Yes ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been living in this strange “grey around the edges - stodge in the middle” country for nearly one year now and am still far from used to it. The other day, Fenton and I were stuck in traffic on a drive into the city of Lisburn when three elephants walked past the car. I'm aware that that seems like the first line of a bad joke but it really happened. The last thing we expected to see in Northern Ireland was three elephants trundling down the middle of the road, but I have been saying all along, there are some things about this country that are really wyrrd! Here are a few more things I find strange, disturbing or just downright hilarious:

An Asian (looking) friend was told in a Belfast pub to leave because 'we don't serve your kind in here.' The prejudice and discrimination and negative manifestations of bias displayed in this are horrendous and although it does not matter where my friend is from... she's an Aussie, from Sydney.

An Aussie mate here, out with the girls for a few drinks after work was asked 'which side she batted for?' This question... asked anywhere else on the planet translates as... are you straight or gay? Not in Northern Ireland... here it means 'are you Protestant or Catholic?'

A drunken bloke in our local pub (which we now avoid) upon learning I was a visitor to Northern Ireland, told me...'the people you want to avoid in Northern Ireland are always named 'Sean, Patrick, Michael or Declan.' (ie: Catholics) I replied, 'Really? That's my Dad's name...' upon which, this bloke chokes on his pint and spits beer across the bar. Everyone laughs and tells him not to be an arsehole. 'Yer fookin joking about that,' he says to me... 'Yes, I am,' says I, 'just having a bit of a laugh mate.' (Aussies always being ready to take the piss out of anyone). He bought me a pint... which, after his nasty minded little comment, tasted like bile. His mates apologised for him but none of them were worth associating with either.

I can't believe he said that on national tv:
Just before the British general elections I was watching the BBC news and one of their reporters was out and about with a camera man asking the British public what they thought of the oppositions new immigration policy. One person the crew approached answered - 'I think it's bloody a disgrace to continue letting fookin' Paki's, darkies and those filthy chinks into this country. I'm so sick of it that I'm taking my family to live in Melbourne in Australia next year because at least Australia is still British.' (Funny... and I thought Australia was, well... Australian). The reporter kindly pointed out that Australia maintains a multi-cultural immigration policy and there were indeed, numerous Pakistani's, people of African heritage and Asian's in Australia. 'That's bollocks!' was the reply. Fenton shook his head and commented that the bloke and his family should be permitted to immigrate to Oz... but be dumped in the middle of Melbourne's China Town to be greeted by the (Australian/Chinese) Lord Mayor of Melbourne, Mr. John So...carrying a big sharp stick! My idea is more along the lines of - 'To the Australian Department of Immigration and Multicultural and Indigenous Affairs - Dear Sirs, I'm begging you... please don't let this arsehole into Australia.'

Doctors in Northern Ireland do not take on new patients, unless they are part of a family group. So... for me to see a doctor here, I must pretend that I am some long lost cousin from Australia. Appointments are made up to three weeks in advance and one cannot get a 'repeat perscription'... this means asking for another appointment the day one sees the doctor in the 1st place and continually booking appointments in advance of the time one runs out of medication. My new doctor didn't know how to treat my plantar fasciitis nor tarsal tunnel syndrome and refered me to a specialist. I hope to have an appointment in 6 months.

I went to the doctor here to have a blood test - essentially to test my inflamatory markers for arthritis. I'm called into the surgery by the nurse who tells me to take a seat. Meanwhile, the nurse types my details into the pc and, sneezing her red raw nose off, wipes her hand across the offending nose, then wipes her hands through her hair and down the front of her shirt. She then proceeds to (try) to take my blood. I object that she's not washed her hands, nor donned gloves and she stares at me as though I'm crazy. Not crazy, just cautious. And there was me thinking that washing ones hands and then putting surgical gloves to perform ANY medical proceedure was a stock standard medical practice world wide. Not in Northern Ireland apparently! The nurse calls the doctor in to hear my complaint... and, here's the thing... the doctor tells me that 'if they used surgical gloves for every patient, they'd be over budget.' When I insist on the nurse washing her hands and wearing gloves... the doctor rolls his eyes and tells the nurse to'just humour' me. Naturally when I called in to get my results (the suggested) three days later... my results are not back. Nor where they back a week and two weeks later. Finally I get a call that they are in some four weeks later and at reception the receptionist says...'oh yes, you are the Aussie glove fanatic come for your test results.' Oh, btw... my test results were good... must be all that Aussie shark cartilage extract I shove down my throat every day.

I am a big fan of potato chips, or crisps as they call them here. The two most popular brands are Tayto and Walkers... both rubbish. I truly believe Australia's are spoiled in their choice of potato chips. At least we are NOT forced to consume such thinly sliced bits of pure lard in such dire flavours as: prawn cocktail, Worchestershire sauce, lemon grass and beef, corriander and dill, or the Ulster fry. The Ulster fry crisp is based on what could be called Northern Irelands national dish... a artery clanging, cholesterol pumper upper breakfast of blood pudding, sausage, eggs, bacon, fried tomatoe and fried bread.

Everyone here has plastic buckets in their kitchen sinks to do the washing up in. Most rental houses/accommodation come fully equipped with their own plastic ‘sink buckets'. No-one 'rinses' their dishes off after washing them. A double sink is unheard of. Automatic dishwashers are unheard of. Garbage disposal units are unheard of.

A brief word on blinds, curtains and drapery, fly screens and security doors: Ireland, Northern Ireland and the rest of the UK should try to catch up with the rest of the planet on all of these but especially when it comes fly screens for the windows 'cause I'm sick to death of chasing wasps out of the house. One should have curtains AND drapery because at the moment, if I open a drape my life is exposed to the world. No house I have seen has front 'security doors,' no grills - and no window grills or simple fly screens. One would think they'd be the norm in such a security conscious country but apparently not.

Rental properties on the whole are furnished. If ones wants to live in an unfurnished rental property - there's an extra tax, plus council rates. Furnished rentals are exempt from council rates.

The hot water system in our home, the so called - Economy 7 - gives us approximately 5 minutes of hot water each day. To wash the dishes I must boil a kettle. To have greater access to hot water for bathing, showers etc,' I have the option of 'hitting the override' which costs approx' £5 per hour to run. The tap water is undrinkable, brown and must be filtered before making tea or coffee. Dinner preparations can be hazardous... unless I want lead poisoning, I must clean and cook all veggies, rice, pasta etc' in filtered water. I've taken to warning guests to take only 1 minute in the shower and not drink the tap water.

Well um, yeah it is...
Sitting with an Aussie mate, admiring her new gold ring (a gift from her hubby) an Irish friend said: 'Why do Australian's always wear so much gold? Bloody hell, anyone would think that gold was just lying round in the ground in Australia waiting to be dug up!'

It's very nice not to have to pay a water bill in Northern Ireland. It's also very nice not to have to do the washing up in 10 centimetres of water then syphon off the dish/shower/laundry water to be re-cycled for use in the garden. This is because, unlike Australia, there is no drought, hence, no water restrictions. Mind you... I still take 2 minute showers from sheer force of habit and because of the limited amount of water I get from the 'Economy 7.'

There is NO 'road rage' in Northern Ireland. None! Not at all! Not a sausage! Drivers are courteous, polite, careful and generous towards their fellow drivers ALL the time. I would hate to see the same people tackling Melbourne's Tullamarine freeway in peak hour traffic. They'd go mental trying to cope!

There is no such thing as a laundry or ultility room attached to any house. Washing machines and dryers are crammed into the tiny kitchens.

There is no outside tap or power point or lighting. If it stopped raining long enough for me to water my plants (big grin) I'd have to run a hose from the bathroom taps.

Zucchini’s are called courgettes and capsicums are peppers. ‘Checkout chicks’ (a.k.a Customer Service Representatives) give you weird looks should you call these (and other vegetables) by their “non-English” names and they endevour to correct you at every given opportunity. Asian veggies such as pak-choy, foo yip, cang cua, kinh gioi and bok-choy are unheard of... except in Belfast's only Asian supermarket, which has practically become my 2nd home for foodstuffs. The rest, we grow.

Try saying g'day to a customer service representative and asking how their day is shaping up and they automatically think you are leading up to a complaint about their service. Most times I feel like doing just that! They are the most dour people on the planet, unfriendly and unhelpful in every respect.

An example:
My 1st full day here I went walkabout round the village and entered a 'touristy' store to have a look. I was the only customer and after a good 15 minutes of wandering round and looking at all the Celtic goodies on offer, I approached the girl at the counter to ask a price. She had her head buried in a magazine up until that stage but looked up and said...
"Ya gettin?"
I said, "I beg your pardon?"
"Ya getting?"
"I'm sorry, I don't understand what that means."
"I said, ya getting! You stupid or what?"
I still didn't understand, and by this time the cow is tripping my trigger big time. Finally she sighs expansively, closes her magazine and says...
"Look, are you going to buy something or not?"
"Well no... not with that attitude." And I walk out.
Since then, not once has my presence been registered by any sales staff upon my entering a store. No hello, no 'can I help you?' no nothing. Fenton came home mightily impressed the other day saying he recieved excellent service in a local pet superstore. The staff were attentive, helpful, knowledgeable and courteous without being pushy. I was so amazed I insisted on visiting the store at once. *LOL*

Touring a local 17th cent' castle with a guide, Fenton and I are disgusted to see litter on the beautiful persian carpets of the great hall. I comment. The tour guide rounds on me and says accusingly...
"You are Australian, aren't you!" I confirm that I am.
"Well," she says, "We deported all you lousy convicts and now you think you can come back here and tell us how to run our tourist industry!"
I felt like slapping the bitch into the ground but had to be satisfied with getting my money for the tour back... oh and I made sure she picked up the litter!

Supermarket vegetables come in their very own pre-wrapped plastic packaging. At the checkout the above mentioned service representatives scan your pre-wrapped plastic packaged vegetables for you; you - as the customer must pack them into the pre-provided plastic bags, weigh and price them yourself.

Smile at people down the street and they automatically think you’re high as a kite.

Talk to people down the street and they automatically think you’re pissed.

Socks and knickers take six days to dry. You gotta wash 'em six days in advance.

A haircut here costs around £37. I can get my haircut in Australia for $20 or less. (Exchange rate: 1 UK pound buys on average 2.6 AUS dollars).

Dark Ages:
You need a name, rank, serial number, home address, previous address, national insurance number, old statement, passport, library card, drivers licence, a roll of toilet paper and pink knickers to apply for a bank account in Northern Ireland. But in order to acquire a name, rank, serial number, home address, previous address, national insurance number, old statement, passport, library card, drivers licence, a roll of toilet paper and a pair of pink knickers... you need a bank account. One cannot open a bank account over the counter in the bank... that requires an appointment with the bank manager who will probably have an hour available sometime in the next 6 weeks and will kindly phone to let you know when, if ever. NB: I have British (pounds) and the local (English) bank won’t take them.

Train tickets must be booked well in advance. Sit in someone else’s seat and you may just end up with chewing gum stuck to your bum plus much abuse from the person who "owns" the seat. Fenton says this has never happened to him... but then, he's 6'2 and built like a brick outhouse.

A salad roll consist of white bread, butter, a slab of cheese, cucumber and some tomato if you’re lucky. I was asked in one shop if I wanted fresh bread or two day old bread. There was no wholemeal option.

I can order the above mentioned “salad roll” from my local store (200 metres away) over the internet and have it delivered to my door step within five minutes for a grand total of £15. If I actually walk up the street and go into the very same store - I can buy a 4 pack of bread rolls, 10 slices of ham, 1/2 doz eggs, a whole lettuce, 4 tomato's, packet of cheese, beetroot, cucumber, tub of butter and mayonaise for a grand total of £9.50.

Everyone here has an Australian cousin, uncle, aunt, brother, sister or mate, or knows someone who does, but the majority of people think that New Zealand is part of Australia and think it strange that I can't actually just 'drive' there from Melbourne.

I stopped questioning these things so I could a) sleep at night & b) stop getting nonsensical replies from people who don't really know why! Unfortunately, when one is a stranger in a very strange land one needs to stop asking "why?" (at least stop saying it out loud). There are hundreds of things I've have left out but one of which has always stumped me - Why must the light switch be outside the bathroom or attached to a long cord? And if the answer is "because it's safer" then why hasn't any other country in the world picked up on this invaluable safety measure?! Bathrooms here have NO power point! And why is it ok to have an electrical shaver point, but nowhere for a hairdryer... could this just be a sexist thing? Safety switches are unheard of.

The light switch for our kitchen is next to the front door. Not that strange when one considers the kitchen in our house is also next to the front door.

