Ruined in Rome

ST LUKE'S: It's my weekend so of course I'm at work and it's time, surely, to start on the Roman reminisces. This is going to have to be scattergun because it's a distant hazy past of beer, wine, appertivos, etc. So what did I do? I might as well start with some of the big guns: The Coliseum, the Forum and the Palatine.

The Forum is the major collection of ruins from Ancient Rome. They include houses and various public buildings. Spread over the equivalent of several football fields, the ruins include the remains of various public and private buildings. Packed with tourists its hard to imagine life as it might've been back in the era of togas but when you stumble across deserted corners it's well and truly worth it. There was also one noteworthy structure, I forget what it was, but it's arches must have climbed thirty metres in the air. We tried a variety of angles to try and capture it's scale but the thing was too immense.

Of the major ruins, the Coliseum was probably the biggest disappointment. But then it's the kind of place a you've heard about for years and the fantasy will always pale next to the reality. And it doesn't help that much of the top tier had already been pilfered. The other thing was that the size of the arena floor, compared to say an AFL field, was quite small. It was probably perfect for battles to the death between two men, but it was half the size I'd imagined. I'd also imagined that the floor of the arena was intact. Instead it had been stripped away to reveal the labyrinth of passages through which gladiators, animals and whatever else were shepherded on their way to the killing floor. Most people suggest visiting in the late afternoon to avoid the tour groups and we did just that. The tactic allowed us to scrounge fifteen minutes of solitude as the sun set.

The Palatine is comprised of the more stately buildings, palaces and gardens. Sitting on the hill overlooking the Forum, it costs about 10 euros to get in, but that includes the ruins of various temples, arenas, one of the first mud huts from the original roman settlement, some superb views of Circus Maximus and various ruined mansions. While I don't remember specifics now, I do remember we dined on Parma ham, cheese and bread, and spent about two hours wandering aimlessly across these ruins.

So if you think these reminisces are crap... piss off. I know I should've blogged them earlier when the memories were still fresh but I didn't. I was busy. Because I'm global jetset. Aigght.

A Stately Plump Liampold

ST LUKE'S: Still catching up... it's something I seem to preface every post with but that's just the way it is as I bang these posts out in windows of slow time during my working afternoons. That's also my excuse as to why they're crap and often riddled with grammatical errors.

So this is the post where I recount Dublin. If you want a fuller account try Rocket to Rome where my travelling companion has far more time to attend to the spurious malarkey. The purpose of my visit to Dublin: Bloomsday, the 16th of June. For the uninitiated Bloomsday is the day that James Joyce's Ulysses takes place on. It was a rather touching way of commemorating the day he first met his wife Nora in 1904.

After catching a delayed Ryanair flight, then waiting an hour for the slow bus into Dublin, I was well and truly ready for a pint by the time I got to the hostel. Unfortunately I couldn't find Jaya anywhere. So I ducked into the pub across the road and lo and behold. Sidling up to the bar it was time to imbide my first pint of Guiness. (Second actually, I had one at the Oxford with Flo in preperation about two weeks before.) And then, as Yon Yonson would say, so it goes. A pint of Guiness here, a pint there, a pub showing hockey here, a blues bar there. Most of the night was spent in the Temple Bar, Dublin's world famous tourist trap. But with pubs, bars and clubs serving up all manner of entertainment there was no real reason to get off the beaten track. Eventually we ended up at the pub around the corner from the hostel.

It was glorious waking up in the morning with nothing more than a slight hangover. Lucky too. It was June 16th and we had a walking tour booked. After a hearty Irish breakfast (exactly the same as it's English counterpart) we walked north through the city to the James Joyce Centre where various people were reading extracts of the novel aloud. Amongst the readers we heard were the Ambassador of India and the Ambassador of Australia. Inside there was a special breakfast going on that looked like heaps of fun. But both Jaya and I had baulked at the cost. You win some, you lose some.

