The Rings have many privately run museums.
Who wouldn’t pull over and pay €3 for the chance to stand in between some woolly mammoth tusks?!
Tuesday, 28 December 2010
Mammoth Tusks!
The Rings have many privately run museums.
Who wouldn’t pull over and pay €3 for the chance to stand in between some woolly mammoth tusks?!
The Ringle Of Dingle
One Ring To Rule Them All.
If you only have time to do one ring, then I’d recommend the Ring of Dingle. The R559 is a much shorter route than the Ring of Kerry, but it concentrates a lot more in and the drive up the Peninsula is stunning.
Dingle is a 'Gaeltacht' area, which means that Gaelic is the predominatly spoken language and signs in the area do not have to be bilingual. They can be solely in Gaelic. There was quite an uproar in the last year when the town sign of Dingle was replaced with a Gaelic only sign saying An Daingean. Townsfolk appreciated the sentiment but recognised that as the most Westerly town in Europe, Dingle is a successful tourist brand which they chose not mess with!
I’m not sure they should have worried.
The views from the Connor Pass afford a view of the whole Dingle Peninsula and it is beautiful enough to draw in the crowds. I'm sure we'd all get used to a new name.
Circle Forts
The Ring of Kerry is a truly three dimensional driving experience, with steep hills and deep valleys all thrown into the mix.
One steep climb took us over a pass and onto a road that ran around the full length of a valley. At the bottom of it was what I thought to be a Ring Fort. It wasn’t on any of the maps though so K wasn’t convinced. As we drove around the valley it seemed to remain equidistant to our right. We kept our eyes peeled for the road down to it but never saw a turning.
As we exited the valley over another pass the road opened out onto the coast and there were beautiful views of harbours and marinas of Caherdaniel.
I looked back to the mystery building and thought I could certainly discern a tourist information board and a couple of cars parked up. But what exactly the structure is or how you get to it remain a mystery.
Seeing Standing Stones #2
In looking again at the map the stones were on the wrong side of the road anyway, so we drove on and turned off down a side road in our hunt.
And after five minutes of crawling down this narrow road, I saw them. Clearly up on the horizon at the top of the field… That had a bull in it!
K took pictures of the stones. I took pictures of the cows and the bull.
We drove on.
Seeing Standing Stones #1
“The map says there are standing stones.”
“Stones. Great”. I was a bit stoned out.
My interest was piqued however when the local tourist information office was unable to tell us where the stones were. According to the map they should have been within sight… The hunt was on.
The first stones we came across were easy to see and obvious to find. On the right of the road as you leave Waterville they were up on a little hill and next to a car park. I parked up and strode confidently up to the stones.
Sadly for me these were not the stones we were looking for.
Instead these were a bunch of stones encircling the 10th tee of a golf course.
Flowers in the lane
A beautiful feature of a drive around the South West of Ireland in the Summertime was the hedgerows abundant with flowers.
It doesn't half narrow the road width though. K was forever getting a faceful of Mombretia when I had to pull in to let a coach past.
Skellig Michael: So near and yet so far
Just because you find out about a historic site for the first time while on holiday does not always mean that you will get to it.
While Newgrange and the Poulnabronne could consider themselves well and truly ticked off the list, Skellig Michael will have to wait for another year.
An order of monks decided that the West Coast of Ireland just wasn’t enough of a test of their faith and dedication in the face of adversity. So when they came across a desolate, windswept, vertically faced lump of rock off the coast of Kerry, they thought just one thing… What a perfect setting for our new monastary!
And so the monks carved a stairway up the cliffs of Skellig Michael. They then set about building a monastery on top. And for the occasions when even this was not remote enough they carved a final stairway to the topmost point of the highest crag and fashioned themselves a hollow behind a rock for individuals to retreat when they needed to get away from it all.
The AV in the Skellig Michael visitors centre was fascinating. As well as starvation and the weather, the monks also had to fend off the Vikings who kept coming over to steal their gold altar pieces.
The Museum also had a section on the lighthouse keepers who had worked there through the 19th and 20th Centuries.
Sadly the boat trips to the islands themselves were fully booked so we couldn’t go. We had a good view of them in their glorious desolate remoteness as we walked up to Bray Tower.
Ring of Kerry Folk Museum
The Ring of Kerry is a loop of road.
The N70 to be precise.
Much like ‘The Wine Routes’ in Australia or ‘The Garden Route’ in South Africa, 'The Ring Of Kerry' is a clever marketing ploy as driving ‘The Ring’ becomes a tourist must-do.
It has been so successful that the Ring of Kerry even has a sub-ring; The Ring of Valencia. There are two other rings in the region as well. Each one takes about a day to work around, what with all the coaches stuck on the narrow lanes and the prodigious number of museums and sights of historic interest which have been renovated for your interest and amusement.
Some of the Museums are in the OPW Heritage Ireland Scheme. Others are private and one such is the folk museum on the Ring of Kerry.
What I found most interesting about the history of the place was it was only about men.
It was founded by a man who wanted to get away from the town.
Then on subsequent visits over the years he found other men with skills he needed and they all moved out with him until there was a self sufficient little community.
As there was not a single mention of a single woman or of any children in any of the literature I speculated that this may have been Ireland’s first gay commune.
Tralee
If I lived in Tralee I would find it hard not to eat every day at the Genting Thai Restaurant. The décor and atmosphere was quiet and the food was tremendously good.
If you ever find yourself visiting Tralee and fancy an Italian then I have to advise you to book ahead for Bella Bia. By 7pm when we rolled up it was fully booked and wasn’t talking walk in customers.
When we asked the lady who ran the place if she could recommend another place to eat nearby the look on her face was priceless. It was clear that in her mind the only decent place to eat in South West Ireland was her own establishment. She made it clear that she thought it was bare-faced effrontery to suggest that anywhere else could be worth a visit.
After recovering from her shock she eventually waved us across the road. The tone in her voice suggested she didn’t think we’d have much luck in getting anything edible. We ended up in the Pomo Doro and I’m glad to say that she was wrong. The meal was great and service was splendid.
If you ever find yourself visiting Tralee and fancy an Italian then I have to advise you to book ahead for Bella Bia. By 7pm when we rolled up it was fully booked and wasn’t talking walk in customers.
When we asked the lady who ran the place if she could recommend another place to eat nearby the look on her face was priceless. It was clear that in her mind the only decent place to eat in South West Ireland was her own establishment. She made it clear that she thought it was bare-faced effrontery to suggest that anywhere else could be worth a visit.
After recovering from her shock she eventually waved us across the road. The tone in her voice suggested she didn’t think we’d have much luck in getting anything edible. We ended up in the Pomo Doro and I’m glad to say that she was wrong. The meal was great and service was splendid.
Monday, 27 December 2010
Is that that Irish player who captained the Lions?
Now what’s his name?!
There’s no point approaching someone famous to ask them if they are who you think they are if you can’t remember their name. But as Paul O’Connell crossed the road and walked straight towards me my mind went blank.
As I discretely tried to pull on K’s sleeve to see if he could remember his name I knew I was onto a loser as K would never have set eyes on him before.
As I tried to rack my brain I tried to wonder what the Irish second row and most recent British Lions Captain would be doing in Limerick. I later found out he could have been doing almost anything because as Captain OF Munster, Limerick is his home town!
As this 6ft 6 legend of modern rugby walked past it was just as well that the surprise of seeing him had rendered inoperable the part of my brain that can recall names… I doubt I could have strung a sentence together!
Limerick Castle
Limerick Castle is a pretty castley castle.
Three sides of it are at any rate. Perhaps not the fourth side which is the new visitors centre and which is known locally as the Chick Shed because it looks like, well, like a factory farm chicken shed.
The AV at Limerick Castle was fantastic. Fantastically informative alongside being tremendously melodramatic with a big emphasis on the female characters wailing every time something awful befell the menfolk of Limerick.
It turns out that a lot of awful things have befallen the menfolk of Limerick.
The AV essentially told a 1000 year history of the castle and the city through the eyes of the mothers, wives and daughters of the locals. The principal historical actors were referred to for their ability to motivate and mobilise locals to rise up or in terms of the horrors and crimes wrought against the local population.
It was fascinating and filled in a lot of gaps in my knowledge of Irish history.
Cliffs Of Moher
We knew the weather was good because we could see the Cliffs.
When I say good, I mean good for the West Coast of Ireland.
So it was windy.
It was overcast.
It was spitting rain.
It was so cold our breath was condensing.
Yet it wasn’t foggy… as long as everyone didn’t breath too much!
But we could see the Cliffs, and that was great news.
The Cliffs are impressive. Standing on the promontory overlooking the cliffs and the sweep of land behind them you could see clearly how this geological piece of good fortune stops half of Kerry from being washed into the sea.
Surviving a 20 minute walk along the coast and surviving without losing any fingers to the elements we headed into the visitors centre for soup only to find that the only vegetarian lunch option was an egg mayo sandwich.
There wasn’t any AV either.
Poulnabronne Dolmen
How to phrase the disappointment?
The Poulnabronne Dolmen was another one of those important historical sites of Ireland which I had never heard of until I picked up my guide book to Ireland.
Sadly for Poulnabronne, the guidebook somewhat over egged the Dolmen pudding.
Dramatically uplit and with a shot taken from below, LP show off the Dolmen as a towering example of megalithic accomplishment, magnificently dominating the surrounding countryside with it’s sheer enormity. Maybe not on the scale of the London Eye, but I was definitely expecting to be able to walk through it.
The reality was a little more, well, little.
Comprised of some grey stones balanced in a dip in The Burren, a landscape purely comprised of grey stones, I couldn’t even see the Dolmen until K pointed out a small cluster of people who were all taller than a tiny object lost in it’s surroundings.
In itself, the survival of this object is remarkable. The feat of engineering required in it’s time to lift these stones and balance them is also noteworthy. But LP’s decision to use photographic tricks to make it seem on a scale alongside the Arc d’Triomphe left me feeling a little underwhelmed.
K loved it, it has to be mentioned. But he was annoyed with all the highly speculative drawings describing in detail what the Dolmen was for and what it represented. Of course human sacrifice was posited. Maybe it was all that human sacrificing that the druids went in for which is why there is no one left to tell the tale?