The toothpaste I use when home in Australia is made in Ireland and imported into Australia. The toothpaste I use in Ireland is made in Australia and imported into Ireland. They are the same brand!

The rest of the world does not exist... at no time have I heard or seen a news story broardcast here that involves Australia, New Zealand nor any other Pacific island nation. Africa, South America and Canada are never mentioned; Europe as a whole seldom rates a news story unless it involves the European Economic Community of which Britian is a member. Asia only got a brief mention on the tv because of the tsunami and then only rated a few days coverage. News stories from the U.S.A. are only ever get mentioned if it involves a) politics and b) terrorism; the same goes for the Middle East. AND... Ireland is never ever mentioned. (Fenton says this is because nothing noteworthy ever happens in Ireland). And this is true!

Wish I could, you bastard:
Said to me in a Belfast pub: 'When are you f***** Aussie's going to get your bloody "stars" of OUR flag?"

Witnessed at the train station:
A young mother with her unsupervised toddler crawling towards the edge of the platform. The mother notices and screams: 'Watch out for the f***ing choo choo, ya wee shite!' Nice blend of obscenity and baby talk.

5 + 5 = ?
A couple of months ago, when in McDonalds in Bangor, Fenton and myself walked up to the counter to order our food. Happy at the 'Poundsaver Option,' 5 chicken nuggets for a pound, Fenton asked the girl at the counter for 10 chicken nuggets. She replied "Sorry, we only sell them in 5's." Two weeks later we watched the US documentary "Super Size Me," and have not eaten fast food, especially McDonalds, since and never will again.

A Protestant, who claimed to hate and despise all Catholics and after hearing about the death of the pope, asked a mate of mine, "Is there a pope for every country then?" What can one do but just walk away?

Ehhhhhh.........Waterford?
Overheard this one in a tourist shop in Belfast a few weeks back. The American at the sales counter in front of me asks: "Hey, I've got like, a question, where in Ireland is Waterford Crystal made?"

Fenton recounted this conversation with a colleague at his work...
Fenton: "Finally got to see the dvd Troy the other night, have you seen it yet?"
Colleague: "Yeah."
Fenton: "What did you think of it?"
Colleague: "Ar, it was oright, bit far fetched like, at the end with the soldiers getting out of the horse an' all!" (Not the sharpest tool in the shed).

Classic:
Catching the bus home after a night out in a Belfast pub with Fenton and mates, there were the usual Northern Irish 'chavs' on board all pissed as... and having a few spliffs when the bus driver announced over the intercom...
"I would like to remind people that smoking on a bus is illegal. This doesn't just apply to normal cigarettes. This also applies to hash, hashish, cannabis, cannabis resin, joints, spliffs, pot, weed etc etc so before we all get an attack of the munchies will you lot up the back seats there, put that bloody thing out."

Smartarse...
Overheard: Woman getting onto 27 bus in Lisburn.
Woman: "Are ya going to Carrickfergus?"
Driver: "Yeah."
Woman: "Well it says City Centre on your sign on the front."
Driver: "Yeah? Well it says Cornflakes on the back of the bus but it doesn't mean we sell them."

Written on the back of Boots (chemist) childrens' cough syrup:
'Do not drive a car or operate heavy machinery after taking this medication.'

On the bottom of Tesco's (supermarket) tiramisu dessert:
'Do not turn upsidedown.'

A story related to me...
The charitable mugger:
One day a mate here was waiting for a bus after work, and a few scumbags slithered by. One little bugger demanded £5.00 from him. My mate didn't want his head kicked in, so he gave it to him but told the scumbag he hadn't enough left for his busfare, to which the scumbag replied:
"Don't worry, I'll sort ye out."
Anyway, the bus came along, my mate got on and told the bus driver he hadn't enough for the fare and the driver told him he couldn't let him on. At this point, the scumbag sticks his head in the door and says,
"It's alright. I mugged him. That's why he hasn't enough."
The bus driver's jaw dropped and told my mate to get on the bus real quick. Sorted.

Politically Correct?:
In a coffee bar chatting to a friend about the Phil Lynott, lead singer of the Irish rock band Thin Lizzy...a girl at the next table quickly scorned me for calling him 'black.'
'Ok,' I said, "What should I call him?"
"African American," she said!

A Shed Full O' Laughs:
Fenton's mate was catching an early flight from Belfast City Airport to London and parked in the long term car park. The parking attendant warned him to remove all his personal items and valuables from the car...
" I'm only tellin' ya dis because I can't fit any'tin more into my shed at home."

Like Australia, Ireland has banned smoking from pubs and clubs and resturants; saw the following sign in a pub in Swords, just north of Dublin: 'If we see you smoking, we will assume you are on fire and take appropriate action.' Nice one!

Famine?!...
American Lady: "I thought that all Irish girls were skinny!"
My chubby mate (in embarassment): "Ah well sure, if there's a famine I'll survive the longest!"
American Lady: OH MY GOSH! U guys are gonna have another famine here? When?!?!

A time machine?:
Talking to American tourists in a Belfast pub they said... "We are going to visit England next and we want to see Nelson's Battle of Trafalgar. You wouldn't know how we get there would you?"

Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm:
"I saw you the other day but I didn't know it was you cos when I caught up on you, you were gone... was it yourself then?"

On a packet of Sainsbury's (supermarket) peanuts:
'Warning - may contain nuts or trace elements of nuts.'

Weet-thicks!:
One morning, after staying in a Dublin hotel, a mate was eating breakfast and saw an American couple at the next table eating Weetbix with marmalade on it. Then he hears the couple say to a waitress...
"Your brown bread here is very dry. We've heard a lot about your brown bread in America and we didn't think it would be this bad."

Ok, if you insist...
Sign on the upstairs toilet door of a local pub:
'Toilet out of order. Please use floor below.'

One a Kiwi friend at university here related to me...
Getting an education:
On the morning of a history exam, my friends room mate was looking frantically through her history book. My mate asked her what was wrong. The girl said the teacher had mentioned Murphy's law in reference to the exam and that she couldn't find it in the book and didn't know what is was, she then said "But I think it has something to do with the 'home rule movement' in Northern Ireland."

On a Dundalk shop door:
'We can repair anything! Please knock - the bell doesn't work.'

One from a mate on a tour bus in Dublin:
"The day after Paddy's day I was sitting on the tour bus in town and there was these young American tourists (girls) sitting in front of me, they were quiet for a while then one of them turned to her friend and asked... "Why are there so many buildings with the words 'Irish' and or 'Ireland' on them?"

The Plight of the Homeless U2 Fans...
Overheard in Dublin:
Two old dears walking along outside some Ticketmaster outlets the night before the U2 concert tickets went on sale recently. On observing the large number of people in various sleeping bags queuing for the much sought after tickets, one lady said to the other : "Disgusting... And they say there is no homeless problem in this city."

Thicko...
This is just stupid, but I was on the bus yesterday and two fairly posh girls were talking about the recent tsunami disaster. They talked for a while in a pretty ditsy manner before one of them said, "Do people in Thailand not know how to swim then?" (Stop the bus I want to get off!)

The hypocrisy of it all:
Coming home on the bus a few nights back there was this young and heavily pregnant girl smoking a joint and swilling cider the whole way home with her "fella." Coming up to the Lisburn city centre, the bus driver slams on the brakes suddenly and everyone is thrown forward a little. Next thing the girl shouts up "Here be careful driver, I'm bloody pregnant ya know!"

Asking for directions in Ireland:
"So it's the Dublin road you'll be wanting then. Well now, if I was going to Dublin, I wouldn't be starting from here."

Is there a badge that goes with the job?...
The sign on a door of the administration block of a local school reads:
'Assistant Administrative Assistant to the Assistant Principal's Administration Office.'

And another in a department store in Ballymena reads:
'Bargain basement upstairs.'

Round ANZAC Day - a quick history lesson for the locals... Talking to an 'Orish' mate at Sunday breakfast, he said:
'Jaysus, I didn't know there were Australian and New Zealand troops at Gallipoli! I thought it was only the Irish and English. You mean to tell me they were in Vietnam and Korea too? Now there's a thing!'

And lastly, my favourite...
On a local veterinarian's office door:
'BACK IN FIVE MINUTES. SIT! STAY!'

Belfast, Northern Ireland. Still raining!
I've just run downstairs to see why my cat Koshka is delightedly leaping about and purring so loud it sounds like someone revving a Harley and it turns out there's a spider in the bath. But... it's not just any spider either... it's BIG and hairy and ugly and my cat (whose nick name is 'the anti-christ') is cheerfully playing with it! Anyway, the reason for this part of my latest missive is... I've noticed a strange phenomena with my cat. Since we arrived in Northern Ireland... fluffy black wonder cat has decided he likes spiders. When at home in Australia, in his 14 years, Koshka would have NEVER gone near a spider. In Oz, the sight of a spider would send him running, howling and hissing in panic and he'd not be comforted for hours. He would have never approached one, certainly never played with one, torturing it happily, as he's doing now. I've tried to approach him to remove aforemention big hairy ugly nasty looking beast and the cat's not having it; in fact he's hissing at me to back off. So... this is what I want to know... how does he know the spiders in this country cannot hurt him? They look the same; they act the same; in appearance just as creepy as Aussie spiders, but they can't kill him as the deadly Australian spiders can... so how does he know?

Have just learned that the Irish army regiments always wear shamrocks in their jackets on St. Patricks Day and that incongrously, all the shamrocks are imported from Australia. HA! Now I know what St. Patrick did with all the snakes!

So... shopping the other day in Belfast, Fenton and I walked out of a crowded Castle Court shopping centre and into a carpet of pigeons. 'There's a lot of vermin in this city,' I remark disgustedly. 'Yes,' says Fenton, 'And there's a lot of pigeons too!' Sadly, in Belfast litter covers every footpath and gutter and I'm wondering if the city council employs street sweepers. Trash cans are few and far between... and I can understand the reasoning behind the fact that there are so few as, in the past, people put bombs in them... but now that's kinda over, bins have not been replaced. People think nothing of throwing their crisp packets, empty drink bottles and cans and cigarette butts straight onto the street or out the car window. Cigarette butts thrown out the car window! As an Australian, this horrifys me... do that in Oz and 100,000 hectares of pristine bush land and rain forrest burst into flames and go up in smoke! A South African mate the other day was telling me that she spoke to a kid in the street telling him to pick up his rubbish that he's just casually thrown into someone's garden while walking past... and she was right royally told to ***k off and threatened with a broken bottle. This type of behaviour is right across the board here with people of all ages showing little respect for their enviroment and none at all for those trying to protect it. Only 8% of people here re-cycle! It's not for nothing that Belfast has been voted "Europes Dirtiest City" for 5 years in a row. Lou Reed, should he ever visit, would be tempted to compose "An Even Dirtier Boulevard."

I gave Fenton a challange when he asked what I wanted for my last birthday... 'Something Australian,' I said with an evil grin. I thought it was virtually impossible to buy any Australian product in Belfast - whereas in Dublin and London they are fortunate enough to have Aussie stores catering to homesick Australians who want that little taste of home. Apart from the ubiquitous toy koalas and kangaroos, boomerangs, digeridoos and Vegimite these shops always stock - one can buy over the counter or online, Twisties (bloody ripper!) Samboy chips (bloody ripper!) Cherry Ripes (ok, so not so fond of them), or Caramello Koala's (bloody ripper!) Areoplane Jelly, Golden Circle Pineapple, confectionery, soft drinks and booze etc etc. So Fenton takes up the challange and tries to find me something Australian... in Belfast. Me thinks... nup, he's got Buckley's chance. But wow... I must say he completely out did himself and I was not just stunned and delighted, I was - as they say here - gobsmacked! The birthday gift was absolutely superb... a gold ring of three Australian fire opals from Lightning Ridge set in a line with two Western Australian diamonds. It is to die for and geeeeeeze... I would have been over the moon happy with a packet of Twisties! He also gave me a pair of Australian Ugg Boots. Ah ha! He's noticed that I turn blue if the temp drops below 20C (ie: all the time) and he's sick of me complaining of cold feet... so now I have deliciously warm and toastie feet and have taken to wearing the Ugg boots all the time even... (shock horror)... out of the house. No fashion conscious, self respecting Aussie would dream of wearing Ugg boots out of the house... but a strange thing happened a few years back. Some American half-wit poser actress/singer with no dress sense visited Oz, bought a pair and thought 'cool... I'll wear them to the next Grammy's.' Suddenly Australian Ugg boots are a fashion icon and the thing... but we Aussie's tend to think this is ultra strange in that we only wear them as slippers to lounge about in when we couldn't be bothered to get our arses off the couch.

