Day One

I’m booked on the 10:00 train to Cork, so naturally my brain has been working out the best route to get there.  I do my usual, and work out how long it will take – and add half an hour for safety.  As a result, I’ll need to leave the hotel by about 08:30.

My planning is briefly disturbed by one of the staff stepping outside the kitchen and indulging in what Billee Connolly used to refer to as a “wee swearie”.  Being only one floor above her, her voice carries clearly up to my room.  I consider critiquing her rant and suggest that she uses a greater variety of expletives, but sense that she might not be in the mood.

I have my last Irish breakfast (in Dublin, anyway).  I consider telling reception about the “wee swearie” but as it didn’t really bother me I decided against it and head out … about 15 minutes earlier than planned.  *sigh* I just can’t help being early.

I head down towards the bus stop and for a few yards try to use the dreaded and much-maligned wheelie option on my suitcase.  After it’s hit my shins twice and shown a predilection for lurching out into the road, I give up and just carry the damn thing.

I get the bus as far as Lower O’Connell Street where I head for the Red Line and my only tram ride of the holiday.  I am very excited.  And really shouldn’t be.  It’s just like being on the London underground, except it isn’t “under”.  Which means it has to stop for traffic lights.  It does have the advantage of being significantly quieter than the Tube.

The tram efficiently takes me to Huston Station, where I have about an hour to wait for my train.  I’ve pre-booked my ticket, so need to collect it from a machine, almost directly opposite the man who incoherently sold me my Leap card two days ago.  I know how this works, so I am ready for the usual steps:

1. Input the 10,000,000 digit reference number
2. Perform the first 17 steps of the Macarena
3. Strike the machine sharply with the heel of the right hand
4. Intone the mystic word of Power: “FECK!”

To my surprise, I put the short number in and am given my ticket.  I then wait for the usual extra slivers of card that vomit froth from these machines in England.  I’m pleasantly surprised that nothing else issues for the and I can settle down to wait for the train.

I forgot to mention that the weather is still sunny and very warm.  The forecast is that it will be in the low twenties in Cork today.  This bodes well for the big trip tomorrow.

The train is announced and I join the queue to get on.  The ticket has the carriage and seat number on it and when I get on, I take an inordinate amount of pleasure in the fact that my name is on a little electronic display.  (Which I then spend an age trying to photograph – and failed, so here’s a shot from my return trip)

The scenery is fantastic once we get out of Dublin with beautifully green scenery and an incredibly blue sky.    I spend much more time than usual just staring out of the window rather than paying attention to Notes from the Underground.

The train is quite busy but there are mercifully no kids running around.  We do have the requisite businessman who has to transact his business over his phone at the top of his voice.  It gets particularly interesting when he is discussing the career of one of his staff and he becomes remarkably indiscreet.  I do hope they manage to keep their job.

A few rows down from me is a guy reading a copy of Deathtrap Dungeon – I remember buying the original in err.. ummm… about 1984.  Well doesn’t that just make me feel awful.

There is also a bloke who walks past with a T-shirt that reads “Your dad is my cardio.”  I try to parse that in several ways to work out what it means and have to give up.  Explanations from the readership are very welcome.

At Limerick, the loud businessman leaves which is a relief as his ringtone is almost as obnoxious as he is. 

I get to Cork and the sun is beating down.  Which makes the decision to walk to the hotel a really easy one.  It is, according to Google, only a 28 minute walk, so off I go.  Did I mention the weather?  I’m sure it must have come up at least once. 

In the end it takes my about 35 minutes and I’m dripping like an untended tap.  (With sweat, I hasten to add).  It’s not a good look on anyone and the lady at the hotel looks appropriately perturbed.

The hotel is the Belvedere House Hotel which is a lovely place – nice building, friendly and tolerant staff, good residents garden and good sized rooms.  Unfortunately, it is at the junction of two busy roads, so there is a constant background noise.  Which is a shame as otherwise this would be a superb place.

If I’m hungry, I have an embarrassment of riches to choose from.  100 yards down the road are two competing garages.  One offers hot food 24 hours a day as well as the marvellously named Tayto crisps.  The other seduces its’ customers in with an outdoor launderette.  Truly these are the Golden Times foretold in yore!

Opposite these pinnacles of civilisation, there is a bus stop and I avail myself of this facility to get myself into town.  The tolerant lady at the hotel assures me my Leap card will work here.  She also tells me that the busses run about every twenty minutes and one is due very shortly, so I head back out into the sun to wait.  “Very shortly” is about 15 minutes, when a completely different bus rolls up, but goes to the same place.  The Leap card doesn’t work but after three attempts the driver nods sagely and lets me through.  Later on, I’ll find out that this is because it isn’t even vaguely valid here!

I head for the centre of Cork and have a wander.  The main street has clearly been revitalised and there is a lot of shining chrome and glass, as well as some modern metal poles that look like 30ft long elephant tusks.  There are a lot of high end stores and a large number of youths wandering around with Superdry and H&M bags.  I’m a little disappointed as it seems quite sterile and after buying a new leap card I continue to explore and start to find some more interesting things.

The first of which comes after I hear music ahead of me and I encounter the “World Famous” Spoon Playing Leprechauns.  (“World Famous”, by the way, seems to mean “are on Tiktok”).  They are certainly keen – which is probably the best that can be said about them. 

They turn out to be just the first musical interlude, as I head down beside the rather surprising gun shop to where a man is playing an accordion and looking as though he is waiting for Harry Lime.  I then change direction to go an listen to a busker with a quiet extraordinary voice.  I’m starting to enjoy Cork and almost forget the arrangements that I have to make for tomorrow as I’m not sure that the earliest bus will get me into the centre of town in time. 

I pop into tourist information, grab a tourist map and have a long chat with the guy working there.  He has a good moan about modern music and shudders when I tell him that I’ve seen the World Famous Spoon Playing Leprechauns.  He does recommend a local Ska band; Pontius Pilate and the Naildrivers.  Hmm.  No chance of them offending anyone is there?

He does give me some good idea of where to go on Saturday although he does start off with lots of recommendations outside Cork.  Once he’s got the idea that I want to explore Cork, he’s a bit more focused.  He tried to convince me to go to the Crawford Art Gallery, but I’m not that desperate!

Outside the sun is beating down, so I take shelter in a Costa and have a panini as a late lunch.

I then head off to find the much vaunted English market.  On first view, this is quite disappointing but as I get further in it’s a really good market with some fantastic things on display, including meats, cheese and chocolate.  I manage to resist the temptation and continue to wander.

I’m saving my main tour around Cork for Saturday, so I make do with a few rounds of the City Centre before heading back to the hotel.  Only now does it occur to me that I should have stocked up at the English Market.  Instead I stock up at the garage, including getting some food for the coach trip tomorrow – especially as I’ll be leaving before breakfast.  I’ve decided I can’t risk the bus, so I’m going to be leaving at 06:45 to walk into town.

I head back to my room, which comes equipped with a bath and Radox.  So I finish the day off with a damn good soak.

Day Two

I’ve decided not to risk the bus and walk, so I’m up at 06:00.  I shower, grab the snacks and water that I picked up yesterday and head out to make the walk into town.  It’s sunny and the skies are clear and bright blue – and it’s 12 degrees already.  I see that there is someone forlornly stood by the bus stop, so decide to ask when the bus is due.    He tells me that a bus was due 5 minutes ago – but he may have missed it.  Despite this clearly reliable testimony, I decide to walk anyway and as a result the bus sails majestically past me about 5 minutes later.  Followed by a second after another 10 minutes.   I nearly convince myself that the walk is worth it as the temperature is about right and it’s a lovely walk which gets ets my aching legs moving nicely.

I head to Paddywagon and have a chat with the lady there.  (By the way, I’m the only person who seems to think that this is rather an odd name for a coach company).  She directs me around the corner to where the coach is waiting.  There are already a couple of people here and we’re soon joined by several more.  Everyone is in heavy jackets and scarves except for me and the coach driver, who are both rocking the “shorts and t-shirt” look.  I wonder if we’re heading further north than expected.  When I ask the driver he chuckles and says “Well, this is Ireland, so it’s best to be safe.”

The driver is called John and is both English and delightfully blunt.  When two people rush up to the coach having gone to the wrong place, he just cheerfully says “You were on the wrong street weren’t you?”  As English is not their first language, they seem somewhat confused by his version of an apology.

We set off with only about 12 people on board – and mercifully no bloody children.  But John tells us that we’re picking up around 40 people in Limerick, so there will be very few spare seats.  I’m hoping that one of them will be beside me as there is very little leg room and I’ll be in agony if I have to sit straight on.  (I‘m currently sat with my legs stretching out into the aisle).  As predicted, the coach gets packed – mostly with very loud Americans.  John gets his first complaint of the day as he directs us to toilets but fails to mention the 30c charge.  That keeps two Americans moaning for at least an hour.  The good thing is that I manage to retain sovereignty of a double seat – victory!

John is highly entertaining, although most of the bus objects when he describes rugby as “the man’s version of American Football”.  Sensing a change in mood from my fellow travellers, he then reminds us that if we are not happy with the tour, his name is Eduardo.

It’s quite a scenic drive to our first major stop which is at the Cliffs of Moher.  The cliffs are suitable large and cliffy and there are some spectacular views.  There are lots to love here – and lots to hate.  All of the bad things are the people visiting the cliffs, namely:

• American tourists (or which there are significantly more than a plethora);
• Narcissistic social media whores using a selfie-stick to get the perfect shot of their over-made up selves with an incidental backdrop of an area of outstanding natural beauty;
• American tourists;
• People insisting on taking a push chair along a narrow cliff path (there was no child in it, nor were they accompanied by a child);
• American tourists;
• People who stop in the middle of said narrow cliff path to take a picture of some sheep;
• Fucking American tourists;
• People moaning about carrying their heavy jackets with them (firstly, it’s 20 degrees; secondly, leave them in the fucking coach!);
• Fucking American fucking tourists;
• Morons who walk on the wall where a sign is clearly displayed saying “Please do not walk on the wall”;
• Fucking American fucking tourists.

You may get the impression that I am unfairly biased against our cousins from the U S of A.  This is far from the truth.  I’ve met several who are perfectly reasonable.  Unfortunately, every single American tourist is currently at the Cliffs of Moher. In fact, I suspect that several of their smaller cities have been radically de-populated due to the number of FAFT here.  I decide to try and get away from them by heading along a cliff path that runs between farmland and the edge of the extremely precipitous cliff.  I do pretty well until I get stuck between two FAFT who are proceeding at a glacially slow pace.  It’s a bit like getting stuck behind a learner driver at rush hour – except there are no turn-offs or places to overtake.  Their dialogue is enraging:

• Why don’t they use the American system over here, it’s so much easier? (because we’re in Ireland);
• Why is this path so narrow? (because it’s between farmland and a cliff edge);
• Why is there a wall here? (to stop morons like you falling off the cliff);
• Why aren’t there any signs? (because there have been literally no junctions and so signs aren’t needed);
• Why is my voice so annoying? (I would hazard that this is a combination of genetics and the fact that you never fucking shut up!)

I finally manage to get ahead of them and reach the point I was aiming for – which is suitably impressive.  I’m also quite proud of the fact that on my way back I pass most of the people from the coach – so the FAFT didn’t slow me down that much! 

(Sorry about the blurry ones – it would appear I got sunscreen on the lens. Or, I could just say I was experimenting with soft focus. In any case, pictures cannot do the cliffs justice. They’re quite amazing).

I head back to the visitor centre to get some lunch.  There is a huge queue and as I consider whether or not to join it, I hear “Can I get a beef stew without meat?”  FAFT!!  I head outside, grab a bookmark at one of the significant number of souvenir shops (blessedly uninfected by FAFT) and settle down to my picnic lunch on a bench where the braying accents are somewhat muted.

It’s actually much better than sitting in the restaurant, because the day is absolutely glorious. 

Now, when we left the coach, John was quite clear that everyone had to be back at the coach by 12:30.  For those people for whom English was a second language, he wrote it down.  So we should all know what to do.  I, of course, am back in my seat by 12:20.  About 10 minutes later, one of the American tourists comes up the stairs, looks around and says to someone outside: “I see zero people here.”  I’m sat about four rows back and not, as has been stated before, easy to miss.  “Actually there are three of us here,” I helpfully say.  “Oh sorry, I’m not very tall” is the response.  In that case, why were you the one checking? FAFT!

At 12:45, we leave – without seven people.  Johns attitude is that they were told what time to be back at the coach and warned that he would leave without them – which they were.  We then head off to a restaurant for lunch – which was definitely NOT mentioned on the itinerary!  Several of us have already eaten, so John very specifically does not direct us to the local pub.  I have a refreshing pint of beer and get back to the coach in time to overhear John having a spirited discussion with his office who want to know why he left seven people at the Cliffs of Moher.  His answer is simple – and I completely agree with him.  Apparently, they “misunderstood” and turned up at 13:00.  I’m on his side and tell him that I’ll back him with his office if needed.

And so we’re off – or we would be if we weren’t another two people short.  It’s starting to feel like an Agatha Christie novel.  I know they were down at the pub, but they haven’t returned on time.  They wander up 5 minutes late and sit down without offering any kind of apology.  I’m in favour of making them walk the plank, but apparently the coach isn’t equipped with one.

It now transpires that we have to pass the Cliffs of Moher to go to our next location, so we will be able to pick up our seven strays.  Or we would, if half a mile down the road someone realises that they left their purse at the lunch stop.  So John turns the coach round (not an easy option on country roads) and we head back to pick it up.  This really is the Coach of Morons.  Guess where they come from? FAFT!

We arrive at the Cliffs Of Moher again to collect our strays and find out that two of them (who are not Americans – no, they’re French) have been amusing themselves by abusing the other coach drivers.  The strays rather sheepishly get onto the coach – well, except the two obnoxious French ladies who find the whole thing hysterically funny.  The other five do, at least, apologise.  We then have to wait to pick up two other people who also missed their coach.  FAFT!

We then head off to the Burren which is an area of raised sea bed that is both remarkably start and the home to a wide variety of plants.  We have another round of nature good, tourists bad.  The dickheads from the back of the bus insist on sitting as close to the edge as they can and they only reason that I don’t wish disaster upon them is that this would probably delay us even more.  The French women appear to have lost their volume control and are cackling like geese, which drifts across the Burren and frankly, spoils the fuck out of it.  And still people can’t get back to the coach in time.  It’s not that bloody hard is it?

Our last visit is at Bunratty Castle where John admits that he has given up trying to get back to the schedule.  We’re given a leisurely 25 minutes – reasonable as we cant actually get into the castle as this is essentially a food and souvenir stop.  After 45 minutes, most of us are sat on the coach, still waiting for 5 people.  These people are a frigging nightmare.

At 17:30, we dump the FAFT at Limerick and are heading back to Cork.  Our original eta was 18:00, but the tour was always described as roughly 10 hours.  This is therefore the point that one of my fellow travellers raises the issue that she has to catch an 18:15 train.  Seriously?  What kind of an idiot organises their day like that?

The rest of the journey has a backdrop provided by a combination whiny Irish folk music and the woman in front of me who is Facetiming her partner.  Because she is holding her phone in a very odd way, I keep getting a clear picture of him, which is probably as disconcerting for him as it is for me.  It does mean that I spend a lot of time trying not to look at him in case he might think I’m overly interested in what they’re saying.  I’m not – though she does moan several times about not being able to hear him because the whiny Irish folk music is too loud.

We get in an hour late at 19:00.  I consider going for a meal, but instead stagger to a bus stop and go back to the hotel.  I pick up a sandwich from the local gastronomic garages and then have a bath to soothe my legs.  All that sitting in a coach is knackering!