The sad truth is that that is all lost to the mists of unrecorded time. And perhaps therein is the romance of the Dolmen.
Galway
The translation of the Gaelic in this advert is “You can’t tell him that black is white.”
Spot on.
Norman Town House Ruin
You never forget your first ruined Norman Town House.
Ours was at a T junction somewhere in the middle of County Kerry en route from the Pulnabronne Dolmen to the Cliffs of Moher.
After we arrived at the Cliffs I decided to check out the Norman Town House in the guidebook. I discovered that there are perhaps 1,000 examples across Ireland.
I decided then that I wouldn’t need a photo of every one that we came across.
Norman Town House On Sea
You also never forget your first Norman Town House by water.
Ours was at Dungory and we came across it as we left Galway. It was closed to tourists at the time that we drove past, but the setting was so beautiful.
Norman Town House
You never forget your first Norman Town House.
Ours was at Athenry.
A perfect example as we learned from the AV presentation and from exploring the cellar and the two floors above.
In the roof of the cellar you could see the willow that had been used in the moulds for the bricks.
In the garderobe you could sit and contemplate who below may have had a nasty surprise in times past. You could consider too the draughty nature of the arrangement.
Newgrange
The thing about Newgrange is that it is older than Stonehenge.
The other thing is that I was quiet all day because I was paying attention and not because I was hung over. Shhhh.
From the point of pure repetition, this seems to be the most important fact about this Stone Age building. Indeed it may be the only fact because the second most repeated thing about Newgrange is that everything about it is down to your own interpretation.
So what is this Newgrange place that I am talking about? Well one thing I love about travelling is that you can come across amazing important historical sites that you may not have even heard of before. And prior to this trip I had never heard of Newgrange.
This is strange really, as it is older than Stonehenge!
Newgrange is an enormous Stone Age mound with a tunnel through it which precisely lines up with the rising sun on the Winter Solstice, allowing sun to light up the interior chamber on (and only on) the precise moment that the Sun rises over the hills on the other side of the river.
This is an enormous structure. Possibly larger than Stonehenge as well as older, the technological feat of constructing this structure was amazing for it’s time. A time which pre-dates Stonehenge.
The materials used are interesting too and tell us something about the society that lived in the area. Of the two types of stone used in the construction, one type must have come from a quarry inland with the stone transported upriver. The quartz used comes from a source 50 miles away. While there is controversy about the arrangement of the quartz on the building, there is no doubt that it’s very presence gives us a clue about methods of transport and perhaps trading which were in existence in this era. This pre-Stonehenge era.
And Newgrange is not a lone structure. Within 10 minutes drive there are two other fields which contain many more mounds in differing states of repair. At Knouth there is a mound on a similar scale with two tunnels facing in opposite directions for both solstices.
Here you can also see many sousterrain; archeologists for some reason preferring to use the French term for what are tunnels.
Dublin Pub Crawl
There’s always the danger that on a pub crawl the pubs can blur into one another… None of the following information may bear any relation to real or actual events or pubs in Dublin.
Handily located around the corner from Lansdowne Road is The School House. The pub is located on Lower Mount Street which was at the heart of the 1920 uprising and has many a bullet hole to prove it’s part in the struggle.
Somehow we fell lucky and ended up in the armchairs by the fire at one end. Though the bar has plenty of standing space and it was an easy spot to rest up for a round or two before heading further into town.
The rest of the post match crawl took in a huge range and variety of boozers.
The décor of the Café en Seine is worth the visit alone. More amazing to my mind than the beautiful décor and the enormous size of this pub was the self service tables. What an innovation! Towards the rear of the place the tables have lager and Guinness pumps on them. You pour your own pints and the apparatus keeps a running tally on how much you get through. An interesting idea though maybe a lethal one for the pocket and the liver!
We then went to a tiny pub downstairs where the locals were celebrating Dervla O'Rourke winning a Silver medal in the 110m hurdles at the European Athletic Championships.
We then headed to another pub. This one was a bit non-descript and all I can remember about it is that we sat at the front.
From there we headed to The Stag and to the surprise of those leading the crawl we managed to get a table. The Stag is a great boozer and here we fell into chat with people from outside our party for the first time. I think this means we were having some Craic.
No first timers Dublin bar crawl could be complete without a visit to The Temple Bar at the heart of the good time district bearing the same name. I remember it being so crowded that everyone ended up separated from one another and after a toilet break and some mild crowd squash injuries we moved on. I think it was busy because all the backpackers in Dublin were forcing themselves in to hear band doing some U2 karaoke.
We then ended up in another big pub chatting away with some hilarious fellas about god knows what. The main thing I can remember about this place was it was the bar where we started putting port into the tops of our Guinness.
Hence some of the finer details such as the name and location being a tad blurry.
And although we didn’t go, I want it on record that there is a pub on College Green called The Bank, which is a converted bank and where the toilets are in the old vaults!
It will always be Lansdowne Road to me
But the sponsors want you to call it The Aviva.
Irish Rugby has a new stadium and we were there to see rugby move back to HQ. Match Day is exciting enough wherever it is and whoever is playing. Attending the first ever Match Day at the new Lansdowne Road stadium in Dublin was really special.
A match between combined teams of Leinster and Ulster versus Connaught and Munster was played out. To the delight of the Irish fans who I was with, the team playing from the home changing room romped home as 68-0 winners. An omen for the 6 Nations they hope. We’ll see.
The stadium is fantastic. From it’s fibre glass figures that you can pose with out the front, the escalators (Twickenham are you paying attention?!) and the fantastic sculpted curvature of the roof, this is one amazing arena.
The oddest thing about the place though is the North Stand, which only has about 6 rows of seats in it. To fit the stadium into the stand they had to build it with essentially with only three sides. Local press has likened it to a hospital bed pan. Which seems unkind, though provides headline writers with all sorts of opportunities should a team play poorly.
Beware: Heavy Rain
Summer 2010
We arrive at Dublin.
Our friend was picking us up. K had texted him.
He was 5 minutes away. We had been given instructions on where to wait.
“Do we need to worry about that massive black rain cloud?”
“No. We’ll be on our way in 5 minutes”.
Turns out in Ireland, five minutes is all a big black rain cloud needs to comprehensively soak you to your skin. By the time our friend arrived, the side of us facing the rain was as wet as if we had bathed. Our backs as dry as a bone.
The tumble drier was put to immediate use on getting home!
We arrive at Dublin.
Our friend was picking us up. K had texted him.
He was 5 minutes away. We had been given instructions on where to wait.
“Do we need to worry about that massive black rain cloud?”
“No. We’ll be on our way in 5 minutes”.
Turns out in Ireland, five minutes is all a big black rain cloud needs to comprehensively soak you to your skin. By the time our friend arrived, the side of us facing the rain was as wet as if we had bathed. Our backs as dry as a bone.
The tumble drier was put to immediate use on getting home!
Sunday, 26 December 2010
Volcano Punchlines
Where are they now?!
The couple with the TGV tickets arrived into Paris at the same time as our ferry pulled out of Calais. Presumably they sailed either around midnight or the next day.
Nice airport did not open for two more days. Mmmm Bran Flakes!
A few weeks later my mate confessed all.
It turned out that when he was stranded in Milan he had been put up in a 5 star hotel by BA and the Concierge there had managed to get two tickets to the San Siro for the European Champions League Semi Final between Inter Milan and Barcelona on the Wednesday of the week.
He hadn’t wanted me anywhere near Milan because he didn’t want to leave until he’d been to the match!
I have no idea whether there really was a 5 hour queue and no trains to Paris until the weekend then because he was such a lying wanker.
My mate from Milan finally returned to work on Friday to much mickey-taking. All anyone had to do to piss him off for the rest of the term was walk up to him and say quizzically… “Milan… Sydney?”
Being back in the UK meant I didn’t mind being on hold to the BA call centre for over an hour. When I finally got through I pretended I was still in Sydney and asked them how soon they could get me home. I was given a return flight date five weeks and four days later than my original date of travel. When I told them I wouldn’t need that flight as I was home already, (after stopping sounding astonished)they organised a refund on the unused half of my ticket. Thank you British Airways.
Apart from £35 excess, I got back every penny of insurance because I could prove that despite the Act of God, I had been abandoned by my carrier for more than 24 hours. Thank you again British Airways.
My boss was so impressed that I got a Gold Commendation... Can you tell I work in a school?!
The couple with the TGV tickets arrived into Paris at the same time as our ferry pulled out of Calais. Presumably they sailed either around midnight or the next day.
Nice airport did not open for two more days. Mmmm Bran Flakes!
A few weeks later my mate confessed all.
It turned out that when he was stranded in Milan he had been put up in a 5 star hotel by BA and the Concierge there had managed to get two tickets to the San Siro for the European Champions League Semi Final between Inter Milan and Barcelona on the Wednesday of the week.
He hadn’t wanted me anywhere near Milan because he didn’t want to leave until he’d been to the match!
I have no idea whether there really was a 5 hour queue and no trains to Paris until the weekend then because he was such a lying wanker.
My mate from Milan finally returned to work on Friday to much mickey-taking. All anyone had to do to piss him off for the rest of the term was walk up to him and say quizzically… “Milan… Sydney?”
Being back in the UK meant I didn’t mind being on hold to the BA call centre for over an hour. When I finally got through I pretended I was still in Sydney and asked them how soon they could get me home. I was given a return flight date five weeks and four days later than my original date of travel. When I told them I wouldn’t need that flight as I was home already, (after stopping sounding astonished)they organised a refund on the unused half of my ticket. Thank you British Airways.
Apart from £35 excess, I got back every penny of insurance because I could prove that despite the Act of God, I had been abandoned by my carrier for more than 24 hours. Thank you again British Airways.
My boss was so impressed that I got a Gold Commendation... Can you tell I work in a school?!
Journey's End: Dover to London
Malcolm, Laura and I popped the cork on the bottle of champagne as we pulled out of Calais harbour.
The sailing was uneventful and the White Cliffs of Dover lost in deep twilight gloom.
Their son met us all at the Port and drove me home. I got in through the door as my watch turned to midnight.
Door to door the journey took 70 hours
Dunkirk Spirit
It’s an important part of the British national psyche.
In times of trouble we come together and help one another. Spirit of the Blitz or Dunkirk spirit both speak to a chin up, backs against the wall, all in this together sentiment.