Fenton became quite worried about me before Xmas. Homesickness reduced me to tears on several ocassions and I became a morbidly complaining horrible witch (ok, so not much of a change from my usual self, some would admit)... but at the time I was reducing all of Northern Ireland in my mind to a nuclear waste dump 20 times a day. Nothing it seemed, could cure my longing for home... a lot of my homesick blues centered on having to wear 5 layers of thermals to keep warm and being rained upon every day and missing the feel of the sun on my skin. Fenton decided then to try to find Australian 'things' to try to cheer me up... and although I'm not as homesick as I was, I still miss Oz to an enormous degree... but I am happier. The happiness stems, not from watching 'Neighbours' or 'Home and Away,' shown on British tv every day... and trust me... I could never be that desperate - but from Fenton going out of his way to find Aussie things for me to connect to. So far he has come up with... Vegimite - shark meat (sold here for a staggering £40 a kilo!) - kangaroo steaks (for the outrageous £22 a kilo - for what is essentially road kill) and I don't know any Aussie who eats it apart from my cat. Fentons Aussie product hunts have also been fruitful in finding Goulburn Valley peaches, SPC pears, Victorian cherries, Queensland macadamia nut oil, Rip Curl and Billabong t-shirts, Arnott's Pizza Shapes (but sadly not the BBQ or Savoury Shapes that are my favourites) Australian bush plum bbq marinades, Arnotts Tim Tams, ANZAC bikkies, pirri pirri sauce, and crocodile steaks. I'm not going to mention the price of the croc steaks because any Aussie reading this will just die of laughter. He's even found my favourite Australian wine... the magnificant merlot of "Ironstone" from Western Australia's wine growing region of Margaret River. He even found Australian rock salt... and hey, salt is salt but what the hell, he bought some anyway.

Anyway... quite a few weeks back, much encouraged by Fenton, I joined a web forum catering to Australians abroard and recieved an email from a lovely lady from Beaudesert - Queensland. Except (!) that she's not in Queensland but in the town of Holywood (the original 'Hollywood') just outside Belfast. We exhanged numbers and spent a long afternoon yabbering on and on about life in Northern Ireland. She and her husband and two children have been here for 3 years and mine was the 1st Australian accent she'd heard in over 2 years. We now have a close knit enclave of various Aussie's, Kiwi's and South African's... in a kinda Southern Hemisphere club, with get-togethers for breakfast every Sunday plus lunches, nights out and bbq's. We've set ourselves challanges to come up with suppliers of much missed goodies from home - my task this week was to find Savanna Cider and Castle beer from South Africa and the spice Aromat. The one and only Asian supermarket in Belfast was my only option and after much hunting I'll be able to (proudly) hand over the Aromat spice to the Saffas (South Africans) next Sunday. Savanna Cider I've found is going to be on the shelves next June in a local supermarket thanks to firing off an email to a SA company that has a division in England and who are constantly being hasseled by South Africans who live in the UK.

Fenton though (superior being that he is)... holds onto his title of Lord and Master of the Universe in his hunting down of what he calls 'foreign' products. His email to Bundaberg in Queensland produced a reply from the ever-so-nice people that make Bundy telling us where we could buy Bundaberg Rum in Belfast. Fenton's piece de resistance though was his glorious finding of the illustrious, much missed, much longed for and divine VB! Yes, Victoria Bitter! Loved and adored by all Australians. Our fridge is now full! He also found... completely overwhelming our Southern Hemisphere Club... the Aussie's beers of - Toohey's, Hahn, Crown Lager, Carlton Colds, Boags and Coopers, plus the South Africa beer of Castle and the New Zealand's Waikato Draught. We are all mightily impressed with him... and dubbed him an honourary Australian, South African and NZedder.

Last Sunday I thrilled one of the Aussies at brekkie by gifting her an Australian potato peeler. She held her gift proudly aloft showing everyone and to a person... they pounced. Suddenly the whole table was in an uproar - of WOWS! Holy crap Sem where did you score that? Where can I get one? Gods - I've longed for one of them! And here's the strange thing... everyone was dead serious! Having lived in London for a while - way back when - I frequently gave myself sore wrists trying to use one of the lousy excuses for potato peelers they use in the UK. I don't know what it is about them... but they are complete and utter rubbish and there's just something so unatural about the design. While waiting 6 weeks for my container of household goods to arrive in Northern Ireland, I was forced to use a British PP and I can't tell you the amount of times I hurled the offending piece of kitchen equipment across the room and stamped off in a huff. Fenton... upon using my Aussie PP after unpacking my kitchen goods, was pleased and suprised at the ease of using it and grudgingly had to admit... they are far superior. I now have strict orders to supply everyone with an Aussie PP. As I look at the design of the Australian PP, I think... there's nothing special about it - nor is there anything special about peeling potato's in general... but I'm all for any product that makes my time in the kitchen easier and the Aussie PP is tops in my book!

On the subject of potato's... you'd think that Ireland and Northern Ireland would have a decent selection of potato's given their main industry is agriculture. But no! Isn't that wyrrd! I mean, this is Ireland for gods sake! The potato in Ireland is a historical icon! In Oz I can buy 20 different types, depending where I shop... but here I can find only three different varieties in the major supermarkets and two of them are imported from Portugal and Cyprus! Importing potato's INTO Ireland? HUH? And the Irish variety is more expensive than the imported. HUH? So now I have seen everything... importing shamrocks and potatos into Ireland, Guinness of St. James Gate, Dublin is owned by the French company Pernod and all of this virtually means... there is nothing, simply nothing, in this world that is sacred anymore.

Must tell you of the wonderful visitors who graced our home during the Summer... My baby brother and his fabulous wife. I was so excited to have them here after long months of seperation from anything remotely Australian and I must say it was great to hear the much missed Aussie accent. Day one was a welcoming afternoon of exploring the village where Fenton and I have our home with dinner later at our fav local pub. Sister in law insists on paying for everything. Day two was a drive up to the North Antrim Coast and the Giants Causeway and sister in law insists on paying for everything. This is a trip I know I'll be repeating again and again for the rest of my stay here... Having been there nine times now - I'm given to warning potential visitors that I may not be the best company should they wish to visit the Giants Causeway. Thrilling tho' my 1st visit was, I now have a 'been there - done that' attitude which is engraved into my soul. Later that night Fenton's family had the 4 of us to dinner... a massive roast, plenty of drinks and a long getting to know everyone session. Just lovely!

Day three was great! We had a wander round the city centre, and a nice pub lunch with sister in law insisting she pay for everything. Belfast has been voted Europes' dirtiest city so I'm keen to see their impression. Belfast tourism operate tour buses on a daily basis from Castle Place, right in the heart of Belfast city centre, offering visitors the best way to see Belfast. The tours cost £8- for each person (Sister in law insisted on paying but was pipped at the post by Fenton) and the cost seems a lot just to be driven round a drab and grey city but what a great surprise...

The tours, from an open top red double decker bus cover: Belfast city centre, the Titanic Quarter (Harland and Wolfe Shipyards),the Cathedral Quarter, the political districts (Wall Murals/Shankill Road/Falls Road) the University district and the nightlife areas of pubs, clubs and restaurants. Each tour features a live commentary supplied by a lively and educated local guide, and is really good craic! Our tour guide, who introduces himself as "Billy" is informed, articulate and full of wit. It threatens to rain but not detered we clammer to the upper deck to get the best view.

The tour winds it's way round the Belfast city centre with Billy pointing out numerous historical buildings and our 1st stop is the site where the Titanic was built. The dry dock where the ship was constructed is now a paved over unused car park and covered in weeds, broken concrete and surrounded by derelict and decaying buildings. Billy touches on the history of it's maiden voyage, the tragic sinking but points out that "although the Titanic was built in Belfast...the Captain was English, the Chief Engineer was Scottish, the iceberg was Canadian... so it wasn't our fault!" During the construction, practically every home in the suburbs surrounding Harland and Wolfe benefited from the building of the Titanic... Original mouldings, stairways, doors, beautifully crafted bathroom fittings, light fixtures, kitchen wares, rugs and carpets and linens were secreted out by sneaky (theiving bastard) ship builders and used to enhance their home decor. Titanic 'bathrooms' exist to this day in Belfast. One chap at the time, suspected of stealing from his work place and was closely watched as he left work each night, pushing his personal tools home in a wheelbarrow. It took security months and months to figure out that what he was in fact stealing was... the wheelbarrows. I've brushed on the subject of the in a previous journal entry but with approx' 3,500,000 web sites dedicated to the ship, I figure anyone who wishes to know more can simply look it up for themselves.

The bus tour moves onto the Odyessy Arena, home to the Harp Larger Belfast Giants ice hockey team... in the spirit of reconncilliation and harmony, Protestant and Catholic Belfast city fathers (probably after way to much Guinness) decided that was the city needed was not better infrastructure, nor more cash for local government agencies and private sector organizations but... an ice hockey team. Incongruously, each and every member of the team is... Canadian.

We drive round the Albert memorial Clock tower in Victoria St built in 1865 by WJ Barre. Leaning to 1.25 metres (4 feet) off the vertical, the Clock’s unsteadiness is due to the fact that it was built on land reclaimed from the river. It looks ready to fall over, much like the leaning Tower of Pisa. The tower is 35 metres (113 feet) high and centres around Prince Albert, Victoria’s consort. Crowned lions holding shields and floral decoration surround the clock itself. We pass Bittels Bar in Victoria Sq. built in 1868 by Thomas Jackson & Son. It's Belfast’s only “flat-iron building," it is also notable for its polychrome brickwork. The lounge is decorated with portraits of Ireland’s literary heroes, including Wilde, Yeats, Joyce and Beckett. It was once a favourite haunt of theatre-folk, and was known as The Shakespeare.

The bus trundles pass Crown Liquor Salon, mentioned in a previous journal entry, which is in Great Victoria St. Drinkers of the city know well it and tend to avoid it and the masses of tourists that pack into it for lunch and drinks. It's opulent marble, brilliant Italian tilework, fine glass engraving, dark embossed ceiling and cosy booths are bedecked with gryphons and lions. Panels in the restaurant on the first floor were meant for Brittanic, Titanic’s sister ship but somehow found their way to this pub. Those sneaky theiving bastards again. Built in 1839-1840, the couple that owned it were of "a mixed marriage." Unique in the world... a "mixed marriage" in Northern Ireland does not mean people of different races/colours happily getting it together... but when a Protestant marries a Catholic - a situation which is generally frowned upon. The wife... being Protestant wanted to call the pub the Crown and the Catholic husband only agreed after deciding to place a mosaic of the British royal crown on ground at the front entrance to the bar... so everyone entering could wipe their feet on it.

We take in St. Malachy's church in Alfred St. 1840-1844. The castle-like exterior and studded Tudorstyle door of St Malachy’s opens onto an incredible interior with a ceiling like an insideout wedding cake. In 1868, the largest bell turret in Belfast was added to the church. It was taken away shortly afterwards, due to complaints that its deafening noise interfered with the maturing of the whiskey in Dunville’s distillery nearby. The Irish take their whiskey VERY seriously! Next we pass Belfasts Grand Opera House - 1894-1895 Matcham, it's designer was the leading theatre architect of his time. I notice the twin domes, Moorish lanterns and ornamental pediments. Restored in 1980 following bomb damage and years of dereliction, and bombed twice since. Now restored to glory, and hopefully free of more terrorist attacks, it's the centrepiece of Belfast’s `Golden Mile’. Further into the tour was pass City Hall, a fine example of the classical Renaissance style, it's an Edwardian masterpiece built in 1906 from Portland stone with it's ornate dome, grand staircase, oak furnished Council Chamber and John Luke murals. The City Hall interior is said to be close to the design of the Titanic interiors.

From there it's past St Anne’s Cathedral, designed in a Hiberno-Romanesque’ style, which took 77 years to complete. It is also known as Belfast Cathedral and the most visited attraction in Belfast. This Anglican (Episcopal) Cathedral was built using Irish marbles, mosaics and stained glass. The pipe organ is the largest in Northern Ireland. The building has the largest Celtic cross in Ireland. The founder of the original parish church which stood on the site before the construction of the cathedral, was built by the Marquis of Donegall, who decided to name it after his first wife, (née Lady Anne Hamilton) by way of a memorial to her. It is for this reason therefore that the Church is dedicated to St Anne, the "Mother of the Blessed Virgin Mary." St Anne is most well known as a saint in Brittany. There is no evidence to suggest that Belfast Cathedral ever kept the Feast Day of St Anne - 26 July - as its patronal festival (as is the tradition of the Anglican Church). More emphasis seems to have been placed on the 'Anniversary of the Consecration of the Nave.' This idiosyncrasy continues to the present day.

