08 Aug 2024 UK/EUROPE

LONDON

I was away from Sunday July 7 until Friday August 2. I flew premium economy on Singapore Airlines, enjoying the extra room and better meals on offer. Cousin Sue again met me at Heathrow and I bought a sim card for my smart phone at a shop almost adjacent to where I emerged into the arrivals hall. I was fearful of checking in at my hotel in Belsize Park because of the fifty per cent increase in cost to stay for a day less, at a very run-down property. I was relieved and delighted to discover that I was in fact paying for a complete refurbishment as well as for booking in the peak Summer holiday period. The for me hard to use bath in the bathroom, had been replaced by a spacious shower. The bedrooms benefited from new furniture and décor. The old warn carpeting had been replaced throughout. The public areas were smart and tastefully styled. The one redeeming feature about my last stay was the breakfast, which was good and reasonably priced. It was still good and marginally more expensive than two years ago.

The focus of my time in London was to be with family and friends and do some shopping, rather than seeing the sights and going to museums. I was in London for a single weekend which coincided with the Wimbledon finals. Sue is an avid tennis player and fan. Her sister Helen was working at the championships.

There would be no family reunion lunch on this trip. I also wanted to treat Pete Dockley to an early 80^th birthday celebration dinner. We made a date for Tuesday July 9 and booked a table at the choice French restaurant in Hampstead High Street I had discovered on my last stay. I devoted the day to shopping. The weather was wet, and I had to juggle holding my umbrella and carrying shopping bags along half of Oxford Street, all of Bond Street and most of Jermyn Street, having bought all the items on my list. By evening, the rain relented and only returned in patches while I was in the capital. Pete and I enjoyed our dinner which was the birthday treat I hoped it would be. I gave him a copy of my book.

Seeing Sue’s mum Molly, who is ninety six, was a priority. She still lives in the house she and my late cousin Henry bought in the mid nineteen fifties. Sue invited me and her cousin David and his new partner to lunch at Molly’s home on Thursday. But before that cherished event, I had been in touch with Nicole’s sister Karen and we agreed on an early dinner on the Wednesday. The family live in Barking which is easily reached on the overground line from Hampstead Heath station, a short walk from my hotel. The semi-final of the Euros between England and the Netherlands was being played that evening. I watched the first half with the family and left at half time so that Gerard could drop me off at the station and be back in time for the second half. On the walk to the hotel, I passed a packed pub garden and on hearing an immense roar, I popped in, having guessed that England had just scored the winning goal. Some young supporters asked after my welfare and offered me a better view, when they could so easily have ignored me, which I found most touching.

For the first time, I was asked to catch up with Kathy’s brother David and his wife Joyce in Hertford, where they live. They booked Saturday lunch at the same country pub where they treated Simon and Nicole on their trip in May. The photos they sent back to Australia whetted my appetite.

Meanwhile, Thursday lunch beckoned. Cousin David collected me from the station and minutes later, I was hugging Molly and Sue. David introduced his new partner, a much more agreeable person than her predecessor. Sue prepared an excellent meal. The weather was pleasant and we enjoyed drinks in the garden before we ate. It is a comfort to all the family that Molly is able to continue living at home, thanks to the loving attention of Sue and Helen and the fact that she remains in pretty good health. I so enjoy spending time in her company.

I phoned John Pearce the day after, having texted him earlier in the week. He and Tina invited me to tea. Its highlight was some eclairs purchased at Dunn’s in Crouch End Broadway. It is my favourite bakery and apparently the oldest in London. It has been operating in the same premises for nearly two hundred years. I have known Dunn’s since my time at art college, which was just up the hill. Their rolls and sandwiches, their buns and cakes are unfailingly superb. One of John’s paintings of a North London garden hung over the mantlepiece, placed there so that he could work out the touches he needed to finish it. I told him and Tina about my Animal Builders album, a subject which drew an enthusiastic response. Being with them is always stimulating and rewarding.