And it was in this frame of mind I am sure that someone in the crowd grasped hold of the wheelchair containing the 14 year old, and started wheeling it up the 4 storey ramp that led up to The Pride Of Dover. Our ferry home.
Unfortunately for the 14 year old, he was part of a French school party that had just disembarked form the Ship. He had been parked at the bottom of the ramp while everyone else boarded their coach.
Fortunately, enough of us had seen this happen to get the ‘helpful good samaritan’ to wheel the chap back down to the bottom of the ramp to be reunited with his party. You can tell the Samaritan was well pissed off that he’d had his moment of helpfulness torn from his hands in this way though.
But rather that than an international arrest warrant and a kidnapping charge!
I Blame The Welsh Table Tennis Team
I concluded my little sob and called home and then called my boss before strolling back over to our place in the queue.
“There you are… Sky News want to talk to you.”
“Pardon?”
“Yeah. They’ve got a film crew here. Just walk over to that newsreader over there and tell him you’re the one who’s come from Sydney. They want to put you on the telly”.
Malcolm and Laura had themselves come back from Malta, charming their way onto a haulage ship from Valetta to Sicily, getting themselves to the Italian mainland by another boat and then falling in with some Americans who had hired a coach and were driving all the way to Amsterdam. When the chemical toilet failed in the Rome area, they had decided to bail and got on the train where I met them! Their tale had already been immortalised to rolling news.
So I strolled over to some perma-tanned face that looked sort of familiar. “I’m the one who’s come from Sydney” I said.
I was enthused over and the salient points of my tales were gone over briefly. “OK” he said. I just have to interview the Welsh Table Tennis Team over there and then I’ll come back to find you in the queue.
The Welsh Table Tennis Team must have taken their time in their interview though because 10 minutes later I hadn’t been found again and at that moment the doors to the ticket office opened and we were swept in. Behind me through the doors I could hear someone shouting “Sydney! Where’s the guy from Sydney?!”, but my fifteen minutes of fame was not worth missing the next ferry for so I did what I had done since leaving Sydney. I kept moving forward. Towards home.
I’m not a fan of Murdoch anyway. I’d have gone back out for the Beeb.
“There you are… Sky News want to talk to you.”
“Pardon?”
“Yeah. They’ve got a film crew here. Just walk over to that newsreader over there and tell him you’re the one who’s come from Sydney. They want to put you on the telly”.
Malcolm and Laura had themselves come back from Malta, charming their way onto a haulage ship from Valetta to Sicily, getting themselves to the Italian mainland by another boat and then falling in with some Americans who had hired a coach and were driving all the way to Amsterdam. When the chemical toilet failed in the Rome area, they had decided to bail and got on the train where I met them! Their tale had already been immortalised to rolling news.
So I strolled over to some perma-tanned face that looked sort of familiar. “I’m the one who’s come from Sydney” I said.
I was enthused over and the salient points of my tales were gone over briefly. “OK” he said. I just have to interview the Welsh Table Tennis Team over there and then I’ll come back to find you in the queue.
The Welsh Table Tennis Team must have taken their time in their interview though because 10 minutes later I hadn’t been found again and at that moment the doors to the ticket office opened and we were swept in. Behind me through the doors I could hear someone shouting “Sydney! Where’s the guy from Sydney?!”, but my fifteen minutes of fame was not worth missing the next ferry for so I did what I had done since leaving Sydney. I kept moving forward. Towards home.
I’m not a fan of Murdoch anyway. I’d have gone back out for the Beeb.
Tears
6pm Tuesday evening
We arrived in Calais with the sun in our faces.
I dropped Malcolm and Karen off with their luggage by the Terminal Doors. There was a line snaking around the front of the building. A fresh circle of tensa-hell. I went back to the car park to find anywhere to stick the car.
By the time I walked back to the Port Building Malcolm and Karen had it all sussed out.
It’s simple. You join the back of the queue and when you get to the front you get on the next ferry going. They’ve doubled the service so there is one going every 30 minutes. We’ll be docking in Dover by 9pm UK time.”
I had to turn away to ‘stretch my legs’. Having gone from 'not taking the volcano seriously' mode to 'matter of fact' mode to 'determined force of nature' mode this was it. I was home. The relief and the elation were too much.
I cried.
Speed Limits
I only broke the speed limit once that day.
I just broke it for 12 hours.
That’s not true. I broke it twice… I stopped at a service station outside Epernay, Champagne to buy a bottle of bubbly to celebrate getting home.
I just broke it for 12 hours.
That’s not true. I broke it twice… I stopped at a service station outside Epernay, Champagne to buy a bottle of bubbly to celebrate getting home.
My Favourite Motorway
The A8 'Provencale'.
The A8 is the motorway which runs from the Italian Riviera to Barcelona through Monaco, the Cote d’Azur and Provence.
In the Summer of 1997 it was along this motorway that I drove for the first time on the ‘wrong’ side of the road. I remember the first time, driving West that I saw a sign saying 'Barcelone', Barcelona in French. It all seemed impossiobly glamourous and romantic! It was is and will always be my favourite motorway.
And as the sun rose over the Promenade Anglais in Nice, I turned my car up a slip road and onto the A8 and headed for home.
The A8 is the motorway which runs from the Italian Riviera to Barcelona through Monaco, the Cote d’Azur and Provence.
In the Summer of 1997 it was along this motorway that I drove for the first time on the ‘wrong’ side of the road. I remember the first time, driving West that I saw a sign saying 'Barcelone', Barcelona in French. It all seemed impossiobly glamourous and romantic! It was is and will always be my favourite motorway.
And as the sun rose over the Promenade Anglais in Nice, I turned my car up a slip road and onto the A8 and headed for home.
You Can Take Us For Free
The car group of 6 ended up being just three. Malcolm, Laura and myself.
A couple of other people had suggested interest but then melted into the crowd at Nice Ville station, voting with their feet for another undefined option. The other couple who had introduced us to one another decided in the end that they would wait until 2pm for their TGV to Paris rather than come with us.
I discovered one reason which may have put off others form joining our car expedition as we hired the car for the one way journey. When asked how long we wanted the hire for I said “one day” as Malcolm said “two days”. I looked at him. He looked at me and said “We’ll never do it in a day. We’ll need to stop over somewhere on the way”.
“Not at all Malcolm” I said confidently. “I’ve driven through France in a day before.” I lied (I’d driven through Spain in a day before, but I’d always stopped in France).
“We’ll be in Calais by 7 tonight”. I was wrong.
We were there by 6pm.
As we packed our luggage into the people carrier that Malcolm had booked for us we agreed that we would drop by Nice Airport and see if we could find two or three others who would want to come with us for a share of the petrol money.
Malcolm went in and came out a few minutes later. “The scene in there is amazing. There are camp beds all laid out and they are all having Bran Flakes!”
“Anyone interested?”
“No”. He said surprised. “Everyone thinks they are being flown home today. One couple didn’t believe they’d be flown home but said they’d only come with us if we took ‘em for free. So fuck ‘em” he said
“Next stop Calais” said Laura.
Plan L was go!
A couple of other people had suggested interest but then melted into the crowd at Nice Ville station, voting with their feet for another undefined option. The other couple who had introduced us to one another decided in the end that they would wait until 2pm for their TGV to Paris rather than come with us.
I discovered one reason which may have put off others form joining our car expedition as we hired the car for the one way journey. When asked how long we wanted the hire for I said “one day” as Malcolm said “two days”. I looked at him. He looked at me and said “We’ll never do it in a day. We’ll need to stop over somewhere on the way”.
“Not at all Malcolm” I said confidently. “I’ve driven through France in a day before.” I lied (I’d driven through Spain in a day before, but I’d always stopped in France).
“We’ll be in Calais by 7 tonight”. I was wrong.
We were there by 6pm.
As we packed our luggage into the people carrier that Malcolm had booked for us we agreed that we would drop by Nice Airport and see if we could find two or three others who would want to come with us for a share of the petrol money.
Malcolm went in and came out a few minutes later. “The scene in there is amazing. There are camp beds all laid out and they are all having Bran Flakes!”
“Anyone interested?”
“No”. He said surprised. “Everyone thinks they are being flown home today. One couple didn’t believe they’d be flown home but said they’d only come with us if we took ‘em for free. So fuck ‘em” he said
“Next stop Calais” said Laura.
Plan L was go!
Monte Carlo Or Bust
Tuesday early hours
Our train arrived into Ventimiglia at 23:59 on Monday night.
A shuttle to Nice was due to depart at 5:20am. It was funny in retrospect how most of us spent half the night queueing at a ticket machine and all patiently took our turn with the Italian language only apparatus to fail to buy a ticket for the train.
It was charming that we all thought we might not get a seat on the train without a ticket. Especially cute when the train had been unlocked at 1am so we could all sleep on board in the warm!
In the end we were all allowed to travel for free and after a short train trip that went through Monte Carlo, Monaco we arrived in Nice with time to get a taxi to the car hire shop as it opened at 6am.
There's a man in the next carriage who wants to DRIVE to Calais!
Hello PLan L!
As I said I was in a compartment with the Flemish lovebirds and a Tren Italia chap. After half an hour we were joined by an English guy. It turned out the next carriage along was an open carriage and he was seeking refuge from the Italianate levels of melodrama and volume.
He and his wife had come from Egypt and had been dropped in Rome on Day One of the crisis when their flight was grounded mid-route to London. They had been there over the weekend and like my mate in Milan had been booked onto two other flights only to have them cancelled. He had been told he could expect not to be paid by his employer while he was away and so they had decided to cut their losses and run to Calais. They were already sorted from Nice because “we got two of the last TGV tickets tomorrow afternoon”. My Plan K. The bastards!
I couldn’t be jealous of his success in getting TGV tickets though for two reasons.
Firstly it turned out that they had had to queue for five hours at Roma Termini for their train ticket to Ventimiglia. Despite the lengthy queues of Northern Europeans all looking to get out of Italy there had apparently only been two ticket windows open processing tickets.
Secondly, he was suitably impressed that I had made it from Sydney!
After another half an hour his wife came along. We swapped stories, gossip about routes, gossiped about the Ark Royal (which we all wanted to be taken home on), gossiped about what routes were open, what wasn’t open, what tickets were available, which ones weren’t.