The Queen's University of Belfast is a major university catering for most disciplines of study. It plays an important role in the educational as well as industrial and cultural activities of the province. The university hosts the annual Belfast Arts Festival. The main building, with cloisters and an entrance tower, was designed by Lanyon in 1849 and has a similar architecture to that of Magdalen College, Oxford AND Australia's Melbourne University on Royal Parade.

As we drive into West Belfast, our tour guide tells us "we are entering the Catholic enclave of the Falls Road and my name is now Liam. If anything ticking is thrown into the bus, you are on your own." As a relative newcomer to Belfast, the whole Shankhill / Falls Road thing is still an alien concept. From the past news coverage, any visitor would be forgiven for thinking that there is constant trouble with defenceless pedestrians dodging wayward bullets. In the case of the Falls Road, the truth is that it has become a bit of a tourist hot-spot, with sightseeing buses trundling through on the hour every hour. Nowadays the arrival of the out-of-towners, heads at their windows, clicking away with cameras, searching for the excitement, is the main attraction of the street. One knows when one is on the Falls Road in West Belfast when the street names are in Gaelic. Belfast is in need of a cultural injection so why not start with the street names? Yeah right... As one progress down the road, I begin to feel a little cheated. It's actually really dull! The most exciting thing likely to happen is the massive crush from the awful traffic of sight-seeing tours. We drive past the HQ of Sinn Fein, the political wing of the Provisional IRA and it's a drab and ugly office block of brick and stucco circa 1950's, with metal grills covering every window and door. The murals on the Falls are excellent with their painstaking detail, and add a much needed burst of colour along with the Irish tri-colour flags that adorn the lamp posts. There is no denying that the road is overtly political and the Garden of Remembrance and Milltown Cemetery serve as a constant reminder of Northern Ireland's chequered history.

Liam changes his name back to Billy when we enter the Protestant Shankhill area. He asks that "anyone who feels the need to make the sign of the cross or genuflect, could you kindly refrain from doing so until we leave the area." One of the first things that you notice about the Shankhill Road, is its size. It's not very big. It's about half the size of the Falls and seems a lot shorter. The second is that Belfast Council seems to be very fond of traffic lights, as every two steps you are guaranteed to have at least two sets!

The striking thing about the Shankhill is the name of the shops. There's the usual Shankhill Hardware and Shankhill Furnishings. But the strange thing is that everybody seems to want to have his or her name above the shop door. There's Len's Kebabs and Violet's Fruit Shop and Clarke's Fuels. Maybe it builds a sense of community, as you are guaranteed to come across two-dozen names as you drive along. The best thing is the KFC. It's not just called the 'KFC Drive Thru', no, its called the 'Shankhill KFC Drive Thru' with handy posters and signs in case you ever lose you way and forget where you are. Don't ever let it be said that these multi-national corporations lack an imagination.

The murals on the Shankhill are often curiously different. On one side you have the usual gun-totting, military and balaclava look with men dressed in black and trying hard to look menacing. But then there are the ones of the Queen Elizabeth and the Queen Mother. What is it about the Queens face in that whatever she appears on, she seems to have had a facelift that makes her look about twenty years younger? Whether it is on a fifty pence piece or on the side of a gable wall she always looks amazingly youthful. Of course, it's probably better that she looks younger than older, as the murals purpose is not for scaring small children. The one of the Queen Mother is the best. Her eyes have been painted in a way that makes them look as if they are following you around the road - or maybe that is the idea. Red white and blue flags crisscross the entire length of the street with every building sporting the Union Jack and yet more bunting. Curb stones are painted in the same red, white and blue... a New Zealander at the front of the bus asks why and is told that Belfast is the twin city of Paris... yeah right... no! It's to show the solidarity of the people with British rule in Northern Ireland. Billy takes the time to tease the New Zealanders warning everyone to always avoid NZedders as "if you take one home with you, you'll be tripping over back-packs for weeks and weeks."

Our final night together was spent at home in the company of a few dvd's, much laughter and a few drinks. An early start sees my brother and his wife off to the Belfast City Airport and onto France. I beleive it was about then my homesickness for Australia kicked in and I spent the next few months ignoring everyone and everything including Ancient Worlds.

I cannot think of a more expressive way other than writing the word 'SHITE' to adequately sum up my last visit to Scotland. I have been sea sick once before in my life despite actually 'living' at sea for four years and travelling the world aboard cargo ships, facing hurricanes aboard oil tankers, living through cylcones aboard gas carriers and putting up with tourists aboard cruise liners... yet the one and only time I was sea-sick before this trip to Scotland was on the same stretch of water I'm faced with now and way back then it was on a ferry crossing from Holyhead in Wales to Dun Laoghaire, the port city of Dublin. The memory of that crossing some 20 years ago remained vivid and horrifying to memory as Fenton and I joined friends in Belfast and made our way on board the Sea Cat that was to take us out over Belfast Lough, the Irish Sea and to the port of Troon in Scotland. 'Shite' is such a clarifying word and completely sums the whole experience and I must say... that unless Scottish weather improves, and someone concretes the entire Irish Sea so I can drive across without getting my feet wet, I'll not be going back.

Let me just add that, although their weather may be horrible, the Scottish themselves appear to be warm and inviting... a great pity though that I didn't actually get to meet to talk to and appreciate any Scot's while in Scotland, I met numerous English, tons of Poles, a few Hungarians, Italians, Bavarians and many Irish, including the contingent I was with but no actual Scots apart from one bar manager who was so horrified at how cold I was... handed over an entire bottle of Drambuie (free) and said 'ach drink up ye poor wee thing noo,' before soundly mouthing off at Fenton for bringing me to Scotland!

From Troon it's a two hour drive from the ferry landing, skirting Glasgow to a cold and considerably wet field near Stirling and the site of the Battle of Bannockburn. My coveting eyes glaze over the 3 star King Robert Hotel as we (inexplicably) drive past it and on to the camping ground. Let me say right off... I'm not into camping. I'm more the 5 star kinda gal (but will put up with 3 star) who likes to have all mod cons, including spas and room service. I am showing willing though (through gritted teeth I'm smiling and trying to get into the spirit of the thing) while all the time listening to Fenton saying 'this is going to be great fun!' I'm pretty convinced through my own bias, that he is lying. Dear sweet man... he's been looking forward to this event for a year and aren't I being a drag! The tent is up and seems dry enough... I have an air bed with a huge chunky down filled quilt, 4 blankets and two pillows... all water proof, so I'm told. Yeah right!

The camp gradually fills up, the traders set up their stalls, cars pilled high with Medieval battle equipment disgorge re-enactors in their hundreds and Fenton raises my huge Australian flag outside our tent. Our un-merry team of re-enactors have decided to (in solidarity) pretend to be Australian all weekend and walk about saying 'it's bloody cold enough to bloody freeze the bloody balls of a bloody dingo mate!' STRUTH!

We find a supermarket in the town of Bannockburn... and heap tons of munchies and alcohol into the trolley. One of our team buys warm bottles of the ultra wyrrd Goblin's Old Peculiar (which was) and back at the camp we have a hurried camp fire meal of bacon and egg rolls. By the time the weekend is over... I can no longer eat bacon, bread or eggs and refuse drink from any bottle with the word 'peculiar' written on it.

In June, 690 years ago, the English were roundly defeated by the Scots in a battle that remains a defining moment in Scottish history. The forces of Edward II of England and Robert the Bruce of Scotland met on the flat land south of Stirling in the parish of St. Ninians. Edward had accepted the challange to relieve the forces of Stirling Castle, one of the few castles in Scotland still under English control. The Scottish forces, although smaller, used superior tactics and position to win an herioc victory and soundly thrash the larger English cavalry force from the field and importantly... from Scotland. The battle marked the end to English pretensions to control the north. History lesson over... and back to me!

What a cold, ungrateful bitch I'm proving to be. I'm getting wet and I don't like it. The steady patter of rain drums on the tent, adding to my woe. Outside, bedragled groups of wet, woollen clad die-hards huddle defiantly around a miserable fire that chokes, splutters and fans a cloying wealth of smoke with very little flame or actual warmth. They talk of past shows, of better weather and catch up with friends whom they have not seen for a year or more. I'm mouthing off at Fenton (poor thing) for bringing me to such a drenched, wretched and misberable place ... Day Two, and after a restless night listening to the wind howl and the rain pour down, I'm so annoyed I could kill. Two totally drunken blokes in the next tent are arguing over the South African battle of Rourkes Drift in which they are saying that the Zulu forces were inadequate to the task of fighting against the wrath of British Colonial Imperialism. Well... the Zulu's won Isambwana, the guys in the next tent are not only inconsiderate to those of us trying to sleep but are also dead wrong in their conclusions and I wish at 5am they'd shut the $%£& up! SCUNNERS, the lot of them! Incidently... there's a great pub called Rourke's Drift in Chapel Street, South Yarra - Melbourne, Victoria, Australia... and they do great beef jerky. There's one in Darwin too, decorated the same... with Zulu paraphinalia and surprisingly not one photo of Michael Caine. Quote: 'Not a lot of people know that.' Unquote. 6am and some other arsehole (Scotland at this point in time seems to be full of them) is playing Scotland The Brave on the bagpipes. They guys in the opposite encampment have decided to strip him naked and shove his pipes up his kilt then burn his tent to the ground. They needn't have bothered... during the night 8 tents, including the one belonging to the lone piper have blown away in the gale taking the occupants with them.

The Scottish National Heritage records that visitors to the re-enactment of the Battle of Bannockburn prove to be in access of 14,000. The events kick off each day with Fenton and his mates getting dressed for battle. There are so many weapons here! I want to take the biggest claymore I can find and ram it down the throat of the next person who says,' bit wet isn't it.' I tell you... Had Fenton allowed me the use of his claymore... I would have taken the heads off each and every bastard who told me to 'cheer up' that weekend. Fenton decides early on to hide all sharp objects from me... as soon as it began raining I couldn't even find my nail file but everyone here is armed to the teeth and I'm thinking how easy it could be to lay my hands on something pointy, spikey and Medieval. 'Please pass me my gambeson,' says Fenton. I look at the equipment a little dumbfounded by the mass of it all. Which bit is which? And a gambeson is what exactly? Coif? Hose? Helm? Arming cap? Lobster gauntlets? Ah... Chain mail... I recognise that bit by it's sheer weight and the fact that it weighs the car down so much so the rear axel scrapes the road... and am once again amazed by the weight of it all. Undeterred by the constant rain (sleet by this time) and the fact that chain mail rusts, the re-enactors march round the arena much to the joy of the 1000's of people who have flocked to the site to see the spectacle. It rains copious amounts and I'm thinking that any moment now, someone is going to have to build an Ark. But it's a case of bum's on seats, and the show must go on.

There's an archery display in the afternoon... and although both Fenton and I are members of the Northern Irish based archery group in attendance, I decline to join in. I can't get my hands to work. I've gone way beyond cold and am now simply numb and the meer thought of drawing a simple 28lb long bow cramps my fingers. STRUTH! The main event begins at 3pm following a muster of troops which is announced by a full pipe band marching up to the the Bannockburn monument and around the statue of Robert the Bruce. And there sits the effigy of King Robert... looking all masculine, regal and in charge "atop 'is big white horsey wi' the curtains aboot it."

