Monday 18^th February 2013

There were several gorgeous tall ships surrounding us when we sailed off to look at the Regatta fireworks last weekend.  The James Craig, the Enterprize, the Windeward Bound, the Lady Nelson.  All so pretty and evocative of times long past.  I am quite sure it was not all that pretty and adorable, mind you, in times long past, aboard these beautiful tall ships…

Helen made me laugh a lot when she told me about one of her first jobs, working in a photo lab, in 1988.  That was the year when a huge fleet of tall ships came to Hobart.  It was just stunning, but I also remember it was also very misty, on the river.  Helen said that the lab workers all because expert in developing blurry, misty photos of things floating hazily on water, things which just might or might not have been tall ships, just faintly discernible on the horizon.   

 

Final India #88

I have no notes at all to record how this trip was.  We sadly left Hana in Mumbai – she was going back to the UK for a few weeks before coming home to Real Life.  I think we sat in a row in the middle of the plane, the four of us, giggling helplessly at this and that until some of us fell asleep.

Vish and Mary were flying on to Hobart and had a few hours to wait, so we stayed at the airport in Sydney with them.  We had hardly got through Customs – miraculously hassle-free and speedy – when Pete, a look of grim determination on his face, shouted, “This way!”  He had found a beer garden!  And a very welcome sight it was, tucked away at the side of the airport, surrounded by leafy bushes.  We sat there for quite few hours happily reunited with Australian brands of beer, watching big jets come and go above around us.  In our five weeks away Pete had become legendary amongst the four of us for his ability to sniff out purveyors of beer; I was said to be able to sniff out an Internet café with almost equal speed and skill.

We hadn’t booked anywhere and decided to try our luck at the Airport Ibis, where Vish and Mary had stayed on their way from Hobart.  Very basic, they said, but OK, and cheap.  We stepped outside the airport, and there, serendipity, was a little hotel bus marked IBIS.  No problems at all; within minutes we were being shown up to a room.  And what a room!  Basic – I don’t think so!  CLEAN and fluffy and spacious and white, with FLUFFY towels and blindingly white soft sheets.  We made little inarticulate sounds of pleasure – a kettle, an iron, a toilet which flushed cool clear water, soap, shampoo in little bottles, an enormous and COMFORTABLE bed!  It all felt like the height of luxury to us, after five week in India…

Pete had ideas of going into the city to have a slap-up meal somewhere ritzy.  I eyed him a bit doubtfully and said, in noncommittal tones, hmm yes lovely idea… It was about 6pm and I couldn’t imagine how much effort would be needed to climb into a taxi and then stay awake in some ritzy restaurant… When we got downstairs, Pete looked around, eyes wide “Well this all looks very nice, doesn’t it?  Look at the menu!  T-bone steak!  Let’s stay and eat here!”  So we did, and very good it was.  What was especially good was being able to pop into the lift straight after the meal and be transported back to our CLEAN and fluffy room…

We climbed into bed and propped ourselves up to watch TV.  There was a program consisting of old British comedies.  We watched, with some horror, an episode of Man About the House.  There was Yootha Joyce as Mildred.  We both remembered her as being quite a raddled old hag, a figure of fun, especially for her unhappy and unsuccessful attempts to get her ancient husband George to have romantic moments with her.  Oh yucko!  But there we were, now aged 60 and 57, looking at her in dismay.  Oh yucko indeed, I don’t think so, – she was so young and pretty with smooth cheeks and a lovely smile – not a hint of raddled old hag!  The perspective of time… Next came Are You being Served, where Mrs Slocum also took on a new and rosy sheen of youth.  About halfway through this highly dubious program we both fell into deep and dreamless sleep, still propped up on pillows.  Somewhere around midnight we both woke up – what WAS that noise??  A jetplane in our room??  No, it was the television, blasting hideously.  I don’t know why the hotel management didn’t come and bash down the door to remove the remote control from under Pete’s chin, where he had been snoring rhythmically onto it and increasing the volume to about 60…

Well yes home did look wonderful.  It is always wonderful to go away and to have adventures, but really Tasmania is so VERY beautiful.  So sparkly and bright, with clean air and blue blue skies.  And our darling family and friends.