And then she said it… The key to my journey home… “There’s a man in the next carriage who says he wants to drive to Calais. He’s looking to get 5 or 6 people together to hire a car. Mad or what?!”
“I can drive” I exclaimed as I leapt to my feet.
“And I remembered to pack my driving license!” I added with enthusiasm.
“Take me to him please”
And that is how I met Malcolm and Laura.
As I said I was in a compartment with the Flemish lovebirds and a Tren Italia chap. After half an hour we were joined by an English guy. It turned out the next carriage along was an open carriage and he was seeking refuge from the Italianate levels of melodrama and volume.
He and his wife had come from Egypt and had been dropped in Rome on Day One of the crisis when their flight was grounded mid-route to London. They had been there over the weekend and like my mate in Milan had been booked onto two other flights only to have them cancelled. He had been told he could expect not to be paid by his employer while he was away and so they had decided to cut their losses and run to Calais. They were already sorted from Nice because “we got two of the last TGV tickets tomorrow afternoon”. My Plan K. The bastards!
I couldn’t be jealous of his success in getting TGV tickets though for two reasons.
Firstly it turned out that they had had to queue for five hours at Roma Termini for their train ticket to Ventimiglia. Despite the lengthy queues of Northern Europeans all looking to get out of Italy there had apparently only been two ticket windows open processing tickets.
Secondly, he was suitably impressed that I had made it from Sydney!
After another half an hour his wife came along. We swapped stories, gossip about routes, gossiped about the Ark Royal (which we all wanted to be taken home on), gossiped about what routes were open, what wasn’t open, what tickets were available, which ones weren’t.
And then she said it… The key to my journey home… “There’s a man in the next carriage who says he wants to drive to Calais. He’s looking to get 5 or 6 people together to hire a car. Mad or what?!”
“I can drive” I exclaimed as I leapt to my feet.
“And I remembered to pack my driving license!” I added with enthusiasm.
“Take me to him please”
And that is how I met Malcolm and Laura.
Roma Termini
You can tell a lot about a city from it’s train station. So what did I see in Roma Termini?
29 Nuns and a Priest with a Ferrari brand suitcase.
Says it all!
A Flemish Love Story
Regardless of the scale of calamity around you the tragic is truly only to be found in personal circumstances.
And it was on the 1600 from Roma Termini to Ventimiglia that I came across my first tragedy of the journey home.
Italian trains still arrange parts of themselves as compartments and I found myself sharing a compartment with an employee of Tren Italia (“E possiblé per me?” Sitting here motion. A shrug which I took to mean assent) and a couple who when asked turned out to be Flemish.
They had been on holiday in Naples and were getting the train back to Antwerp. They didn’t seem very engaged with the inherent drama of the volcano at all and weren’t at all interested to know I’d made it back from Sydney. We soon lapsed into silence as I read my book and they chattered on in Flemish.
However as the journey went on it became clear that they were more interesting than my book. Using the international languages of ‘body’ and 'tone of voice', I worked out that he had been caught shagging around and she was dumping him and he was begging her forgiveness.
Perhaps the scene can be better set if I say that in the role of stoic, red eyed, ramrod straight postured, hankie twisting girlfriend I would cast Tilda Swinton and in the role of grovelling head on her knees lothario I would cast Jude Law. I would be played by Rupert Everett of course.
After several hours of her tearless crying and his head to knee pleading, something changed and they set themselves on course for rapprochement. This involved an hour with their noses touching whispering Flemish sweet nothings to one another and toying with one another’s hair. Then they disappeared out of the compartment altogether, only to reappear on arrival in Ventimiglia over an hour later.
He has the volcano to thank for his saved relationship… There is no way he’d have had the time to talk her round on a flight!
And it was on the 1600 from Roma Termini to Ventimiglia that I came across my first tragedy of the journey home.
Italian trains still arrange parts of themselves as compartments and I found myself sharing a compartment with an employee of Tren Italia (“E possiblé per me?” Sitting here motion. A shrug which I took to mean assent) and a couple who when asked turned out to be Flemish.
They had been on holiday in Naples and were getting the train back to Antwerp. They didn’t seem very engaged with the inherent drama of the volcano at all and weren’t at all interested to know I’d made it back from Sydney. We soon lapsed into silence as I read my book and they chattered on in Flemish.
However as the journey went on it became clear that they were more interesting than my book. Using the international languages of ‘body’ and 'tone of voice', I worked out that he had been caught shagging around and she was dumping him and he was begging her forgiveness.
Perhaps the scene can be better set if I say that in the role of stoic, red eyed, ramrod straight postured, hankie twisting girlfriend I would cast Tilda Swinton and in the role of grovelling head on her knees lothario I would cast Jude Law. I would be played by Rupert Everett of course.
After several hours of her tearless crying and his head to knee pleading, something changed and they set themselves on course for rapprochement. This involved an hour with their noses touching whispering Flemish sweet nothings to one another and toying with one another’s hair. Then they disappeared out of the compartment altogether, only to reappear on arrival in Ventimiglia over an hour later.
He has the volcano to thank for his saved relationship… There is no way he’d have had the time to talk her round on a flight!
Tren Italia
Monday afternoon
Arriving into Roma Fiumcino Airport was an interesting experience.
Arrivals was almost deserted and I realised I had perhaps been on one of the first planes to arrive into Rome since airspace had been reopened that morning.
Walking out into the main concourse of the airport was an eye opener. It was like that scene from ‘Gone With The Wind’ where Scarlet O’Hara is impeded in her progress through the streets by a few men lying on the floor. As she plows through the camera pans up and away from her to reveal a cast of thousands of wounded and dying Confederate soldiers bivouacked all over Five Points, Atlanta. Rome Fiumcino was like that. The moans and groans of the delayed and undeparted filling the hall with a cacophonous fury.
Again the scale of the impact of the volcano hit home, but for me, the air route was over. I had come as far North and West as I could and farther than I had dared hope in Sydney. The only other airport nearer to home that had been open had been Milan, and I later learned that it had closed again that day and no flights had made it in after all.
I made it through the 60’s quasi-futuristic tube labyrinth of Fiumcino to the airport train station. And because there were no planes landing there was of course noone in the station and no queue for tickets!
I was about to get a one way ticket to Roma Termini when the ticket guy asked me where I really wanted to go.
“London” I said.
“I can’t help there, but you can buy tickets for the whole of Italy here.”
I gave Plan J one last roll of the dice.
“OK. Can you get me a train from Milano to Paris?”
“No, I am sorry I cannot do international travel. You would have to go to Milan and buy another ticket there”.
The words of my friend rang through my ears. I wanted to avoid Milan at all costs. PLan L it was.
“OK. How close to Nice can you get me?”
“Ventimiglia. A train leaves Roma in two hours. You will arrive at 23:59 tonight.”
I had visited Ventimiglia a couple of times on holidays along the south coast of France and knew it to be the last town in Italy before the border… If needs be I could get a taxi to Nice from there.
“Ventimiglia then please”. PLan L was avanti!
Arriving into Roma Fiumcino Airport was an interesting experience.
Arrivals was almost deserted and I realised I had perhaps been on one of the first planes to arrive into Rome since airspace had been reopened that morning.
Walking out into the main concourse of the airport was an eye opener. It was like that scene from ‘Gone With The Wind’ where Scarlet O’Hara is impeded in her progress through the streets by a few men lying on the floor. As she plows through the camera pans up and away from her to reveal a cast of thousands of wounded and dying Confederate soldiers bivouacked all over Five Points, Atlanta. Rome Fiumcino was like that. The moans and groans of the delayed and undeparted filling the hall with a cacophonous fury.
Again the scale of the impact of the volcano hit home, but for me, the air route was over. I had come as far North and West as I could and farther than I had dared hope in Sydney. The only other airport nearer to home that had been open had been Milan, and I later learned that it had closed again that day and no flights had made it in after all.
I made it through the 60’s quasi-futuristic tube labyrinth of Fiumcino to the airport train station. And because there were no planes landing there was of course noone in the station and no queue for tickets!
I was about to get a one way ticket to Roma Termini when the ticket guy asked me where I really wanted to go.
“London” I said.
“I can’t help there, but you can buy tickets for the whole of Italy here.”
I gave Plan J one last roll of the dice.
“OK. Can you get me a train from Milano to Paris?”
“No, I am sorry I cannot do international travel. You would have to go to Milan and buy another ticket there”.
The words of my friend rang through my ears. I wanted to avoid Milan at all costs. PLan L it was.
“OK. How close to Nice can you get me?”
“Ventimiglia. A train leaves Roma in two hours. You will arrive at 23:59 tonight.”
I had visited Ventimiglia a couple of times on holidays along the south coast of France and knew it to be the last town in Italy before the border… If needs be I could get a taxi to Nice from there.
“Ventimiglia then please”. PLan L was avanti!
Plan K
OK, so let’s get to Nice and get the TGV from there.
TGV tickets from Nice to Paris were selling for a couple of hundred €uros but there were only some tickets left on the last train tomorrow departing at 4pm and when I tried to buy them there was a problem with the last page.
I wasn’t prepared to give in at this stage to an overnight in Nice… From my point of view I felt that if I ever stopped moving I was going to get stuck. By hook or by crook I had to keep going.
Connecting to the news informed me that Gordon Brown had sent Ark Royal to Calais. Whether this was to actually ferry people home or to threaten French dock workers with a severe response to any wildcat strike action I was never sure.
It was at Tirana airport that I started chatting to other Brits who were on their way home too. This was helpful because it really started to bring home to me the sense of scale of what was happening. While 3000 people a day were being stranded in Sydney, I was now getting closer to the bottleneck of the English Channel, on which perhaps several hundred thousand people had set their sights.
Everyone had their different plan of a route to the UK. Everyone had their slightly different bit of info about why everyone else’s route wouldn’t work.
For example I stupidly thought I could just book onto Eurostar and to prove my point I could see that Eurostar was still selling tickets. “Oh that has been on the news” said someone. The website isn’t taking bookings when you get to the payment page because there is a 4 day queue at the terminal in Paris.