Our walking tour took us through a particular chapter of the book. It was a pleasure to see Dublin, with the guide's help, through the eyes of both Joyce and the novel's protagonist Leopold Bloom. He even pointed out several elusive jokes in the text including the spot where two pigeons where debating who to shit on. Our tour took us to the National Museum but rather than go inside we walked around the corner in search of several other Joyce locations. Stopping for lunch at the World Street Entertainer's Championships and then wandering through the National Gallery while our food digested. The National Gallery, free, had a couple of really good pictures including works by Vermeer, Velazquez, Goya, Caravaggio and some of the Brueghel boys.

Next up we met up with Jaq's boyfriend Simon whose just moved to Ireland and we took a guided tour through Trinity College. It was two euros more than an entry ticket to the Book of Kels and included everything. When you put it like that how could you say no? Again there is a better, more indepth description of this on Rocket to Rome. And frankly, I can't be bothered saying something that's already been said before.

The evening was one of Irish food, Guiness with whiskey chasers and an incredibly intense game of hurling between Tipperary and Limmerick that ended in a tie after extra time. What made it more exciting was that it was a replay of a game from the previous weekend that had also finished deadlocked at the end of extra time. I discovered the next day in The Sunday Times that the comeback Tipperary mounted during the game was one of the greatest in the annals of Gaelic sports. And we were there. Well, we were in a pub that was showing it on tv. In our search for a music venue we also managed to sneak a peak at St. Patrick's Cathedral and Christ Church. Both quite beautiful in thoroughly unprentensious ways. Again we ended up in our local, this time hosting a full on hip hop club complete with blinging blokes and, what Scottish would describe as, bangin' beats.

On my final day I was going to visit Sandy Cove, the only non-Dublin location in the novel. However the trains weren't running regularly enough and I figured I'd definitely be back in Ireland one day. Instead I visited several of the Ulysses pubs for more Guiness and watched some more Gaelic sport. Then I went to the airport. And watched some more Gaelic sport. And drank some more.

So the weekend combined my three great loves: booze, sport and literature. Trés magnifique.

Of Dead Cows, Guns and Popcorn

ST LUKE'S: At work doing O/T again. What did I do on the weekend? Seven hours of O/T on Saturday then a visit to the Wallace Collection. Flo, Lou and baby Milo came over to eat pizza and watch Glastonbury on Saturday night. Well Milo didn't eat pizza and it's debatable whether or not he was watching Glastonbury. Not enough drum n bass for the tot.

Yesterday we stayed in all day and watched films. Four in a row to be exact. Well it was raining. I haven't had a weekend, or even a day, at home in soooooo long that it just felt right to veg out in front of the couch. We watched the second Indiana Jones film, Elizabethtown, The Prestige and The History Boys. I also caught some of An Inconvenient Truth. Then we went to sleep. One long day of doing nothing.

The Wallace Collection was quite good. It's a relatively obscure little gallery tucked away behind a private garden just off Oxford St. towards Bond St. More like a stately home than a gallery, the collection includes some remarkable china, furniture, some Rembrandts, Dutch masters, some nice Reynolds and a few others, and the most amazing collection of weapons and armour I've ever seen. It was quite unexpected but very cool to inspect case after case of helmets with hawk faces, barbarous looking maces, daggers of every persuasion, swords from every army of the pre-Industrial world and full sets of armour.

On the subject of art work I visited one half of Damien Hirst's latest show at the White Cube on Hoxton Square on Friday. It was quite cool. I've never seen any of Hirst's stuff so even though the concepts are being repeated they didn't feel tired to me. There are sheep kneeling in worship, a cow imitating Saint Sebastian, and three Golgothan cows crucified at the back of the gallery. There were some abstract paintings on the wall that had razor blades, glass and blood embedded in their wild red paint and upstairs there were some life like paintings of Hirst's wife in the moments after she'd given birth.

And now here I am. Wasting somebody's time as I do O/T and wonder if the weather will pick up enough for me to run home.

Ya Canna Cross Here

ST LUKE'S: I've been to some cities renowned for their nightlife. I've been to Sydney, New York, Madrid, Paris, London, Amsterdam and Moscow. This, you would imagine, would be good grounding for a night out in a typical averaged sized provincial UK city. But Newcastle is anything but typical. The entire city seems to be devoted to hedonism. The centre of town, on both sides of the Tyne River, is dominated by the highest concentration of bars, pubs and clubs I have ever seen.