Day Three

I’m knackered this morning and have real trouble getting going.  Luckily, the full Irish breakfast provided the hotel is excellent and I leave feeling both full and revitalised.  Everyone in Cork that I spoke to advised me to leave and head elsewhere but I am stubbornly going to amble around.

I head for Elizabeth Fort and get there just before it opens at 10:00.  Entrance is free and this is a superb example of a star fort.  It was also used as a women’s prison and a Garda HQ and there are a couple of little displays that give a fascinating insight into the history.  The views from the walls are excellent – significantly more inspiring than Dublin.

I’ve planned to head north of the river to look at some of the churches around there, but my legs are aching and it’s 19 degrees (which feels like about 30).  So I take an easy stroll back into the city centre and find a place called Bunsen which sells nothing but burgers.  (I admit it – I loved the name).  Cheeseburger and chips it is.  This is the first place for a long time that I’ve been asked how I want my burger cooked.  And when it arrives, it is very good.

I still have several places to look at, but I am absolutely knackered today.  I decide to slowly wander back to the hotel.  On the way, I pass the MacCurtain Wine Cellar where they sell wines by the bottle or the glass. Todays special is a chilled red which is a Tuscan Field Blend.  It would be rude to say no, and they provide me with a glass and a menu.  Given they don’t start serving food for another two hours, I feel this is somewhat presumptuous!  I finish off Notes from the Underground and move on to The Mysteries of Udolfo by Ann Radcliffe.

I resist the temptation to sit here for the rest of the day and leave after one glass.  Then I walk back to the train station, get my ticket for tomorrow and take the bus back to the hotel.

My dining experience is from the local drive thru, which is called Supermacs.  They sell burgers (no, not McDonalds, honest), Supersubs (no, not Subway, honest) and Papa John’s pizza.  I go for the only part that doesn’t seem to be ripping off a major chain and polish off the pizza in my hotel room.

I feel a bit guilty that I’ve wasted my last day in Cork – but I hope to come back some day.

Here we are again, with my 2023 holiday blog – which, as usual, will probably get written over the next 10 months. This year I decided (again) to visit places I’d never properly visited and thought that it was time to take in Ireland and Scotland. Clearly having a single location for a holiday is beyond my comprehension, so I decided to visit Dublin, Cork and Edinburgh. When I told my friend Chris this, he called it The Gaelic Triangle – so kudos to him for the title.

This year should have been a very different holiday. A couple of friends and I have been talking about doing a “Grand Tour” of the UK, which we were thinking about starting this year. That got shelved as I wasn’t sure what would be happening with my job (at the time, I thought I would be forced to retire in July 2023) and because they’re very busy going far afield on a variety of holidays. I then considered doing a driving holiday along the coast of Scotland. That didn’t get much past the planning stage. In September last year I booked myself onto a walking holiday with the intention of doing the Cotswold Way. Then my back went in November and took ages to recover, which meant I had to cancel that holiday and do this one instead.

Right, so back to the holiday. As usual, the base-ball cap and Age-Appropriate Hoodie are packed. Packing involved a lot of muttering and cursing. My flights this year are both with Aer Lingus who seem to have different rules depending which flight you’re on. I ended up speaking to a very helpful woman at Aer Lingus – who also did not understand what was going on. We managed to sort out the flight out, but the flight from Dublin to Edinburgh is, frankly, going to be a voyage of discovery. As with last year, my goal is to have no luggage in the hold of the plane, so that I can get out of the airport as fast as possible – whether that happens or not, only time will tell.

While packing, I have to bear in mind that both Ireland and Edinburgh have a reputation for being both cold and wet. Several people have told me to make sure I pack a waterproof jacket. Of course I don’t do anything as sensible as that!

I’m flying out of Heathrow Terminal 2. Unfortunately (and quite thoughtlessly), the friends who gave me a lift to Heathrow last year have moved out of the area. So, I am reliant on public transport. Luckily, the Elizabeth Line now goes as far as Reading. That’s good because I get free travel on Transport for London services, so I can coast to Heathrow without having to put my hand in my pocket. (Yes, I have to get my warrant card out, but you know what I mean. Don’t you?)

Slough station has now installed new barriers and an exciting one-way system …. which they probably should have put in place during Covid. They accompany this with tiny signs, and increasingly irritated staff who loudly direct people who haven’t got the hang of it. Luckily, I get away without being harangued and I head for the Elizabeth Line. I have to go to Hayes and Harlington and then change to get the train to Heathrow. As usual, I have left plenty of time – the flight is at 13:30, so I’m on the train by 10:50. I sit near the entrance and am joined by two ladies and a pram. Neither seem to know where the brake is, so when the train pulls away they both lurch for the pram as it tries to rocket away down the carriage. The child in the pram doesn’t seem to be affected by it and it is possessed of an excellent set of lungs as it demonstrates with a series of ear-splitting shrieks. The ladies try to calm it with a variety of songs – my favourite being “Trinkle, trinkle, little star”.

I try to ignore the musical score and the occasional shriek and settle down to reading my book. Today’s offering is The Nice and the Good by Iris Murdoch. An odd little book that combines a social pot-boiler with a murder mystery that seems to involve black magic. Took a little getting into as she introduced about 12 characters in one chapter, but once I’d managed to work out who everyone was this was very enjoyable.

I am somewhat distracted (not just by the baby). The train runs late and the announcements on the platform seem designed to confuse: “this train will now arrive at 11 minutes”. Despite this, the train arrives on time and I’m on the last leg to Heathrow. At the station, I decide to take the lift to cut down on the amount of time I’ll have to carry my bag – I’m still a bit worried about my back. Turns out I shouldn’t have bothered, as I then have to carry it for about three miles – including walking past another underground station!

Eventually I get to baggage and have the usual fun of trying to get my boarding pass up on my phone. The phone finally complies and I then have a spirited discussion about whether my case counts as carry on, or not. In the end, we have to refer to a supervisor who takes my side and I head for the line for security. This begins with the excitement of removing all small metallic objects and putting them in my bag, while keeping my boarding pass and passport out. I then note that we are only allowed one transparent bag for toiletries. I have two, because the toothpaste (while still being only 100ml) takes up half the bag – surely this will be OK. Apparently not, so I stuff it into one bag, whereupon the seal breaks. Juggling two bags, my phone and my passport I get through the first check and shuffle towards the security scanners. Shuffling is necessary because my belt is now in my bag and as I’ve lost a bit of weight, my jeans are sliding down. Then I realise I have to take my iPad out of my bag, so I arrive at the gate like some demented juggler. Oh, and as usual it’s really hot and I’m dripping with sweat.

The security gate doesn’t like my boots (no surprise there!), so off they come. A very nice lady tells me I can sit down to take them off, if that’s easier. I ask her if that’s because I’m so old and she blushes and says that she asks everyone because when she does it, she just falls over. I manage without doing that and head through — after having also had to remove my hankie!

Finally I’m through without my jeans actually falling down and I redistribute my belongings. I have 1 3/4 hours before take-off, so I go looking for the first beer of the holiday. Let’s see what we have here – Harrods, Timex, “Caviar House and Prunier”. What the hell? Eventually I find somewhere called The Big Smoke tucked away in a corner (presumably so it won’t upset the people at the Caviar House and Prunier) and order myself some spicy chicken wings, chips and a disappointing pint of lager. I also take the first obligatory food photo of the holiday.

I’ve noticed that I do two things when I’m on holiday that I would never normally do: (1) photograph my food; (2) cheerfully say hello to total strangers when I pass them in the street.

I head out after paying a small fortune for the disappointing meal and eagerly await my flight – which, naturally, is the only one on the board that is running late. By the time it is posted, we’ve reached the time that the gate should have closed – this journey is starting out in exactly the same way as many of the others. Finally, there is a boarding announcement – but for Premium passengers only. That doesn’t stop everyone else standing up, so I decide to join the merry throng. We then get an announcement about people with carry on luggage – but it doesn’t say what we should actually do. There is a decision to remain staunchly British (including the Australian guy in front of me) and we join the queue. As no-one shouts at us, this must have been the right choice.

As we pass through the gate, they finally decide to weigh my case (really, shouldn’t this have been done about 2 hours ago?) It’s overweight (like me), but they take pity on me and let me through. I then have an uncomfortable conversation with a women who hadn’t paid for her carry on and so has had her bag consigned to the hold. I wisely decide not to tell her how the rules have been bent for me.

I get on and stow both my luggage items in the overhead compartment because I’m sat by the Emergency Exit. I’m getting evils from the people around me. The reason for this becomes clear as the stewardess announces about 5 times that we’re only allowed to stow one item in the overhead lockers. There’s a pleasant American beside me who confirms that we’ve done the right thing. This doesn’t stop the glares from our fellow passengers – or maybe they’ve just worked out that he’s American. During the flight, he amuses himself with a seemingly endless succession of games on his iPad. I admit that he reacts better than I would when the computer uses the word UASU in his Scrabble game. (I checked, it’s an acronym used by various organisations, so the damned computer was cheating!)

Apart from the cheating computer it is an uneventful and relatively easy flight. It’s a little disconcerting when the stewardise decides to remind us about the emergency exits as we begin our descent into Dublin. Clearly she’s flown with this pilot before, as it’s one of those “three bounces and both feet stamped onto the brake” landings. However, he manages to park it in a manoeuvre last seen in the Blues Brothers and we all make it out safe.

Now all I have to do is get to the hotel. I’ve checked on Google maps and I need to get to Drumcondra. This turns out to be dead easy and I’m soon sat on a bus heading south. As we get into Drumcondra, it has all the hallmarks of a manky area – lots of boarded up shops covered with graffiti and a generally run down atmosphere. I get off with some trepidation and walk off towards my hotel. I’m quickly in a pleasant residential area and eventually get to the Maples House Hotel (http://www.mapleshousehotel.ie/). The staff are friendly – though I manage to quickly confuse them and I head up to my bizarrely shaped room. It would be easier if I had taken a photo, but I’ll try to describe it. The floorspace is approximately the width of the door and extends straight away from the door to the single window. There’s a door on the far right that leads into the bathroom and the bed is in an alcove immediately to the right of the door. It’s definitely odd, but at least it’s clean and doesn’t remind me of Barcelona.

As there is a bar and restaurant on site, I decide to stay here this evening. The bar is a trifle strange – it looks more like a working mans club than anything else. I set myself up with a pint of Rockshore lager and finally relax. I will do well here.

This feeling is improved further by a truly excellent cheeseburger and chips – it’s like the one from The Menu, but without all the pretension and death.

I then head off for an early night. Iris Murdoch gets finished and I settle down with Notes from the Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky.

Day Two

I’ll start with an apology for the delay. I really felt that this just wasn’t interesting enough until someone pointed out that this is as much for me as it is for you good people out there. On we go!

I have a good nights sleep and prepare myself with the usual fight with the shower. To my surprise, it’s simple and is both hot and strong. Dublin is starting well! Today I have a cycle tour of Dublin booked followed by a visit to the much-lauded Guinness storehouse.

I head downstairs for my first Full Irish Breakfast of the holiday. Which looks a lot like a Full English, but you get both black and white pudding!

I know you’re expecting a photo of the breakfast, but you’ll have to make do with the menu instead. But take it from me, it’s a good breakfast.

I then head off down the road to find a bus into town. My cycle tour is at 10:30, so clearly I head off with about 2 hours to go. I identify the correct bus and confidently step on with my card ready …. and the bus only takes cash. That’s not quite true – they also take something called a Leap card. Which I can’t buy on the bus. Luckily I have some coins left from my trip last year – because, of course, they don’t give change either!

On my way to South Dublin, I check up the Leap Card online. Turns out it’s dead easy to get one – if you order it in advance. As it is, there are four places in Dublin that you can buy them from. I plan to sort this out after I’ve been to Guinness.

The trip is faster than expected, so I get off the bus with an hour and a half to wait. This area is similar to Drumcondra – a bit run down and definitely not on the tourist route. As I head north towards Temple Bar, things begin to improve. There are some great shop names: the Bald Barista Cafe is my favourite. I’m somewhat disturbed by the antics of a woman walking just ahead of me. She has her mobile phone clamped to her ear and her listening is occasionally punctuated by her raising the phone to her mouth and making a noise like a shrike. Or what I would imagine a shrike sounds like. It’s sort of a high-pitched “YEEARRGHH!”. She then continues to listen. After a while she stops and starts dancing in front of a shop window. I catch the eye of a lady coming the other way who looks as surprised as I do and we both burst out laughing. I head on, leaving the shrike behind me.

I find a Tourist Information Centre – surely I can get a Leap card from them? No. But they do confirm the information that I already have. I head out and wander around Dublin Castle.

And then go down to The Liffey.

I then grab some water from a Spar that advertises itself as “the Gay Spar” (I don’t know why) and then head back to Whitefriars Place – where I’m still about 15 minutes early. The meeting place isn’t obvious and the road looks more like somewhere that druggies would hang out (the guide later confirms they have a lovely pair of addicts living next door). Despite this, I work out which shop I’m meant to go to and the rather surprised lady inside tells me I’m early. She tells me that the church at the end of the road contains the Heart of St Valentine, so I go and take a look. There’s a service going on, so I feel a bit uncomfortable about intruding, but I do spot this on the way out.

Yes, it’s a holy water urn. I slap down my roleplaying instincts which are demanding that I stock up “just in case” and head back to the shop. By now she has the bikes out and I introduced to my Mighty Steed.

I also meet my fellow tourists – a Dutch couple, a very young American and an Australian who is wearing a Gallipoli shirt. Excellent. Even more people who hate the English. Except the Dutch who are both quite mellow.

The tour is pretty good and goes to St Patricks Cathedral (see below), Marshes Library, St Stephens Park, Parliament Buildings, Docklands, the Famine Memorial and Dublin Castle.

I should also point out that the weather is insanely good! I also should point out that I didn’t take any other photos as it was a bit of a pain getting my phone out as I was cycling around. Because, and there is no surprise here, there was a problem with my bike. It was all set up nicely and as soon as we set off the seat slipped down so it felt like I was cycling around like the kid in The Shining. This wasn’t too much of a problem, until we got to a hill … luckily there was only one. Oh, and the brakes were…..vague at best.

Our tour guide was called Laura and was absolutely superb. She had to balance some quite difficult and emotive issues as she was giving us a history lesson as we cycled around. She kept apologising to me as England got blamed for an awful lot. But it didn’t bother me as I didn’t do any of it myself. We did bond over the fact that we both had MAs in English Literature and both thought Ulysses was massively over-rated. I got a fist-bump! I feel like a youth! As we cycled off towards Marshes Library I noticed she had a tattoo of a beholder on her calf so when we stopped I asked her about it. She laughed, said that she loves it when people notice it and that she is a D&D geek. I admitted the same and got another fist bump! Truly, I am one with the youth!

It is an excellent tour and I would recommend it to anyone visiting Dublin (https://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/AttractionProductReview-g186605-d19440112-Cycle_Tours_in_Dublin-Dublin_County_Dublin.html). It was really informative, sensitively told and with a good deal of humour – which was needed as most of it was bloody dour.

By the time I have returned my Mighty Steed, I have about an hour and a quarter to get to the Guinness Storehouse. I wander across planning to find somewhere near there to eat – of course, there is nothing, so I head in early.

The tour starts off pretty well with someone who obviously studied at an American Cheer-leading school and we all trail off for something that I would describe as A Bit of a Disappointment. The place is packed (the above photos required a degree of patience I rarely bother with) and I felt like part of a flock of sheep merrily queuing for the abattoir. It doesn’t help that my knee is hurting and I need to sit down – I don’t find a chair for three floors by which time I will cheerfully poor Guinness over the next person to speak to me.