“That’s why I’m going on to Brussels” chimed in someone else. Noone is reporting delays from Zeebrugge. “That’s because the roads around Belgian ports are so clogged no camera crews can even get there” asserted someone else. Everyone was looking for the magic route through but it became clear that there probably wasn’t one.
It did confirm for me that if the ports were clogged with four day queues than I just had to get in line as quickly as I could. Even if airspace did reopen at this point, without a ticket on any carrier in Europe I’d be waiting a long time for any flight.
With all of this whirling around my head I got on board the Al Italia flight to Rome. It was one of those weird tremendously narrow Al Italia planes that involves boarding through a ramp in the plane’s backside. Slomebody's idea of the futuristic in 1957!
I took my seat, looking forward to a nice sandwich and a bottle of water. I was so tired however that I fell asleep immediately, slept through take off and knew nothing of the journey until I was awoken by the ’10 minutes to landing’ warning. I looked out of the window to take in the sight of St Peter’s Square and the Colloseum.
I had arrived in Rome five hours ahead of the direct flight that had 'sold out'. Mehmet had gone a great job!
TGV tickets from Nice to Paris were selling for a couple of hundred €uros but there were only some tickets left on the last train tomorrow departing at 4pm and when I tried to buy them there was a problem with the last page.
I wasn’t prepared to give in at this stage to an overnight in Nice… From my point of view I felt that if I ever stopped moving I was going to get stuck. By hook or by crook I had to keep going.
Connecting to the news informed me that Gordon Brown had sent Ark Royal to Calais. Whether this was to actually ferry people home or to threaten French dock workers with a severe response to any wildcat strike action I was never sure.
It was at Tirana airport that I started chatting to other Brits who were on their way home too. This was helpful because it really started to bring home to me the sense of scale of what was happening. While 3000 people a day were being stranded in Sydney, I was now getting closer to the bottleneck of the English Channel, on which perhaps several hundred thousand people had set their sights.
Everyone had their different plan of a route to the UK. Everyone had their slightly different bit of info about why everyone else’s route wouldn’t work.
For example I stupidly thought I could just book onto Eurostar and to prove my point I could see that Eurostar was still selling tickets. “Oh that has been on the news” said someone. The website isn’t taking bookings when you get to the payment page because there is a 4 day queue at the terminal in Paris.
“That’s why I’m going on to Brussels” chimed in someone else. Noone is reporting delays from Zeebrugge. “That’s because the roads around Belgian ports are so clogged no camera crews can even get there” asserted someone else. Everyone was looking for the magic route through but it became clear that there probably wasn’t one.
It did confirm for me that if the ports were clogged with four day queues than I just had to get in line as quickly as I could. Even if airspace did reopen at this point, without a ticket on any carrier in Europe I’d be waiting a long time for any flight.
With all of this whirling around my head I got on board the Al Italia flight to Rome. It was one of those weird tremendously narrow Al Italia planes that involves boarding through a ramp in the plane’s backside. Slomebody's idea of the futuristic in 1957!
I took my seat, looking forward to a nice sandwich and a bottle of water. I was so tired however that I fell asleep immediately, slept through take off and knew nothing of the journey until I was awoken by the ’10 minutes to landing’ warning. I looked out of the window to take in the sight of St Peter’s Square and the Colloseum.
I had arrived in Rome five hours ahead of the direct flight that had 'sold out'. Mehmet had gone a great job!
Mother Teresa International: Plan J
9am Monday morning.
The flight to Tirana from Istanbul is a short one, though long enough for me to go into the toilet and change every item of clothing I was wearing.
And as the plane descends below the tops of the snow capped mountains and wends it’s way through misty valleys it was a nerve wracking flight too. Thank goodness for radar. We landed of course without incident.
Mother Teresa International is a shiny new Terminal building, but one which has not been supplied with passport stamps explained the welcoming immigration official.
After the uncertainty and adrenalin fuelled drama of Istanbul Ataturk, all I had to do in Tirana was wait for 90 minutes and hope ROme was really open. I also needed to find a plug socket, charge my iPhone, connect to the wifi and research routes to London.
And how did I find a plug socket in Tirana airport? I did what anyone sensible would do. I thought to myself… “If I had to clean this place, where would I plug my hoover in?” I’d found a socket in 90 seconds. With the phone charging I got down to some research work.
After arriving in Rome, the continuation of Plan J had been to get to Milan somehow and connect on the sleeper to Paris. I could now imagine myself being on that train tonight and getting home on Tuesday.
I researched train times. I could be in Milan at 7pm. The train to Paris departed at 10pm.
So I texted my mate stranded in Milan, inviting him and his wife out for a pizza that evening and asking him to do me a favour. Could he go to Milano Centrale and book me a ticket to Paris Bercy?
The text came back and the news was not good.
They were both at Milano C already. Having been stranded in Milan, from where there are lots of daily flights to London, BA had been looking after them pretty well. They had hotel accommodation and they had been given the certainty of being rebooked onto new flights. But three days into the crisis and they had seen three other flights they were due to go home on cancelled. With rolling news hysteria bracing public opinion for months of closures, they had decided to go overland after all.
The queue at Milano C was 5 hours long and advisors were walking down the queue informing those waiting that all services to Paris were booked solidly until Saturday. “Find another route mate” I was told. “Whatever you do, do not come to Milan. There’s no way out.”
Plan J was only good for Istanbul to Rome. Another plan was needed from there.
The flight to Tirana from Istanbul is a short one, though long enough for me to go into the toilet and change every item of clothing I was wearing.
And as the plane descends below the tops of the snow capped mountains and wends it’s way through misty valleys it was a nerve wracking flight too. Thank goodness for radar. We landed of course without incident.
Mother Teresa International is a shiny new Terminal building, but one which has not been supplied with passport stamps explained the welcoming immigration official.
After the uncertainty and adrenalin fuelled drama of Istanbul Ataturk, all I had to do in Tirana was wait for 90 minutes and hope ROme was really open. I also needed to find a plug socket, charge my iPhone, connect to the wifi and research routes to London.
And how did I find a plug socket in Tirana airport? I did what anyone sensible would do. I thought to myself… “If I had to clean this place, where would I plug my hoover in?” I’d found a socket in 90 seconds. With the phone charging I got down to some research work.
After arriving in Rome, the continuation of Plan J had been to get to Milan somehow and connect on the sleeper to Paris. I could now imagine myself being on that train tonight and getting home on Tuesday.
I researched train times. I could be in Milan at 7pm. The train to Paris departed at 10pm.
So I texted my mate stranded in Milan, inviting him and his wife out for a pizza that evening and asking him to do me a favour. Could he go to Milano Centrale and book me a ticket to Paris Bercy?
The text came back and the news was not good.
They were both at Milano C already. Having been stranded in Milan, from where there are lots of daily flights to London, BA had been looking after them pretty well. They had hotel accommodation and they had been given the certainty of being rebooked onto new flights. But three days into the crisis and they had seen three other flights they were due to go home on cancelled. With rolling news hysteria bracing public opinion for months of closures, they had decided to go overland after all.
The queue at Milano C was 5 hours long and advisors were walking down the queue informing those waiting that all services to Paris were booked solidly until Saturday. “Find another route mate” I was told. “Whatever you do, do not come to Milan. There’s no way out.”
Plan J was only good for Istanbul to Rome. Another plan was needed from there.
The Amazing Flying Morgano!
I actually heard people gasp.
It was the gasps more than anything that told me I was in trouble.
I saw people turn their heads and gasp as they got ready to watch me spreadeagle myself and my suitcase all over the floor of Istanbul Airport.
Check in for my already boarding flight was in Zone H and the ticket desk was in Zone A. Given the nature and scale of new airports this meant I was looking at a distance best described in multiples of football pitches to get to where I needed to be… In 12 minutes.
And so I ran. I ran with my ticket and passport in one hand and my suitcase wheeling behind me in the other.
In a Virgin Atlantic advert this would have been a giddily romantic and sexy moment realised with the support of a Glamazonian underwear model with a 28 inch waist and hair waving behind him as he elegantly propelled himself through the quasi futuristic terminal of steel and moulded glass and into the embrace of Penelope Cruz or Jake Gyllenhall.
Instead Istanbul Ataturk Airport had to witness me. 2 stones overweight, balding, red faced enough from having my wintry European complexion exposed to a Southern Hemisphere autumn, in a rugby shirt that I’d been wearing for 24 hours and who hadn’t run in a year, huffing and puffing his way through a reluctantly parting crowd trailing a suitcase.
And then a gap opened and I went for gold. But my PE teachers exhortations to work my arms as well as my legs were disastrous, for as I hit top speed, I pulled my suitcase onto my heel, tripping me up…
As I felt my arm pulled suddenly out to my side with the centrifugal force of the kick that had connected with my case I saw my suitcase overtaking me, pulling my arm all the way in front of me. The leg that had connected with the suitcase ricocheted into my other leg knocking me off stride too.
That’s when I heard the gasps and saw the turning heads.
But something in me snapped. I WAS NOT GOING DOWN! NOT HERE, NOT LIKE THIS!
And with the words ‘Just do it’ ringing for some reason through my mind and the word “fuck” exclaimed from my lips, I somehow managed to land a foot clean on the floor. As I did so I also recovered composure enough in my arm to lift my suitcase off the floor and used my momentum not to hit the deck, but instead to keep going forward still at full sprint speed. After three steps when I realised I was back in balance I even managed then to flip my suitcase back onto it’s wheels and got it back behind me.
If any security guards at Istanbul Airport have this on cctv footage please do release it onto youtube. I’d like to see how I managed it!
I expected applause. I think the regaining of my balance was probably met more with disappointment than anything else. Who doesn't find seeing someone fall over tro be hilarious?
I realised I had by now reached Check in Zone G. I could see my check in zone ahead of me. There seemed to be a queue for economy, so I kept running right up to First Class check in and thrust the ticket in the surprised lady’s face and tried to splutter out the word ‘Tirana’ as I caught my breath.
‘Tirana’. But of course sir. Do you have any luggage to check in? Determined as I am to go hand luggage only when I travel alone, I was glad to tell her that I did not.
I was told to go to Gate 12. Albania… Here I come. Plan J was go!
It was the gasps more than anything that told me I was in trouble.
I saw people turn their heads and gasp as they got ready to watch me spreadeagle myself and my suitcase all over the floor of Istanbul Airport.
