From Cairo to the Connemara: A Sojournal

 Pt3 - 14: THE EDGE OF THE WORLD The A93 to Braemar snaked along the valley floor alongside The Blackwater, a rocky stream flowing fast between grassy banks. Treeless hills clad in brown heather blown flat by the blasting wind rose on either side; here and there falling white water brought yet more restless energy to the landscape. Mere footlings to the real Highlands yet to come, even these hills inspired a sense of your own insignificance. Braemar, the nearest town to the royal residence at Balmoral, was predictably quiet. The sense of collective loss had grown even more acute with Di’s funeral tomorrow. Normally at this time of the year Braemar would be alive with visitors in town for the famous Games, but this morning it was all but deserted. Every shop displayed a “Closed Tomorrow” sign in the window. I drove on to Balmoral where I planned to take the road to Tomintoul, Scotland’s highest village. As I approached the turnoff a bobby in a hi-vis vest waved me into a carpark...

  Pt3 -13: SCOTLAND 29th August - 15th September Glengennet Farm nestles in the verdant Valley of Stinchar near the charming village of Barr a few kilometres inland from the coastal town of Girvan. Vera Dunlop greeted me with a warm “Hello Rawb!” when I arrived late in the afternoon and, quickly dispensing with the formalities, showed me to my well-appointed room. There was enough time before dinner to take in the views from the second floor window.  Through waves in the old glass I watched as the late light bronzed distant hills which seemed to rise like soft buns in the cool air. Across the treetops I could make out a few sheep and a couple of cows silhouetted against the creamy sky. Heroically accepting the need to radically expand the subject of my thesis from just English country pubs to Country Pubs of the UK and Ireland, I brewed tea in the little stainless steel pot and thumbed through the guest information folder for dinner options. In Barr they consisted of The Kin...

Pt3 - 12:  TRAVELLING NORTH Oxford had proven a disappointment. The city of Mathew Arnold’s dreaming spires is now the city of exorbitant parking fees and hilariously inept public transport which made our visit a waste of time and energy. For a few reasons I was hoping for a more positive experience in Cambridge. Firstly, it’s the alma mater of John Cleese, Graham Chapman and Eric Idle of Monty Python fame, as well as Australian icons Clive James and Germaine Greer and a host of other comedy and intellectual luminaries. Secondly, it spawned the nest of Cold War spies known as The Cambridge Five: Guy Burgess, Donald Maclean, Anthony Blunt, John Cairncross and, most notoriously, Kim Philby. Cambridge was also the template for the original sandstone buildings of Sydney University, my own alma mater from 1975 to 1978 and again in 1981. I wanted to see if the quadrangle had the same hallowed atmosphere as Sydney, where I spent many a happy hour smoking pot and lying in the sun, all in...

 Pt3 - 11: LONDON the SECOND Chiswick is a bustling hub of art and culture. Art of the culinary kind in Andy’s Kebab House and the curries of Sundarban, and culture of the drinking kind at The Tabard on the corner and All Bar One on the high street. Everything is within too easy a stroll of Rod and Rosie’s, ten minutes to get there and forty to stagger home. Connecting us to everywhere in the city in a matter of minutes, Turnham Green station is down the end of the street and round the corner; the four lines pass right by R & R’s back fence, each with its own distinctive note and rhythm as the trains rattle through. You might remember me saying rail offers the idle traveller a chance to peer fleetingly into the backyards of local life. Anyone peering into the local life of R & R’s small back yard would’ve seen yours truly installed in the garden with a beer on the table and Rod’s guitar, enhancing the rich cultural life of Chiswick. Ok, I’m being flippant, but Chiswick ...