The train to Hertford North departs from Moorgate which connects to the Northern Line from Belsize Park. I didn’t expect it to start the journey in a tunnel and remain underground for a number of stations. David and Joyce met me at Hertford North. The White Horse, in its village setting, is how one expects an English country pub to look. The menu offered a greater variety of cuisines than any place I have been to. Lunch was good. To walk it off, we toured Hertford’s historic centre for over an hour. There are numerous timber-framed and Georgian buildings in its narrow, twisting streets, pleasing vistas and urban spaces, plus a lively river front. Thereafter, we went to David and Joyce’s home for a welcome cup of tea. The house is compact, the kitchen well-equipped. The garden is spacious and backs onto woodland. I was dropped at the station. Train travel is the best form of transport from which to take in the passing scene.

As you know, I obsess about laundry on my travels because I prefer not to pack dirty clothes. I had earmarked my last full day in London and the nearby launderette in Belsize Village, as the time and place to wash my clothes. I met with Pete Dockley for a natter and some refreshments while I waited for the machines to complete their cycles. The weather was clement and we made full use of the outdoor seating provided by one of the cafés. During the week, I ordered the latest edition of ‘Houses of the National Trust’ from Gaunt books, located mid-way between the underground station and the hotel. I picked it up that afternoon. It is hard back, contains over four hundred entries, fully illustrated, and at twenty pounds, represents outstanding value. In the evening I again dined at the French restaurant.

The only opportunity to see Helen was on the morning of my departure for Scotland at noon. She collected me from the hotel at 9 am. We found a parking space in Belsize Village. Helen was hungry, so I insisted on buying her breakfast, which she thoroughly appreciated. I had a coffee. We sat outside and made the most of the few hours we had in each other’s company. The traffic on Euston Road was such that Helen barely got me to King’s Cross in time for my train to Inverness. A fond farewell was impossible. Helen pulled up as close as she could to the travel centre and I made a dash for the platform. I scraped onto the carriage and found my seat, which had been reserved in Australia, as the train glided away from the station.

SCOTLAND

My Scottish jaunt was a scheduling novelty, combining my love of rail travel with a largely alien destination in the UK, which I was sandwiching between the familiarity of London and Somerset. The initial appeal of confining myself to a Britrail pass was that it simplified the train component of my trip and led to my choice of the northernmost main line terminus in the UK as its focus. In planning this interlude, my primary concerns were to avoid changing trains, and booking a hotel as close to the station as possible, with the exception of Glasgow. I was attracted by the thought of spending three nights there, rather than retracing my steps to Inverness and London. How serendipitous that I was able to book a Waverley cruise and add an outing on the West Highland line to my itinerary. How equally serendipitous that I could stay on the same train from Glasgow to Taunton.

The start of my adventure could not have been less auspicious. The seat I had been given was next to a blank wall. I had no intention of being shut off from the view for the entire eight hour journey. One of the attendants found me a window seat a little further down the coach. Mainline trains in the UK and Europe are fast and comfortable. I love the fact that one covers great distances so quickly and smoothly. On leaving Edinburgh, I had hoped that we would cross the Forth Railway Bridge on our way to Inverness, but I would have had to be going to Dundee. We drew close, but then veered to the west on the line to Stirling. I caught tantalising glimpses of the structure, before losing sight of it. Perhaps, had we travelled via the Forth Bridge, we may not have traversed the full majesty of the Highlands.

The train to Thurso departed at two pm. In the morning I explored Inverness on foot, bought an additional pair of pyjamas at Marks and Spencer’s and left the two pairs I had brought from home at a charity shop. Rail travel in remote Scotland has other virtues than speed. The land and sea scapes on this line are riveting. For more than half of the nearly four hour journey, the track runs along the tidal inlets of the Moray and Dornoch Firths and Tarbat Ness. The bridge spanning the entrance to the Ness only carries the A9, to the detriment of the train, which requires an additional forty five minutes to complete its journey. While adding to the bleakness of their look, the lack of the softening effect of tree cover conferred a purity of form on the slopes, ravines and hilltops in the Highlands. As we travelled north, the succession of outlying peaks was replaced by hills on the left, and later, on both sides of the track.  A few miles south of Thurso we crossed part of the Caithness and Sutherland peatlands, which form one of the largest and most intact areas of blanket bog in the world.