Some 400 re-enactors take the field to re-stage the the battle. I'm sitting at the side of the field watching and ready to take photo's when the huge Scottish bloke next to me with an even bigger Scottish flag screams abuse at the English and encourges his fellow countrymen to do likewise. And so they do. The English are roundly sneered at, booed, hissed at and yelled into loosing the re-enectment of a battle they lost for real over 600 years ago. It's all in good fun, but one can truly imagine the depth of feeling generated by Scottish pride to see the English forces sound roundly beaten. The formidable Scottish troops are pulling into siltrons against the English advance. These tightly formed units are bristling with pole arms that prove to be awesome. They raise deafening cheers from the watching crowds much as Angus Og MacDonalds men must have done in 1314. The crowd goes wild for the battle of words between Edward and King Robert... even though this didn't happen during the real battle... Later at the bar I get talking to both re-enactors that played the principle characters and discover that the chappie playing the part of Robert the Bruce was born in England and the re-enactor playing the English Edward II was born in Scotland. Fenton and his mates are fighting on the English side, despite being Irish and compatriots of the Scots they follow the age old tradition of NOT being fans of Robert the Bruce (nb: read the Irish history of Ulster to find out why)... and although I try to keep my eye on him, there are so many on the field I loose sight at every turn. There's a Canadian friend from Belfast wacking at some poor Scot with her sword; his shield is down, he's on the ground and I'm thinking 'yeah, go girl!' The voluable Scot next to me in the crowd cries foul play and the call is taken up by hundred's. Just as Miss Canada puts the boot in and I'm snapping a photo... my erstwhile neighbours flag wraps itself about my face and the camera. There'll be no record of this for the English to gloat over. Hail starts to drive into me. Scottish resilence amazes me... they turn out in their thousands in wretched weather to celebrate their culture and watch the English get kicked in the face. A kid complains to his father that the seat is wet, he's cold and he wants to go home. He's told to shut the %$^& up, sit down, stop complaining and watch the English take a beating. The kid is more than gratified when the battle re-enactment winds it way to it's conclusion with the re-enactors rushing the huge crowd with a blood-thristy cry that would have chilled my bones... were I not already suffering from hypothermia. I'm knee deep in mud. EVERYTHING is knee deep in mud. A bloke offers me £100 for the Wellington's and water-proof clothing I'm wearing... I'm considering that if he ups the offer to a fully paid for - two week vacation for two in Singapore (with drink, meal vouchers and £5000 spending money), he's got a deal. The beer tent is open and all the re-enactors head for the bar. Fenton and his mates decided to stay in their battle gear as it's warm; they're straight from the battle field and sweating like pigs in a sauna. The beer taste proves to be much the same. I'm amusing myself by watching the re-enactors walking into the tent and getting their boots stuck in mud before they even make it to the bar... Yet more re-enactors head for the traders tents to purchase authentic medieval fabrics from Bernie the Bolt, mead from the monks of Iona, patterned leather tankards, Medieval replicated coins minted on the spot, period costumes, pottery and wooden swords for the kids; 'toys for the boys' style traders do a huge business selling chain mail, helms and shields and I make my way to the overly disgusting porta-loos to stand in line and wait to spend a penny. Not much need to point this out but... I'm having a really crappy time.

I make the mistake of eating a bread roll chockers to the brim with Angus beef and gravy and spend the rest of the night crawling from our tent, donning the water-proofs and struggling into the afore-mentioned and yet even MORE disgusting than ever porta-loos. Fenton has booked us into the King Robert Hotel for our last night. I love this man... though I wish he would not keep saying, 'Only 18 hours to go Sem, before we are in the hotel and we can have a shower.' My mind drifts to Qantas who, in 18 hours could fly me to Sentosa beach in Singapore. My teeth are still grinding but my mood is lightened by Fenton's gift of a gargoyle statue. It's green... and has an ugly, frightful look on it's little screwed up face. I promptly name it "Bannockburn" in memory of an insufferably wet, cold and miserable weekend.

The hours drift by... I'm too tired and way too cold to take down our tent and with Fenton's approval, leave a sign on it that reads 'free to a good home.' I find out later that it's ended up in Donegal. Possibly the wind simply picked it up and dumped it there. Now I'm standing in the shower in our hotel room and I've been standing, luxuriating under the steam, the warmth and the glow of the hot water for close to two hours. Only an invitation to the bar and a decent dinner could coax me out. The invitation is forethcoming and we make our way to the bar. Drenched fellow archers and re-enactors from Belfast (who have still to spend a night camping), sit huddled round the open fire and I gladly hand over our room key to any of the group who liked to partake of a hot shower. All present made a grab for the key then after, join us in the bar for drinks. Fenton and his mates are eating the haggis with a whiskey sauce... I'm having the fish, drinks are bountiful, the company pleasant and yet I want my bed. I wish to sleep the sleep of the dead and wake up back in Australia where I know the sun is out; it is hot and I'm getting a tan as opposed to a freezing windburn.

Next morning...Back to Troon... the forecast tells us that gale force winds are due for our crossing. I despise the Irish Sea! We manage to make the last car ferry; all others are cancelled due to bad weather. No surprises there. The road via Glasgow is cut due to flooding and we have to leave early (NO!... I want to sleep in! In an actual bed!) to take the long way back to Troon. In my misery, I'm coughing, sneezing and drinking Lemsips. Fenton is kind, solitious and all caring. Once on the ferry we hug the Scottish coast round via the Mull of Kintire before attempting the open sea. I'm fine, no really. I've taken essence of artichoke (an Aussie trick that cancels out a hangover... not that I have one, but if it works against copious amounts of booze... why should it not work against sea-sickness?) I'm dead wrong there... Pissed I can actually keep my balance but the ferry keeps sliding and rocking into the waves and I'm done for as soon as I make my way to the ladies to spend yet another hard earned penny. The smell of the ways of too many sea-sick fellow travellers throwing up makes me gag, dry heave and then I follow suit... my head over a loo and it's almost an hour later that I surface to join Fenton at the stern. Paroxym's of nauesa haunt my every step. I'm pale with fatigue (PLEASE! I want my Mum!), I'm shivering like I'm dosed to the eyeballs on heavy duty drugs and what I have to look forward to is the rest of the gut-wretching, mountainous Irish Sea and two more hours of pure, unedulterated hell.

I'm back... I could kiss the ground; not a good look in Belfast. Such an action would be viewed as rampant Popery and I'd probably be stoned on the spot. Fenton wants to unpack the car and sleep for a year. I say bugger the freakin' car, it can wait... and I'm staggering off to bed with no excuses and what is left of me huddles into a cosy bed, a two day sleep and warmth, blessed warmth!

An ultra busy August, September and October has left me neglecting my journal. The two months have been filled with visiting AW friends, visiting relatives, birthday celebrations, Halloween, a few visits to Ireland, one completely forgettable trip to Scotland and work work work.

BUT....I've been to Ireland! Seems like a strange thing to say seeing as I live only half an hour from the border but my 1st visit for many years was TREMENDOUS and I'm thrilled about it as it was made all the more special by virtue of Victoria and Vortigern's visit!

Naturally by now you all know of Vic and Vort's grand European tour... but here's a few details. Now that they have arrived back in the USA, I have been frequently asked what they are like in 'real life.' 1stly, there are two of them. There was some crazy notion running round Ancient Worlds that Victoria and Vortigern were in fact, one person. So let me just say, this is not the case; however... they are very much in love, as in evident by the beautiful way they blend and meld together, sharing like minded souls, making them one. Victoria is charming, really does look like Catherine Zeta-Jones yet the one thing that I didn't expect was her shyness. One wonders about meeting close 'on-line' friends in real life... will they be like their personas? In Victoria's case, yes and no. A beautiful, loving and wonderful lady who hides a wicked sense of humour in a quiet and refined attitude. Vortigern is closer to his AW persona than Victoria, in my mind... in that he speaks his mind, is highly intelligent and up for any adventure that hightens his awareness. He brings a great sense of fun to any venture yet remains kind, solitious and generous to the max.

They arrived at Belfast International and there's Fenton and my good self, wondering how we'll recognise them... Fenton has the idea that after everyone from their flight has taken their luggage and scarpered to the taxi ranks... Vic and Vort will be the last two standing. Looking lost and bewildered and being alone, it stands to reason, it's gotta be them right? My idea is close... but that Fenton and I pretend to be Russian tourists and ask THEM for directions. At this stage, I'd like to point out that as arranged, Fenton and I were on time to meet our guests and didn't leave them lost, strandered and alone in a strange country with no where to go. As it turned out... there were no worries, with Victoria knowing Fenton instantly and with huge smiles, welcomes and hugs all round, we made for the car park. Vortigern lights up the MOST EVIL smelling cigarette on the planet as soon as we are out the terminal doors and there's me thinking... I'm gunna get on great with these guys! I love them already! And so it was true. It's back to the house for a quick drink (ok, one too many for 11am but what the hell), a quick refresh and we are back in the car. We travelled up the north Antrim Coast Road to visit the Giant's Causeway, Bushmills and Dunluce Castle. The coast road is nothing short of spectacular, winding close to the Irish Sea with views of Scotland on the horizon. A lightening visit to the Ghost Room of Ballycarry Castle was perfect for a photo op' and it's up the winding stone castle stairwell to the turret room then another photo op in the grounds. Outside, naturally, it's pouring down with that light misty rain that decievingly soaks one through and through. We loved every moment. My 4th visit to the Causeway, so it was... and strange to see it through American eyes but they were just as blown away as I was my 1st visit. Victoria is left speechless by the immense beauty of Dunluce Castle then lets the jet lag take over and falls asleep on the journey home while Vortigern chatters away to Fenton and I read. There's a dinner of Indian curry which, much to my gratification, delights our visitors and yet more drinks. Vortigern and I stay up until the small hours discussing the greats of Irish literature, Gogal and the impact of Russian writers and enjoying Lindisfarne mead. Next day we went to Ireland... an early start has Victoria sparkling with energy, writing postcards and jumping online to say hi and give updates to friends. She's looking fabulous and Vortigern isn't. Oh dear... he's groaning and there's me handing over the Neurofen. 'Gods' says the moaning Vort, 'You two know how to party!' An evil smiling Fenton remarks that last nights drinks were only 'round one and we were just getting started.'

Interestingly, there's no actual border between Northern Ireland and the Republic of Eire. Ten years ago, it was marked by a large British Army presence. All cars, trucks etc were checked, thoroughly searched along with occupants and passports but now days and since the cease-fire, it's just a 'road.' So we are in Ireland! All of a sudden, the signs change from English to Gaelic; the road markings change from white to yellow and and there's not one British flag to be seen. There's no 'Welcome to Ireland' sign like you'd expect on a border and for some wyrrd reason it stops raining, the sun comes out... and everyone is smiling and much much much friendlier in the Republic. The border although not marked... is easy to locate by the huge fireworks factory on the Irish side. Fireworks are illegal in Northern Ireland... as is narural with all things that blow up. Fenton, as far as I'm concerned, is a freakin' hero for driving myself and our very charming visitors anywhere we wanted to go. The roads improve markedly and everything just seems more advanced than in the north. We drive past Harvey Normans in the town of Dundalk! Yes, they have Harvey Normans in Ireland complete with Aussie flags flying out the front of the biggest Harvey Normans I've ever seen! Staffed by Aussies too! Given the annoying saturation advertising this company applies in Australia, I'm surprised I want to visit but manage to resist.

Next stop was the absolutely wonderful Newgrange. A must visit, this Megalithic passage tomb dates from before the pyramids. I cannot fully describe the wonder of it, so am just going to let you have the url for it.

http://www.knowth.com/newgrange.htm

We found a pub called Ryans in the town of Navan, County Meath. It used to be a morgue and funeral parlour (!) and retains many funeral like features. All very wooden carvings and gothic bits and peices. Had a great lunch of soup and sarnies; generous paid for by Vic and Vort .Vortigern had his 1st Guinness in Ireland (photo op!) before we wandered back to the car and took the road to Tara.

Fenton said all along that he wasn't thrilled about going to Tara because "it's just a bloody hill covered in sheep and shit" and he was right! Vic and Vort, he rightly points out, have never been to Ireland before. "Let's just buy them a few pints, gett'em pissed and show them any old hill as they wont know the difference." A cunning plan! *lol* But I loved it which is suprising as really, there's bugger all there. A carpark for maybe ten cars, a church dedicated to St. Patrick (now who would have expected that hey!) a small souvineer store selling the usual Oirish tat and a few mounds. Lots of sheep though! We were the only visitors. Vortigern was in his element. He knew more of Tara than Fenton. Victoria and I spent most of the time trailing after Fen and Vort, listening to him speak of the history and trying to dodge the sheep and not slip on the hilly slopes. Sheep don't seem to like Vic... as they keep running away from her every approach. Perhaps they know I've cooked a Irish stew for dinner? Vort makes the best tour guide as he knows so much history of Tara and he adds to the telling with jokes and pointing out features others might normally miss. I've read the information regarding Tara posted for the AW Neighbourhoods and am sorry to say, the information regarding the Stone of Scone is alas, incorrect. Rather than go into a history lesson, and put a few noses out of joint, I'll ask that should anyone wish to know the true history, they should seek out Fenton when they spy him online. There's excited hopeful talk amongst the locals of the Tara valley on the proposal of a new road and I must say there's need for it. Tara is not sign posted; the current road is highly dangerous with sudden sharp twists and dips and narrow to the point that no tourist coach could ever drive it. Few people ever go there because of it. Tara itself sits on privately owned land, so there's no visitors centre, only one lavatory and the store that is screaming for customers. The whole area it seems is in need of a massive injection of government cash and hopefully this new road will be the begining of prosperous times.

http://www.knowth.com/tara.htm

When we arrived back in NI, and the local pubs awaited after dinner and drinkies. It surprises me to learn that neither Vort or Vic have eaten mutton before. No roast lamb with mint sauce on Sundays, no lamb chops at the barbie... inconceivable for me, an Aussie, who like every other Aussie, eats lamb at least twice a week and loves it. But they seemed to like the Irish stew and I'm happy to say, had seconds. Victoria and Vortigern had little knowledge of the Troubles in the recent history of Northern Ireland; no idea of Sinn Fein, or Ulster Unionists or King William of Orange, the IRA or UDA so they got another history lesson from Fenton who seems to know everything, but is not biased in anything. He doesn't give opinions on either side, just presents the facts and lets people make up their own minds. I'm just glad Fen has such a generous nature and we didn't have to pay him for playing 'tour guide' as it would have cost a fortune! *lol* A few more drinks before retiring leads to a few more and then some. Upon reflection... the saki and the Moroccan black might have been a mistake.