After I head off, it all gets even more disappointing. The best thing is this:

There is a cinema showing Guinness adverts. Great, I think, maybe they’ll have some of those old Rutger-Hauer adverts. Sadly not – all they’re doing is showing the current advert on a loop. If I was here with someone else, it would probably be better and as I wander into the tasting room I’m getting more frustrated. Then I have the entertainment of watching a group mostly comprised of Americans having their first taste of Guinness. This would be highly amusing apart from the fact that I am now reminded how bloody awful Guinness can taste. The lady relentlessly talking to us politely points out that if we get an acrid taste, we are drinking it the wrong way. No, Madam, it’s just that your product tastes like the bottom of a parrot cage.

Some friend had got a STOUTie while they were here, which is where they put a picture of you on the head of a pint of Guinness. I consider doing it and look at the queue. Add that to the fact that I’d have to drink the pint and I head on up to the Gravuty Bar for the amazing views of Dublin and my free drink.

I’m not impressed. The Dublin skyline is dominated and one side by a construction site and the rest is flat. Really flat. The bar is packed and incredibly loud and it will take an age to get served. I decide not to claim my free drink and head out. I stop at the The Store on the way out and get a bookmark.

After that complete let-down, I head across to Houston Station where I’ve been told I can buy my Leap Visitor Card. I assume that as there are only four places to buy it that it will be a large shop. Not so, and so I speak to the man in what can politely be described as a large newspaper kiosk. I have a brief conversation with him during which I have absolutely NO idea what he is saying. His accent is broad and his delivery is like a machine-gun. He stops at one point, having obviously asked a question. I guess at it and reply “3 day card”. This is, of course, a bit of a waste as I’m only here for another day and a half – if only someone had told me that you could buy a 1 day card and then top it up….or maybe that’s what he said to me.

Anyway, my labours are complete, I now have my shiny Leap card and I grab a bus back into town to get some food and a beer.. or two. Suitably fed and watered, I head back to the hotel with aching knees and I sleep the sleep of the knackered.

Day Three

I sleep pretty well, but my knee is definitely complaining this morning. Over breakfast, I decide what to go and look at today. I decide to stick to north of the Liffey today. I have a Haunted Dublin tour booked for 20:00, so it’s going to be a long day.

Adding to my uncertainty is a message warning me that my train home from Edinburgh may be affected by the planned strike. That has now been confirmed. My worries have been dealt with though as there is a train an hour later that is still running, so I’ve transferred my ticket. I’m sure that won’t come back as a problem ….

One thing I forgot to do yesterday was to get some sun screen – and I definitely caught the sun a bit. I add that to the list of things to do.

I take the bus (using my fully active Leap card) down to Parnell Square and then walk down O’Connell Street.

There are a load of statues on the way (including Parnell and O’Connell), several stately buildings (including the General Post Office) and an insane amount of busses. They are very polite though – one actually stops to let me take a photo!

What nowhere seems to mention is this:

This is the Dublin Spire. This doesn’t really show you how tall it is – the next photo has it in the background.

What surprised me was that it’s just there. It’s not marked on the tourist map I have, it’s just there. Very odd.

I go down to meet the Liffey and then head along the north bank towards the Docklands. I head past up the Custom Houses.

I then go and re-visit the uplifting but massively depressing Famine Memorial and grab the photos that I didn’t take yesterday.

Yesterday, we got told that there is a companion sculpture in Toronto, which is by the same artist but contains less figures – to represent those that died in the crossing. Here’s a picture of it that I found on the internet.

It’s not exactly a light and fluffy place to visit, so I head back along the Liffey towards the one place that I really wanted to go to in Dublin: The National Leprechaun Museum. On the way, I see evidence that Stargate is all true and the Goa’uld have visited Dublin.

(You have to really want to see it to understand this).

I traipse back across Dublin to get to the Museum – which is closed. Damn. That’s part of my plans for the day ruined. I consider taking solace in drink and start heading towards the Jameson Distillery. But the Guinness Storehouse left a bad taste in my mouth (literally!), so I need into a coffee shop of a cappuccino, some carrot cake and a re-think.

After having been suitably revivified, I decide to head over to the South Bank and walk across to St Audoens Church, which has some very weird art in its garden, and a staircase that goes nowhere.

I head past Christ Church Cathedral and find some very odd paving stones in the pavement.

I get passed by Viking Splash Tours who drive around in a DUKW and make all the passengers wear Viking helmets (complete with historically inaccurate horns). Of course, it could just be that everyone was wearing them anyway and it’s a huge coincidence … I don’t care enough to find out.

I head towards Temple Bar and having been to several places of worship, go into another one: The Beer Temple. I sample their MacIvors Cider (this is a service I’m doing for two of my friends). I also order a small plate of spicy chicken wings, resisting the temptation to go for the insanely hot ones, and also not accepting the free offer to double the size. (It’s a thing they do on Wednesday’s for no reason that I can fathom).

The MacIvors is sweet and refreshing – definitely a summer cider, which is appropriate as I’m sat in the window in the sunshine. I look on with amusement as two American youths come in with smoothies and settle down at the bar, with a clear expectation that this is OK. They are most offended when the bar manager asked them to leave – seems perfectly reasonable to me, but not to them. FAFT! (That won’t mean anything until you read the next blog entry). The spicy chicken wings are very good. Initially I think they’re not spicy enough, but it builds and by the end of the plate, my mouth is burning. I’m VERY glad I didn’t go for the double up or the insanely hot ones.

I then head out and do what I should have done yesterday – get some sun screen. Now suitably protected, I head through Dublin Castle to Marsh’s Library. This was recommended by Laura and was apparently frequented by Bram Stoker who got some of his inspiration from the mummies in the crypt (which is unfortunately not open to the public). This is the oldest library in Ireland and only costs 5 euros … which some people complain about! The people behind me refuse to pay, but ask if they can take some pictures – they are politely but firmly asked to leave.

The library is small but is a real treat for anyone who likes books. One of the books on display (The Further Discovery of Bees) was referenced in The Nice and The Good, which I was reading at the start of the holiday. I especially like the cages at the end that were used to lock scholars in with the rarer books. I approve of this and temporarily consider re-decoration options.

I then head out and randomly explore. I’m going alongside a building that is very modern and has a load of pictures on the outside.

There are about twenty of them. What place is this? An art gallery? A museum? A university building?

Nope.

It’s a police station!

By now, I’m feeling hot, sweaty, knackered and my knee is definitely remining me that I’m nearly 60, that it is used to being rested more than used and that it needs something to keep going. I decided to take the Irish solution to the problem, and head to the pub.

As I sit there, my knees and calves are killing me. I’ve got this Haunted Dublin tour later, so I decide to head back to the hotel to rest up. While I’m there, my knee really seizes up badly and it’s clear that the walking tour is a very bad idea. I’ve managed to re-connect with an old friend who lives fairly close to my hotel, so I finish the day in another pub having a convivial pint (or two), before heading back to the hotel and settling down for a really bad nights sleep.

Tomorrow, I’m off to Cork.

Day Three

This morning my leg feels much better, though still aching. Last night I worked out that I’ve walked 58 miles over the last few days so it’s perhaps not surprising – though it does underline how unfit I am 😦 I give it a test by walking down the stairs to breakfast, It’s not happy about that but I think that as long as I’m careful it will be fine. If not, I just have to get through today and I’m back home tomorrow.

Which makes me realise that this is the last full day of my holiday. It’s managed to rocket by and at the same time feels like I’ve been away for ages. Berlin feels like weeks ago. Definitely a stupid holiday to do, but (Barcelona notwithstanding) I’m really glad I did it.

Today’s plan is as follows: Place de la Concorde, Champs Elysee, Arc de Triomphe. I then have a Catacombs tour booked for the slightly strange time of 16:46. I can afford to take it slow this morning with no need to rush off – so, naturally, I still head out earlier than most people would countenance. The weather is still sunny but has cooled down a bit – the forecast says it will get up to 18 a bit later. I’ll try and avoid using the self-heating hat again!

I head up to Pigalle and onto the Metro. It’s just before 09:00 so all the trains are quite crowded. I let one go and then realise that despite their frequency, it’s going to be much the same for the next hour or so, so I get onto the next one and head for Concorde.

By the time I get to Place de la Concorde, I’m in blazing sunshine.

For some reason, I thought it would be easy to spot the Champs Elysee from here, but the Place de la Concord is huge and, disconcertingly, full of traffic which seems to head in every conceivable direction at once. I was going to head for the centre, but the thought of trying to get through the traffic just to have to work my way back across puts me off. Instead, I work my way around the outside because once I’ve worked it out, it turns out that I’m on the opposite side to where I want to be.

I then start walking up the Champs Elysee, where I can see the Arc de Triomphe in the distance.

At first, the walk is really pleasant. The pavements are wide enough to be able to stay away from the traffic and there are quiet gardens on either side that I meander through quite happily. I’m definitely walking a lot slower today – but I don’t push it as my leg is definitely feeling the strain and I don’t want to do anything silly.

Unfortunately, the closer I get to the Arc de Triomphe, the less pleasant the walk becomes. There are now buildings close on both sides and it’s crammed with name brands ranging from McDonalds to Adidas to Dior (at least the last one is vaguely French!) There are still a few uniquely Parisian buildings, but it feels more like the Kurfurstendamm than anything else. Bleh.

Anyway, the Champs Elysee soon gets completely eclipsed by the edifice at the end.

The Arc de Triomphe is huge and conveniently placed in the middle of a massive roundabout with about 4000 lanes of traffic whizzing past. I sensibly head into the pedestrian tunnel to see about getting access to the top. But the queue is as huge as the Arc de Triomphe, so I decide to skip this – probably just as well to skip all those extra stairs! I come out on the other side and head around to Avenue Kleber to head towards the Trocadero.

The journey to Les Jardins du Trocadero is uneventful. They are quite crowded as this is a great place to get photos of the Eiffel Tower.

So if you want the same photos as everyone else, come here!

There are lots of tourists here and also a large number of people selling crappy plastic Eiffel Towers. I walk past carefully not making contact and one yells “English or Dutch?” Dutch? DUTCH? That’s a new one. Temporarily confused, I reply and get “My family has lived in England for 10 years. Liverpool.” I brace myself for a sales pitch, but he turns to someone who looks more financially solvent. Clearly 9 days of not shaving has its’ advantages.

There are some great buildings here, but I am left with a decision on what to do now.

Quick, move on before the residents of Florida put pants on the statue!

It’s not lunch time yet, so I decide to spend some time doing something that every visitor to Paris does – I go and visit the Aquarium Paris. My reasons are twofold. (1) It’s likely to be cooler; and (2) They’re likely to have lots of seats. I’m half right.

It’s actually a pretty good aquarium, although it is infested with children (not unexpected really). Most are being herded around by increasingly frustrated teachers. Some are great – one teacher is getting really stressed every time her kids try to crowd me away from a display. So I let them go past as I consider the fact that they have a surprisingly large number of jellyfish – and I don’t recall seeing many in other aquariums.

And, by the way, some of artwork is downright creepy:

Of course, not all the school groups could be as well run and in front of the big viewing tank I find a teacher trying to take a picture of her colleague and the children. By the third attempt, it’s clear that the picture wasn’t showing their faces. Not surprising, really as the tank was beautifully backlighting them. (Oh, btw, did you know that French children also say “cheeese” when being photographed?)

(If you’re wondering where they are, they’re not here. This is the photo I smugly took afterwards for use in this blog.)

Anyway, she then decides to ignore the numerous signs and use a flash. It still takes her 5 goes to get a photo, by which time the kids are bored, two are having tantrums and her colleagues clearly wishes she’d taken up alligator wrestling. Eventually they wander off – the wrong way. I’ve seen a couple of school groups walking the wrong way around and wonder if they do this deliberately to avoid log jams.

I take a few shots (without flash) to astound you all with my amazing underwater photography (how does he get so close?) before heading back to the blinding sunshine outside.

I had planned to wander around for the next few hours, but my leg, while not complaining, is clearly getting ready to have a serious moan. I decide to grab some lunch and then head back to the hotel for a couple of hours before my descent into the catacombs.

I find a brasserie confusingly called Le Boissiere. As I’m ambling past, I see that they serve Croque Monsieur. I’ve never had one and having seen Marcus make one on Masterchef the Professionals last year, I’m up for the experience. I settle down with a nice glass of Chardonnay. When it arrives, it does not disappoint – it’s like a cheese on toast on steroids. The waitress then tricks me into having a Creme Brulee and I finish the meal with an espresso. (I now have to admit that I never realised that Creme Brulee was served cold!)

It’s a lovely brasserie and the meal is great – but it’s spoiled by one thing: the man fronting it. He is continually running around like a madman. Every time he dashes past with some plates, I’m waiting for him to trip and fall. He is clearly stressed out all the time and he actually spoils the dining experience. His colleagues are considerably more chilled out, but seem to get the same amount of work done.

When I head up to the till to pay, I speak to the waitress and tell her “le petit homme avec le chevaus gris … il droit ralentir”. Having trusted myself to Google translate, I wonder if I’ve just said something awful. But she bursts out laughing and says “I know – but he will not listen.” It’s a shame as the food is great – but this guy just kept me on edge. That doesn’t stop me giving her a decent tip though.

The rest has not done the legs any good and they have registered a formal complaint with the brain. I take a leisurely stroll to the Metro at Victor Hugo and return to the hotel where I stretch out for a couple of hours.

By then, my nerves at the thought of being late are starting to aggravate me, so I head back to the Metro and make the long journey to the south of the Seine, finishing at a strangely named station (Denfert-Rochereau). The Catacombs are clearly sign-posted and I can see a queue outside. That’s ok because I have a “jump the queue” ticket … and so, it turns out, does everyone else in what we now call a line rather than a queue. Because those are the only tickets that you can buy.

The inevitable security scan is just inside the building. This has happened everywhere else in Paris – which is why it comes as such a total shock to everyone else in the “line”. After the resultant delays and grumbling we get in and are given our audio guides. They tell us to hold them to our ear rather than use headphones. I can see what’s going to happen here as one woman walks around with it on full volume so that both she and her friend can hear it. And, naturally, they are never playing the right bit for where they are.

The Catacombs are a fascinating bit of history and a little intimidating.

The Catacombs contain the remains of thousands of people, so there is a natural reverence and respect. Or so you would think. The woman broadcasting her audio guide at full volume doesn’t help the ambience. Nor does the delightful group of three American women in front of me all of whom have their personal volume controls stuck at “fog-horn”. They have their first issue as they descend the spiral staircase as one of them “always has to see the horizon”. “That’s OK,” her friend declaims, “It’s impossible to trip going downstairs.” My snort of derision is clearly louder than I anticipated and they go quiet until we get to the bottom. There they play a thoroughly entertaining game of jumping out at each other, seeing who can make the loudest shriek followed by all three cackling like the hyenas from the Lion King.

One of them, after the fifteenth repetition of this comedic tour-de-force, then comes out with “it’s better to ask forgiveness than ask permission.” This is a phrase I particularly loathe as it tends to be used by the sort of arrogant bastard who knows they’re about to do the wrong thing and then does it anyway. I start to look for extremely deep pits to accidentally inter them in.

I can’t find a pit deep enough, and manage to get ahead but can still hear their voices echoing away behind me as the magnitude of the ossuary is completely lost on them. Partly this is because they were too mean to pay for the audio guide, so they cover for it by making a series of increasingly dumbarse statements. This includes an argument about skulls where one is adamant that hers is different. Yes dear, yours looks decidedly less evolved.