My first major joys of travel moment occurred when I reached my hotel after a long downhill walk from the station. The room I had booked for two nights had been given to members of a tour party which arrived at short notice. The only place offering accommodation for two nights was four miles outside town.

I settled for a hotel I had passed in the same street. The room was in an annexe. I savoured my dinner. This far north, dusk persisted beyond 11 o’clock and the weather was markedly cooler. I would make good use of my fleece jacket and corduroy trousers while in Scotland. Before breakfast, I asked the owner if he could put me up that night. He could, but not in the same room. Having to pack my case was far less of a chore than moving to a different hotel. There were two highlights to the excellent breakfast, namely being served at my table and the porridge. I took the train to Wick. It began to rain en route, but mercifully stopped when we arrived. I walked from the station to the harbour and climbed to a costal road overlooking the North Sea. I passed a   long-established rock swimming pool filled by the waves on the way to the Castle of Old Wick about a mile away. Its location is what sets it apart, occupying a rocky promontory flanked by high cliffs, surrounded by the ocean on three sides. I was ready for lunch, once back in Wick. My plan was to return to Thurso by bus, which entailed a walk to the stop at a supermarket on the outskirts of town. The bus set me down at the station and I was soon at my hotel. I had been given a better room in the main building and was glad that the heating had been turned on. Before dinner I strolled to the sea wall, lingering over the glorious view of the early evening sun casting a golden glow on the cliffs of Dunnet Head which rose sheer for one hundred and fifty metres above the Pentland Firth. A couple of miles to the west, the NorthLink ferry was docking at Scrabster. All the walking sharpened my appetite.

I slept well and delighted in every mouthful of my breakfast. Because the train didn’t leave until 1.06 pm, I had a few hours to kill. I was drawn to a postcard of some mighty sea stacks in the office of a taxi service which was on the opposite street corner to the hotel. I asked the owner if they were in driving distance and if he could take me there. He was about to leave, but put me in touch with a colleague who agreed to pick me up at the hotel, drive me to the Stacks of Duncansby, which are near John o’Groats, thereafter back to the hotel to pick up my case and then drop me off at the station. Th taxi component was possibly under an hour. The walk from the car park to the stacks and back may have been just over an hour. The views from the coast road of the vast sweep of ocean and islands were stunning. We could see Hoy and its southern Orkney neighbours, an oil platform or two and wind turbines. We parked at the Duncansby Head lighthouse. The driver waited while I completed my walk. Initially, my path crossed rising ground with a limited horizon until I breasted the ridge and saw the pinnacle of a rock formation and the tops of cliffs beyond it. As I descended more of the stacks and the coastline emerged. Eventually I reached a point where I could see the entire stacks in the foreground and the coastline stretching South into the distance. I continued a short way to a place with a view of the sea past the stacks and hastened to the car, much to the relief of the driver. We drove back via John o’Groats and the road to Dunnet Head. I was exhilarated to clearly make out the Old Man of Hoy, the loftiest sea stack in Britain. I loved my time in the far north corner of Scotland, leaving the best till last.

Before I embarked on my trip, I was advised to make sure that every train I intended to catch, regardless of whether I was able to book a seat, would actually be running, because trains in the UK were subject to cancellation. Indeed, the ScotRail website had an Industrial Action link on its homepage. Happily, all the trains on my travels departed on time. Much of the journey to Glasgow was along the route I had taken from Stirling via Edinburgh. I was due to arrive in Glasgow at 8.44 pm. There was no scope for a bite to eat at Thurso station, nor at Inverness while I waited for the connection. The best I could do was buy water and some chocolate. I was thrown by the lack of any refreshment on the Glasgow train purely because the service ceases after five o’clock on ScotRail. Of course, when I checked in at the hotel, the kitchen had closed. I ordered an indifferent soup and an indescribable and inedible dish from room service, and went to bed.