Check in for my already boarding flight was in Zone H and the ticket desk was in Zone A. Given the nature and scale of new airports this meant I was looking at a distance best described in multiples of football pitches to get to where I needed to be… In 12 minutes.
And so I ran. I ran with my ticket and passport in one hand and my suitcase wheeling behind me in the other.
In a Virgin Atlantic advert this would have been a giddily romantic and sexy moment realised with the support of a Glamazonian underwear model with a 28 inch waist and hair waving behind him as he elegantly propelled himself through the quasi futuristic terminal of steel and moulded glass and into the embrace of Penelope Cruz or Jake Gyllenhall.
Instead Istanbul Ataturk Airport had to witness me. 2 stones overweight, balding, red faced enough from having my wintry European complexion exposed to a Southern Hemisphere autumn, in a rugby shirt that I’d been wearing for 24 hours and who hadn’t run in a year, huffing and puffing his way through a reluctantly parting crowd trailing a suitcase.
And then a gap opened and I went for gold. But my PE teachers exhortations to work my arms as well as my legs were disastrous, for as I hit top speed, I pulled my suitcase onto my heel, tripping me up…
As I felt my arm pulled suddenly out to my side with the centrifugal force of the kick that had connected with my case I saw my suitcase overtaking me, pulling my arm all the way in front of me. The leg that had connected with the suitcase ricocheted into my other leg knocking me off stride too.
That’s when I heard the gasps and saw the turning heads.
But something in me snapped. I WAS NOT GOING DOWN! NOT HERE, NOT LIKE THIS!
And with the words ‘Just do it’ ringing for some reason through my mind and the word “fuck” exclaimed from my lips, I somehow managed to land a foot clean on the floor. As I did so I also recovered composure enough in my arm to lift my suitcase off the floor and used my momentum not to hit the deck, but instead to keep going forward still at full sprint speed. After three steps when I realised I was back in balance I even managed then to flip my suitcase back onto it’s wheels and got it back behind me.
If any security guards at Istanbul Airport have this on cctv footage please do release it onto youtube. I’d like to see how I managed it!
I expected applause. I think the regaining of my balance was probably met more with disappointment than anything else. Who doesn't find seeing someone fall over tro be hilarious?
I realised I had by now reached Check in Zone G. I could see my check in zone ahead of me. There seemed to be a queue for economy, so I kept running right up to First Class check in and thrust the ticket in the surprised lady’s face and tried to splutter out the word ‘Tirana’ as I caught my breath.
‘Tirana’. But of course sir. Do you have any luggage to check in? Determined as I am to go hand luggage only when I travel alone, I was glad to tell her that I did not.
I was told to go to Gate 12. Albania… Here I come. Plan J was go!
How Do You Feel About Libya? Plans H, I & J
8am Monday morning
I started thinking about breakfast. I started thinking about a stiff espresso. I started thinking that maybe trains out of Istanbul would be sold out. I thought that one last look around the ticket offices was worth a try before heading to the train station.
BA was closed of course and then I saw an Olympic Airlines office.
The research I had done in Sydney had suggested a route through Athens to Naples on Olympic so I went to see what, if anything they could offer.
Mehmet was the most cheerful chap I’d seen in the airport that morning. But why not? He was presumably making record sales.
“I am most apologetic, but all flights out of Athens are fully booked."
“Today?”
“Today, tomorrow, until Saturday. A wave of the hand. Plan H already over.
“Let me look at other airlines for you.”
Tap tap tappety tap.
“How do you feel about Libya?” Plan I!
“Libya?” I hadn’t bargained on taking this journey home to a fourth continent!
“I have just sold that gentleman a single to Rome through Tripoli. They are available for €1080.”
“Oh that’s a shame” I said. “I have been to Libya before, and would love to visit again. But I know that to enter Libya you have to have an Arabic translation of your passport details. The passport I had which had that translation was stolen from me last year.”
“Oh dear”
“Yes. The Ukraine”
A shrug as if to ask what else I could have expected from the Ukraine.
“So I cannot go through Libya. Are there any other unusual routes?”
Tap tap tappety tap.
The intensity and level of tapping suggested he may have been rerouting flights on my behalf. Repositioning satellites at the very least.
“What do you think of Albania?” Plan J?!
“I’ve been to Albania. I like Albania.”
“€180 one way to Roma through Tirana”
“I LOVE Albania.”
“The flight is boarding. Check in closes in 12 minutes. You will be in Rome for lunch. If you miss check in come straight back and I will give you a refund and make another suggestion. Check in is in Zone H.”
I could have kissed him. The plexi-glass meant this wasn’t an option.
Instead I reached my hand through the gap where you thrust the credit card and gripped his hand in thanks. He seemed taken aback, but in our capitalist consumerist world what he didn’t realise was he had just given me the greatest piece of customer service I think I can ever expect in this life.
Then I grabbed my ticket. Then I ran.
I started thinking about breakfast. I started thinking about a stiff espresso. I started thinking that maybe trains out of Istanbul would be sold out. I thought that one last look around the ticket offices was worth a try before heading to the train station.
BA was closed of course and then I saw an Olympic Airlines office.
The research I had done in Sydney had suggested a route through Athens to Naples on Olympic so I went to see what, if anything they could offer.
Mehmet was the most cheerful chap I’d seen in the airport that morning. But why not? He was presumably making record sales.
“I am most apologetic, but all flights out of Athens are fully booked."
“Today?”
“Today, tomorrow, until Saturday. A wave of the hand. Plan H already over.
“Let me look at other airlines for you.”
Tap tap tappety tap.
“How do you feel about Libya?” Plan I!
“Libya?” I hadn’t bargained on taking this journey home to a fourth continent!
“I have just sold that gentleman a single to Rome through Tripoli. They are available for €1080.”
“Oh that’s a shame” I said. “I have been to Libya before, and would love to visit again. But I know that to enter Libya you have to have an Arabic translation of your passport details. The passport I had which had that translation was stolen from me last year.”
“Oh dear”
“Yes. The Ukraine”
A shrug as if to ask what else I could have expected from the Ukraine.
“So I cannot go through Libya. Are there any other unusual routes?”
Tap tap tappety tap.
The intensity and level of tapping suggested he may have been rerouting flights on my behalf. Repositioning satellites at the very least.
“What do you think of Albania?” Plan J?!
“I’ve been to Albania. I like Albania.”
“€180 one way to Roma through Tirana”
“I LOVE Albania.”
“The flight is boarding. Check in closes in 12 minutes. You will be in Rome for lunch. If you miss check in come straight back and I will give you a refund and make another suggestion. Check in is in Zone H.”
I could have kissed him. The plexi-glass meant this wasn’t an option.
Instead I reached my hand through the gap where you thrust the credit card and gripped his hand in thanks. He seemed taken aback, but in our capitalist consumerist world what he didn’t realise was he had just given me the greatest piece of customer service I think I can ever expect in this life.
Then I grabbed my ticket. Then I ran.
Aviation as e-bay: Plans F & G
Monday morning
I came out of arrivals at Istanbul at about 7am and went straight up to departures where I was met with some good news. Two flights to Milan were scheduled to depart!
Maybe I could save two days of train travel by flying to Italy? Plan F!
"Fully booked" said the ticket sales man from Turkish Airlines.
“Everything is fully booked. The volcano.”
“What about the 1630 flight to Rome?” I asked, moving onto Plan G.
“One ticket left. €250” I was told.
It was more than I wanted to pay ideally, but if I could save days then I would save money. As I was about to say “OK” there was a shout from the man in the queue behind me.
“€350” he yelped. “I’ll pay €350 for the flight to Rome.”
I turned back to the ticket sales fellow and said I would go ahead with the purchase. He tapped his computer and guess what?
Computer said “No”.
“There are 5 ticket desks in the airport. It must have been sold at another ticket desk”. He said keeping a poker face.
“Not to worry” I said as I worried that perhaps I was not cut out for this e-bay approach to international aviation. I walked away. I did not look back to see him sell the ticket to the guy behind me and pocket the difference. I wanted to be able to think that he didn’t.
I came out of arrivals at Istanbul at about 7am and went straight up to departures where I was met with some good news. Two flights to Milan were scheduled to depart!
Maybe I could save two days of train travel by flying to Italy? Plan F!
"Fully booked" said the ticket sales man from Turkish Airlines.
“Everything is fully booked. The volcano.”
“What about the 1630 flight to Rome?” I asked, moving onto Plan G.
“One ticket left. €250” I was told.
It was more than I wanted to pay ideally, but if I could save days then I would save money. As I was about to say “OK” there was a shout from the man in the queue behind me.
“€350” he yelped. “I’ll pay €350 for the flight to Rome.”
I turned back to the ticket sales fellow and said I would go ahead with the purchase. He tapped his computer and guess what?
Computer said “No”.
“There are 5 ticket desks in the airport. It must have been sold at another ticket desk”. He said keeping a poker face.
“Not to worry” I said as I worried that perhaps I was not cut out for this e-bay approach to international aviation. I walked away. I did not look back to see him sell the ticket to the guy behind me and pocket the difference. I wanted to be able to think that he didn’t.
Uzbeki School Party
Monday Morning
They say a Hungarian is someone who can enter a revolving door after , but come out in front of you. Hungarians have nothing on the Uzbeks.
I paid my Turkish entry tax and then joined the queue for Passport Control.
It was one of these tensa-barrier snaking affairs. And it was busy with every major carrier landing at Istanbul at 6am it seemed.
As I was funnelled into the tensa-purgatory I noticed with alarm that I was just in front of a party of 60 rowdy shouty boisterous schoolchildren and their elbow-heavy teachers. I worked out from their passports that they were from Uzbekistan.
What I noticed with bewilderment was by the end of the half an hour it took to get to the front of the tensa-circle-of-hell, that I was now just behind the same party of 60 rowdy shouty boisterous schoolchildren and their elbow-heavy teachers.
How had that happened?
They say a Hungarian is someone who can enter a revolving door after , but come out in front of you. Hungarians have nothing on the Uzbeks.
I paid my Turkish entry tax and then joined the queue for Passport Control.
It was one of these tensa-barrier snaking affairs. And it was busy with every major carrier landing at Istanbul at 6am it seemed.