Luckily they get bored – turns out that there aren’t any rides down here – and with a final “I don’t want to look at every goddamn skull!” they head for the exit.

Unfortunately, not fast enough and I end up behind them on the stairs which all three are insisting on counting out loud. (By the way, in case you think they were teenagers, two are in their 50s!)

When we get outside, they have no idea which way to go, so I slip away to avoid being saddled with them any longer.

There’s only one thing left to do today: the Bouillon Pigale. Tonight, I have mackerel pate, basque sausage and rum baba. And Chardonnay, of course. As it’s my last day, I finish off with coffee and brandy.

This is the least impressive meal that I’ve had here, but still delicious. I leave a hefty tip, and head back to the hotel.

Day Four

I have a relatively crappy night sleep which includes about an hour and a half of being wide awake. It looks like my normal sleep patterns are resuming! This does mean that I finish Emile and get started on The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne.

I set my alarm for 06:00. My train is at the rather strange time of 09:12, so I want to get to Gare du Nord by 08:00 – partially because friends have told me that the Eurostar can be a bit tricky to find. I sort myself out, pack and check my watch – still only 06:15. Wait – bloody watch has stopped, and it’s actually 06:50! I reset my watch, only for it to play the same trick during breakfast.

Breakfast is the same as before – simple but very good. I settle the bill and thank the proprietor. It’s not a flash hotel, but it was what I needed – and they recommended the Bouillon Pigale!

I head off for the walk to Gare du Nord. It’s a nice walk through sunny Paris streets, retracing my steps from three days ago. I get to the station just before 08:00 and start the hunt for Eurostar. By chance rather than design, I’ve walked in right beside the lift to the first floor which is clearly labelled Eurostar. I head upstairs and join the queue. And what a queue it is.

In part this is because we have to go through the following before they will let us get into the departure area:

1. Ticket Check
   
2. French Passport Control
   
3. English Passport Control
   
4. Customs

This gives ample opportunity for things to fuck up – and they do. The ticket check is relatively straight-forwards. There are two choices: the automated gate, or the actual live person armed with a scanner. I choose the latter and skip past lots of people who are struggling with the simplicity of the automated gate.

French passport control has two lines – one for the biometric passport and one for the normal one. Is mine biometric? How can I tell? I show it to a random staff member who tells me it is. Excellent. I join the queue behind a guy laden down with bags, whose (as it transpires) grandparents are in the queue ahead of him. We all learn this as the queue judders to a halt because grandpa can’t get through. Helpful advice is shouted in French (at least, I assume it’s helpful). It’s just a shame that grandpa doesn’t speak French. The guy in front of me yells “Grandpa, take your glasses off.” Excellent advice. Shame that grandpa is also somewhat deaf so it ends up with several of us bellowing “TAKE YOUR GLASSES OFF”.

We finally move on, and as I walk up to the scanner all the lights go red. Which I assume is a bad thing. It is now 08:15 and the staff have worked out that some of the people in the queue should be on the 08:31. Seemingly, they decided to ignore the advice on the tickets to arrive 45-60 minutes early and are now in danger of missing their train. They are ushered to the front of the queue.

Finally they are sorted out and my gate goes green and I put my passport in – which the machine does not like. The long suffering bloke stood by the machine grabs it and presses it down firmly. This seems to work and I head into the gate where I stare at a screen until my unsightly, unshaven mug appears. To my surprise I get through.

Now we have English passport control, which uses slightly different machines that do exactly the same thing. I know this is clearly some dumbarse requirement made necessary by Brexit, but REALLY? The two machines are about 40ft apart. Surely someone could be sensible? Clearly not!

Customs next. We’re told to remove everything metal from our pockets and put it in a bag — no trays provided here. I grab wallet, malfunctioning watch, phone, Fitbit and am stuffing them into a bag when a French woman tries to elbow me out of the way as she is clearly too important to wait for 10 seconds. Needless to say, she fails and does not appreciate it when I tell her to “bloody well calm down”. My mood is not helped by the fact that I’m having the same reaction here that I’ve had in the airports and am sweating like I’m in a sauna.

I put my bags on the conveyor belt and stride away from Madame Impaciente and towards the metal detector. I remember my belt at the last minute and hand it to the woman at the gate with an apology. She asks if I have any other metal on me and I point to my boots. Expecting the alarms to be set off I walk through. Nothing happens. She shrugs and laughs and now I worry about how good their damn metal detectors are.

I head into the departure lounge, where I settle down and start to write all this up. At about 08:35 they announce that boarding for the 09:12 is about to begin. I join what could charitably be described as a queue but would more accurately be a shambles. I look up at the sign which states that boarding will start 20-30 minutes prior to departure. There’s clearly going to be a wait – and so there is. They eventually open the doors a half hour late, with the 08:30 still not having departed. There are a couple of families having problems with their children – not surprising really. I feel sorry for the woman behind as she is trying to stop her son and daughter fighting while her husband does something best described as “chewing the cud”.

By now there have been several calls for the 10:30 train – clearly something is amiss. But finally the lone woman at the gate opens it and yells “I have to see your tickets”. This is somewhat like Canute trying to hold the tide back and I feel sorry for her as I wander past and wave my phone in her direction. (Not for a photo, you wally, my ticket is on the phone.) I head down the ramp to find that my carriage is the closest one – nice!

I get on and find my seat. It turns out that I’m lucky as large numbers of people have problems finding their seats. Eurostar, it transpires, has used an arcane and complex approach called “numerical order” which apparently no-one understands. The long-suffering attendant spends a lot of time directing people who do not seem to grasp this fairly basic concept. This includes the family who were stood behind me who walk in, take their seats and then ask where their seats are. Both the attendant and I point at the seats they are already sat in and he raises his eyebrows at me as he walks off. Maybe shame keeps them so blessedly quiet.

It’s now 09:19 and we’re officially late – though the app smugly informs me that we are “on time”. Hah! Eventually a train leaves at 09:26 – but not this one: the 08:31.

It occurs to me (not for the first time this holiday) that everything would have been materially easier for the staff if someone bothered to tell us what the fuck is going on. At 09:34 we are told that a corpse has been discovered on the tracks between here and Calais and they do not know how long the delay will be. Merde. But at least we know!

The shame-filled silence across the aisle lasts until 09:45. Mum (I’m guessing here) has attached some music to a bit of video from their holiday. It hasn’t come out right, so she wants to remove the soundtrack. She gives it to her son (I’m still guessing), clearly telling him not to delete the video. Which he immediately does.

Mum gets upset. Dad (a very laid back Irish fellow) helpfully interjects “there’s no need to cry about it”. That helps hugely and makes her cry. Eventually (after much wailing, gnashing of teeth and general angst) Dad smugly points out she can just recover it from the Deleted Items folder. Despite this solution, Mum won’t let it go and starts down a clearly well-trodden path about her sons (presumably) lack of respect. The bickering keeps them happy for about 10 minutes, until they relapse back into their own worlds – 3 on their phones, Dad on his laptop.

At 09:55 we get the announcement that we are about to depart. Son has now recovered Mum’s video and added music to it. So she tests it. And tests it. And tests it. And test it again. Mum is keenly aware that this repetitively annoying music may have some deleterious affect on their travelling companions and so she starts to nervously ask how she turns the sound off. I begin to think that she is not qualified to be operating this clearly advanced and dangerous technology.

They then go back to their individual electronic worlds until breakfast arrives. Second breakfast – how very hobbit of me! The tiny croissant and poor quality coffee make it clear that the French are not running the catering. My current entertainment (“The Family Opposite” – soon to be an 8 part series on Netflix) all want to play on their own phones/laptops but cannot resist talking to each other, when none of them actually want to be disturbed. This results in a fascinating argument between Mum and Dad about whether Son should be revising this weekend. Mum think he should. Dad disagrees – and I get the feeling that Dad does this a lot. Daughter hides behind the low-tech book she has dug out from somewhere and Son goes back to his phone. The whispered argument continues until Dad stops it by taking out his own phone and ignores Mum. I’m actually starting to feel quite sorry for her.

We arrive just over an hour late at 11:35.. Now to brave the tube and the final train to Slough. But wait, what joy is this? Yes, once again I visit the delights of St Pancras INTERNATIONAL. Now I know what it feels like to be one of the elite group of travellers vouchsafed the many and glorious delights of the INTERNATIONAL arrivals platform. Bizarrely, it feels like the way I imagine sheep feel as they head into the abattoir. We head for the signs saying Border Force and we all start grabbing passports and tickets. I’m fairly convinced that being stopped is unusual and I’m right. There are a few people scanning the crowd with a look akin to the one I get while waiting for paint to dry. One is clearly very serious and has an excellent resting bitch face. I can tell that he thinks he is the new Idris Elba. They all ignore me and I enter the Emporium of the Vastly Wealthy.

I ignore the temptation to descend into further debt and head for the underground where I join the immense queue for tickets. I know I’ve paid, but fuck it, I want to get home. So I use my credit card to get through onto the Tube and save myself about twenty minutes. The Spiral Line is as inspirational as ever – it’s oddly jarring to be able to actually understand all the announcements! Off at Paddington, just in time for the train to SLough.

And that’s it! All over again. It’s been an amazing holiday and I’m walking home from the station with a suitcase full of dirty clothes and some amazing memories. I’m glad I’ve got nearly 2 weeks before I go back to work!

Once again, thanks for putting up with my inane drivel. My next holiday is in about 5 weeks time, so you might get another few chapters later in the year!

I have a fitful night’s sleep – though my Fitbit tells me that I’ve had a really good one. It didn’t feel that way, as I seemed to have woken up several times. The streets are really narrow and they magnify all the sounds from the street below. I dread to think what it’s like closer to the ground floor. However, it’s a comfy bed and (in contrast to Barcelona) I take my time getting up.

No hotel room is complete without a fight with the shower. For once, the controls are simple but the shower head can’t be adjusted and I turn the water on and get blasted directly in the face. If I was shorter, I guess the water would arc gently overhead but as it is, it makes the whole process a little tricky. But the water is hot and strong … hold on, isn’t that the coffee?

The petit dejeuner is simple – and very French.

There are several of us sat around watching news programmes, most of which seem to be about some kick-ball game last weekend where the Liverpool football fans covered themselves with glory. (History has since then shown that they might not have been completely at fault – but generally it’s a good idea not to piss off gendarmes who have a low level of tolerance in a city that has had several terrorist incidents targeting them in the last few years.) It’s a proud day to be English, so I try to eat with a French accent. The coffee is amazing – strong but without a bitter after taste. It genuinely feels that this is the first time I’ve relaxed for four days, so I revel in it.

Revelling done, it’s time to head out into Paris. It’s a hot, sunny day and the plan is to walk down to the Metro at Le Pelletier, get a 2 day ticket and then go down to Ile de la Citie. It’s a great day for a walk, so I decide to just walk all the way and take in the atmosphere of this beautiful city.

The route takes me through the Louvre. I toy with going in just so that I can say I’ve seen the Mona Lisa, but decide to press on to the Seine.

I turn my back on the Eiffel Tower (which is clearly trying to hide and doing a bad job of it) and head down the Seine to the Pont Neuf.

I cross the Pont Neuf and then find that the southern half of Ile de La Citie has been cordoned off. So I head to the south bank and work my way down there. I start to be a bit concerned that I won’t be able to get to Notre Dame, but the Rue de la Citie bridge is open and I manage to get back across.

Although the front seems undamaged, the renovation work is still going on and I can’t get close to the building. As I walk down the side, I can see that the roof is still missing and there is a huge amount of work that needs to be done.

It’s such a shame to see this incredible building like this. There are signs everywhere saying that they want to get all the restoration work complete in time for the 2024 Olympics – but they have a huge job ahead of them.

I head on down the Seine, walk along the Ile Saint-Louis and then head inland to the Place de la Bastille.

At this point, I decide to finally give in and take the Metro. Mainly because my right leg is really hurting, with a persistent pain in the calf. I’ve tried to ignore it, but it isn’t going away – typical, this is meant to be the good leg! I ride the Metro as far as Les Invalides (ironic, no?) and then slowly head for the Eiffel Tower – very slowly as I have a guided tour booked for three hours time. I could get some lunch, but I don’t want to pig out twice in a day and I’m looking forward to revisiting the Bouillon Pigale tonight. I find a little patisserie called La Trinquelinette and have a hot single serve quiche lorraine and a cup of scalding coffee.

The calm is broken by the arrival of an American family (or, at least, the female members of one). The youngest wants a strawberry tart for her breakfast (seriously, it’s nearly mid-day!). One panics when her friend orders something that may have almonds in it. They then sit down and continue conversing as though they were sat at the opposite ends of a concert hall. Ok, I may be exaggerating a tad…. but only a tad.

A Scottish lady comes in with a little girl in a pushchair. She gets her daughter to order her own baguette in French and the staff are amazing with her. In fact, they are clearly using the same skills they used when I was trying to order. I finish my lunch off with a tiny slice of opera cake which is sweet, bitter, chocolatey and very rich. Yum.

I then head off to the Eiffel Tower and get stuck behind a group of American tourists (for some reason, there are a lot of them around here). One seems to be petrified of pigeons, so one of her friends helps by scaring them in such a way that they fly up into her face. It looks so much fun that I’m tempted to join in, but I suspect it’s a game that she’s not enjoying judging by her regular and ear-splitting shrieks.

Finally, I get to the Eiffel Tower – which as expected is huge and eiffely.

It’s impressively big – but I knew that as I could see it from the airplane as we arrived yesterday. It towers over the city even more than the Sagrada Familia does in Barcelona. I am very tempted to turn to the Americans and ask if they know where the Eiffel Tower is, but I suspect they wouldn’t get the joke. I still have some time before I can be impolitely early to meet my tour guide, so I grab a seat, recharge my phone, have a drink and re-apply the sun block.

The sun goes in while I’m doing that, so I skip the sun block – I suspect I might regret that later. I head past the Eiffel Tower to the Seine. This whole area is crowded and there are lots of people doing street art and selling what can be politely described as “complete tat”. I choke down the temptation to buy a day-glo green Eiffel Tower for the people who gave me a lift to the airport – I figure they have already suffered enough.

My leg seems to be getting better, so I wander down towards the meeting point for the guided tour. I am still obscenely early, but I have a chat with a very nice lady who doesn’t mind me settling down in their comfortable seating area. I buy a bottle of water, plug my phone and sundry other electrical items into their bank of chargers and relax.

The time for the tour finally comes around, by which time there are about twenty of us. I get given a purple circle to wear – that means I’m only going to the second floor rather than all the way to the top. Our guide Mauro introduces himself and makes sure we’re clear on the procedures. There are some items we are not allowed to take into the tower: knives & scissors (all very sensible), padlocks and flags. “Padlocks” is clearly to stop this “love padlock” fad extending to the tower. “Flags” is a little stranger.

Mauro is a great guide and keeps up a constant stream of information – some of which I find interesting and will regurgitate for your “benefit”. The Eiffel Tower is currently being re-painted gold for 2024. A team of 25 people is working on it – which, given the size, doesn’t seem anywhere near enough. As we go up, I can see ropes and harnesses everywhere.

Mauro makes us all feel better by pointing out that you don’t get a much better view from the top – the majority of Paris is laid out in such a way that you can see everything from the second floor. He points out the sights, including the “second ugliest building in the world”. (It’s in the third photo below. Can you work out which one he means?) He admits that it’s not actually THAT ugly – it’s just that it’s so intrusive.

He tells us that there will be some changes prior to 2024 – the whole area between the tower and the Trocadero (last of the above photos) is going to be pedestrianised.