Sadly their visit was far too short and now Fenton's back at work, but shattered! He's so tired from driving he needs to sleep for a week! The next Sunday, Fenton and I are back in Ireland at the town of Swords, just outside Dublin for a one day re-enactment gig. The Dublin re-enactment group we are joining wears the Fitzgerald de Windsor household livery, carries the Fitzgerald coat of arms and Fitzgerald battle flags. Interestingly... there's not one Fitzgerald (or de Windsor) in the group, but by virtue... I'm treated beautifully! Swords Castle is under restoration and is open once a year for this marvellous fund raiser. People crowd in to watch the battle displays, learn the history and I spend my time exploring the grounds, making friends with the Irish Wolf Hounds and the hawks on display while Fenton does his thing with like minded mates and rushes about wacking great Viking and Medieval swords at each other.

The following weekend we are in Scotland for the re-enactment of the Battle of Bannockburn 1314. Gale force winds are forecast for the ferry crossing and really, truly... I'm NOT looking forward to it!

Act 4, Scene 58: lights, camera, (cue the rain) and action... Someone hand me a trowel! Fenton has taken me to visit The Giant's Ring, south of Belfast and I'm told there has never been an archaeological team near the site... no geological survey, not one trench dug... nothing! The Giant's Ring is a most impressive earthwork, over 200 metres in diameter, surrounded by a bank of gravel and boulders. It has five entrances. It's atop a hill, up a winding one lane track with few signposts... and we were welcomed to the site by a half dozen or so kids, armed with Irish hurling sticks and balls... drunk to the max and all of whom dropped their jeans and mooned us as we walked the edge of the earthworks. I'm delighted to know that kids are kids the planet over. *lol* Near the centre of the Giant's Ring is a small Chalcolithic/Neolithic (?) chamber with a single capstone, suggesting an early Bronze Age date of around 4000 to 3000 B.C.

The original purpose of this site was probably as a meeting place or a cult centre, so say the tourist brouchers, it looks purely defensive to me... the stone structure is very small, so I stuck my head in to take a look only to assulted by the stink of urine and the sight of litter with disgarded and empty beer cans. In the 18th Century the area was used for horse racing and from the embankment there are splendid views across the Lagan Valley towards the Belfast Hills with kilometre's of green patchwork fields, stone walls and hedgerows. No sky-scrapers, no air polution... no noise except for the birds and the wind.

I have for the past week been suffering from a slight sore throat... rare for me and before I arrived here in Northern Ireland from Australia, I took to precaution of maxing out on flu shots and the like... just in case. The last time I had a sore throat, it turned into one of those bouts of bronchitis that makes one want to curl up in one's bed and just die. This time however my sore throat is all but cured as I have been given a "brew" from the local our village Apocrathy. Yes... it's an apocrathy. It's probably tradition, or some ancient charter, or something. Inside, it is a modern pharmacuetical chemist/drug store but with an overwhelming smoky and 'closed in'atmosphere. I truly expect behind the 'staff only' curtain at the back, with all it's wyrrd and wonderful shaped bottles, the hanging drying herbs, stores of henbane and what appears to be bone-fide witches running the place, there is a back room where leeches are applied between bouts of bloodletting and some ragged minion stiring a bubbling cauldron. The two identifiable flavours to the 'brew' are, one (I swear) Irish whiskey and two, ground - dried Fisherman's friend's lozengers. Other ingredients ( I kid you NOT!) are more than probably, the mandatory eye of newt, the essential tongue of dog etc. It is incredibly evil stuff and looks like watered down diareaha but here's the surprise... it works and I'm thinking of buying another bottle... just in case *lol* Mind you, I did manage to purchase some Neurofen in the Apocrathy, so it's not all "Scottish Play" like.

I had the sore throat because I'm forever in a state of flux between hot and bloody freezing. When indoors, the heating is on and comfy and when I'm outdoors I'm constantly shifting between being soaked to the skin and shivering to the bone. Forget about me acclimatising and bring on global warming! There is no place for this extreme of outdoor weather like the north County Antrim coast of Northern Ireland. An hours drive with Fenton north from Belfast City took me to one of the most spectacular coast lines on the planet, the World Heritage listed Causeway Coast. Fenton and I were there on what is described as a 'tranquil' day ie: it didn't rain that much.

Our 1st stop was the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge, Carriag-a-Rade in Gaelic. The name means the 'rock in the road' with the 'road' being the sea migration route of salmon past the island. For over 350 years the local fishermen have kept a rope bridge there, allowing them to get to the best places to place their nets. The National Trust now has the land and from their car park and tea rooms at Larrybane, there is a 1 kilometre cliff walk to the rope bridge. Larrybane, Laragh Ban in Gaelic, means 'ancient white' site, named for the limestone headland. A Celtic fort existed there round 800AD but was destroyed by quarrying in the 1930's. The 1k walk winds past Knocksoghey Sill, a dolerite quarry, now quiet and reverting to nature when once it was a bustling community where stone was cut and shipped to Scotland to be used as street paving. Pathway warning signs abound: Loose Rocks! Children must be supervised at all times! Keep Out! Danger! Unsafe Area! Do NOT leave the pathway! Follow the bridge wardens instructions! Yet the National Trust allows thousands of tourists into the area each year so they can cross the rope bridge to the tiny island - then gives each one a certificate for being brave enough.

All sign are in English with no translations - not helpful is one is Japanese, Polish, Malaysian or illiterate. The bridge to the island crosses a volcanic vent created some 60 million years ago. The rock there is solidified ash (tuff) covered in a thin layer of grass and feels like one is walking on cushions. Bouncy landscape! The bridge looks scarey and is! Only a few years ago it had only one hand rope; now it has two, stretches some 20m across, is 40m above the sea, is only 1m wide and is accessable by a steep ladder/stair. Fenton has been there some 10 times before and has never crossed it... until the day of our visit. I love being up high, he doesn't. He's not afraid of heights, but depths send the wind up him. Speaking of wind... the rope bridge sways alarmingly in the wind; Fenton crosses 1st, I'm bringing up the rear with two Belgian girls who are hanging on for their lives. Word goes down the line waiting to cross that the bridge is going to close because it's too windy. Accordingly, the wind picks up and I stop in the middle to take photographs... a groan rises from some 20 Aussies, Germans and French folk on the far side who are waiting to cross back. One calls "get a bloody move on woman, we don't want to be stuck out here all bloody night." I skip across the rest of the way, Fenton turns white and then laughs with the Aussies calling me a skite (show-off). There is nothing to do on the island except take photographs, so we do... photographs of the white limestone cliffs, of Stackaboy Island, of Sheep Island - which has no sheep (?) but is a protected area for cormorants, fulmars and other sea birds. We take photo's of Rathlin Island and pics of Scotland only some 20k's away. The view in every direction is almost mystical in it's beauty.

I'm thrilled! Our next stop is the one place in Northern Ireland I have always wanted to visit: The Giant's Causeway. Looking down towards the sea and across the Causeway for the first time, it is easy to understand why it's been dubbed by many as the '8th Wonder of the World'. The sheer strangeness of the place is enough to take the breath away. Starting from the bottom of the cliff and edging into the Irish Sea, the stones of the Causeway are stark and grey, but inviting. This is truly a place of wonder and of legend. The Causeway 'proper' is made up of 40,000 polygonal columns of basalt, forming stepping stones, some of which are up to 15 metres in height. They are packed tightly together and the vast majority of them are hexagonal in shape, but some have four, five, seven and eight sides. The stones' diameters range in size from a few centimeters up to three meters, and their surfaces are smooth, convex and concave; some sloping downward toward the sea. Geologists say that the formations were created as a result of volcanic activity some 50-60 million years ago, during the Tertiary Period. As the molten lava hit the seawater and the air, it quickly cooled forming these strange, polygonal columns. The stepping-stone 'appearance' is thought to have been caused by a number of lava flows over time. The name however, was derived from a much more romantic explanation: Legend.

Folklore has it that the Causeway was built by the Ulster giant, warrior and chief of the King of Ireland's armies - Fionn MacCumhain, or Finn McCool. Even legend though has its contrasting accounts. In one account, Finn was said to be in love with a lady giant who lived on the Hebridean Island of Staffa, and that he built the Causeway in order to safely bring her from the Scottish Island to Ulster. Interestingly, there is a similar (though a smaller) collection of basalt stones on Staffa's coastline in Scotland, and geographically, Ireland and Scotland were once much closer than they are today. The other legend says that Finn built the Causeway due to an ongoing argument with a Scottish giant named Benandonner. In an argument one day, while they were shouting at each other over the Irish Sea, Finn took a clump of earth and flung it at his enemy. The land fell in the sea and 'became' the Isle of Man, while the hole left in Ireland 'became' Lough Neagh. As the argument continued Finn decided to build the Causeway in order to fight Benandonner. Here again the legend diverges. One story suggests Finn was afraid of the Scottish Giant and ran home when he saw the size of him. Looking for a place to hide he chose the baby's crib. When Benandonner saw the size of the 'baby' he fled saying that if that was the size of the baby what size would the father be? The Bishop of Derry (Londonderry) first recorded the Causeway's existence in 1692, The coast road leading to the cliff edge was not built until the 1830s, and mark you... has NOT been widened since, but early travelers would revive themselves on whiskey at Bushmills (now the world's oldest distillery) before continuing on their arduous journey... much as the laden tour buses do today.

There is more to the Giant's Causeway than the basalt pillars however. Fenton and I calculated that we'd walked over 10k's just visiting the sites along the coast. There are other geological formations to be appreciated throughout the six kilometre walk around this historic site. These include the 'Giant's Organ' - massage basalt pillars resembling a church organ in the cliff face, 'The Honeycomb', 'The Wishing Well' and more. There is also the 'Port na Spaniagh', the at which the 'Gerona', a galleon from the Spanish Armada, was wrecked on the jagged rocks during a vicious storm on the 26th October, 1588. The Gerona was said to have been traveling from Killebegs to Scotland when it got into difficulties. 1200 men are believed to have lost their lives, with only five surviving. The survivors are now buried at St. Cuthbert's graveyard, near Dunluce Castle. The MacDonalds of Dunluce Castle plundered the treasure on the ship (well, you would wouldn't you - if it washed up on your doorstep), but the remaining treasure was recovered by a Robert Stenuit and his team from the wreck (which still lies on the sea bed) between 1967 and 1969. This Spanish treasure can be seen at the Ulster Museum in Belfast... yet another place for me to visit asap. *S*

The Causeways owner - Sir McNaghten, bequeathed a small portion of the Giant's Causeway to the National Trust in 1961. Other private individuals still own some parts of the Causeway. The Causeway is also the only UNESCO heritage site in Ireland (since 1986). Once again there are signposted instructions to the visitor (all ignored by the many visitors): Visitor's must wear sensible shoes! Wear waterproof clothing! Danger - falling cliff rocks! Beware - unfenced drop! I find the stones are not slipperly and climb all over them taking pictures. I'm wondering why, although the area is spectacular, it seems small compared to the pictures I've seen and am told that for hundereds of years, locals cannibilised the rocks for building purposes. There are tourists everywhere; some climbing, some taking happy snaps... but many just sitting - mouths open - staring in awe and comtemplating the majesty of it all.

In 1639, at Dunluce Castle... during a dinner party, the lady of the house, the Duchess of Buckingham, wife to the 2nd Earl of Antrim announced to her guests that dessert would not be served. In truly regal style, the Duchess invited her guests to partake of port and sweetmeats on offer instead. Up to that point, the meal had taken up to 4 hours with 15 courses but guests were tired and the Duchess didn't really wish her guests to know that she had just been informed that half the castle's kitchens had fallen into to sea taking quite a number of cooks and servants to their deaths. And here I am, with Fenton... having a picnic, admiring the view and wondering if the remains of the castle wall, on which we are sitting is about to do the same. 'Highly likely' says a castle staffer. He's smiling in a roguish way but Fenton tells me, the bloke is not joking.