It was raining when I woke up. Given the early departure of the train to Mallaig, I skipped breakfast and bought water, two scotch eggs and two sausage rolls at Queen Street Station. One could barely see the river as the train followed the bank of the Clyde. It was shrouded in cloud as we ascended to Loch Lomond. A dense fog blanked out what should have been spectacular scenery. The cloud lifted sufficiently for me to glimpse a patch of water and a sailing boat below Ardlui station, at the end of the loch.

The train divided at Crianlarich, some coaches bound for Oban, the rest for Mallaig. As we pressed on, the cloud thinned, revealing flecks of blue sky and splendid highland views, alternatingly immensely broad or steeply hemmed in by mountain slopes. In places the line shared the space with a road, or a river, or both. Eventually the sun made a fitful appearance. All but the highest summits were visible. I was thrilled when we traversed the remote and rugged Rannoch Moor. The eponymous station is accessible by public road, unlike its neighbour to the north, Corrour, which is the most elevated main line station in the United Kingdom. Beyond the Moor the railway passed through the Grampian Mountains towards Fort William. By now the clouds had lifted and the periods of sunshine became more frequent. For me, the distinctive feature of Ben Nevis is its size, rather than its height. It is massive, its summit rounded rather than tapered. It fills the view long after the train has left Fort William for Mallaig. The track has to climb nearly two hundred metres from sea level to cross the Glenfinnan viaduct (whose renown as a pioneering concrete structure has been utterly eclipsed by its appearance in four Harry Potter films) and then descend to Mallaig. My first view of the Inner Hebridean islands from the train – principally the southern tip of Skye and the islands of Eigg and Rum – separated from the mainland and each other by numerous sounds, was soul-stirring.

We had a two and a half hour halt at Mallaig, which I saw as the perfect opportunity for me to enjoy my first proper meal since breakfast in Thurso, in the form of an appetising lunch. The weather was dry and mainly sunny, good for exploring the resort, but for a blustery and biting wind. As luck would have it, a number of restaurants were closed, in spite of the place being full of visitors. I did not fancy another meal of fish and chips, which seemed to be the only dish on the menu in the establishments serving lunch. I inspected the ferry terminal and the harbour, made the best of an ice cream and had a pot of Scottish breakfast tea in a rather smart café, owned by the mother of one of the  young women who worked there. I was profoundly stirred to learn that the magnificent mountains I could see from my table distantly looming beyond the Skye foreshore, were some of the Cuillin Hills, which form one of the most famous mountainscapes in the world. Bereft of lunch, I bought a meat pie and some water for the return journey.

The cloud cover increased as we left Mallaig shortly after four pm. I clung to the vista of the islands as we made our way to Fort William, not wanting them to vanish from sight. Whether it was just before or just after this happened, Ben Nevis became visible. As we pressed on during the afternoon and early evening, the clouds became lower and I was fearful that Loch Lomond would again be hidden. Had I been on a one-way trip, I would not have had the opportunity to redeem the shortcomings of the morning. When we reached Loch Lomond, the peaks were obscured, but I could clearly see the full extent of the loch and the surrounding slopes. Similarly, as we descended to the Clyde, I was fascinated by the huge inlet of Loch Long with its plethora of marinas and surprised to look down on a cargo ship alongside a wharf in Gare Loch. We arrived at Queen Street at nine twenty five, by which time I would normally be relaxing after my evening meal. At around ten, I exited the hotel and crossed the road to see what I could find to eat. A little way along the street I spotted a Chinese restaurant and ordered a special fried rice and a pot of jasmine tea. More than thirty six hours had elapsed since breakfast in Thurso, but even if this had not had a bearing on my state of mind, the dish was the best of its kind I have eaten.