Mauro also talks about Notre Dame. Like me, he doesn’t think they will finish in time. He says that while the decision to use traditional building methods to renovate it is a good one, there are only a handful of people in the country who still have those skills. As a result work is way behind schedule. He also tells us about some alternative plans that were put forward for the rebuilding. One suggested putting in a rooftop swimming pool. Another proposed replacing the roof with a glass one that tourists could walk around on. Mauro pointed out that neither was totally appropriate for a place of worship – especially given the view that worshippers would get up the skirts of female tourists.

Mauro is a great guide, but he eventually leaves us to our own devices. I have a good wander around, and then head down. I decide to take the stairs – presumably, because I am a moron. Predictably, by the time I get down to ground level my right leg is absolutely killing me.

I limp down to the Metro at the Ecole Militaire and head straight back to Pigalle. After successfully negotiating the maze of exits using a ball of string and a remarkably helpful Cretan woman, I head straight to the Bouillon Pigalle.

Today’s meal is farmhouse pate, skate wing with capers and a really excellent lemon tart. I have a very slow and relaxing meal and then limp back to the hotel. I hope my leg will be better after a night’s rest. If not, I’ll have to re-think my plan for tomorrow.

And I’m off – again. My final night in the shithole is complete and I’m heading for El Prat for a 09:55 flight to Paris. With great relief I pack my bags and leave this place. It’s early morning, but it’s still bloody hot.

I finished Interesting People last night. There’s one word for this book: bleak. There’s a quote on the front from Annie Proulx saying that this is “funny, clever and sardonic”. She needed to add “bleak”. It’s good, but don’t read it if you like any form of happy ending. I’m now on Emile by Jean Jacques Rousseau. I’ve been reading this on and off for quite some time and it will be good to finally finish it. It’s a treatise on the ideal way to raise a child. Some interesting ideas, but they are clearly “of their time” and would not be condoned in our 21st century world.

I get to El Prat nice and early via a packed Aerobus. I gird my loins for the usual grapple with security. This time, they don’t care about my toiletries, but I have to take my boots off to put them through the scanner. As usual with every Departure lounge so far, I’m absolutely dripping with sweat by the time I get through. I’ve decided I’m definitely allergic to them.

I have an hour to go before the gate is announced. I head to the cafe and have their Iberian Menu breakfast: coffee, orange juice and an iberico ham sandwich. While there I see they have empanadas and, as I haven’t tried them, I get one of them as well. I settle myself down for a leisurely breakfast – which is probably the most authentically Spanish one I’ve had so far.

When the gate is announced, boarding is a whole different type of fun. I’m dreading the trip as I have the same seat as I did on the flight from Berlin. If there’s anyone sat beside me, it will be very uncomfortable. So when they announce the gate, I nervously head over to find two very efficient women who are already behind the desk and getting everyone in line with nearly an hour to go before departure. Nevertheless, I get in line.

By 09:00, there is quite a line and the two women have disappeared along it as they check boarding passes. I spot a potential flaw in their plan as boarding is scheduled to being at 09:10 – but there is quite clearly no plane there. The plane turns up at 09:20 and the passengers amble out. No sign of the women running the desk. If they don’t turn up, I can see this will turn into a massive scrum. Luckily (if being painfully early counts as “luck”), I’m near the front of the queue and I fancy my chances. Just as the last passenger exits, one of the women ambles towards the desk with the same enthusiasm that French royalty showed for the walk to the guillotine and she starts to check boarding passes again – apparently the first time was just to get us into the right queue.

I head on board and to my delight find that there is significantly more leg room than last time – so I stop cursing EasyJet. It’ll still be snug should I get anyone beside me. When the inevitable person turns up, it’s not too bad as he’s quite small and his attention is all on the person in the aisle seat. (I can’t actually work out the relationship of my two fellow travellers, but after they spend sometime stroking each others knees, they share airbuds to watch some awful looking cartoon on their phone. I suspect they’re “intimate” rather than related.) I should point out at this stage that the seats in front of me that have the really good leg room are filled with three really short people,. who clearly do not need the room. I have a mental grumble about that and consider starting some kind of charity for the plight of tall people on airplanes.

Despite the best efforts of the staff, we’re still boarding at 09:55 when we should have been taking off. I worry this will be another debacle, but they close the doors at 10:00. There is then a delay when someone insists on taking their child to the toilet …. that earns them a damn stern glare, I can tell you! There are interminable safety announcements in three languages and then we do the usual tour of the airport before lurching into the air at 10:30.

We land without incident an hour and a half later. And “incident” includes being offered any refreshments! They get the trolley out, deal with the row in front of and behind me, then change their minds and take the trolley away. To be fair, I’d only have been eating out of greed – but that is often my most powerful motivator.

When we land, I expect to be delayed in getting off the plane. The couple beside me (because that’s what I’ve decided they are), arrived late and had to stow their luggage some way down the cabin. So I expect to be sat here until they can get to it. To my surprise, as soon as the tiny people in front of me leave, the couple moves to those seats and allow me to make a rapid exit before the majority of the passengers. Very good of them.

Charles de Gaulle is exactly what you would expect from a big airport – nothing special at all. I head out to the bus stop and wait for about 10 minutes before giving up and heading for the train station instead. I get my ticket out of a vending machine which spews a little cardboard ticket about 3cms long and 1cm wide. It looks so little like any ticket I’ve ever used that I check with an attendant to make sure this is actually a ticket. I get my first incredulous look of the day – 12: 30; much later than usual.

I head down to the platform and find the insanely long train and grab a double seat in a virtually empty carriage. We are joined by a pigeon that it very keen on heading into the centre of Paris, and has to be herded out twice by the only other occupant of the carriage. The one thing that stands out here is that no masks are required, so mine gets stowed and won’t be needed for the rest of the trip.

I get out at Gare du Nord and walk across to my hotel The weather is still sunny and while it’s not as hot as Barcelona, it’s still very warm. It’s great to be listening to a language that I almost understand and the whole atmosphere here is far nicer than Barcelona. The streets I’m walking down are narrow and busy, but I find myself relaxing.

My hotel is the Hotel De Paris Saint Georges, in Rue Jean Baptiste Pigalle. This isn’t the best area of Paris, but it’s close to Montmartre and about half a mile from Sacre Coeur. It’s online reviews are highly variable and after my experience in Barcelona, I’m understandably concerned. Check in isn’t until 15:00, but I decided to head across and see if I can leave my bag there while I go out and get some food. The exterior does not allay my concerns. I’m also still worried about the financial situation and want to ask if I can use a different card to pay.

I head in and use my extremely poor French to explain all of the above. The guy at reception is great – he tolerates my extremely poor French, he doesn’t want to be paid until I leave and my room is ready now, so I can head up immediately. The relief is like a weight off my shoulders. He takes my up to my 7th floor room in a very small and extremely creaky lift. The room is small, but has its’ own bathroom and is nicely decorated and HAS A WINDOW!! I get a vertiginous view down to the street far below and a view over the Paris rooftops. If I look up to the left, I can see Sacre Coeur. Like a muppet, I didn’t keep any photographs of either of these things – so I stole these photos from their Tripadvisor page.

Feeling much better than I have for the last three days, I head down and ask if they can recommend a restaurant. He is very happy to assist me and recommends the Bouillon Pigalle which is about two hundred yards away. I head up, carefully negotiate the roped off queuing area outside and head in to the busy restaurant. Bouillon Pigalle is a bistro with very fast service and strikes me a bit like Wagamama’s – except that the waiting staff are polite and friendly and the food is exceptional. (One caveat here, I had to change my mind on Wagamama’s after a visit to one in Hammersmith last month – quite turned me round on them). The menu is a mouthwatering list of French classics.

They are very efficient and there is a QR code on the table, so you can access the menu in several different languages. I stick with French, but with the occasional sneaky glance at the English menu to make sure I knew what I was ordering. I end up with escargots and beef cheeks washed down with a half bottle of Chardonnay.

It is all fantastic, so it would be rude not to have a dessert. I order Isle Flottante which is washed down with a tiny cup of strong savoury coffee which manages to be bitter without being unpleasant.

You can pay using the QR code, which I do and add a hefty tip. They’re on the ball and knew that I’d paid as I head for the door. Only 200 yards from the hotel? Traveller, we will meet again!

Before I left, one of my friends (let’s be honest, it was Roz), was banging on about me visiting Sacre Coeur. As it happens, I wanted to see it anyway as I remember it from a junior school project I’d done about Paris. So, at least one (and maybe two) sheets to the wind, I head for Sacre Coeur. It’s nearby and, after all, how hard can it be?

As it turns out, bloody hard! You see, the streets get steep and at the top of them are steps – which are also steep. And beyond the steps are more steps. And the other side of those steps are even more steps, until finally I start to believe that Sacre Coeur doesn’t actually exist and I’m stuck in some kind of Escher-style nightmare.

It’s worth the trip though. I stagger to top of the 22,000 stairs (ok, maybe 100 or so) and find that approximately half of the population of Paris has had the same idea. Sacre Coeur is a beautiful edifice and there is a stunning view of the city from here.

The metal fences up here are all covered with these bloody ubiquitous “love” padlocks and I wonder where people get them from. Almost immediately, two people try to sell me some. Seriously, I’m clearly here on my own, so who would I be buying one of these dumbass things for? My invisible friend, Herve? Also, surely it would be more meaningful if they were bought elsewhere rather than being a spur of the moment purchase. Add that to the list of mysteries about relationships.

I slowly head down the hill and find that Paris isn’t scared of advertising its’ problems, while still giving me some excellent views.

I consider heading over to the Moulin Rouge to get some photos, but I’m knackered and I head back to the hotel for a quiet evening

I sleep surprisingly well – probably something to do with the fact that I’ve been doing a lot of walking over the last 6 days and my food intake has been remarkably low. The day starts pretty well and I manage to negotiate the shower without touching anything except me and I head out before 08:00. It’s 18 degrees but feels much hotter. I’ve had a long debate (partially with myself, partially with people online) about what to do today. A popular choice seems to be to head to Montserrat, which is apparently amazing. Instead, I’ve decided to head for the Castell de Montjuic – which most people don’t seem to have heard of. My early morning wander down Las Ramblas is quiet and tranquil – except for the couple having an impressively loud screaming match in the middle of the road. (For those in the profession, I would rate this as a medium risk domestic). Apart from them, the only people out and about are the police who are sorting out the rough sleepers.

I head down to the Columbus statue that apparently has him pointing towards the New World. Technically, they’re correct, but only because the world is an oblate spheroid which means he’s considering a seriously long journey. Seeing as he thought he had found India, it might be appropriate anyway.

Given the increasing heat, it’s clearly a good idea to keep away from the cooling effect of the sea front, so I walk along Avinguda del Paral·lel. From there, I’m going to take the funicular railway up the hill. Montjuic Castle doesn’t open until 10:00 so I have a leisurely stroll and pop into a cafe for breakfast. This seems more popular than the dire little place yesterday – there are two police officers inside, so they either have a lot of trouble here, or the food is reasonable. Breakfast turns out to be coffee and a croissant – still not exactly Spanish but a real improvement on yesterday.

I’m wondering just how hot it’s going to get, and make sure that the suntan lotion is liberally applied. The heat is not helped by my Berlin baseball cap which seems to have some kind of heating element inside it. It’s soaked with sweat already – lovely subject, eh? – but if I put it on backwards, it seems to be slightly better. I consider taking it off altogether, but that would be decidedly unwise, and resign myself to looking like an idiot.

Montjuic Castle is accessible by the funicular and then a cable car. The funicular opens at 09:00, so I’m sat there with 10 minutes to go. There will be another delay at the half way point, as the cable car doesn’t start running until 10:00. A sensible person would probably have started later in the day, but as these blogs will have shown, I’m not the most sensible person in the world. Also, I’d have had to spend even more time in the shithole.

I’m expecting great views over Barcelona from the funicular, so have my phone ready to snap some pictures. I am, of course, foiled as it runs most of its’ length underground. However, there is a great view from the little park at the top, with views across the city to Mount Tibidabo (which still makes me chuckle).

I’ve pre-booked my cable car tickets, and have to wait 45 minutes or so for it. It’s so quiet here compared to the rest of the city and it’s nice to have a break from the constant noise. The amount of mopeds, bikes and e-scooters tearing around the city is insane. I read somewhere that Barcelona has the highest per capita ownership of motorcycle of any city in Europe. I don’t find that hard to believe. It is also the proud owner of the largest number of pretentious buildings in the world! (source: me). Oh, just a word on road crossing etiquette in Barcelona – bizarrely it seems to work better than in Berlin and if you go along with the lights you have a reasonable chance of making it across the road in one piece.

The cable car station is right beside the pool that was used for the diving events in the 1992 Olympics. I remember the fantastic shots that were taken of the divers with the city far below them.

As I’ve got some time, I thought it might be nice to grab some photos from the same location. Clearly a lot of people have the same idea as the terrace overlooking the pool is now occupied by a restaurant and a cafe, both of which are shut. I’ll think about this again on the way down (but they’re still closed when I come back).

I’m at the head of the queue for the cable car (no surprise there) and manage to snag a car to myself. As we head higher up the hill, the whole area opens up beneath us and I take the traditional shots that everyone takes from a cable car, including one of the rather bizarre instructions on what you should not do in the cable car and a pretentious one down the line of empty cars (which I’m quite proud of).

Castell de Montjuic is fantastic to wander around and, in places, is absolutely beautiful. It dates back to 1640 and has the distinction of having been used to bombard Barcelona on at least one occasion! If you do ever visit here, there is a waring attached: there is VERY little shade!

From the outside, there are spectacular views across the city and somewhat less spectacular views across the port, which is huge. Outside the main port, the seafront is dominated by the vast bulks of cruise ships which blend into the environment with the same discomfort that a Conservative MP displays at a homeless shelter.

It’s bakingly hot up here and I’m starting to re-think my original plan of walking down. I start off by walking around the battlements.

The walk becomes a bit of a nature ramble as there’s no one else walking around this part. As a result, I surprise a snake and a tiny little lizard. I then find some ants the size of my thumbnail and a spider with a remarkably bright green back. Typically, they all disappear as soon as I get the phone out, so here’s a picture with a slightly more complacent dove.

I finish with another view over the unpleasant docks and then head into the parade ground. The colonnade here is about 10 degrees cooler than outside.

The colonnade is lined with numbered doors, all of which are shut. I eventually find one which is open and has a truly startling and very clever piece of art inside. I then make the mistake of starting to read the pretentious twaddle used to describe it – sometimes, people should just let art speak for itself.

The time has finally come to brave the terrace. This is the top of the castle and is eye-wateringly bright in the sun. There’s not much here, but it’s well worth looking around.

It’s got an example of a sundial on the side of a tower – or rather, two sundials because each one only works for half the day. Oh, yes and this was one of the trig points used to calculate the metre.

I really, really preferred this to La Pedrera – it is probably the highlight of my visit.

But now I have to go back down into the city. It’s is possible to walk back down – a long winding road that goes past the old Olympic stadium and finishes at Pablos Espanol. Despite the heat, I still decide to do this, so I take the cable car back down to the funicular station and head off.

On the way down, I find the Jardin des Escultures, and we have to ask ourselves the time-honoured question: “Yes. But is it art?”

In an attempt to answer the question, I present you with my own piece of art. As we are in the capital of Catalonia, I have taken it’s title from the Catalan. Here it is together with an explanation for the piece which should (preferably) be read aloud by Ardal O’Hanlon. Ladies and gentlemen, I present for your consideration Solitud.