The ruins of Dunluce Castle, on the North Antrim Coast, stand on a 100ft high basalt stack with a sea cave underneath. The cave is accessible both by land and sea as it runs underneath the castle. The ruins as I look at them today are breathtaking; even roofless the remains portray the air of strength this site once commanded and before the advent of gunpowder it would have been almost impossible to conquer.

*Reading from the tour broucher here...* 'The conjectural source of the name Dunluce derives from dun-lois, a combination of dun, 'fort', used adjectively and lois, the word normally translated as 'ring-fort'. Perhaps the best rendering would be 'fortified residence'. This castle crowned crag is surrounded by terrifyingly steep drops either side, (and ain't that the bloody truth!) which would have been a very important factor to the early Christians and Vikings who were drawn to this romantic place where an early Irish fort once stood. It is situated on a 100 foot high basalt stack with a sea cave underneath. The earliest features of the castle, the two large drum towers, about nine metres in diameter, can still be seen on the eastern side.'

The MacQuillan clan, according my history booklet became lords of the area in the late fourteenth century. The castle often came under siege and in 1584, Sorley Boy McDonnell captured it. Sorley Boy came into some booty in 1588 when that unfortunate Spanish Armada treasure ship Girona was wrecked off the Giants Causeway. Not long after this, the MacDonnell clan abandoned it. It struck me as well preserved and we wandered round the roofless halls looking out to sea, then struck up a conversation with one of the castle staff who pointed out nesting razorbills, guillemots, kittiwakes and the raven's who were raiding their cliff nests. He gave us an impromptu tour, pointing out the fragmented ruins of chimneys, of weathered stone heads atop massive bay windows, of the cathedral like hall and the once extensive stables before being called away by the latest Earl of Antrim to help unblock a visitor's toilet. The Earl is the current owner and likes to bring guests to visit on occassion to essentially show-off one of the most magnificant properties in Northern Ireland. I might have been satisfied to admire Dunluce Castle from a distance, silhouetted against the horizon had I not heard about the 'kitchen' incident... a story that just needs to be explored further by wandering to the very spot where it fell into the sea that stormy night. The wall where we took luncheon is all that is left of the kitchen... Fenton points out the shape of the stone upon which I'm sitting and yes... it is from the Giant's Causeway. Mother Nature's revenge for ripping up her Causeway stones.

Brilliant sunshine today! Outstanding! I may have mentioned it has rained every day since my arrival in Belfast... today it's bright and sunny; highly unusual this and, as the glass half empty, I know it will not last. I give it till 9pm for the heavens to open and drench me once again. This is Ireland afterall. *lol*

Actually no, it's not... it's Northern Ireland and a province of Britain. In Australia, we do not tend to differentiate between north and south Ireland and even here the distinction between the between the two blurs at times. The differences are sometimes striking and sometimes subtle... a northerner's accent is (I'm finding) harsh, guttural and hard to comprehend compared to the lilting soft tones of the south. Northerner's tend to speak very quickly; words slide into each other, colliding, and I've only a 4 in 10 chance of actually understanding what anyone is saying to me. Should I wish to phone friends in the Republic of Eire, I am charged international call rates, despite the fact, I'm only forty miles from Ireland. How Europe copes between borders, I can't imagine! Ireland's (the republic thereof) tour brouchers advertise hot spots in Northern Ireland to visit... all saying things such as 'visit 'Ireland's' premier tourist destination... The Giant's Causeway, in the County of Antrim'... which is in Northern Ireland and not technically in Ireland at all. St. Patrick, patron saint of Ireland is buried in the grounds of the Benedictine monastery at Down Cathedral (Church of Ireland), Down Patrick in Northern Ireland... a different country; yet Belfast City Council (which is British) describe the burial site as being in Ireland. The national Irish team for the upcoming Olympics has squad members who are from Northen Ireland... and who are free to join either the Irish or British Olympic teams. Go figure. It's all beautifully confusing and delightfully ( dare I say?) VERY "Irish."

Newcastle, Northen Ireland... not to be confused with Newcastle, England, lies in the Kingdom of Down at the base of the Mountians of Morne on Dundrum Bay.

There is a famous (?) Irish folk song regarding the Mountains of Morne in which the lyrics have the mountains "sweeping down to the sea"... and yes, they do... like, they practically fall into it. Fenton and I visited Newcastle, a seaside resort... the like of which does not exist in Australia. It's a huge vacation destination for families, all of whom seemingly delight in trashy past-times including, but not limited to... endless slot machine venues, tacky ice-cream parlours, kebab houses, fish and chip shops and souvineer stores. The beach is literally covered in drift wood and litter, has grey sand (bizzare when one is so used to creamy white)... and surf approx' 10 centimetre's high. I know (and appreciate) that my Aussie bias shows through big time when it comes to actual "surf"... but being an Aussie beach baby from the time I was born, it seems strange to see a beach that doesn't have at least two to three metre waves. On a clear day... one can see England's Isle of Mann from Newcastle beach. Of course... it was raining and foggy ( shock-horror *lol*) but our stroll along the sea front was an education in itself. Newcastle's main street along the water-front was crowded with day-trippers and vacationing families, all of whom did not blink an eye when two British Army armoured personnel carriers drove down the road. Helmeted soldiers in battle fatigues, holding machine guns and wearing face camouflage waved to kiddies holding icecreams who cheerily waved back. When the vehicles slowed for traffic lights, a gun turret swung round to present me with a soldier pointing a mounted machine gun at my head. The bloke smiled... my mouth dropped open (I'm sure I turned white) and Fenton didn't notice. I wonder how a country can become so compliacent that the people fail to notice the bizzare nature of an army presence.

This photo was taken from the net. As much as I would have liked to take a pic of the army at Newcastle, it is illegal to photograph the British Army presence in Northern Ireland. The way the soldiers are dressed is a little different but I'm sure you get the picture.

I'm told the Mountains of Morne were once thickly covered in oak forrests... little remains. Today they are bare of trees except in regenerated out-lying slopes, but mist covered and beautiful none-the-less. The oak was taken by a company called Harland and Wolfe, who were at one time the biggest industrial employer in Belfast. Harland and Wolfe are a shipping company, now largely quiet with only 200 employese when once they employed over 60,000; 90% of whom were Protestant. Their dubious claim to fame (or infamy) is that it was Harland and Wolfe who built the Titanic. Sad, tragic and yet still so popular in historical legend... the Titanic is viewed as somewhat of an embarrassment to the people of Belfast. Were this the USA, Harland and Wolfe Shipping yards would have been turned into a theme park with tours, guides in period costume, re-enactments and re-production souvineers on a massive scale. Like I said... tourists make a bee-line for the bad bits. Brouchers explaining the history of Harland and Wolfe have little information on the Titanic, simply stating that it was built in Belfast and that it 'was lost at sea' on it's maiden voyage. One and only one monuement to the sinking and lives lost was erected, then moved by Belfast City Council to a back lane near city hall, as it was considered a traffic hazzard. Today Harland and Wolfe are noted for Sampson and Goliath; two massive orangeand yellow cranes that completely dominate the Belfast skyline and which are considered city treasures. The cranes were the very 1st thing I noticed upon leaving the airport the day I arrived.

Fenton's family have a 15 metre cabin cruiser on Lough Erne for the week and we spent a glorious day yesterday (despite the ever present rain) cruising the waterways of County Fermanagh.

Picture it... Our cruiser is decorated with a large Australian flag fluttering from the stern and a ragged skull and cross bones pirate flag... just because one has one at hand. *G* We are well stocked with beer, Gordon's gin, Pimm's No:1 and go-get-em attitude! The boat's top speed is 20 knots and we are limited to 5... bugger all when one wishes to make a statement! No-one will allow me to drive through the lakes locks despite the fact that practically every Aussie knows how to handle a boat and I've 'driven' a 250,000 ton oil tanker. To get to County Fermanagh we drove approx' one and a half hours to the island town of Enniskillen, crossing Counties Down, Armagh and Tyrone before arriving in Fermanagh just in time for it to rain. Fenton is bored to tears within 20 minutes of the "long long long" drive and yet tells me he wishes to one 'day' have the opportunity of driving across the Australian Nullabor desert from Melbourne, into South Oz, West Oz and to the Western Australian capital of Perth... which takes about 5 days, if one is lucky. I do not hold high hopes of him realizing his wish. Most Aussies wouldn't bother with driving, but simply fly over the Simpson and Nullabor deserts... a flight which takes about 5 hours.

White swans play in the waterways of Carrybridge where we meet the cruiser... I point out the 'whiteness' of them, as in Australia, swans are black... Everyone but me thinks black swans are just too strange. The rain is continuous... the beer is not only warm, but *gags* French. There is no ice... but there are wonderful views of green fields and mist covered mountains and ruins in every direction.

The water is the colour of Coca-cola and I expected blue. The Island of Enniskillen is to be naviagated before we reach our destination of Devenish Island. Hulking ruined Medieval castle walls enclose the waterways and as we navigate Upper Lough Erne to the more northerly Lower Lough Erne.

Go figure... perhaps the water levels are different. Our Aussie flag constantly attracts attention, smiles, waves and welcomes... it's served it's purpose then *lol*.

We arrive at Devenish Island's main landing to find there are no berths available for the cruiser, so swing round to the other side of the island to park. It's only a short hike up and across the field to the islands attractions, a famous and perfect 12th-century round tower and ruined Augustinian abbey.

The island's ancient name was Daimhinis, "The Isle of the Ox". Irish legends tell us that Jeremiah came to Ireland after the Babylonian destruction of Jerusalem, bringing with him the Royal Princess Teah Tephi, the Ark of the Covenant and the Lia Fail, now known as the Stone of Scone upon which all past Scottish kings have been crowned. Both Jeremiah and the Ark are reputed to be buried on Devenish. Ollamh Fodhla, the sage and law-giver of early Irish history was said to have been Jeremiah. On the summit of the Island, faintly discernible are the remains of a stone and earthen rath, or circle. This rath has probably been used as a safe place of habitation as well. In the beginning of the sixth century A.D., St. Molaise, also known as St. Laserian, established a monastic school on Devenish, and at his death in A.D. 563 it was a seat of learning of considerable size and fame. Along with an intricately carved 15th-century high cross in graveyard there is an extraordinary early Celt two faced statue called the Janus Man.

There is also a bizzare stone coffin of approx' one and a half metre's in length and legend tells that anyone who lies in the coffin and manages to turn around 3 times in it's narrow confines will have any wish granted. I might have been willing to try, but quite a few wishes have come true for me lately and besides... the coffin was half filled with water and had way too many jagged rocks at the bottom for my liking. I climbed the four ladders to the top of the round tower and to the top of the church tower before it hit me (for the 1st time) that I was truly in Ireland; sorry, 'Northern Ireland.' *S*

The islands fields gave me a taste of weather to come... it POURED down! The path was muddy to the max and covered with the doings of incontinent cows. Trying to avoid the mud and cow splats took me headlong into the one true thing it's best to avoid in this country... nettles! And bloody nasty, so thay are! Trying to avoid nettles leads one into bramble bushes, and holy, and hawthorn! My hands were shredded, bleeding and stinging. In Australia, one has only to contend with tiger snakes, deadly spiders and long forgotten entrances to old gold mine shafts when one goes for a stroll in the bush... but give me them anytime! Just don't let me encounter nettles again EVER! We return home to bind my wounds, dry out in front of the fire and open a bottle of port.

The next day (today) the sun is out and staying out. 9pm comes and guess what? Yup... it begins to rain.

Just returned from a night out attending an auction house with Fenton.

Have decided the people here in Northern Ireland haven't got a clue. Early 19th cent' grossly ornate carved mahogany side board went for £50; old Singer sewing machines and treddle tables (mint condition) going for £20, whereas in Australia they are as rare as hen's teeth and sell for $500 and upward. Original oak Georgian cupboard I really liked and Fenton forgot to bid on went for £10. 17th cent' church pews for a fiver each. Edwardian steamer trunks in perfect condition being sold for £5 each. Found an antique 18th cent' original Tibetan rice gourd with Sandskrit gold leaf inscriptions which I wanted to bid on but by that time it was wretchedly late, freezing, raining and all I wanted was a cuppa and my bed. It probably went for one or two pounds.