Thankfully, the Waverley’s departure was at the more civilized time of ten thirty. The taxi dropped me within a short walk of the embarkation point. Given the overnight forecast, I feared it would be raining. Instead, the weather was clear and bright. In August 1985, my then four year old son Simon and I, clambered up the gangplank of the Waverley at Tower Pier in London and enjoyed a half day on board, sailing to Southend. In true seaside tradition, we got off at the end of the pier, a walk of more than a mile from the shore. The Waverley has had some major refits in recent years, including new boilers, but she is much as I remembered her; the engines a hypnotic wonder of gleaming steel and brass, its moving parts looking all the more massive because one can stand so close to them, held in place by huge screws and nuts, rotating the paddle wheels as they noisily chopped the water. The ship was busy without being over-crowded. The voyage down the Clyde was superb and full of interest. A number of the giant cranes which towered over the dry docks and slipways, remain as relics of the heyday of Glasgow’s ship building industry. A handful of yards are still in full production creating warships for the Royal Navy. We passed two Caledonian MacBrayne ferries being fitted out at another. I was delighted to watch some dolphins frolicking in the rive. They did not accompany us, but remained in the one spot. The Firth of Clyde is enormous. The scenery on either bank became more striking as we left Glasgow in our wake.

It began to rain when we entered the Kyles of Bute and continued for the remainder of the voyage. Journey’s end was Tighnabruaich. Numbers of hardy souls disembarked to walk to the town. I stayed on board. I like eating on a ship or a train. Lunch on the Waverley was adequate rather than inspiring. It is a long time since I have had a really good meal on a train. Conditions as we headed to Glasgow replicated those of the previous morning. We could not see the river bank until we were close to home. I struck up a conversation with a couple from Glasgow. They very graciously gave me a lift in the rain, to Central Station, where I needed to confirm that my train to Taunton would be running. The duration of the day’s travel was a tad over nine hours, which meant that I could dine in the restaurant.

SOMERSET

Thank god for CrossCountry trains. They operate routes linking unlikely places, without going near London, such as my train from Glasgow Central dropping me off at Taunton in eight hours and twenty minutes, on its way to Plymouth. I was intrigued to find out which route we would be taking. I did not expect the first stop to be Edinburgh. We stayed on the familiar East Coast Main Line until we branched out from Doncaster on new terrain to Sheffield, Derby, Birmingham, Cheltenham and Bristol, the stop before Taunton. Clive had at last taken delivery of a four year old Skoda which I was eager to see. He met me at the station as arranged, but alas, without Amelia his helper and driver, who had dislocated her knee the day before. It was wonderful to see Clive, his mobility pretty good; his speech and mental acuity seemingly unaffected by his stroke. He had a taxi waiting, which delivered us to his house. Staying under his roof was just as before. He preferred to cook dinner rather than eat out. He uses excellent ingredients to very good effect. His breakfasts are a treat. Clive also took on all the washing up, which I would normally have done, because his kitchen tap was playing up. The stroke has affected his right hand, making sending emails a hardship, though he is happy to text. It has also played havoc with his sensory perception of heat and cold, and made car travel an ordeal because it exaggerates the impact of uneven surfaces.

With Amelia confined to her flat for another day, Clive asked his friend Gavin to take us on a jaunt through the Somerset countryside, along typically embanked narrow lanes surmounted by a hedge on either side, through woodland which formed a tunnel of overhanging branches, before emerging  on a ridge to reveal the pattern of fields and farms nestling in the Quantock Hills. We had taken the scenic route to the Rocking Horse Tea Garden, which I had not been to previously. It was an idyllic place, with a venerable main house and beautiful gardens. I ordered coffee cake, a great favourite of mine, which was as good as the one I had for lunch in a cafe  in Wick, of all places. Next morning, I drove Clive’s Skoda to Amelia’s flat, which is in the same village. He had a class near Taunton the following day and Amelia committed herself to drive him there. The brace she had been given improved her mobility. She came to Clive’s house on a trial run in the afternoon. Having heard so much about her, I was glad to meet her at last. She is a godsend for him.