As I was funnelled into the tensa-purgatory I noticed with alarm that I was just in front of a party of 60 rowdy shouty boisterous schoolchildren and their elbow-heavy teachers. I worked out from their passports that they were from Uzbekistan.
What I noticed with bewilderment was by the end of the half an hour it took to get to the front of the tensa-circle-of-hell, that I was now just behind the same party of 60 rowdy shouty boisterous schoolchildren and their elbow-heavy teachers.
How had that happened?
The Gods Of Istanbul Airport
Sunday night
The flight to KL was uneventful.
Arrival into KL was late at night and the atmosphere was tense and tired. In my little bubble in Sydney, I had seen the news of course and seen the interviews with tense people in airport lounges around the World looking desperate and agitated or miserable and resigned. I hadn’t seen any real desperation first hand and it was at KL that the scale and reach of Europe’s airspace trauma began to sink in.
I wasn’t the only person stranded and I wasn’t the only person trying to get home. There were others. Lots and lots of others.
A flight to Rome was announced as departing just after midnight and as I wondered whether I could wangle a free transfer from my Istanbul flight to the Rome flight, 80 other people looking to get to Europe had already acted on the thought and were mobbing the information desk by the time I thought I would give it a try. By the time I got to the front I was told it would cost me £800 for the transfer. I was also told that Rome had not officially reopened and the flight may have to be diverted in mid-air. I stuck with my Istanbul option.
But was Istanbul an option I worried? The flight was still good to go, but I had learned that Malaysian Airlines was happy to send flights in the general direction of Europe and ground them en route if there was a problem.
So I did what any sensible person would do. I bought a chai latte from the KL Airport branch of Starbucks and logged onto their wifi using my iPhone.
The news was interesting. BBC had an ‘interactive’ ash cloud map showing coverage and projecting coverage into the future. According to them Rome was covered and closed and would remain so. The cloud was spreading across the Black Sea and by 6am tomorrow morning the edge was projected to be touching the North Turkish coast. Oh no… could it be that Istanbul would be closed to air traffic as I was due to arrive? How close would I get? Delhi? Tehran? Ankara?
So I did what any sensible person would do… I contacted my druid boyfriend and asked him to start making offerings to the Gods of Istanbul Airport. And he did. And they worked and at 6am on Monday I landed at Istanbul Ataturk Airport.
I had my toehold in Europe. Plan E: Overland to the Channel was go.
The flight to KL was uneventful.
Arrival into KL was late at night and the atmosphere was tense and tired. In my little bubble in Sydney, I had seen the news of course and seen the interviews with tense people in airport lounges around the World looking desperate and agitated or miserable and resigned. I hadn’t seen any real desperation first hand and it was at KL that the scale and reach of Europe’s airspace trauma began to sink in.
I wasn’t the only person stranded and I wasn’t the only person trying to get home. There were others. Lots and lots of others.
A flight to Rome was announced as departing just after midnight and as I wondered whether I could wangle a free transfer from my Istanbul flight to the Rome flight, 80 other people looking to get to Europe had already acted on the thought and were mobbing the information desk by the time I thought I would give it a try. By the time I got to the front I was told it would cost me £800 for the transfer. I was also told that Rome had not officially reopened and the flight may have to be diverted in mid-air. I stuck with my Istanbul option.
But was Istanbul an option I worried? The flight was still good to go, but I had learned that Malaysian Airlines was happy to send flights in the general direction of Europe and ground them en route if there was a problem.
So I did what any sensible person would do. I bought a chai latte from the KL Airport branch of Starbucks and logged onto their wifi using my iPhone.
The news was interesting. BBC had an ‘interactive’ ash cloud map showing coverage and projecting coverage into the future. According to them Rome was covered and closed and would remain so. The cloud was spreading across the Black Sea and by 6am tomorrow morning the edge was projected to be touching the North Turkish coast. Oh no… could it be that Istanbul would be closed to air traffic as I was due to arrive? How close would I get? Delhi? Tehran? Ankara?
So I did what any sensible person would do… I contacted my druid boyfriend and asked him to start making offerings to the Gods of Istanbul Airport. And he did. And they worked and at 6am on Monday I landed at Istanbul Ataturk Airport.
I had my toehold in Europe. Plan E: Overland to the Channel was go.
Taking pleasure in simple things
Sunday afternoon
When an erupting volcano closes European airspace and strands you 9,000 miles away from home you find that the bond of trust you have placed in ‘travel’ to simply happen is somewhat diminished.
So, every component of a journey becomes a minor miracle of logistics and engineering.
I have never marvelled at a train journey so much as I did the journey from central Sydney to the Airport. A mode of transport arriving when it was supposed to and delivering me on time to my destination? Unparallelled in this new 'through the looking glass' world.
As I arrived at Kingsford Smith the departure board was a sea of BA and QANTAS ‘cancelled’ notices. Plucky Malaysian Airlines stood out as still operating. Wonderful!
As I queued there were actual, real, live Malaysian Airlines employees there to answer questions. BA, take note. The staff were there to inform people flying with Malaysian through to Amsterdam that they could not fly. But they were taken aside and spoken to individually and provided with information about accommodation and their rights with regards to living expenses and refunds. Revelatory stuff indeed.
My flight to Istanbul was confirmed as running and I was checked onto my flight. Oh marvel of marvels.
And then I killed time in a deserted Sydney Airport by browsing through the Aussiebum shop before boarding an aeroplane which then took off. Miraculous!
Reader, I was on my way to Kuala Lumpur.
Thursday, 23 December 2010
YANA
You Are Not Alone
As the penny dropped that I was actually stranded in Sydney, I realised that perhaps I was not the only person I knew in this predicament.
One great thing about being a teacher is that you tend to know a lot of people who are overseas doing exciting things at the same time as yourself. Easter is a popular time to get away too and I realised that all sorts of colleagues were possibly located in all sorts of places. Through email we realised there were:
Several colleagues in Spain
My best mate at work was in Milan (he will feature later)
Two colleagues were separately visiting Bangkok
I was in Sydney. And it was only after I got back to work that I found out there was someone else in Melbourne!
As the penny dropped that I was actually stranded in Sydney, I realised that perhaps I was not the only person I knew in this predicament.
One great thing about being a teacher is that you tend to know a lot of people who are overseas doing exciting things at the same time as yourself. Easter is a popular time to get away too and I realised that all sorts of colleagues were possibly located in all sorts of places. Through email we realised there were:
Several colleagues in Spain
My best mate at work was in Milan (he will feature later)
Two colleagues were separately visiting Bangkok
I was in Sydney. And it was only after I got back to work that I found out there was someone else in Melbourne!
Wednesday, 22 December 2010
The Serbian for 'Thank You' is 'Hvala'
Sunday morning
So I am flying out of Sydney on Sunday afternoon.
Where else would I be on Sunday morning but in a branch of Dymock's book retailers?
What else would I be doing apart from typing the following phrases into my iPhone notepad?
Turkish: I want a one way ticket to Belgrade
Serbian: I want a one way ticket to Budapest
Hungarian: I want a one way ticket to Prague
Czech: I want a one way ticket to Cologne
And so on.
So I am flying out of Sydney on Sunday afternoon.
Where else would I be on Sunday morning but in a branch of Dymock's book retailers?
What else would I be doing apart from typing the following phrases into my iPhone notepad?
Turkish: I want a one way ticket to Belgrade
Serbian: I want a one way ticket to Budapest
Hungarian: I want a one way ticket to Prague
Czech: I want a one way ticket to Cologne
And so on.
All I need is a toehold!
Saturday night
All I need is a toehold I told myself.
I had travelled overland in Europe enough to know that all I needed was a toehold. I just had to make it onto the continent of Europe and I would be good.
With www.db.de I worked out that if I could get to Istanbul or Athens I could get to Belgrade, Budapest, Munich and Brussels. Yes it would take 5 days, but I could be home by next weekend even if airspace couldn't reopen.
If I could get to Rome or Naples then I could get to Milan and on a sleeper to Paris.
And so I researched flights and prices through city after city after city starting with flights to Madrid and Lisbon and working East. And as each city showed full flights or flights at over £1800 I found it. A £630 one way ticket to Istanbul with Malaysian Airlines... leaving tomorrow.
So I booked the flight.
And then I checked the time and went to the Opera House. On my visit to Sydney last week I had decided to treat myself to a ticket to a concert to celebrate my last night on holiday. It turned out that despite the volcano and my cancelled flight that this would be my last night in Sydney after all.
The cello solo was sublime.
But you're in Sydney...
Saturday evening
Volcano Cloud Refugee
Europe was waking up to a strong North Westerly wind and a news media enjoying every rolling minute of the descent into self-induced hysteria. Airports were still closed for a few hours but "could be closed for MONTHS" if a neighbouring volcano erupted. We were ensured of course that this eruption was imminent.
An interview with a BA pilot who once flew into a volcanic dust cloud off the coast of Indonesia and heroically rescued his plane from disaster when all four engines shut down was being replayed everywhere. The World and his wife became an instant expert on the impact of sillicas on the inner workings of a modern jet engine.
Airspace was being closed everywhere across Northern, Eastern and Central Europe. It was becoming clearer then that whatever was going on with BA it would be at least a week until I could get out of Sydney and maybe not even then.
At this point I had decided to 'walk' as it were, but I wasn't 100% certain when or where I could go. Or if I could go. QANTAS were coming in for a lot of stick for not getting people out of Sydney and at least part way to Europe. I remember a QANTAS spokesman cutting across a persistent interviewer and shouting "You just don't get it Scott... BANGKOK IS FULL! NOT THE AIRPORT; EVERY HOTEL; THE ENTIRE BLOODY CITY MATE. F-U-L-L. FULL!".
I also wasn't sure that my hostel on Hyde would have a spare room for a week, or if I could afford to stay there for a week. So I worked on a Plan B, which was to appeal through Facebook to everyone I knew to find out if they knew anyone in Sydney that could take in a Volcano Cloud refugee for a day or two! Believe it or not I had not heard of couchsurfing at this point in my life.
The first responses that came back as I announced my stranded status were (in my naievity) a total surprise. I think I had expected concern or worry. Instead I was met with an overwhelming response of 'you lucky bugger!'. Well of course I was, and what I could I complain about?! After all it looked as if I had been gifted an extra week's holiday Down Under.