It seems no-one loves their antiques; they suffer from a bad case of "out with the old and in with the new"... a bonus for me as I love antiques. The people of Northern Ireland are going through somewhat of a renaissance. For years they have suffered high unemployment, discrimination both religious and political and with the majority of terrorism (seemingly) at an end, people have decided in droves to splurg on the material things of life to brighten up their lives with buying big screem plasma tv's and modern new wall units to enhance their dark living rooms... and they simply send their grandma's antiques to auction houses and care little that they are selling off their heritage. I plan to buy up, restore what I can and send a whole container load or two to Australia. Good thing I know how to French polish.

Another bonus... 24 yr old Glenfiddich scotch for only £10 a bottle! I'd pay $60 and more in Oz! Every wine shop is filled with Aussie wines... cheap too, which surprises me. Mind you... I asked in one store for an Australian Pinot Noir chardonay and was asked what the 'fook' I was talking about, even tho' they had 4 different kinds on shelf. Most can't tell a cabernet sauvignon from chablis and (bonus) don't know how to price it either.

It has rained everyday since I arrived. Visited Belfast for the 1st time on Friday last. Had a warm pint of Aussie Castlemaine XXXX in Belfast's most famous pub, The Crown Liquor Saloon. It gave me an instant headache *lol* The pub is filled with tourists, mostly English and German, very smoky and crowded. They have a charming resturant upstairs in the Crown and Fenton and I had lunch there with the 2nd best Irish stew I've ever had... My Mum's is better. Fenton had a giant Yorkshire pudding stuffed with evil smelling sausages and onions.

Despite being run by the National Trust this pub is not a museum, but a fully functioning, thriving bar. A must see splendour of Victoriana with it's ornate tiling, stained glass, black-lacquered scroll worked ceiling and wood-paneled booths called "snugs." The Crown is opposite the Europa, apparently the most 'bombed' hotel in Europe... (though I'm sure the people of the Balkan's would disagree) I was told that ten years ago, the day the Europa intstalled 'bomb proof glass' was the day the IRA called a cease fire. There is a curious new breed of tourist entertainment in Belfast... It delves into the city's much troubled past. Enterprising taxi firms take passengers to famous political hot-spots. Drivers act as guides giving thoughtful analyses of the hunger strikes, the IRA bombing campaigns, the graffiti murals, paramilitary factions, decommissioning of weapons, internment, and parade routes for Unionist marches during the 'marching season' of July. Monuments from the past three decades of conflict impress and depress in equal measure -- the miles of so-called "peace line" walls and barricaded roads that separate Protestant and Catholic neighborhoods in west Belfast; often elaborate wall murals depicting gun-toting gunmen alongside political slogans; and the bomb-proof police barracks with caged watchtowers that stand like frontier forts in the city's hard-line communities. It's an incongruous but increasingly common sight apparently, for the city's "Living Belfast" bus tours to roll slowly by these scenes, their occupants snapping away from behind tinted glass. Belfast is one of the few places in the world where tourists make a bee-line for the bad bits. 10 years on though, the city is thriving and no longer appears to be England's problem child. It's troubled past cannot be ignored, so it's highlighted in the blossoming tourist industry.

We wandered round the city center for about an hour just to get a feel for it all but I'm learning that most people here shop online and order whatever they want from England.

Saturday was spent doing things in the village of Hillsborough. Car boot sales are HUGE here with one happening every weekend... and 4 different tv shows dedicated to them. Fenton and I went to one at a local school Saturday morning and I bought two antique Chinese fans and 3 antique picture frames. Breakfast was at home with toasted bacon and eggs sandwiches (just yummy) and we needed the fortifying fat for our visit to Hillsborough Castle and a long walk round the castle gardens and lake. *S* Her royalness (Queen Liz II) is having a garden party at the castle next Tues and my invitation seems to have been lost in the post. The castle grounds are very extensive with every other tree planted by HRH this or that, beautifully manicured and all very traditional with rose gardens, yew tree walks and Greek temples. Security camera's everywhere! The lake walk runs to what seems like miles in the rain and it's very lovely, very wet and the path is covered in swan crap. The swans nest just on the other side of the castle wall that ajoins our house and I hear them virtually all the time. For such a big lake there are only two swans... and four signets but tons of ducks. My Persian cat, who travelled from Australia with me, seems to think the swans are some kind of mutant emu... what he thinks of squirrels is anyones guess.

Hillsborough has a 'country market' in the old court house every 2nd weekend and after our castle walk we went to take a look about. Tons of knitted baby gear *gag*, plants (most of which I didn't recognise) fruit and veg, home made cakes and slices and home made gift cards. Not much else... the market is held in a room the same size as a small church hall and is ultra popular with bus loads of tourists travelling miles for very little.

From the market, Fenton and I took ourselves across the road to one of Hillsborough's 3 pubs... this one, The Plough was voted Ireland's Best Pub for 2003. I am assured that there are at least 20 other pubs throughout Ireland and Northern Ireland that hold the same distinction. It's one of those 'cater for tourists' pubs with horse brasses, low beams and snugs. Bits that aren't covered in tapestry are nailed down in oak. Antique copper pots and leather bound books abound. Easy to tell who is actually local and who isn't...all the locals are crowded round the telly watching the rugby... all the tourists are crowded round the open fires, propping up the bar and being loudly American, NZedder or Aussie. I tried my 1st (and last) pint of Bass then left to avoid a very snobby Aussie couple who were wrapped in furs and constantly complaining of the rugby noise, the food, the Americans and the warm beer. Ok, so I agree about the warm beer!

From The Plough it's a short walk down hill to the next pub, The Hillside. The Hillside is famous for famous people eating there. Regulars include every British actor I've NEVER heard of, except for Jeremy Irons who is apparently a regular because he likes the oysters. He wasn't there last Saturday tho.' I tried a Killkenny Irish beer, mainly because it was the only beer brand I recognised and after a few mouthfulls decided it was foul and took it back. It was ultra sweet, warm (struth!) and two locals at the bar, after having a swig from my glass told me it was swill and I should drink Guinness anyway... which I can't stand. So much for drinking Irish or British beer. *lol*

Saturday night was spent cleaning house... which I have done every day since I arrived. The house, as I mentioned in my previous journal entry was bulit in 1735. Even though the walls are over 2 feet thick, it all seems damp and musty... I was cleaning the open fire place in the dining room and 3 bricks fell out and dumped 3 centuries old soot all over me. The house has not been lived in for over 7 years and has been shut up in all that time; the previous occupant, being eldery to the max, simply couldn't cope with the upkeep. I'm not yet brave enough to venture into the "haunted" wine cellar but am assured it's dry and doesn't smell like a swamp. I worry about it being damp as the castle lake is only some 20 meters away. The cottage is all very quaint and picturesque yet leaves me with the feeling that the builders, all those years ago, were pissed and didn't know a plumb line from a plum. Not one wall is straight, ceilings are curved and floors rough and ready with the original paving stones throughout. The entire bathroom is the anti-christ... and that goes doubley for the shower which has three temps... luke warm and scalding and ice. To get it to actually work, one must run the bath then press a button on the taps to transfer the water to the shower nozzle... where it comes out freezing for 5 mins before deciding to work at all. Naturally there is absolutely no water pressure. I can't help comparing to Oz and I can't help but be bemused.

Sunday night was spent in the company of the patrons of The Marquis of Downshire pub... which inside and out looks like everyone's version of a 'dolls house' Irish pub. I had a Tennets beer which is just as shitty as every other beer I've thus far tasted here. I am ever hopeful of finding a beer that does not make me want to hurl, but may have to settle for internet ordering imported Aussie beers from Oz via London.

Some things I find very strange... service/gas stations selling 5 different brands of custard; NO power points in bathrooms *silent scream*; The "Pickled Herring Laundrette and Ceramic Tile Centre"; a sign reading "Moira Fresh Meats and Lawn Mower Services"; light switches attached to long pulling cords; the lack of variety (except for custard) in supermarkets the size of the Melbourne Cricket Ground; weighing and pricing my own fruit and veg in supermarkets; the fully carpeted bathroom in our home; packing my own groceries; brown lemonade... no seriously... the lemonade is brown (it's probably tradition or some ancient charter or something); the electric cooker... just how am I supposed to flame a sauce to burn of the alcohol? American tv programs ER, The Soprano's and Third Watch being on at 10am as they are considered soap operas; the constant endless bloody soccer and the litter which spoils every lakeside and forrest walk.

Well... I am here in Northern Ireland after a singulary exerable flight with Cathay Pacific despite being in 1st Class. The flight from Australia takes approx' 23 hours... most of which is dull and boring. I've done this same flight, under far better conditions, 19 times already but this trip was dreadful! I'm ultra bruised and battered from turbulance from Hong Kong to London... via Moscow. Even the Buddhist monks in 1st Class with me swore black and blue they'd never fly with Cathay Pacific again.

I flew with Qantas from Melbourne Australia via Sydney... lovely to see Sydney Harbour with the Opera House and Bridge again. The flight to Hong Kong in business class was spent in the company of Vogue model Marta who was travelling there for a 'shoot.' She made the flight bearable, was tons of fun and the time flew by with chatting to the Qantas staff who were crewing the Cathay Pacific flight. The flight to Hong Kong takes approx' 7 hours... five and a half of that being spent flying over Australia which seems to just never end. Our flight however took nine and a half hours... as we diverted to avoid a thyphon and some volcano eurpting near Manila, in the Phillipines. That's a lot of Champagne time!

We arrived in Hong Kong round midnight and some travel advice for those who might like to visit there... get out of the airport as quickly as you can! Chinese staff are extremely unhelpful, rude and arrogant... and unless you speak Chinese, won't give you the time of day. Signs are in Chinese... not helpful when one must transfer to a different flight. Personally I blame the entire British Empire for letting standards slip and being stupid enough to hand Hong Kong back to the Chinese in 1997. The 2nd leg of my journey, after a quick drink and smoke with aforementioned Marta began on time... in retrospect, I should have waited to catch the Qantas flight which was leaving for London two hours later. Still, I braved Cathy Pacific again and regret it. Absolutely TERRIBLE service! Examples of how bad they are is that meals are served and not cleaned away for three hours afterwards; there is only so much black bean sauce one can take... it's served with everything. I asked for water and got warm tap water from the toilet 40 mins later. I don't know if it was just lousy service but really, in 1st class, I expected at least, chilled bottled water or a glass with ice. I developed a huge dislike for Ben Stiller movies... every inflight channel showed one. And the plane was dirty; grubby finger marks on backs of seats and rubbish on the floor. The route was initially supposed to be over the Bay of Begal and via the Middle East... but bad weather took us instead over Sibera and the Urals via Moscow and the Baltic which was where we hit the bad turbulance. True to form, my luggage turned up with Singapore Airlines the day after I arrived and was then delivered to the wrong address.

Exceptionally pleased to be on the ground again and with Fenton... our cottage, just south of Belfast is cute, quaint, picturesque, full of nooks and crannies, haunted... was built in 1735 and alas... smells like it. I've done little but scrub and clean since I arrived. It's musty and damp and needs a ton of Aussie Glen 20 germ zapper and deodorant spray (which you can't buy here) and it's aching for that 'woman's touch.' I'm thinking of hiring the afore mentioned 'woman' to clean from now on... while Fenton and I go to the pub for a pint or two.

I've travelled badly... slept tons since I arrived; so much so that I'm practically back on Australian time. Jet lagged to the max so I'm just relaxing and not indulging in too many touristy things until I feel better. I can barely manage to pour the vanilla flavoured vodka I picked up for a song in Hong Kong.

The only indulgences on the tourist front so far have been a visit to Hillsborough Forrest (which is spoiled by litter) and trout lake, Hillsborough Fort and inadvertantly found myself in the grounds of Hillsborough Castle with Fenton while a 21 gun salute happened to celebrate some royals birthday. Hillsborough Castle is a late 18th Century mansion house situated in the heart of Hillsborough village. The Castle was the seat of the Hill family, who held the title of Marquis of Downshire. In 1922 the government bought the Castle from the Hills and it became the home of the Governor of Northern Ireland. From 1972 until today it has been the official residence of the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland... and home to Queen Elizabeth II and assorted members of the British royal family when they visit Northern Ireland. Her royalness was not at home when Fenton and I wandered in... but had she been, I would have mentioned to her that her swans keep me awake at night.

The castle lake presents beautiful views to appreciate. The village has 3 pubs, The Hillside, the Plough and the Marquis of Downshire. Had a pint there the night of my arrival and couldn't understand a word anyone said to me. Everyone I meet has a relative in Perth or Sydney... go figure. It's rained every day since I arrived, but then I expected that even tho' they claim it's Summer here. It's about 15 C every day with rain and sometimes hail... roughly the same as the Winter weather I left behind in Australia. It get's dark here round 11 at night. And light again round 4am.