I was dropped at Hestercombe while Clive continued to his class. There was some kind of children’s activity in the grounds. I eked out a pot of tea and moved to outdoor seating on the lawn. I was more than ready to be picked up by Clive and Amelia and taken to Taunton, where I bought some euros for my stay in Germany. I also bought some brushed cotton pyjamas at Gourd’s. I had mistakenly ordered medium pairs in 2022. I could get by with one of them, but needed to replace the other with a large pair. In the afternoon, Amelia drove us to Watchet. We strolled around the harbour and walked on the sea wall. The Skoda is an automatic. Neither Amelia or Clive had owned one. Amelia wanted to change gear to bring the car to a stop, but couldn’t, and would then brake too sharply for Clive’s comfort. This was particularly evident at traffic lights. In the late afternoon we stopped for a drink at an ancient pub with stone-flagged floors which I had last been to several visits ago. We decided to stay for dinner. The menu was limited. The food was well-cooked. Amelia most kindly undertook to wash and dry my clothes overnight.

In 2014, Clive and I happened upon the Driftwood Café at Blue Anchor on the Bristol Channel, not far from Minehead. It was celebrating its eightieth anniversary. The building is made of wood. Though immaculately maintained, it had the look of a temporary structure, with a façade of picture windows seeming too vulnerable to withstand the wind and rain which lashed the sea front for much of the year. We had fish and chips, which were a revelation. In 2016 I had golden syrup sponge pudding for dessert, in a meal made in heaven. True to his word, Clive scheduled lunch at the Driftwood for the day before my departure. This year they were celebrating their ninetieth anniversary, but there were no signs to proclaim the fact – a pity. An apparent change of ownership is no excuse for not celebrating such an occasion. I had fish and chips, Clive and Amelia had some form of fried breakfast. None of us wanted dessert. The ambience was as welcoming as ever, for dogs as well as for people. After lunch we proceeded to Minehead where I bought some postcards and thence to Porlock and its picturesque harbour. We stopped for afternoon tea, as much for old time’s sake as for any need of further sustenance, but it was a pleasure nonetheless. Clive’s garden is a haven for many kinds of bird. A pair of wood pigeons occupied the garage roof, where they could keep an eye on the neighbourhood. The smaller birds flitted in and out of the bushes and shrubs. I Liked to watch them all prior to, between or after outings.

GERMANY

The train to Paddington left Taunton at 8.23 am. It was actually at the platform when we reached the station, so farewells had to be rushed. Not knowing if the train would depart early, I boarded the nearest coach. The ticket inspector offered to guide me to my reserved seat and look after my suitcase. The seat was two coaches nearer the front. I had oodles of time at Heathrow before my flight to Frankfurt, which I spent in the business class lounge, helping myself to coffee and snacks. We were given afternoon tea with scones, cake and all the trimmings. It was easily the best food I have been served on a short haul flight anywhere. Cousin Peter was in the arrivals hall to greet me. Although the plane landed at five on a Friday afternoon, the traffic on the autobahn flowed smoothly, with no hold-ups. We both counted our blessings. Roughly at the halfway point, an exit to Lorsch, famous in architectural history for its abbey, caught my attention. The weather in Germany was properly Summery – sunny and warm – whereas in the UK it was cloudier and cooler. Gabi served supper at a far more civilised time than if I had taken the train from the airport. The upstairs bathroom had been finished since my previous stay. The shower was fantastic. Peter had booked Sunday lunch at the Winzer Hof to include Christina who was joining us from Frankfurt.

On the Saturday morning, we drove to a park noted for its sculptures and moated house, whose appearance was more baroque than medieval. Once I realised that the park was a significant arboretum, I assiduously followed the trail of interpretive signs. The sculptures were monumental (which I find off-putting) and technically accomplished, but in his choice of subjects, the artist showed no inclination to acknowledge the arboretum, which made them an annoying distraction from the trees. Any area of grass would have served his purpose. That afternoon, we were invited by Gabi’s brother, who has a house on the opposite side of the street, to his son’s birthday party. Since the invitation included me, I could hardly refuse, but I wasn’t keen on the prospect. The family gathering was replete with good cheer and plenty of delicious food. I could not have been made more welcome by all present. I loved the elan of the young folk (a rarity in the social events I usually attend).

Christina knocked on the door about an hour before we were due at the Winzer Hof. As ever, it was good to be with her. She now works for four days a week, which gives her time to pursue her passion for photography. She showed me some of her shots, which are brilliant. Our table was in the courtyard. We arranged the seating so that we could all sit in the shade. Chrisitna gets on well with Peter and Gabi. Shouting Sunday lunch gives me inordinate pleasure. Gabi had prepared coffee and cakes which we enjoyed in the garden. After Christina took her leave, she asked me where I would like to go on the remaining days of my visit. I opted for a cruise on the Neckar and a trip to Lorsch.

I covered my face, arms and legs with sunblock as soon as I sat down on the boat. I much prefer needing to do this than donning a jacket because I am cold, or unfurling my umbrella. We cruised upstream, passing Heidelberg’s stupendous, partly ruined castle high above the right bank. The reach of the city extended a fair distance and included an ancient nunnery close to the water on the left bank. Not long after the outer suburbs gave way to open country, and having negotiated two locks, we entered a reach of the river noted for a succession of medieval castles. They were not on the same scale as the far more numerous castles on either side of the Rhine Gorge, but they were an interesting presence in the forested terrain. Gabi worked out that it would be best for us if we stayed on board at journey’s end and disembarked for lunch at one of the stops on the way back, giving us a leisurely break before boarding ship to Heidelberg. The little town had a landing stage with a small car park next to it, from which a narrow road wound up the hillside. On the left was a church and on the right a group of busy hostelries. We found a table outside the one nearest the river and ordered schnitzel and chips with mushroom sauce, plus a glass of the local beer; a perfect lunch. From our table we watched the boat which we would board, heading upstream. There was no need for Gabi to cook supper that evening.

Lorsch was a disappointment which I am sorry I inflicted on Peter and Gabi. That said, I’m glad we went because I had another grand day out. Christina had warned that there wasn’t much to see. At least we did not encounter traffic delays travelling there and back. It is the site of a famous abbey. As far as I could tell, its World Heritage listing is for one rather modest late-Carolingian building, whose purpose is shrouded in mystery. The German government is a superior lobbyist to Britain’s, which failed to have Down House and garden which Darwin owned for the last forty years of his life and where he conducted much of his research on evolution, inscribed on the register on the 200^th anniversary of his birth in 2009. A section of the encircling wall and a very small part of the church were all that remained of the abbey. The most impressive building was  sixteenth century barn which did not belong to it. Lorsch was well-known for its involvement in the tobacco trade. The interpretive centre for the abbey included a tobacco museum. I explored the site while Peter and Gabi explored the museum. I bought a postcard to send to Simon and Nicole and the three of us strolled around the town which was next to the abbey precinct. At lunch in a side street, we debated where to go next. The two ladies who joined me on a bench in the shade of a tree, recommended Bensheim with its pretty old town, a few kilometres from Lorsch, and thither we went, as neither Peter or Gabi had been there. The bomb-damaged timber-framed buildings have been superbly restored so that they are difficult to tell apart from those which survived the Second World War unscathed. The town’s main feature is the network of winding streets, linked by flights of steps or gently sloping squares. Coincidentally, Peter and I bumped into the ladies who recommended Bensheim. Gabi in particular, welcomed a refreshing drink and some cake at a café at the conclusion of our sightseeing.

Before we set off for Lorsch, I washed my clothes and hung them out to dry. By the time we got home, they were ready to be packed. My flight late next evening, meant that I could spend a leisurely day in Malsch getting ready for the journey. In 2022, the post covid queues at Frankfurt Airport were horrendous. I took an earlier train which allowed me plenty of time to check in and clear security. I wasn’t confident that the people at check-in realised that I would be staying overnight at Singapore. This led to the second joys of travel moment. My luggage failed to show up on the carousel. I spent nearly an hour and a half at Changi Airport Lost and Found to report my missing suitcase. It had indeed been checked through to Brisbane. Thank goodness the next flight was the one I was booked on. I registered at the hotel at six pm. My suitcase was delivered to the concierge at ten pm. Other than that, all went well. I even found a helpful young man at the Optus shop at Brisbane Airport arrivals hall, who swapped my UK sim card for my Australian sim card, which made up for what happened to my luggage.