But being stranded is not the same as being on holiday. These were the thoughts weighing on my mind.
The Aussie Dollar is at an all time high and twice the value compared to the last time I had visited.
A sandwich and a coffee was costing £14 compared to perhaps £7 in Pret in London.
A private single room in a hostel with shared facilities was £72 a night.
I did not know at this stage that BA was liable to fund £100 of living expenses every day because of course they weren't telling anyone! Even if I had known that, living in Sydney would have cost well over that amount. I calculated that I could easily spend close to a grand in a week. And of course the point of going on holiday is you spend your holiday money. It wasn't as if I had a big bundle to fall back on.
I also knew that BA and QANTAS alone were now stranding 3,000 people a day in Sydney.
I knew that the situation was worse than anyone was publicly letting on at this stage though the media was beginning to speculate wildly about it.
I had no idea how long it would take before flights started flying back, let alone when I would get onto one.
At this stage, I also had no idea if my insurers would pay me a penny. My colleague who was in Bangkok had spoken to her insurer. They had told her in no uncertain terms that they would not pay her a penny because the volcano was an 'Act of God'.
I had no idea whether or not I would be paid my salary. I knew colleagues who had had their pay docked for missing a day back after a holiday.
So yes, I was in Sydney. And I was facing unknown liabilities with unknown income across an unknowable timescale.
My biggest fear was that in a week's time I would be a grand down and still facing the prospect of no flight and another week in Sydney.
So as my phone started to buzz with text messages from the friends of friends of mine, who lived in Sydney offering a place to stay or a meet up for a coffee and a chat I really knew in my heart of hearts that I had to act and act fast.
The Commuter's Dilemma
Imagine the scene.
You arrive at your local bus stop in the morning and wait for your bus to work. It’s a route you take routinely. Your bus journey takes 10 minutes. Buses come every 8 minutes. When it’s sunny you sometimes walk it and walking takes you half an hour.
Of course if you live in Sydney, you might commute on a boat like this one, but we'll stick with the bus imagery for now because it wouldn't make sense to try to swim spontaneously.
If you approach the bus stop with the rear lights of your bus trundling away from you, it is reasonable to assume that you can wait for the next bus and it will still be quicker than walking.
But you wait for 8 minutes and there is no bus.
And you wait 10 minutes and no bus.
And you wait 15 minutes and no bus as you glance anxiously at your watch.
And you wait 20 minutes and no bus as you tap your foot impatiently and tut.
And you wait 25 minutes and no bus and at this point you realise it would have been quicker to have walked.
You understand that you can still just get to work on time if you start walking now, but you worry that you will start walking and three buses will go sailing past you and the bus will be quicker than walking. And you know a bus IS coming because everything in your experience tells you that a bus will come eventually. But you still can't see one...
The commuter’s dilemma then: Do you wait or do you walk? And at what point do you walk?
On Saturday afternoon as I had my ice cream and looked at Circular Quay, I decided to walk.
Manage My Booking
Saturday afternoon
My cancellation text tells me to try www.ba.com to reschedule my flight.
So I do. I open my booking email and click on 'Manage My Booking'. It has always been such a lovely experience clicking on this button beforehand. Through 'Manage My Booking' you can do things like enter your passport details months in advance so you can excited about your trip. You can be tantalised with offers to upgrade which you can whimsically toy with. You can select your own seat and move yourself around the aeroplane. You can check in early for flights. 'Manage My Booking' for me had been a world of fun.
Fun no more.
Sure enough, my flight is indeed cancelled. There can be no quibbling. There is a big sign saying so and a button I have never seen before inviting me to reschedule my flight.
So I try to.
The earliest flight home with spaces was Wednesday... OK. Deep breath. There are worse things than four more days in Sydney. I go to book the flight. The 'confirm changes' button however takes me to a screen telling me it is not possible to confirm the changes. Would I like to start again? I decide that I would like to start again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
10 minutes of frustration later and then a funny thing happens.
The Wednesday flight is no longer available to book onto because it is now full. I try to re-book onto Thursday's flight. 'It is not possible to complete my request'. 5 minutes later and Thursday is no longer available as an option either.
So I try a new route. I try and buy a new ticket. And sure enough. For £1000 I can buy a one way ticket to London on the flights that I cannot transfer my cancelled ticket onto.
So I try a new route. I try to call BA's Sydney ticket office. "The number you are trying has been disconnected. The number you are trying has been disconnected". Clearly I have dialled a wrong number. So I try again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
I have not dialled a wrong number. BA have disconnected their number.
So BA have closed all forms of communication and are profiteering.
I do the only sensible thing I can think of. I realise I haven't eaten since 6am so I go for lunch and an ice cream at Circular Quay.
I might even get home earlier than planned! Plans B, C & D
Saturday morning
Saturday morning in Fiji had brought news of further airport closures across Europe and news of the extended closure of UK airports. At this stage the closure was due to end at lunchtime Saturday, so I still assumed my flight from Sydney to London on Sunday would be rescheduled to go ahead.
I took my scheduled early morning Air Pacific to Sydney and arrived at Kingsford Smith airport at lunchtime. Checking the departure boards I find that there is a BA flight due to leave that afternoon and I wonder if I could just bring my departure forward by a day and get home a day early. As this simple Plan B formulated I thought 'What a funny story that would be'! While waiting for the BA desk to open I ask at Virgin if they have any spare seats for sale in the coming week. Plan C as back up, justin case.
A smiling Virgin Glamazon tells me the good news… Virgin has not been so silly as BA to cancel flights from Sydney to London because European air space will re-open while these flights are en route. Virgin flights are leaving Australia. The bad news? Virgin is sold out for three weeks and the first ticket available is in Upper Class and will cost me £4000 one way.
I Digested this news and went in search of a Plan D. I got a similar answer at QANTAS. They are still expecting to fly to London today and may have seats available if I want to wait around for check in to open in an hour.
As the time approaches when BA check in is due to open a big queue of people has formed to check in for the scheduled flight. No talk here of cancellation and I begin to think my cancellation for the flight tomorrow is an administrative error. But there are no BA staff at the desk and their ticket desk is closed. As I am wandering around seeing if I can get out with any carrier I see the electronic display trip from green to red. From check in bay numbers to a big solid word. The BA flight is cancelled. Then the QANTAS flight is cancelled. Then the Virgin flight is cancelled.
Imagine the scene. As the dominoes fall down the screen a literal roar is starting to rise from different check in points as 1500 people realise they aren’t going anywhere and start demanding answers. As I look around I see throngs of people around the free internet access points.
I realise that whatever solutions are to be found will not be found at Kingsford Smith Airport. I go to my hostel on Hyde Park, check in, double check that I can extend my stay a bit longer and invest A$20 in an internet access card.
Here is a picture of Sydney with a looming apocalyptic cloud to illustrate my mood.
And finally... A funny thing is happening on the way to Canada
It had been a hard day in Fiji.
Ha! Who am I kidding, there is no such thing as a hard day on holiday in Fiji and especially not when you have got a ridiculous last minute deal at the Westin Denarau.
And as I climbed up into my Kingsize bed and reclined into the World’s comfiest pillows, I turned on the news. It was ten to Midnight.
Ten to midnight on my last night in Fiji. Behind me two weeks of Pan-Pacific adventuring and ahead of me a short hop to Sydney, an overnight there and a longer hop home to London.
As I set the alarm on my phone dear old Auntie Beeb’s World Service news broadcast was winding up to it’s ‘And finally’ story. With a note of condescending hilarity in his voice the newsreader informed the World that some flights from London to Canada were being forced to fly a bit further South because of a volcano eruption in Iceland. Hilarious stuff! The banter with the other newscaster revolved around whether anyone would mind waiting an extra hour to get to Canada. Would they even notice he quipped back. With the World suitably amused about the dullness of Canada when compared to a long haul economy flight, but not alarmed by the potential for aeroplane meets volcanic ash cloud catastrophe, we went to the weather.
‘DUM DUM’. Midnight in Fiji and headline time.
“London Heathrow, London Gatwick, Birmingham and Glasgow airports are closed as a volcanic ash cloud threatens air safety across Northern Europe.”
‘DUM DUM’
“BAA announces the closure of British Airspace for two hours as a precautionary measure while an assessment of the dangers is carried out. Amsterdam Schipol will be closed until 6pm.”
You what?! I sit up from the World’s comfiest pillows with a sort of laugh. Surely this can’t be serious. Surely this isn’t something I should worry about? The look on the face of the newsreader tells me he is thinking the same thing. I feel reassured this is a practical joke. Health and safety gone mad in the run up to the election. Fair enough I think, the last thing Gordon needs is planes dropping out of the skies over marginal constituencies. Caution first.
As the Beeb newsreader refuses to wrap their vocal chords around the actual name of the volcano a map appears on the screen. A meteorologist is wheeled out to explain which bit of the cloud covering the UK is cloud and which bit is ash. A lot of it seems to be ash. It’s about ten past midnight.
And just as I’m sat their thinking ‘that won't affect me?’ to myself, my phone goes.
“Oh” I think. A loving text from my lovely boyfriend wishing me sweet dreams.
No. A dreadful text. An awful text. From British Airways. Sent out during Friday lunchtime, UK time telling me that my flight from Sydney to London Heathrow departing on Sunday afternoon and landing in the UK on Monday at 7am, in 70 hours time was cancelled.
My first thought was: This ash cloud is more serious than anyone is letting on yet.
My second thought was: “Shit. How the hell am I going to get home?!”
Back in the saddle
It is time to get back into the blogging saddle.
Despite having derided the pastime in a Facebook status as 'very Noughties', I think I have been terrorised out of the habit by my experiences during the Easter break.
There I was happily updating my blog about Sydney and my antipodean adventures when Icelandic scrabble winning volcano Eyjafjallajökull erupted. Until now I have not told the tale, but perhaps a purge of those events will be as good a place as any to start.
Despite having derided the pastime in a Facebook status as 'very Noughties', I think I have been terrorised out of the habit by my experiences during the Easter break.
There I was happily updating my blog about Sydney and my antipodean adventures when Icelandic scrabble winning volcano Eyjafjallajökull erupted. Until now I have not told the tale, but perhaps a purge of those events will be as good a place as any to start.
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