In Solitud, the artist has chosen to explore the link between nature and the commercial environment, the emptiness of existence juxtaposed with the irrationality of life and the complex elemental underpinning of the universe. The hat, a symbol of post-war American arrogation, is alone. Without it’s purpose, it is empty, bereft. It is half open, indicating use and now, perhaps, abandonment. Composed of entirely synthetic fibres, it lies amidst the detritus of nature – stone, hewed and hacked by man’s machinations; pine needles, dead and carelessly strewn. Yet in the background, green verdant leaves show us that life goes on and the community sought by the author is at hand, though also out of reach. The hat is a fox – but why? Foxes signify playfulness and mischievousness, but here the artist uses the fox to represent independence and protection. For the hat is alone, crumpled and apparently cast harshly aside. But the sweat on it indicates it has been used and opens us up to the hope that it will be used again.

The walk down is a very pleasant one, along wide pavements that are used by (believe it or not, in this heat) joggers. (Actually, most of them look like the serious types that want to be called runners). The Olympic stadium is suitably impressive and triggers more memories of seeing it on TV.

Opposite it is a sculpture that was donated by Korea, and further down the hill a quite impressive bell tower, which starts tolling just as I wander by.

At the bottom of the hill (and it’s taken me the best part of an hour to get here) is a very nice little park and the Pablo Espanol.

The Pablo Espanol is a very odd place. It was constructed for the Barcelona International Exposition of 1929 and is described as an “open air architectural museum”. It has four areas that are styled to represent the different styles of building and architecture found around Spain. It doesn’t feel like a museum – it feels more like something designed for tourists – and the prices are accordingly high. However, this is the first time that I’ve actually felt that I was in Spain. It is characterful and I have a really good wander around.

But in the end, this place is just about taking your money and some of it just jars with me.

Does it jar, or does it Jar-Jar?

I was planning to eat here, but the prices are clearly inflated. So, I decide to head back across the city to Artespanol Paella & Tapas. On the way to the metro, I stop to look at the Montjuic Fountains.

They do a light show here every evening – but given my concerns about personal safety, there’s no way I’m heading over here after dark! With a wistful look back, I head for the metro and soon find myself walking into Artespanol. The waiter recognises me and hustles me straight to a table. I stumble my way through the menu, refusing to use the English version – my attempt to pronounce ajillo causes much hilarity at the next table. But at least I tried!! I feel much better when three American ladies sit down on the other side of me. They cause far more trouble (“I’m allergic to milk, eggs and dairy. My friend can only eat off plates that were cast on the waning moon, and my other friend must sit facing Jupiter.”) When they order, they don’t attempt the Spanish and talk to the waiter about “number 76” so I feel better for trying. They get a lot less annoying when their food arrives and, like me, resort to yummy noises instead. I decide to take a tapas approach today (not easy when there’s just one of you!).

I ended up selecting: champinones al ajillo, pimientos de padrón, calamares a la andaluza negritos and croquetas de bacalao. With sangria, naturally. It is all insanely good.

I finish my day by taking a long, slow walk back to the hotel through the Barcelona streets, stopping briefly to admire a typical Catalan establishment.

I have an 07:00 start tomorrow, so I’m going to barricade the door and spend one final night in the shithole. Tomorrow I head for Paris and I have to start worrying about my finances again.

Well, dear reader, when last we spoke I was going to sleep in the place that shitholes go to die, and clearly not having a good time. Before I went to sleep, I tried to find another hotel to move to. But anything inside the town was prohibitively expensive (especially considering my current concerns about money) and to get somewhere reasonable, I would have to go about 15 miles outside Barcelona. So I just have to tough it out. I do some research for tomorrow and find that a place called Books & Co apparently serves the best breakfast in Barcelona. It is also, happily, close to the shithole. That will at least start my day well and seeing as I have two of the big ticket tourist items scheduled for tomorrow, it will SURELY be a better day.

I sense you can see how this will go.

I do not get a good nights sleep. While the lack of windows means no noise from the street, the walls are remarkably thin. The sleazy receptionist has some friends that sit with him until about 11pm and have a very loud conversation which I can hear every word of – I just can’t understand what they’re saying. At 2am, I wake up convinced that there is someone in the room with me. It turns out that there is a bathroom adjacent to my room, and the plumbing is extremely noisy. I get back to sleep, but the the receptionists friends come back at 05:00.

I head out of my room before 07:00 to find reception devoid of anything approaching life and head into the shower. It’s one of those tiny cubicles with solid plastic walls that manage to remind me almost perfectly of a coffin. I struggle to get the door shut because the mould has it firmly locked in place. I then have the fun of trying to shower while trying not to touch the walls. As a result I keep bumping the tap and have an exciting freezing/scalding experience.

I head out just after 07:00. It’s going to get over 30 degrees today, but my concerns about security means I’m wearing jeans rather than shorts and all my documents are in my backpack. I have what can best be described as a death grip on it. Outside, it hasn’t heated up yet and Las Ramblas is a completely different place.

The crowds are gone and during my walk down it, I’m accompanied by street sweepers and the relatively few early-bird tourists. There are several courts off of Las Ramblas, and as I wander into one, I’m nearly mown down by two police officers on mopeds.

I wonder what criminal conspiracy they are investigating, so I follow them and then watch them waking up the rough sleepers and moving them on before the tourists arrive. Books & Co doesn’t open until 08:00, so I amuse myself by wandering around some of the back streets.

Eventually, 08:00 rolls around and I head for Books & Co. They have an excellent menu outside, so I head in and find two women behind the counter. The three of us then manage to confuse each other completely. They ask me what my room number is as they assume I’m staying at the hotel next door. I manage to explain that I’m not, so they sit me down and give me the breakfast menu. This turns out to be a fixed menu and so I end up with orange juice (elegantly dispensed from the carton), coffee (bitter and luke-warm) and a sándwich tostado de jamón y queso. Or, as you and I would say, a ham and cheese toastie. I’m not sure who rated this the “best breakfast in Barcelona”, but I can only assume that it was someone who has never previously eaten breakfast. Or possibly has been fed intravenously for the last twenty years so they have nothing to compare it to. I’m am highly unimpressed and Books & Co gets added to the list of things I don’t like about Barcelona.

But enough of such maudlin things – Sagrada Familia awaits and that can’t be disappointing can it? I head for the train station and pick up my pre-booked 48 hour bus/train ticket. I’ve planned my day – Sagrada Familia at 10:30, La Pedrera at 13:30. Should give me easily enough time to look around and get some lunch in between. I am, as you would expect, painfully early and so at 09:00 I find myself outside Gaudi’s masterpiece – which they still haven’t finished.

There are a lot of places that you visit and the expectation far exceeds the reality. Sagrada Familia is not one of those places and I walk around it astounded by the level of detail and more convinced than ever that Gaudi was probably bat-crap crazy. If the outside is like this, what must the interior be like? I head around to the entrance and check my e-ticket to see if I can get in early. It’s at this point, I find out that they’ve cancelled it. I was sent an email yesterday, but it’s OK, they can offer me a ticket in three days time.

And I lose it.

I hate this bastard city, the people in it and every smug SOB who has harped on about what a marvellous place this is. Everything about it is crap and I’m stuck here for another two days. I don’t often get close to tears, but I am now and I find somewhere to sit down while I try to work out what to do now. My tour of La Pedrera isn’t for another 3 1/2 hours. While I’m thinking, I go onto Facebook and make this succinct but heartfelt post.

Barcelona is S**T!

This gets some remarkably fast responses from people. Some are genuinely concerned, one alleged friend just wants to know why I’m being a drama queen. So let me explain: I’m on my own; I don’t speak the language (either of them); I don’t feel safe; I’m staying the shithole to end all shitholes and I just want to GO HOME! So thanks to all the people who checked I was OK.

I sit there for about half an hour as the heat climbs and go through a couple of bottles of water. I find some places nearby that I can go and look at, so I sort myself out and head off. As I do, I pass a stop with a parked sightseeing bus and I decide to ask if my 48 hour ticket would cover that. It turns out is doesn’t, but the lady selling tickets makes the mistake of asking if I’m alright. I end up pouring out my frustrations to this poor woman. She is the first nice person I’ve met in Barcelona and seems genuinely upset that I think little more of her city than I do of Swindon. I end up spending 30 euros on a ticket and climbing aboard. Either she was a nice person, or an excellent salesperson.

The tourist bus goes right past La Pedrera, so I won’t have to worry about that. Barcelona divides the tourist routes into blue and red (essentially north and south). My ticket gives me access to both and I can hop on and off. La Pedrera is one of the places where both lines meet, so I decide to do one line after another – after all, I have sod all else planned. It also has an audio guide and the definite advantage that the bus is air conditioned. I settle down to try and settle down (if you see what I mean).

The bus heads off and the tour starts to calm me down – until the audio guide goes through a warning about not carrying your valuables with you. All that does it get me stressed again and I’m very close to just locking myself in my room for 48 hours before getting the hell out of here.

The tour is good at pointing out the tourist spots and gives a brief description of the area and background to what we’re seeing (or, very often not seeing as I’d have to get off to actually see things properly). This continues until we get to Camp Neu when the audio guide waxes lyrical about bastard football. This does not help my mood.

We get to La Pedrera and I hop off. I’ve still got an hour and a half before my booking, so I get into the queue for the red route. I’m behind a group of women who are clearly on a hen party so I’m put off sitting on the top deck as that’s where they go. Probably just as well as the sun is relentless today and I would have ended up looking like a lobster despite the sun cream that I’ve been liberally applying.

The red route runs just like the blue one – including the audio guide rubbing it in about personal security. By the time the tour finished, I am thoroughly sick of the terms “modernista” and “UNESCO World Heritage Site” as every other building seems to be described that way. I get off at La Pedrera again. Which (like everything designed by Gaudi) is in the modernista style. (For those of us not artistically inclined, just think “fucking weird” and that will tell you what modernista is).

I have a ticket for La Pedrera which allows me to “avoid the queue”. So I join the queue. There’s only one, and you need an “avoid the queue” ticket for it. Despite all the signs telling people they have to buy their tickets before joining the queue, a refreshingly large number of people in front of me haven’t bought one. Some of them become quite cross with the woman guarding the door like Horatius guarding the bridge. I then also become quite cross with her when she won’t let me in – my ticket is for 13:30 and it’s only 13:20. Some people have far too much power!

I stand in the sun for 10 minutes and watch several other people being refused entry. One American man storms off across the street with this apologetic wife in tow. Eventually 13:30 comes around and I re-join the queue. By then, Cerberus has been replaced by a very friendly Golden Retriever and I am let in.

Now, I am not an expert in art. (I am an expert in many things, including cryptozoology and parapsychology, but not art). So when I tell you that La Pedrera is fucking weird, it is not an informed opinion. But it really is fucking weird.

Lots of the lines are very fluid gives a sense of dislocation that is made worse by an audio guide that seems to be being narrated by Ardal O’Hanlon. The guide itself is staggeringly pretentious. Just imagine the following being read by Father Dougal:

Look around you. What you see is not concrete but tree trunks. There you can see the shapes of animals in the curves. There they are: deer, snake, elephants. Oh look Ted, is that an axolotl?

The above does contain a measure of artistic licence (borrowed from the Published Author), but the whole thing made me hear Stephen Fry’s voice in my ear as he whispers “Pretension – by Fry and Laurie!”

La Pedrera is certainly impressive – especially when you consider that it has no internal supporting walls. Clever chap that Gaudi – bat-crap crazy, but clever. It does make me laugh when the audio guide waxes lyrical how Gaudi designed light into his buildings and how he said that the sun was always better than electric light. I laughed because the area I was in at the time, was all (of course) lit by electric light.

On the roof, he really went to town.

In case, you thought this had strayed from pretentious into downright weird, there are some information plaques around to drag you right back into pretentious.

This building was designed for people to live in, and I have to wonder what the people that it was built for thought about it.

“Look Maureen, I wanted a simple two-up, two-down with a patio and a conservatory and look what we got. I know he’s your cousin, but the O’Halloran brothers would have done it for half the price and the neighbours wouldn’t be moaning about it all the time.”

The tour takes me all around the building and then through not one, but two gift shops. The second has the required bookmark and I head out. While I was queueing, I had spotted a restaurant just down the road and I decide to give it a try. I’m not expecting much except over-inflated prices, but the Artespanol Paella and Tapas is a pleasant surprise and a damned good find.

I head in to find that the restaurant is well set up for dealing with tourists – menus are available in a variety of languages and several staff are multi-lingual. I’m sat down and on the table beside me, two ladies are tucking into their paellas – and they look incredible. Not the ladies, the paellas. Look, I’m sure they’re very nice people but the paella was more attractive!

Given my experiences so far, I’m waiting to be let down as I order a jug of Sangria and a paella.

Barcelona, all is forgiven. Well, not really, but this food goes a long way to shore up your reputation. The paella goes down very well – as does the sangria. I am then tempted into trying a pijama, which is apparently a traditional Catalan dessert made up of Catalan custard, ice cream, peach and sweetened cream. It’s delicious, though I’ve seen enough Masterchef to know that it needs some crunch with it.

This sets me up very nicely for a long stroll back to the shithole, pausing to snap a photo of a place that Roz would love.

On the way back, I pass an American family where the person that I would assume to be the eldest son was asking at the top of his voice the following: “How many street people do you think eat rats? I mean just grab one and eat ’em? Or maybe cook them?” Without wishing to make judgements, I suspect he may be a fuckwit.

I head back planning to have a nap for a couple of hours and then head out again. In the end, I buy some bottles of water on the way back and then barricade the door for the night.

Today is transition day and I am leaving Berlin and heading for Barcelona. This, of course, raises the problem of what to do with the day. I have to check out by 09:00, and check in at the airport isn’t until 13:30. I could leave my luggage here and head into the city centre, but that’s an hour each way and not really worth it. My decision is made easier by my knee and my back. Both are registering their disapproval at the amount of walking over the last couple of days. So, I decide to take a rest day – although it feels like a bit of a waste. The plan is to head into the Kurfurstendamm, find a cafe and do some planning for Barcelona.

This turns out to be remarkably easy and I soon find myself disembarking from the bus at the Europa-Center. On the way, I spotted somewhere which would probably be extremely messy if attended by the wrong people. (The “wrong people” being the IBPL.)

I skirt past Starbucks and find a coffee shop called Einstein. It’s probably part of a chain as well, but at least it feels slightly different from going to somewhere that I could easily have gone to in the UK. I settle down, start to people watch and try to learn some basic phrases for use in Barcelona. The most important of these is, of course, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish”.

My guidebook immediately throws me a curveball by telling me that the title of this entry should have been “una cervesa si us plau”. I’m thrown by this – I’m sure por favor is correct… except that the guide book is informing me that people in Barcelona speak Catalan. I then spend a happy half an hour trying to work out which language I am going to fail to be fluent in for the next few days – and end up still unsure.

This isn’t helping my trepidation about going to Barcelona. When I told a friend I was going here, he immediately warned me about pickpockets and told me that several of his colleagues got robbed while they were there. While he was trying to be helpful, it didn’t exactly make me feel happy about going there. I’d done a lot of research online since then and found a huge amount of contradictory information. Half seemed to say that Barcelona had high crime stats, the other claimed that Barcelona was one of the safest cities in Europe. (Granted, the latter report was from a website sponsored by the Barcelona Tourist Office).

What they all seemed clear on was the fact that you would be absolutely fine as long as you left your valuables locked in the hotel safe. For some reason, that didn’t put me at ease.

Anyway, the coffee is tasty but bitter – and cold by the time I’ve finished my planning. I have booked a trip around La Pedrera which should fit nicely with my Sagrada Familia tour that I booked weeks ago, and I am planning to head up to Montjuic Castle on my second day there. I have also sat there chuckling when I found out that Mount Tibidabo is a real place, rather than somewhere that Friends made up.

