is still very sharp although her body is weak. Negotiating the rail-links in London has been challenging for us but it is good to be in a country where English is spoken and you can read the signs. The Queen’s Jubilee Celebrations happen from Saturday onwards, so we will be leaving London at the right time. This little time in London, however, will allow us to touch base with other close friends.

Thank you for travelling with us on our long journey; the knowledge that we could share what our eyes saw, our ears heard, and our hearts felt, was all the incentive we needed to persevere with the difficult communications. Receiving your comments, love and support has been uplifting and invaluable.

Many thanks and bless you all

Bill and Di

We have been saturated with culture, fulfilled with absolute beauty of vistas, venues and people

Travelling reassures you of the basic goodness of humanity, the vulnerability of yourself and the truth of the maxim “Everything always works out”.

When Bill and I were married almost 42 years ago, we participated in a car rally and were virtual failures. We have grown so much in the interim, learning to work together, to read signs and attitudes, and to feel reassured through the strength of our love.

It will be marvellous to touch down in Brisbane on Monday morning, a little wiser, more appreciative and yearning to see everyone!

About the Authors:

Dr. Bill Perkins is a geologist who worked for Mount Isa Mines Ltd for twenty-eight years. During his employment in Mt Isa, he took out the ground for the lucrative gold mine, Tick Hill. Gaining his Masters and then his contentious doctorate, Bill has retained his love of geology and likes nothing more than getting out amongst the spinifex, looking at rocks with his geological friends.

Di Perkins is an historian who has published several research books relating to north-west Queensland. A retired teacher of Mathematics and Spiritual Development, Di planned this holiday based on research work from Lonely Planet, suggestions from friends and information on the internet.

Emails were dispatched back to family and friends to try to capture the essence of the places visited, including sufficient detail but avoiding becoming a sterile travel handbook. Hotmail disconnected this communication medium, as there were too many recipients and the emails were too long; in effect, spam. Facebook, however, saved the day and missives were able to be transmitted, albeit to a different audience.

Together, Bill and Di have four daughters and two grandchildren. Since moving from north-west Queensland at the start of 1993, they have enjoyed a very full life in Brisbane, the capital of Queensland, Australia.

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Table of Contents

DEDICATION

OUR ROUTE

CONTENTS

INDEX OF PHOTOGRAPHS

introduction

Preview

Italy

Rome

Siena

Florence

P.S. On Florence

Venice

Sloveia

Ljubljana

PS SLOVENIA

Croatia

An Amazing Interim in Zagreb

Split and Rijeka

Slovenia

Return to Slovenia

Austria

Amazing Austria with Albert and Maggie

Hungary

Budapest

Budapest to Prague

Czech Republic

Prague

Germany

Prague to Berlin

Berlin

Goslar

Holland

Goslar to Maastricht

Amsterdam 1

Amsterdam 2

Amsterdam 3

Norway

Towards Norway …

Oslo

Across Norway To Bergen

Into the Fjords of Norway

Perfection

Another Day in Spectacular Norway

South from Bergen to Stavanger

Norway’s National Day from Kristiansand, in the Far South

Finale for Norway

Sweden

Sweden, the land of our friends

Excursions in Sweden

Beautiful, beautiful Stockholm

Russia

St Petersburg

Another Sunny Day in St Petersburg

Our final Day in St Petersburg

Our Midnight Interlude in St Petersburg

Farewell

Bramber, Southern England

Afterword

About the Authors: