ajft

Where?

Geneva, Cully.

Where?

Geneva.

Where?

Henley on Thames, Reading, Geneva.

Where?

Henley on Thames, Hurley.

Where?

Henley on Thames.

Coffee in the first café that we came to, just around the corner from Paddington station — Jo suddenly realised that it used to be a florist that she walked past nearly every day.

An exausting day, topped off by catching the very last train home. The clickety-clack and rocking motion making it nearly impossible to stay awake. Suddenly I sat up with a jerk as I realised that we'd stopped at Reading and had to get out now to change platforms for the branch line to Henley! Somehow I managed to wake Jo and levitate us both out of the train in under five seconds, I've no idea how, I don't think it could be repeated.

Where?

Henley on Thames, Paddington.

Joe and Paddy had been up the river to Beale on Saturday, but both of them enjoy the boats and the river, so off we all went again for a day in the sun at the Inland Waterways Association's annual festival. Strolling around in the hot sun and looking at the dry grass, it was hard to tell that we were on the banks of the Thames, and not at a country show somewhere in Australia in summer time.

Magnificently decorated narrow boats and holiday boats on display everywhere. Boats for hire, boats for timeshare, boats to buy... The whole support industry and cottage crafts, everything is here — and all at a price. Love to have one, but they seem to start at £50,000 and work their way up!

The main arena was as dry as a dust-bowl, marching bands played, a motorbike stunt team performed intricate manoeuvres while their sergeant-major-esque leader bellowed through his walrus moustache. Chitty Chitty Bang-Bang was in attendance, if not the original car from the movie, then an almost perfect replica.

As well as the static displays there were demonstrations of the boats in the river, I fell in love with one magnificent vessel — the Daybreak — as it cruised around effortlessly while the commentator expounded at great length on its many features. There was an old working Merryweather steam-engine fire engine, I thought I'd taken a photo of it, but later couldn't find it. A shame, considering how well maintained it was.

Where?

Henley on Thames, Beale.

Heathrow, Sunday morning, 6:15 a.m. Three plane loads of people arrive at once to queue for immigration. Me in the short EU queue and Jo in the very long other — we didn't realise that she could come through with me. She found out and chased after me — too late — I was in that trance-like post-aircraft state and went through alone, leaving her to queue up behind a jumbo jet load of Nigerians for a very slow trip through customs. Much grumpiness, not an auspicious start. The plane-load from Lagos was very slow in passing through customs — maybe they were all being asked if they had inherited large sums of Nigerian money recently....

Next challenge! The £35 car rental quote that Jo had found on the Internet turned into a £95 per day charge due to it being a Bank holiday — even though she'd checked the rates for this weekend! Forget that for a joke, we'll put the bikes into the left-luggage facility and catch the train...

Heathrow's left-luggage are happy to take anything, at £5 per day per item... except for bicycles in boxes, which are deemed bulky, and thus cost £10 per day, each. Huge suitcases, golf clubs, and other large boxes all somehow appear to be ordinary items, but not bikes. £100 to hold the bikes until Friday seems excessive. Next option... We rang up my uncle Joe and caused much surprise, chaos and lack of communications meant nobody was really sure when Jo and I would be in the UK, or if we'd call them. We arranged to catch the airport bus to Reading, and for Joe to meet us there.

What a production the bus turned into. First there's a quarter of an hour wait for the inter-terminal shuttle, then a long, drawn out and winding trip from Terminal 4 around to 1, 2 and finally 3. The bus terminal at Terminal 3 is dinghy and noisy and grimy — standard for bus terminals the world over. I sit with the bags and bikes while Jo heads off to find tickets. Barely two minutes later a bus for Reading pulled up and a woman appeared from nowhere to sell tickets at the door. Meanwhile Jo has vanished into the enormous queues inside at the service counter and can't be found — no Jo, no getting on the bus.

A quarter of an hour later Jo reappeared, dishevelled and very pissed off. She'd picked up a pamphlet on her way in that told her to buy tickets at the counter, then queued with the crowds until she got to the front, and was then told that tickets were only sold on the bus itself! Congratulations National Express, what a phenomenally disorganised mess.

Signs everywhere on every counter warn of harsh penalties for "rage" or aggression of any kind against employees — maybe if they weren't so institutionally and individually incompetent, these signs wouldn't be necessary!

Finally we got to Reading, were met by uncle Joe and cousin Elizabeth, and made our way back to Henley, Jo and Elizabeth in one car, Joe and I, the baggage and bikes in the other.

A cup of tea, a little lunch, and we spent the rest of the afternoon talking about family, and with a walk down to the Thames to sit by the lock. Maybe its the novelty of a working river, but I think we could both sit and watch boats going through the locks for hours....

Where?

Heathrow, Reading, Henley on Thames

One row from the bulkhead in the 747, there in front of us is the seat row with the babies. Not one, not two... there are three babies in the row, all poised to make life hell for the 26 hours to the UK. Two babies and a toddler. A quick stare and a roll of the eyes distracted the crying one for long enough — it stopped crying. Meantwhile the toddler is busy pinching his baby brother.

The cabin crew were having a problem with the video system, a voice came over the PA system “Ladies and gentlemen, as a last resort I am rebooting the system, this will also remove power from your seats.” Cool, blue screen of death to the aircraft seats.

No video, oh no! I'll just have to entertain myself by playing at being a martian — using the plastic swizzle sticks as antenna. This didn't last very long, it wasn't very entertaining and I was given that whithering look that asks “Just how old do you think you are?”

I thought the work day would never end... But it did. Home at last, packing, getting ready to leave.

I called Qantas this morning to enquire whether it was possible to check some of our luggage all the through from Melbourne to Geneva, even though we're spending a couple of days in London. Thirteen minutes on hold listening to an endlessly repeating tape, then a voice comes on the line. “Yes, there's no problem with that,” said the nice lady on the phone. “Just call back with the flight numbers so we can check that it's with an airline that we share with.”

Around lunch time I called them back, with the flight numbers this time. Fifteen minutes on hold, and then a different voice:

“No, there's no way that they can do that unless you are travelling from London to Geneva on the same day. I don't know why anyone would have told you otherwise. Your only possible option is to send it as unaccompanied baggage from London to Geneva, at about $4.90 a kilogram, here, I'll transfer you to the freight company we deal with....”

Ten minutes on hold listening to a different tape, and then:

“Sorry, can't help you, this is domestic enquiries, hang on and I'll put you through to international.”

another minute...

“Hi, um, we're in the middle of moving offices and I'm on my mobile and I don't have any of the rates, can you call back on this number in about ten minutes?”

I explained that I'd been on hold for quarter of an hour and had no idea what “this number” was.

“ok, how many kilos are you sending?”

I explained that it was about 30kg, it is two bicycles in boxes.

“Oh, bicycles are charged on volume, it works out to be about 32kg per bicycle, you'll need to measure the height by width by depth and then divide by 6000 to get the equivalent weight charge for bulky items, I'll take your name and phone number and call you with an exact price....”

...end of lunch time, one 28 minute phone call, one thrilled customer.

On the topic of security, I wonder if Qantas still insists on only providing plastic knives with meals, but accompanied by metal forks, and wine in glass bottles? I've always found that bizarre, especially after being mugged once by someone using a broken bottle as a weapon.

Picked the wrong day this weekend to go for a ride — too cold and too windy — but the scenery more than made up for it. Inspiration had struck on Friday and we tried to retrace parts of the MAD ride — drive out to Yarra Glen, ride to Healesville, then up Myer's Creek road to Toolangi and back.

Yarra Glen to Healesville was mostly flat, but with an icy northerly blowing, not really enjoyable. We spent that part of the ride with our eyes glued to the road, trying to spot the Harley keys that a guy driving past said he'd lost along here! Not much chance of finding them, but he looked pretty desperate — crawling along about 100m ahead of us, peering out through the windscreen of his ute. No keys to be found, just the usual variety of road-side rubbish: a shoe, cans and bottles, a nappy dumped on the road, the sleeve of a shirt, a towel, someone's discarded g-string.

Into the forests near Healesville we were finally out of the wind, the roads busy with traffic for the markets. Around the backstreets and off northwards up Myer's Creek road, an ambulance screaming off ahead. Suspicions were that it would be one of the many motorcyclists in the area, come to grief somewhere on a corner. Sure enough, when we were a few kilometres out of town, first the ambulances came back at a more sedate pace, then rounding a corner we came upon the tow-truck and police, attempting to haul a downed bike out of the ditch off the end of a bend.

The climb up to Toolangi is about 10km through the forest. I enjoyed it, but for some reason Jo just doesn't like this hill — says she didn't like it in 2002 when we rode up it, and still doesn't like it today. There are towering tree ferns at the side of the road, old Mountain Ash stumps that still have the marks where loggers cut them down in the thirties, a couple of recent tree falls had been sawn through to clear the road — trunks almost 2m thick.

Toolangi General Store provided warming sausage rolls and a much-needed large mug of coffee, then we checked the tourist map before heading along the ridge in the direction of Kinglake. Now that we were up out of the forest the wind had hit again, straight through the clothes and numbing fingers and toes — a minor mutiny and we decided to turn back along a dirt road that we thought circled back around to Toolangi. I guess a better knowledge of the area would have told us that the Toolangi-Dixson's Creek road would go off through the forest and take us to Dixon's Creek, but we didn't know that. It was a great find though, a traffic-free dirt road on the sunny side of the ridge, protected from the wind as it wound around through dry forest and down to the farms and vineyards below. Amazing how different the forest types were on the two sides of the ridge, gone were all the mountain ash and ferns, open dry scrub and stringy-barks in their place.

The one possible drawback of that route was the last few kilometres to Yarra Glen — along the Melba highway. Narrow, noisy, and plenty of traffic, including a couple of caravans being towed by drivers who forget just how much wider they are than their cars. We did get to see all the high end tourism-oriented Yarra Valley wineries from the road, but in the cold there was little incentive to stop and sample anything.

Just on three hours riding and we were back in Yarra Glen for a second warm-up cup of coffee and a determination to find a map once we got home and work out just where we'd managed to go!

Two new tyres for Norky bike, I thought it better get them now rather than feel foolish somewhere on tour. Hutchinson Tom Slicks at $120 a pair! A bit pricey, but they look to be just what I'm after. Fitting them was a pain, after weeks of being folded, they didn't want to unfold and sit on a wheel. Might need to get some new — narrower — tubes as a result though.... We also picked up two cardboard boxes from the two bike shops up the street. Ray wants a postcard as payment.

Saturday morning, slept in until nearly eleven, then got up to find that one of the neighbours must have assumed we weren't here and as stolen the newspaper. That'll teach me to be slovenly.

A quick walk up the street to the vege. markets, then we breakfasted at Kojo Brown's, up on Bridge road. It's been up there in the “must get around to trying their menu” list for quite a while. A big decadent breakfast of eggs and bacon and mushrooms and tomato relish, several cups of coffee, and doing the crossword in someone else's newspaper. All while sitting in the sun and watching the world hurry past.

Via Ponte still hasn't reopened after closing for Christmas, at least there seems to be some action going on inside now — a complete rebuild, taking up what was the furniture store next door. I wonder if it'll bear any resemblance to how it was under Ian when it reopens?

Taxi driver of M-6897, you're a very naughty boy... Not only are you forbidden from smoking in your cab, but throwing the lit cigarette butt out the window is littering. Its a good thing that both the Victorian Taxi Directorate and the EPA are so keen to take reports on people breaking both sets of rules. You probably shouldn't have had your arm stuck out the window either, maybe next time a cyclist won't slow down and you'll get whacked on the elbow by a handlebar...

Off to the dentist this morning, an hour of sitting with my mouth jammed open, far too many implements and fingers being stuffed in there. If only I could have chosen better tooth genes... Perhaps nanotechnology tooth-repair, it would have to be better than drillings and fillings. Felt too woozy afterwards to go to work, I've come home to spend the day sulking on the couch.

The weather's been in tune with my mood too — gray and dismal all day. I listened to the Cure and tried to label a few older photos — its scary how quickly some of the names and places blur. I must make time on our trip to write something down every day.

More hills, more hills! Time to ride up some more hills... Richmond to The Basin along Canterbury road, then off through the forest along the Basin-Olinda road, a dirt road that winds peacefully up through the hills before popping out in the midst of Sunday tourist mayhem.

There was more traffic today than I've met on previous rides up that road — some days I haven't seen anyone else during the whole six kilometres, today there was traffic in both directions, slippin' and slidin' on the slick clay road. One patch of road so sticky that both Jo and I thought that our tyres were going flat, the mud wasn't deep, but it really seemed to stick us to the road. In the pauses between the traffic all we could hear were the bird sounds and the distant whine of motorbikes on Mountain highway. Kookaburras (Dacelo novaeguineae), parrots, and numerous small unidentifiable forest birds keeping us company on the way up the hill.

Eternal optimism meant that we stopped at a café in Olinda for lunch, something I really should give up doing. There must be one of Murphy's Laws that says something about competence and tourist areas... A very harried looking owner, a long delay to order, “sorry, we've none of those,” a changed order, a long wait... Why aren't there hobo-like chalk signs on the road or building, letting us know that some places just can't cope?

Three o'clock and time to leave if we want to make it home by dark. Zip up the spray jackets, warm up the legs. Off down the main tourist road to Sassafras, just one part of a long queue of traffic. Despite their “soothing drive in the country,” many of the motorists seemed to be highly stressed on the drive down, turning off onto Mountain highway and away from all the traffic was a relief.

Twenty minutes or less of effortless swooping descent through the trees, only two cars pass before we're back at The Basin. Part way down, a manic young mountain biker with knobby tyres roaring and t-shirt flapping tears past, then heads off up a fire-trail and off into the scrub. The road's been widened at a corner where once I nearly ran off into a bus shelter, new lines and warning signs too.

From The Basin back to Richmond is another two hours on the bikes, Sunday afternoon traffic, everyone wanting to get home from their day out in the countryside. Rolling up and down the hills of Mountain highway, Burwood highway, Toorak and Camberwell roads, and finally back onto Swan street for the last half suburb. The concrete expansion gaps in Toorak road feel like riding on train tracks, ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump...

Change of pace for the evening, yesterday's newspaper had thoughtfully included a discount voucher for the new cinemas up the road in the Concrete Monstrosity Shopping Mall (oops, Victoria Gardens). A quick check shows that Terminator 3 is on — definitely a night for a bit of mindless action. The movie was everything expected, Arnie and explosions and a wafer-thin plot. An added bonus was the shorts for nearly every other action movie to be shown in the next six months — I'd heard of some of them, but a few were new, all looked hilarious....

Fast service. They promise two day delivery on the website, but the new toy arrived today. (S/N VP2060.023221). Definitely easier than lugging a laptop around overseas. Now if only it had a few more smarts and an ethernet port...

Chased up the broken toy too. Although they didn't give us any warranty cards or paperwork with the TV, at least Dick Smith could tell me that there's a three year warranty on it and to call TEAC directly. No questions asked, Mr TEAC will be over in a flash (eleven days from now) to poke the broken power switch.

There's a white-faced heron that's been stalking around beside the bike path for the last few days. I think it must live somewhere near the Glennferrie road underpass, some days it perches on the spillway downstream from the road, other days I see it walking around on the grass...