The city itself is quite pretty, built on the banks of an industrialised river it is finally starting to carve out it's own post-industrial identity. There is some stunning architecture and a copy of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. The bridge, built and designed by the same firm, was built two years earlier than "our" bridge and, at least in its appearance, would seem to be a test run.

The evening started innocently enough. We checked in to the hostel. Had a couple of quiet beers and then Kate and I headed across the river to the recently completed Hilton to dine in the restaurant. (There were discount vouchers in the Evening Gazette and it would have been remiss not to take advantage of them.) Dinner was lovely and the restaurant came complete with stunning views of the aforementioned bridge.


After dinner we had a brief conversation with some Geordie security guards.

Me: Look can we get past, we just need to bridge.
Geordie: Neeeeoooow.
Me: We don't want to see the bands, we just need to use the bridge.
Geordie: Neeeeoooow.
Me: Are you sure?
Geordie: Ya canna use the breedge.
Me: Why?
Geordie: Neeeeoooow.

And the conversation more or less continued in this fashion confirming the Geordie stereotype.

Then after depositing Kate at the hostel I met up with Lib, Jaq and Elerig to throw some shapes. First club we picked came replete with girls with skirts so short they finished above their navels. But they had a special on Vodka Red Bull - triple shots for £2.50. How could you say no? So we hung out there for a couple of hours necking these beakers of poison being constantly pummelled by a particularly angry strobe light.


The punters were a unique collection of almost naked women and men with terrible haircuts. Kind of like Moscow actually. Dancing was like trying to walk through puddles of mud. You had to concentrate on extracting your foot from the primordial slime of spilt beer, cider, vodka and breezers that had congelead on the floor. But to be fair the entire dance floor wasn't like this. In fact other parts had their own unique carpet of broken glass that crumbled and crunched under foot.

Fearing another blast of strobe would awaken my previously unknown epileptic condition, we fled the club in search of another venue. We found some 70's themed bar and proceeded to invade the dancefloor. After about fifteen minutes Elerig disappeared in search of beers. Or so we thought. Instead he came back with a rainbow wig, a pair of oversized love heart glasses and two pairs of plastic Madonna style conical bras. For the next two hours we grooved to Grease Is the Word and other classics, swapping the props between us. My performance with the boobs and the wig even raised the ire of a particularly homophobic geordie.

The next day wasn't quite as exciting but we did get to visit the Angel of the North, a massive pagan-esque sculpture that overlooks the highway. And there was time for a running visit to Durham to check out, from afar, the cathedral, castle, river and winding streets. Then it was a long drive back to London.

Of Castles, Walls and Lobsters

ST LUKE'S: On the Sunday morning we drove south towards Newcastle stopping off for a peak at Lindisfarne, the Holy Island accessible only via a tidal causeway. There are numerous religious sights on the island and a crumbling castle that can be glimpsed in the distance. However after a perusal of the tide times we decided not to attempt a crossing. I've seen enough of the pictures on the noticeboard at the pub in Rainbow Beach.

Then we stopped at the crumbling ruins of Dunstanburgh Castle, yet another of these mighty stone fortresses glaring grimly out at the North Sea. Unlike Bamburgh, Dunstanburgh is crumbling ruins which, for my money, provides a far more evocative location to wander around. It's accessible by a twenty minute walk that cuts across a golf course (out of bounds - in the ocean) and through some fields of sheep. We spent ages exploring the ruins, there's not too much left aside from a couple of towers, a large chunk of the keep and the perimeter walls.

Leaving the castle we kept on the coast road going south until we found a lovely little country pub, again on the ocean, and tucked into cut price seafood platters and bottles of Newky Brown. Mmmm.... lobsters. After lunch it was a peak at Harry Potter's castle and then an inland diversion in search of Hadrian's Wall, built by the Roman Empire of the same way to keep the maurading barbarians out.

The road actually follows the road for a fair distance and it's quite fun trying to work out what used to be part of the wall and what is just the natural lie of the land. We eventually arrived at the remains of an ancient fort, parked our car, traipsed up and down some hills through a sheepfield en route to said fort before finally arriving at an intact section of the wall. It was extremely windy but quite amazing to muck about on this wall built centuries ago.