I’ve also found out that Sir Norman Foster has been at work in Barcelona as well. True to his form on the Reichstag Dome, he’s designed something that really doesn’t blend in but is remarkably impressive.

I replace my cold coffee (yes, alright I drank it!) with another cup and a slice of strudel (when in Germany…)

This must be part of a chain, because the strudel is a normal size!

Eventually, it’s time to head off to the airport. I decide that Google’s suggested route is far too complex, so I wander across to the Berlin Zoologischer Garten Bahnhof. The train I catch wanders its’ leisurely way into East Berlin before heading south to the airport. I’m early (duh!) and as I don’t need to check my luggage in, I head straight for security. My boots again get me stopped at the scanner, but the guy checking it is less annoying than the guy at Heathrow and he checks behind the laces to make sure I don’t have a machete, 200g of cocaine and a small family of Mexican nationals stashed down there. His English is considerably better than my German and he politely laughs as he comments “Big boots” and I reply with “Big feet.”

I get to have a chuckle as well as someone ahead of me is having a major strop as they are being told that they cannot take some of their toiletries on board. Apparently, he has come “all the way from LA” with no problem. It’s also clear that his luggage is way too large to take on board. The people dealing with him remain glacially polite, and I enjoy his discomfort all the more as he is sporting a “man-bun”. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure this is a valid sartorial choice somewhere – just not anywhere I’ve ever been.

I now have some time to kill in the Departure Lounge. Compared to Heathrow, it’s incredibly quiet. It doesn’t have less people, it’s just that none of them seem to feel the need to have screaming conversations at the top of their voices. It makes the whole place much more relaxing. What doesn’t make it more relaxing is the heat. No-one else seems particularly affected by this, so it adds to my theory of being allergic to Departure Lounges.

The relaxed atmosphere stops as soon as we try to get onto the plane. The woman at the gate came up and made an announcement which I barely understood – worryingly, it was in English. I (and several others) guessed that meant we should get ready, so we moved forward to the signs that clearly put priority boarding on the left and everyone else on the right. The lady became increasingly frustrated with people stood in the middle, so repeatedly stormed up and down yelling at them to keep the middle clear. Each time in English. It didn’t seem to occur to her that a flight from Berlin to Spain might not have a high percentage of English-speakers – and judging by the confusion on the faces around me, this was definitely the case.

Eventually, the queues were sorted out to her liking and we started to head to the gate. At this point, it became clear that most of the people with priority boarding were in the wrong queue and they tried to queue-jump. Luckily, I was near enough to the front that none got ahead of me or I would have had to give them a severe stare.

I end up beside a Scottish lady who was very open in her conversation, and made us all aware of her private business despite none of us actually being spoken to. Apparently she is the wife of a diplomat and she is concerned that she went to an “underground concert”. I check around for lurking papparazzi, but clearly no-one gave a damn. There is a delay when she reaches the desk and, to her surprise, is asked for her ID. It’s not a surprise to the rest of us, as we’ve been told to take out our IDs every thirty seconds for last twenty minutes, but clearly she is used to being recognised. She digs it out of her capacious purse, and returns to her one-sided conversation. I just hope she isn’t sat anywhere near me.

As we head down to board the plane, the whole “left and right” thing comes up again, with the woman adamant that we mustn’t walk down the centre of the gangway. Seeing as it’s now only wide enough for two people, this is unlikely to be a problem – until two air staff decide to head out of the plane. They, of course, do this as inconveniently as possible, one walking up to the left and the other to the right. As a result, we’re all standing in the middle when she comes back into view and she really starts yelling.

As we get onto the plane, they tell us to put masks on. This results in people stopping in the middle of the aisle to fumble around with their bags, and blocking the entry for everyone else. Except me. I’m sitting in Row B, so I stow my bag, put my mask on and sit down and almost immediately wonder why my knees are now approximately at the level of my chin. My pre-booked seat with “extra leg-room” clearly doesn’t exist and I just hope that no-one sits beside me. If they do, its going to be a very uncomfortable journey.

To my relief, the Scottish lady heads further back, although I can still hear her voice echoing down the plane like some kind of soap-opera obsessed banshee. It does then occur to me to wonder why a diplomats wife is travelling on Easyjet! In front of me is an empty seat, it’s yard of legroom taunting me as I sit half sideways to fit my legs in. For a moment, it looks as though it’s going to be empty, but one of the last people on is a diminutive woman who claims the seat. Of course, by now all the overhead storage is full and she has an excellent and extended moan about having to carry it further down the plane. She then disappears from view as she settles into her seat. If she tries to recline it during the journey, I’ll give her what for!

So we settle down to wait for take off. Twenty minutes later, the doors are still open. They then turn the planes power off and on again. I’m no expert, but that’s not a good sign. There is a huge sigh of relief when the power comes back on, but no-one has bothered to tell us what’s going on. In fact, they’re not talking to us at all. 36 minutes after we should have taken off, they finally close the door and the captain comes onto the intercom to tell us “the problem has been sorted out”. Wait – there was a problem? What was it? Has William Shatner spotted a gremlin on the wing? We wait excitedly for more information but instead get the incredibly predictable security briefing.

Finally, the plan disengages from the airport and we head for Barcelona. It seems for quite some time as though we’re going to drive the whole way there but eventually it lurches into the sky and takes a very gentle ascent path, giving us all a lovely view of the patchwork fields of Germany. All this delay does very little for anyone who is a nervous flier, so I try to calm down and send up prayers to God, Jahweh, Allah and Orlanth.

The rest of the journey is without incident – unless you want to hear about the in-flight food, which I suspect you do not. The approach to Barcelona is spectacular, with an impressive view of the city, Mount Tibidabo (*chuckle*) and Norman Fosters edifice.

The airport is the complete opposite of Berlin. It’s loud and energetic and everyone seems to be talking at the top of their voices. It’s also very hot – this is not, it transpires, my allergic reaction to Departure Lounges but the fact that the air temperature is over 30 degrees. (Yes, I know, after the last summer, that’s relatively low. But back then it was bloody hot!)

I head out to the Aerobus and I meet the most impatient driver I’ve ever come across. Every time someone asks him a question, he tuts and rolls his eyes and seems to take a great deal of pleasure making sure he answers in a language they will not understand. At the first stop there is a queue of tourists who are, not surprisingly, unsure of whether or not this is the right bus. Rather than helping them, he just drives off and mutters a comment which I’m sure was “Lovely tourists, enjoy your holiday” rather than anything derogatory.

The traffic on the way into town is crazy. He seems to be enjoying himself as his seat is incredibly highly sprung and he goes up and down like a kid on a bouncy castle. This enjoyment does not extend to tolerance for any delay, so when we turn onto an off-ramp that is packed with stationary cars, he leans on his horn. I consider asking why – there’s a solid traffic queue, so this will achieve nothing – but I don’t for two very important reasons: (1) I don’t speak much Spanish and even less Catalan and haven’t worked out which he is currently speaking; (2) I’m pretty sure I’ll end up at the side of the road with my luggage.

This is not a good introduction to Barcelona. The area we drive through looks like your Sim City game has gone out of control, so you’ve just dumped everything by a really big road. For a city of culture and architecture, I’m not impressed.

The bus drops me off at Plaza Catalunya which is absolutely packed and very impressive. I head down Las Ramblas which I’ve been told is really exciting and interesting. Yeah, I guess so – if you like Soho after dark. I pass the very lovely and scenic cannabis shops, the Erotic Museum of Barcelona and a man lying on the pavement with a sign saying “Homeless. Need money for weed.” At least he’s honest.

With all my trepidations about Barcelona, this is a nightmare. Luckily it’s not far to my hotel, so I can take shelter in there and re-group. Or so I hope.

I’m staying at a place called The Hotel Mont Thabor. I’ve given it a suitable Trip Advisor review, but I could summarise it in two words: A Shithole. Actually, that’s not fair to other shitholes. This is where shitholes go to die. This is a shithole that has really lost it’s way and is looked down on by other shitholes.

I head in – maybe it will be better on the inside. I am met by a greasy little man who has about him an ambience that makes me think he usually has to ask how many hours the room is being booked for. I try to engage him in conversation, and in three languages ask him whether it’s easier to speak Spanish or Catalan. He doesn’t understand and clearly just wants to return to his TV. My room is just off reception, and so I go into my residence for the next two days.

The lock on the door is the flimsiest thing since a conservative MP tried to justify a self-serving budget that “incidentally” gave him a £3000 pay rise. As a result, about 30 seconds after this photo, my bag is being used to jam the door shut. I hate it here. Apart from some stellar air-conditioning, this place is an absolute hole. It’s taken everything I was concerned about with Barcelona and added to it.

I’ll have a little side-bar here, because while I was in Barcelona, I posted the above photo while trying to explain my Facebook post “Barcelona is s**t” (You’ll get the full explanation in day two). One person’s response to this was to post the photo on a Whatsapp group that I’m no longer a member of and make several comments about people not doing due diligence before they book a hotel. Let me just set the record straight, should that feculent tosser ever read this. Unlike him, I’m on a budget. Unlike him, I don’t get off on posting plates of pretentious food that I’ve made and boasting about how generous I am to allow my servants to shelter in the house during forest fires. Unlike him, I actually have friends. I did check this place out – and it’s comments were just as varied as those I had for my previous stay in Berlin. Finally, strangely enough when I’m completely strung out and on my own in a foreign country, the last thing I need is some smug bastard like him dissing me to other people I know. Side-bar over.

So here I am, sat in this shithole. I’m sharing a toilet and shower and I really want to go out and get something to eat. But I don’t want to follow the safety guidance I’ve been given – I’m definitely not leaving my valuables here – and taking them with me into the evening Barcelona crowd is just not worth the risk. So I buy two massive bottles of water from Senor Sleaze, and hole up in my room until morning. I spend some time trying to find another hotel for the next two days, but they either cost a fortune, or are a considerable distance. I’m just going to have to stick it out.
Tomorrow, I have Sagrada Familia and la Pedrera. That will keep me busy for most of the day. Surely things will get better!

*Bonus picture*
Because that was a lot of writing and very few pictures, here’s a random otter. ENJOY!

So, dear reader(s), I left you on a cliff-hanger with my financial worries looming over me like a really big looming thing. Despite all my worries and concerns, I sleep fairly well. I do, however, wake up to a stern lecture from my legs who are not happy with the amount of walking I did yesterday. After some negotiation, they agree to carry on. Outside is a beautiful sunny day, although Accuweather and the doom-laden receptionist still claim there are going to be thunderstorms. I decide to ignore them and head down to fruhstuck.

After yesterdays encounter with what would locally be described as ein grosses fruhstuck, I decide to go for something smaller. Ironically I end up going for the Franzosisches Fruhstuck – after all, when in Germany, why not go French?! When it arrives it is (to my surprise) not obscenely huge – though the bowl of chopped fruit is still a bit weird.

I’ve included a shot of the menu – I dread to think how huge Bismarck and Walters were.

As I work my way through my croissant, I ponder the day ahead: Charlottenberg Palace, the Victory Column and Haus dem Checkpoint Charlie. A friend also wants me to find the Sausage Museum, but I’m not going to expend too much effort on that. Money is still concerning me, but I’ve worked out that my overdraft should be sufficient to keep me going, though things will be tight for the rest of month. I decide to ignore this and enjoy the holiday.

By the time I leave the hotel, it looks like Accuweather is going to be right. It’s clouded over, there are some brisk winds and it’s definitely colder. Accuweather now says it won’t rain – clearly the water descending from the sky is some form of motile water that is previously unknown to science! The Age-Appropriate hoodie is deployed and I head for the bus.

The journey is relatively simple – one bus and one train and then a bit of a walk. The busses still strike me as odd. The drivers can clearly see what is going on upstairs – someone who wasn’t wearing their mask got a severe talking to! Despite that, the seats on the top floors are covered with graffiti. It’s all a little bizarre.

The rain only lasts until I get off the train, when things ease off to the point where it all feels like being at home. I manage to stay dry on my way to the palace and I get there just before the doors open.

Inside the ticket is a steal at 13 Euros and gives access to the old palace, new wing and garden. Entrance comes with an extremely comprehensive audio guide that covers the entire old palace.

This is a truly spectacular place and has been restored extremely well. I only find out just how much has been restored in the first room where there is a computerised demonstration of the history of the palace. This is a top down view that has little people and carriages and wagons running around and reminds me (for no readily apparent reason) of Michael Bentine’s Potty Time (for all you bloody children out there, it was a television show). I’m therefore smiling to myself inappropriately when the screen darkens, searchlights appear and the Allies bomb the crap out of it. I feel vaguely embarrassed but does mean that I appreciate the scale of the reconstruction and restoration.

It takes me over an hour just to go around the old palace, which is remarkably beautiful. Lots of art, lots of silver, lots of. displays. Way too much to talk about in detail, so here’s a montage.

As you can see, their decorator favoured the under-stated approach! 🙂

It is incredibly beautiful and very impressive. There is a level of detail and intricacy that makes Laurence Llewellyn Bowen look like a soberly dressed prison chaplain. And it is in room, after room, after room. The reconstruction is incredible as is their attention to detail. One of the paintings was slashed with a sabre. When they restored the paintings, they made the decision to leave the sabre slashes apparent as they felt this was part of the story of the piece.

The audio guide is very good and by the end of the tour, I have learned various useful facts, which I will now regurgitate for you:

1. The traditional Prussian spiked helmet originated in Russia
2. The Prussian obsession with military uniforms and militaria was started by the aptly named Frederick the Soldier and was, in part at least, a fashion statement
3. Royal beds were very rarely slept in
4. In an audience chamber, you could tell how important you were by whether or not you were offered a seat. If you were, how much the monarch liked you determined whether the seat had arms or a cushion. (I am going to start doing that at work.)
   

It is a stunning place, but I decide not to check out the new wing as I’m feeling a bit “palaced” out. I have the same reaction in art galleries and museums. There’s only so much staring at things I can do before I get restless. Also, there was virtually nowhere to sit down in the palace, so my legs were reminding me of the terms of the entente agreed to this morning.

I decide to call it ein Tag and head off to the Victory Column (aka the much more difficult to spell and pronounce, Siegessaule). When I posted pictures of the column on Facebook, some smart-alec commented that Germany didn’t have any victories to boast of. Well (according to Wikipedia), the Siegessaule was designed by Heinrich Strack to commemorate the Prussian victory in the Second Schleswig War, by the time it was inaugurated on 2 September 1873, Prussia had also defeated Austria and its German allies in the Austro-Prussian War (1866) and France in the Franco-Prussian War (1870–71). So there.

I’ve already been past it several times as it has a prominent position in the Tiergarten, so I head over there on a bus. The column is right in the middle of a very busy roundabout, so the first problem is how the hell do I get to it?

I start to walk around the roundabout, traversing the numerous very busy, multi-lane roads that come off it and looking forlornly for a way across. There must be some way as there are people over there. I can even see some of them at the top (in the picture you can just see their heads in the section below the angel).

At this point it’s worth commenting on the tricky nature of crossing roads in Berlin. The crossings I am using are all traffic light controlled, so I’m thinking it should be easy. When the light shows red for me, clearly I do not cross. Foolishly, I assume that when the light is green, I can cross. This is mostly true. it seems as though the pedestrian crossing might be given a green light, but the traffic doesn’t get a red one. As a result, I often find myself nearly mown down by cars, bicycles and fucking e-scooters as they casually charge across the crossing. Everyone else seems to have the same problems as me, so this is clearly normal. I wonder what it will be like in Barcelona and Paris? You never know, you may get the chance to find out!

Anyway, back to the plot (or as much of a plot as Michael Bay ever puts into a film). I’ve got halfway around and still found no way across and can’t see any way across at ground level. I did find this chap though.