More toys on the way... today I bit the bullet and bought an X-Drive II, so I'll have some way of saving my digital photos while away travelling. Lots of counting on my fingers and scrawled notes on a piece of paper and it turns out to be cheaper to buy one bundled with a 20G drive than to buy an empty one and muck about finding a drive. Two day delivery they say...

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Yay! Only 13 more working days until we go on holiday... Monash was getting me down today — just a few too many cases of people not reading instructions and ringing up to query things.

More fun-and-games on the bike path under Glennferrie road this morning... a warning sign and huge row of orange cones. Is it flooded? Are they trying to install a dyke to keep the water out? I slowed as I entered... no, there's a film crew setting up for a shoot in the storm-water drain. There's lights and generators and cables and wires and chairs and people everywhere. Shame that some of the public are actually trying to use the bloody track to get to work!

An interesting contact came in the mail today — no, not more spam — it was from a relative of my Great-Great-Grandmother (Martha West Issott). Had some interesting background information on that part of my family tree.

Off to church this morning! A very strange thing for me to do — I can't remember when I last entered a church... other than for weddings, or christenings, or to admire the architecture. This was another christening, but it came at the end of the weekly service. Quite unsettling, as I had no idea what was happening at various times, and kept suspecting that as one of the god-parents, I'd be expected to know what was happening.

It all passed without incident. Neither Jack or Will had a tantrum in the church, Jack was happy to have me as a god-parent, John and Kath are happy to have me as a god-parent for Jack, I'm happy to be a god-parent for Jack. There's a small matter of the technical requirements of the church — but that's a matter for the church...

It did make me wonder exactly where I'd been christened. I guess my mum knows...

Then off to a celebratory lunch, two families, a myriad of cousins, a giant serving of food.

It seemed like a good idea at the time... If we're going to be riding in the Alp's next month, Jo thought she should have a little hill riding as training. Over a beer or two last night Evan mentioned that he hadn't ridden up Mount Donna Buang for some time, and what a great ride it is at this time of year, especially with the Warbuton-Healesville road being closed over winter. A spur of the moment decision and the three of us decided to ride up there today.

First there was the early start — not too early, but early enough that we thought there'd be a bit of the day left after we finished. Coffee and toast while I wrestled with the tyres, changing the normal slicks for the off-road knobbies — dirt-roads and the possibility of snow meant that slicks wouldn't be a good idea!

Evan called round and picked us up, three bikes onto the roof and off we went. Under an hour later and we were getting unpacked and sorted out in the carpark of the Launching Place pub. The plan was to ride the 12km along the rail-trail to Warbuton as a warm-up, then up the mountain through the forest, then the Warbuton-Healesville dirt-road along the ridge, and back down to Launching place. Its about 70km, a good three or four hours out in magnificent country.

The rail-trail is an easy ride, a little muddy in places, it meanders through the paddocks and bush, sometimes popping out to cross the road at inconvenient places. Not many other bike riders, but a wide selection of people walking, including a group of about a dozen, with nearly twice as many dogs.

Into Warbuton we turned from the trail back onto the road, then left and up, towards Mt Donna Buang. “Road Open to Summit,” proclaimed a large illuminated road sign. Slowing as we climbed, the road passed through alternating warm sunny patches and increasingly cooler shady spots. By the time we reached the forest lookout platform, roughly half-way up, none of us wanted to stop for very long and admire the view.

We're not sure exactly how far it is from Warbutton to the top, one sign at the bottom says 17km to the summit, at the forest lookout it is 9km to both top and bottom, and at the last turn one sign states one kilometre to summit, twelve to the bottom! I'm tempted to believe 18km, but in any case it's quite a climb. Launching Place is about 150m above sea level, Warbutton, 220m. The peak of Mt Donna Buang rises to 1250m, with the road winding all the way to the top.