History lesson over, it was on to Newcastle for a drinking lesson.

You Call That A Sea, That's Not A Sea

ST LUKE'S: So what else did I do on my weekend of fun? After taking an epic train journey, stopping in Swansea of course, that skirted the beach for about an hour, I finally arrived in a remote corner of Pembrokeshire where I was fed and accommodated by the good people at Preseli Venture. The lodge provided some lovely meals, bacon sangers for brekky, soups for lunch and curry for dinner. Importantly there was a bar attached.

The first morning was spent hiking the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path, a stunning walk that snakes around the coast line at the top of some towering cliffs. On one side are fields full of sheep and on the other side was the still, shimmering (almost Mediterranean in parts), Irish Sea. The walk eventually brings you down onto a deserted beach, then it was only another twenty minutes through forest to the Lodge. Fortified by soup, I set out for my afternoon activity. Coasteering is a fancy name for playing around in the sea. Basically it involves climbing up cliffs, jumping off them, a bit of swimming and exploring sea caves. It was a lot of fun, particularly launching myself off a cliff and plunging eight or nine metres into the freezing sea (we were wearing wet suits), but it would have been even more fun if the sea had been up and there'd been a threat of banging into the rocks. Still we did get to see three seals. (Oh and I saw a badger the evening before).

That night we relaxed around the lodge, drinking and playing boardgames. The others were a motley group of posh English girls, American college students, an unintelligble lad from Shrewsbury and some gay eastend chavs.

On the Sunday morning I had free time so I hiked down to the beach taking an alternate path through the forest which took me past a cow that had expired in a little creek. Then I climbed the rocks out on the headland before braving my coldest swim ever. The entire weekend we had perfect skies, glittering seas and baking temperatures so it was nigh on impossible to not go in the water. My last session for the weekend was sea kayaking and again I was a little disappointed that the sea was so flat but the 'yaks they supplied us with were good and the route was quite interesting. It included some sea caves, some nice little passages and a little tunnel that ran for about fifteen metres underneath a small rock island.

My adventures finished it was the long journey back to London then a Tube, a train and night bus before I was home safely wrapped up in bed.

Deadwood... Wales Style

ST LUKE'S: I still haven't caught up on Italy, haven't finished my last day in the North East, this blog feels like it's rearing up over me like a big wave. Still I take a deep breath, dive into the face and hope I pop safely out the other side. Back at work after a weekend of water based adventure type sports in Wales and I thought I'd share my impressions of Swansea while they're still fresh in my head.

I wasn't actually visiting the place, just swapping trains, but on both legs of my journey I was left with about three quarters of an hour to kill. The outward journey wasn't so bad but on my return I needed to find something to eat. The train station is on the Swansea High Street so I figured I'd locate some generic multinational fast food chain and enjoy some type of high fat value meal and reflect on a weekend of exercise.

What I found was something so much different. Like the town in the Western overrun by bandits, almost every shop seemed to be boarded up. Other than a couple of terrible looking pubs and two manky fried chicken shops, the only recognisable buildings were a Job Centre and an Argos outlet. The only people on the streets seemed to be men, in their late twenties, bare chested and tatooed whose behaviour could best be described as lurking with intent. I almost expected a tumbleweed to come rolling down the streets.

I found an off license and decided to stock up on beer. In the off license a slanging match was well under way between the shop keeper and a, presumably, drug addled youth who was, like his two mates outside, shirtless. The exchange went something like this:

Shopkeeper: Get out of here before you get yourself into trouble.
Youth: Awwwwwwww c'marnn. I just wann
Shopkeeper: Get yourself out of here. You've been banned.
Youth: I wasna fucking doing anything. You can't fucking ban. Fuck you.
Shopkeeper: I said fuck off out of my shop you fucking little fuckwit.
Youth:Arrgghhh
Shopkeeper: Fuck off if you know what's good for you.

At about this time I presented my three cans of Heineken for purchase.

Shopkeeper: Sorry about the language. It's the only thing he understands. Make sure you put those in your bag. In the state he's in he'll take 'em.