Look it’s that bloke they named a Fruhstuck after!! If you’re lucky, he’ll turn up again. (It’s almost like planning has taken place!)

Eventually, I realise that the large concrete building ahead of me isn’t a public toilet, but instead is the entrance to a pedestrian underpass. It is, unusually, completely un-signposted and (of course) there was one right by my bus stop. However, if I’d found it, I would have missed out on that nice Herr Bismarck. (Or “birthmark” as autocorrect keeps insisting).

Anyway, I get across, join the queue and pay my 3.5 euros (not exactly breaking the bank, is it!). There is a large friendly sign telling me that it’s 60 steps to the first viewing platform, and another 230 to the top. My legs are voting for the lower platform, so I trick them by stopping off there for a walk around and another view of Herr Bismarck.

Having lulled them into a false sense of security, the legs and I tackle the rest of climb…

… which is pretty steep. Luckily, the designers have very sensibly put seats at regular intervals. An elderly German lady are united by the lack of a common language and our dislike of stairs and we encourage each other to the top. The viewing area at the top is absolutely packed. There is just enough room to squeeze past people, but the view is excellent. Oh look, there’s that Bismarck chap again!

There’s a superb view towards the Brandenburg Gate.

It’s amazing to think that most of the trees in the Tiergarten were chopped down during and after World War II.

Finally, off to somewhere that is for me one of the most iconic places in Berlin – Checkpoint Charlie. My mastery of the bus and train system is now complete, so after a very slick journey I get to Haus dem Checkpoint Charlie. As I get there, It occurs to me that I haven’t since breakfast, so I head into a shop called Kamps and order a coffee and a slice of butter-streuselkuchen. There is a short discussion when I ask for a smaller slice and find that I can’t have one, so something that probably features in Weight Watchers meetings under the heading “AVOID”, lands on my plate like an elephant steak. It doesn’t seem to occur to them that if the slice of cake is longer than the plate, you either need bigger plates or to serve SMALLER PORTIONS! It is delicious – but I only eat about a quarter of it. The rest gets wrapped up and put in the backpack – and eventually thrown away.

Checkpoint Charlie is weird and, overall, the most disappointing thing about my visit to Berlin. The old checkpoint is just in the middle of the street, and I almost walked past without realising what it was.

The wall itself has completely disappeared, except for a small portion of it which is completely covered in graffiti.

I can’t work out whether the graffiti is deliberate or whether it’s just part of the general graffiti I’ve seen everywhere else. I’m actually disappointed that more of the wall wasn’t kept intact – but I can also understand the desire to rip it down. No worries, I can always buy a piece of it in the sad tourist trap known as the Haus dem Checkpoint Charlie. The museum is over-priced compared to everywhere else I’ve been in Berlin and the shop at the start and end of the tour might as well just be called “The Tourist Trap”. You can buy 99 flavours of total crap here, including “guaranteed” pieces of the wall. No bookmarks though.

The museum itself has a problem – several problems actually. It’s dealing with a sombre and sensitive subject and they have a huge amount of material that they want to try and put over. They also want to put it into a historical context. Personally, I would think this would lend itself to being organised chronologically so that we can understand the political backdrop before being shown the various ways that people tried to escape. Instead, it gives the impression of a collection that someone has built up over time and pieces have just been put in where they will fit. Rather than something like an audio-guide, they have vast screeds of text on the wall – made vaster (more vast?) because they are in multiple languages. And whoever did their translation, is not very good so I find myself struggling to understand what they are trying to say. As a result you have to really concentrate to get anything out of the experience.

My concentration is somewhat impaired by the woman just ahead of me who has decided that this is the ideal place to bring her Jack Russell. It’s okay though, because he’ll stay in her shoulder-bag.

Oops, he got out.

Oops, he got out again.

Oops, well, what a shock, he’s off again.

Oops, you’ll never guess what happened now?

Frustrated, and a little pissed off, I head off for my last visit of the day – Potsdam Plaza. This is meant to be spectacular during the evening, but even during the day it is dominated by some striking modern architecture.

At ground level, I’m intrigued by all the pictures of people and head for a closer look.

Is it art? Some kind of installation? A comment on the diverse communities in the 21st century? No, it’s a fucking advert

They’re trying to say that it’s “art” but actually it’s just an insurance company cynically using diversity as a selling point.

I head on to the Sony Centre.

It’s pretty spectacular, but little more than a frame for a variety of ways to divest me of my money. Seeing as I’m already a bit concerned about that, and my legs are definitely not happy, I decide to head back to the hotel even though it’s only 3pm.

I’ve managed to get to the one part of Berlin where there is no direct bus, so I have a bit of a walk to an appropriate bus stop. It’s beside what would seem to be a car showroom.

This actually the National Gallery, as evidenced by the odd statuary outside.

Hold on! Isn’t that second one from Babylon 5?

Hmm.

I head back to the hotel, aware that I have barely scratched the surface of Berlin. Tomorrow, I’m off to Barcelona and although my flight isn’t until mid-afternoon I won’t really have the chance to sample more of this fascinating city.

I loved it here. The people are friendly, the city is amazing and it feels like I’ve packed a lot into a relatively short time. Now off to the Mediterranean, where apparently it’s a scorcher!

Despite the room being quite comfortable, I have a pretty awful nights sleep. I blame this on the two pints of beer, but sadly, being awake half the night seems to be the norm for me currently. It’s made worse by the fact that there is no water in the room and I have nothing to carry water in – so I have to keep padding down to the bathroom and drinking from the tap. Water gets put on the shopping list. At least my repeated journeys to and fro are helping seal the words Ziehen and Drucken firmly in mind. (“Pull” and “Push”). 6am hoves into view and I head down to use the showers and have the usual fun deciphering the deceptively complex controls. This is made more fun by the fact the shower takes ages to warm up, so I’m not sure I’ve moved the dial in the right direction…. at which point it becomes scaldingly hot. This is also the point that I realise they don’t provide soap. The shopping list grows. I’d best add suntan lotion to it just in case the weather forecast is wrong and we aren’t getting a day of rain and thunderstorms.

I get back to my room and get dressed just in time for breakfast – or I would be, if I hadn’t misread my watch when I got up. In fact it’s only 05:45 and I have an hour to wait. I would absolutely love to blame the time difference, but I can’t. While I’m waiting, I review todays plan: Reichstag, Brandenburg Gate and Potsdam Plaza. And I should be able to get Unter den Linden in as well. I have tickets for the Reichstag, but they close in inclement weather, so I’m really hoping the forecast is wrong.

7am finally comes round and I head into the restaurant for breakfast, I hover near the door because it’s very unclear where to go and I’m in sight of a waitress who is having an animated conversation with the only other occupant of the bar. This is clearly the wrong thing to do as she turns to me, waves her arms angrily and shouts at me in a stream of unintelligible German. I explain that I don’t speak German and she rather abruptly says “Just sit anywhere”. Suitably chastened I head into another room and sit down. No tip for her, I feel.

I decide to go for the fruhstuck – of which, there are four. Not wishing to be greedy, I go for the second smallest. I am relieved I didn’t choose the biggest one, because when it turns up, it is vast!

There is at least a pound of cheese on the plate (some of which can best be described as “gnarly”). Although I’m a keen cheese eater, this is too much, even for me. I make barely a dent in it and half expect to get shouted at by Frau Blucher when she returns. Instead, she gets me a paper bag and I make up a cheese roll for lunch. I clearly misjudged her and actually she’s quite friendly

My Reichstag tour is booked for 10:15 and I have to get there twenty minutes beforehand. So, naturally I plan to be there for 09:30. The journey involves two buses and I’m still a little nervous about the bus system, so I plan on leaving by 08:30. At 08:00 I’m still in breakfast, so I pay, rush up to my room, grab my kit and head out. Just as I’m walking up to the bus stop, it sails past, so I make a run for it, and happily take my seat. I then manage to arrive an hour early.

I get off a stop early. This is, of course, planned, because it means I get a great view of the Reichstag as I walk up to it.

The tour only goes around the dome on top which, clearly, is a relatively recent addition to the building. It was added during the reconstruction of the Reichstag in the 1990s and was designed by Norman Foster – who seems to get everywhere, and design what can best be described as “weird shit”.

Oh, and if you look to the left of the Reichstag, that odd needle-shaped thing in the distance is the Fernsehturm. It looks quite small here, but the base of that ball in the middle is at 203m. This may become relevant later.

I have a roam around the outside of the Reichstag. Now, I’m sort of expecting there to be the remains of a bloody great wall around here somewhere, but there’s nothing to be seen. Oh wait, is this it?

I confess to being a little disappointed. Maybe the plaque can shed some light on it.

So, a fairly important wall, just not the one I’m after. I head on towards the Brandenburg gate, first passing Germany’s answer to the TARDIS.

Apparently, there is a line of different colour bricks to show where the Berlin Wall used to be. I can’t find it, but I do find the Brandenburg Gate.

The Brandenburg Gate is truly impressive, a vast edifice at the end of a long straight road to the west, with the Siegessaule (Victory Column) at the other end. To the east, is the Unter den Linden.

I then head south to the starkly named Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, aka the Holocaust Memorial. This is a remarkable memorial that covers a 200,000 sq ft site. (Yes, I fact-checked that because it sounded huge). It is simple, but effective.

It is bleak and solemn and despite the fact that it’s beside a busy road, remarkably quiet. I’m here at a good time of day as there are very few people around. I don’t get the full effect until I walk through to the centre. The ground dips towards the middle, and the obelisks (stelae?) get bigger. As a result, it’s like walking through a narrow canyon.

When you’re in the middle, the sound of the road fades and it’s still and calm. It’s both oppressive and impressive as these massive blocks stretch high above your head. I have issues with art sometimes (wait until I get to Barcelona!), but I can really appreciate this. I head out with a sense of relief and make my way back to the Reichstag.

The promised rain and thunderstorms have failed to appear and so I head into the security station, pausing to snap a picture of a …. thing:

I’m glad they said what it was, otherwise I’m sure some people would have used it as a bootscraper.

Entry to the Reichstag is free – but not free of a security check, so I head through with a crowd of people and head up. Masks are on and we get audio guides as we step out onto the Reichstag roof.

The dome is am amazing bit of architecture. It clearly doesn’t match the architecture around it, but somehow it works. Inside the dome is a curving ramp that takes you to the top and a huge mirrored cone in the centre. The audio guide is clever enough that it senses where you are, so if you walk on too far, it stops and switches to the next segment. I try to fool it by walking back down … clearly this has been tried before and it happily copes.

As you ascend, the view over Berlin gets better and better, until you get to the top, where the roof is open to the elements. According to my guidebook, this is to symbolically “allow for the free and open dissemination of debate throughout the country”.

Just as I’m wondering what happens when it rains, my audio guide illuminates me. The mirrored cone is hollow. Rain water is collected in it and repurposed for use in the Reichstag. That Norman is a clever chap! I start to head down and appreciate just how high this dome is.

The mirrored cone, by the way, serves a purpose other than allowing people to take cool photos with their reflections in it. It reflects light into the council chamber below, reducing the amount of lighting required both there and in the surrounding offices. Definitely a clever chap.

As it’s still relatively early, I decide to hike down the Unter den Linden and visit the Fernsehturm. I start heading down and spot a shop that allows me to stock up on water, the obligatory bookmark and a Berlin baseball cap, so that everyone will know I’m a tourist.

This is now into what was East Berlin, and there are some suitably monolithic buildings along the route.

For some reason, they’re more ornate than I imagined they would be. Some are a massive surprise – like the Berliner Dom (aka Berlin Cathedral).

And the biggest surprise of all:

The threatened poor weather has failed to appear. In fact, it’s sunny and warm and I’m keeping an eye out for somewhere to buy suntan lotion. I haven’t found one by the time I approach the Fernsehturm via the Neptune Fountain.

The Fernsehturm really looks insanely tall from here.

I spot a chemists and manage to stock up on sun tan lotion and shower gel. Great service – the lady also gives me some vitamin C tablets and a pack of tissues to wipe the lotion away from my eyes. I find a place near the Fernsehturm to apply the lotion to the skin.

On to the Fernsehturm. I decided not to pay for the 3D visual experience and just head upstairs, where I wrangle my way through security. There, the security guard asks me to empty my bag – which turns out to be quite embarrassing as on top are 2 empty plastic water bottles and a used tissue. They are followed by sun tan lotion, shower gel, charger and cable, iPad mini, Age-Appropriate Hoody… at that point she gave up and waved me through. At least we didn’t get as far as the cheese roll, which I’m reminded of as someone on Facebook has commented on my gargantuan breakfast.

The viewing deck is at the base of the sphere and, as I said earlier, is 203m off the ground. The lift is insanely fast – fast enough to make my ears pop. The views over the city are stunning – and give me a good idea how far I’ve walked today.

It’s an excellent experience and there’s a restaurant here. I don’t go to it – partially as I expect it to be insanely expensive – so I head back down in the ear-popping lift and find somewhere to sit outside to eat my cheese roll. It’s bakingly hot now, and I’m glad I’ve got the sun tan lotion. I decide to head back to the Kurfurstendamm and grab a bus rather than hiking back. I’m getting more confident with them now and love the way that they both announce the stop coming up and show you the next three stops.

I’d been told to visit the Kurfurstendamm by several people and to my disappointment it just seems to be an extended set of shopping streets. However, at the centre of it is the church that is referred to as the Broken Tooth, alongside it’s remarkably ugly modern replacement.

And then I hit my first major hitch for this holiday. I pick up a couple of t-shirts and decide to pay using my Capital One card. Now, this is my only credit card and I use it exclusively for on-line shopping. I paid for some of the airfares on it and I’ve got about £1000 on it to use this holiday – this includes the last hotel I’ll be staying at which is the only one that hasn’t taken the money in advance, and is the most expensive hotel. So, I get the card out and then suddenly realise that I don’t know what the PIN is. I can’t use it contactless, because I’ve never activated it for that. I know exactly WHERE the PIN is, I just remember it, because I’ve never used it. I end up sheepishly paying using my normal account card. It’s ok though, I can get to my PIN using the Capital One app. So I head back to my hotel to do that.

Excellent. Settle down in my room, having filled my two plastic water bottles from the tap. Hah – the plan is coming together. OK, activate the app. Oh… because I haven’t used the App for 6 months I have to reactivate it. No problems: all I have to do it put in ………. the FUCKING PIN!

This is manageable. I’ll call the helpline. They are VERY helpful and agree to send me the PIN – to my home address. I point out the uselessness of this. The poor woman at the end of the phone keeps telling me that there is no way they can see my PIN as it is under the “highest level of security”. They do come up with an alternative solution – get the hotel to take the money out remotely before I arrive. Really? My god, you’re a genius! Except I thought of that two hours ago, and the hotel isn’t answering my FUCKING EMAILS!

I’m now left having to pay for everything out of my account. Worse, I arrive in Paris the day before I get paid, so probably won’t have enough money in my account. Capital One are absolutely useless. It feels as though they have royally screwed me.

I’m rather peeved (as you may have surmised), so instead of heading into Potsdam Plaza, I head out to somewhere more local and end up buying a kebab. In Slough (culinary capital that we are), there is a shop called The German Doner Kebab (where, apparently, you can buy “Kebabs done right”). They do actually make remarkably good kebabs and I’m keen to try them in Berlin. Of course, they don’t call them German Doner Kebabs here 🙂 I go for a small one, and I’m relieved that I do as they provide me with half a cow and I head off to find somewhere to eat it. It’s very good, but like breakfast I can only manage about a quarter of it.

I throw the rest away and head back to the hotel, where I lie awake worrying about money.