From the lookout onwards there was increasing patches of snow at the side of the road, and signs warning us to beware of snow clearing machinery. A light but constant stream of motorists wound past up the hill, some waving, some just looking bemused. We caught them up and passed them all again at the entrance to the park, there's a $6 charge per car, but bicycles can enter for free. The weather was perfect though, not a breath of wind, and a clear blue sky.

At the last carpark the road was closed the last 100m to the summit, families sat by their cars with picnics and coffee, kids slid around on plastic toboggans. The more energetic walked up to the peak, Evan and I tried to ride... I made it about 2m before jumping off, the front wheel ploughing off on a course of its own choosing, the rear spinning frantically like a paddle-steamer. Jo sensibly walked from the start, keeping alongside, but in far less danger of falling over into wet snow!

Once at the top we waded through knee-deep snow to the sign for the mandatory photograph, then stood around admiring the view and watching people toboggan past or have snow-ball fights, or build snowmen. Misty clouds started to come in over the peak and it cooled rapidly, we'd made it to the top, now time to leave. Again, Evan and I foolishly tried to ride the snow-covered track back to the carpark. I made it most of the way, frantically hopping on one foot while half-balanced on the seat. Evan lowered his seat so that it resembled an 1880's bicycle and paddled his way down with both feet on the ground. Once again, Jo sensibly walked, and got there ahead of both of us!

Consternation at the turnoff for the Healesville-Warbuton road. We'd been expecting snow, but not quite this much snow. Cross-country skis would have a chance, but there was no way that we'd be able to ride through this! It was well over knee-deep, as Evan demonstrated by embedding the bike upright in the snow on the road and walking off.

While wondering just how far the snow continued, a couple of skiers appeared from around the corner. Definitely not a road to try and ride down, we'd have been out all afternoon and not have had an enjoyable time, not to mention probably getting soaked.

The only option was to put on the warm gloves, zip up the wind-proof jackets, and head back down the way we'd come. A chilly 9km run to the forest lookout, my fingers and toes going numb, worrying that I wouldn't have enough feeling left to operate the brakes. I insisted on a stop, parking myself for a minute alongside the parks noticeboard, long enough to get some circulation back into fingers. Off again for the last half of the decent, Evan leading the convoy, me a hundred metres back, then Jo, then a couple of motorists who didn't want to pass.

I thought my front tyre was feeling a little strange on the bends, but put it down to an unfamiliar tyre, a different profile, or just the hill and the cold. Evan had stopped on the last bend in the sun to wait for us, and as I pulled off the road I realised that my front tyre was now almost completely flat. Not fair — two punctures in twenty-four hours! As I turned the wheel, Evan politely enquired whether the two thumb-tacks embedded in it were a likely cause. I guess I'd picked them up at the National Parks noticeboard...

We stopped in Warbutton for a well-earned lunch, calling in at the Swagman Café, that rather peculiarly, was advertising Polish food and beer. Evan ordered soup, Jo and I, the focaccias, and three coffees. With two staff and only two other customers, we were expecting quick service... Sitting comfortably out in the sun, we didn't mind the the coffee and soup seemed to take a while to arrive. Half an hour later, however, the lack of focaccias was irritating. I ventured back inside to enquire, the response: “Oh, was there food with that order?” did nothing to cheer me up! With much apology the food was rushed out, it wasn't very good, but by then neither Jo nor I cared.

Nearly four o'clock, it was definitely now time to head back towards Launching Place and home! The gentle curves of the rail-trail are a great wind-down after the strenuous hill climb and freezing descent. Only one problem — and it was the usual problem when riding in a rural area — a car goes past and the idiots inside decide to abuse the cyclists. “Get off the bicycle!” came an amplified voice as the car passed on the road — only one difference from the usual run-of-the-mill idiots. This one was a marked police car — I guess the rural officers get bored easily. Really makes me feel comfortable about approaching them in other circumstances though!

Finally back at the car, nearly seven hours after we set out, we could pack up and head back to home. Very little chance of getting anything else done this Saturday though!