So I ventured cautiously out into the street in search of fast food but quickly gave up my search for fear of getting knifed with a screwdriver. I went into a shop and ordered a couple of pieces of chicken and some chips. The woman went out the back and then, I kid you not, I swear I saw her give me the finger. When she came back she asked if I wanted salt and vinegar on my chips and then shooed me on my way.

With dinner in my hands I hurried back to the train, only stopping long enough to notice that the two chavs, also bare chested, that had been hanging around the front of the station when I arrived on Friday, where still lounging about in the same clothes.

I swiped my ticket through and scrambled for the safety of the train waiting on the platform. Welcome to Swansea. We hope you enjoy your stay. Indeed.

Bowling Shane

ST LUKE'S: It's my birthday, I've been at work since 7:30 (trying to cram the O/T in before the pub) and my blog is about three weeks out of date. At least. I've still got to finish my Roman Tales. Anyway I thought I'd bang out some more reminisces from our castle chasing bank holiday weekend in between checking scores in the Windies v Poms Test Match.

You may recall we visited Whitby, home of Bram Stoker, on the Saturday afternoon. Afterwards we drove up to Berwick-upon-Tweed on the Scottish border, checked into our hostel and then drove back to Bamburgh Castle, one of several castles that can be glimpsed on the horizon as you drive along the coast road towards Scotland.

The castle is stunningly preserved, perched high on a cliff, peering out over the dark North Sea towards the feared Viking raiders. Or something like that. But we arrived after closing time and we weren't really there to see the inside of the castle. No this visit was all about playing beach cricket on the huge beach at the foot of the cliffs and taking some photos to fulfill my lifelong dream of getting in Wisden. So we played a spirited game of beach cricket, with the Murali bowling interpretation for the girl, and got some wonderful pictures. Then as we walked around the rest of the castle back to the car we discovered an actual cricket oval complete with turf pitch. What a glorious place that must be for a hit.

Afterwards we had dinner in a curry house back in Berwick, walked across an ancient bridge and went to sleep exhausted.

Bear Baiting at Bankside

ST LUKE'S: As part of Kate's extended birthday celebrations last week, Tuesday inclued a trip to Chinatown and Saturday was a tea party that morphed into a rather Bacchanalian cocktail party on dusk, we went along to the Globe to indulge in a bit of bear baiting. Unfortunately the RSPCA stepped into to outlaw the pasttime and we were given a rather fine rendition of Othello instead.

I'd never read the play nor seen an adaptation so it was quite nice to come to this tale of jealousy fresh. The theatre itself has been beautifully recreated, the only downer being the planes flying over the open roof every fifteen minutes or so. But you could buy beers and bring them in with you, the evening sunlight provided a wonderful setting for the interval and the experience of standing for the play was far less gruelling than I'd believed.

What's more it's always fun to immerse yourself in Shakespeare and feel language being born. Othello, to the best of my knowledge, gives rise to the phrases "the beast with two backs" and "green eyed monster".

Somerset - La La La - Somerset - La La La

ST LUKE'S: Finally visited the "home" of cricket yesterday to see Somerset take on Middlesex. Though like all good children it seems as if cricket has grown up and left home leaving behind a selection of family photos and a slightly musty smell.

The ground itself is quite charming recalling elements of the old Gabba and Allan Border Oval. There is a lovely garden area out the back of the members and some beautiful practice wickets you walk past to get to the stands. As a bonus you can walk unencumbered around the entire oval. It wears it's history on its sleeve. Banners draped around the outside of the stands list the milestones of the nation's that have played at Lord's. Many of the greats are represented including Bradman, McGrath, Marshall, Mankad and Richards.

The stands themselves were a little disappointing. Small and ramshackle, they had the distinct feeling they'd been cobbled together. And it certainly didn't have the sheer weight of magnitude a Boxing Day trip to the MCG has. Still it wasn't a bad day at the cricket. Somerset won quite convincingly. I got to see Langer post a century, Victorian captain Cameron White belt a fifty, Irish player Morgan bat well and an impressive all round display by a bloke called Trego.

The best bit: You could bring your own tinnies into the ground! Afterwards we retired to Abbey Road to reenact the famous photo of Australia's fast bowling quartet in the last Ashes. Apparently it has some sort of significance for a trifling pop band as well.