After a month in Europe, long flights home and a decent night’s sleep, the CB and I are back in the land of the living. Here are a few final thoughts, in no particular order, to wrap things up.

In Nuremberg we had a look at the place where Hitler conducted his rallies and made those infamous fist waving speeches to the then adoring masses. It’s been preserved so we never forget what went on there. As a music lover I like the idea that it’s now used for rock concerts. I don’t know if Iron Maiden have performed there but seeing Bruce Dickinson in his redcoat tunic waving the Union Jack while singing The Trooper and leaping about in the spot where Hitler once stood appeals to my irony gene.

We saw numerous castles on our travels. I love castles. Inverlochy Castle in Scotland was used for protection back in the 13th century. This involves fighting. I am photographing the defensive capabilities of the castle – the moat, the battlements, the walls, the ingenious ways they had in those days to trap or kill attackers. The CB is photographing bluebells growing out of the walls.

I’ve previously reported in Widows and Walking Sticks and other previous posts that we have been travelling with a bunch who are about a generation removed from us – up, not down. And there are a lot of single ladies amongst them. So while Cuz1 and I have been focussed on getting the next round in, Cuz2 and the CB have been more concerned with who’s doing what to whom. A bit crude I know but when we are talking about an average age of about 80 it takes on a whole new dimension. They had the male and female tour guides sorted on day one despite a left-field intervention from another of my cousins in Vienna which I won’t outline here but some of the other “connections” were ……… I don’t know why I’m talking about this and will stop immediately.

We’ve encountered many, many famous people on our travels this past month ranging from Marcus Aurelius, emperor of Rome and philosopher extraordinaire to Ferenc Puskas, Hungary’s and one of the world’s most famous footballers who was given a cathedral burial. We saw Oscar Schindler and Ralph Wallenberg, Gothe and Richard the Lionheart. There was Zsa Zsa Gabor and Conrad Hilton and various Habsburg kings and queens. We caught up with Mozart, Beethoven, the various Strausses, Haydn and Schubert in Vienna and Richard Wagner in Germany. It seemed like every town, big or small, had a claim to fame usually involving a figure from the history books. And that’s a big reason why the CB and I love visiting Europe.

Of course getting from Aus to Europe can be a pain and readers of one of the earlier Rheinube episodes will be aware that British Airways fell rather dramatically in my estimation when they put the CB and I in the middle two seats of the four in a 2-4-2 configuration. They redeemed themselves by giving us an aisle seat and a middle seat with no one in the other middle seat coming back the other way. It was looking dodgy there for a while BA.

Then when we showed our boarding passes at the Qantas lounge in Singapore the nice Qantas gentleman said they had different boarding passes for us and went to consult with a colleague. They were different but not in the way I hoped and at this point expected. Rather than an upgrade, they were switched from paper to cardboard and the seat numbers didn’t change. Hoo-bloody-ray. Maybe Alan Joyce knows I think he’s a social justice warrior wanker who should confine himself to running an airline when wearing his Qantas hat. I’m a Qantas shareholder and he doesn’t speak for me when he says Qantas believes this or Qantas believes that (insert favourite lefty cause).

And finally we were very fortunate to have travelled with such fun loving, and booze loving companions in Cuz1 and Cuz2. When intentions (having a good time mainly) are perfectly aligned you can’t go wrong. Any hint of disunity prior to departure however will be magnified especially in the close confines of a boat or a coach as someone I know recently discovered. Not us. We had a blast and intend doing it again and if you hang around long enough and I don’t get sick of doing this you’ll read about it here first.

Well Budapest, what can I say? What a wonderful place. You are now my official favourite city. Take an insomnia pill New York. Wipe that sanctimonious smirk off your face Paris. Turn off that phone Hong Kong. There’s a new kid in town.

Vienna was inspiring with its beautiful palaces and it’s magical, musical past. But it’s flat and organised. A touch of dishevelment and hints of a more “colourful” past plus a few hills make for greater interest. Vienna certainly has interesting history being front and centre with Budapest in the Austro-Hungarian Empire followed not long after by it’s capitulation to nazism. And it’s suburbs are as graffitied as any other city. But Budapest is coming out of something no city, no country, no people should be made to suffer and the transition is incomplete but the potential is obvious. Maybe the same can be said for Bucharest and Sofia and any number of places which experienced the same cold, dead-hand of totalitarianism, but today we are focussing on Budapest.

Budapest has the Danube. Many places have the Danube as it’s Europe’s second longest river behind the Volga which is entirely in Russia so doesn’t really count. And the best place to showcase a city from, in my humble opinion, is a river and if that river happens to be the Danube then all the better. Many of Budapest’s most outstanding landmarks are visible in all of their glory from the river. And there are plenty of them which you can read about in any number of books and blogs, but not this one.

Our tour guide advised us that the happiest day in Budapest’s long history (they celebrated 1000 years in 1896) was the day in 1991 when the Soviet army left. Then the hard work began because what hadn’t been trashed had been neglected to a criminal extent. Restoration work is proceeding apace but unfortunately the economy hasn’t progressed since the communists were kicked out, to the extent that sufficient funds are available to restore everything. So you get this strange phenomenon of a street of beautifully restored palaces and five story town houses interspersed with potentially and previously beautiful buildings sporting crumbling masonry, exposed bricks and collapsing facades. And they are filthy.

Now, the majority of restoration work is done as a condition of sale of the particular building. So if a hotel chain or a bank or any other business buys a run-down building, they are required to do the restoration themselves, in some cases it would appear, simply to make them habitable. How’s that, you millennial, socialist weenies? Capitalism is cleaning up the mess your communist fellow-travellers left when they scuttled back to their mythical land of fairness and equality where everyone lives happily ever after.

Meanwhile back in the real world you can still see bullet holes from World War 2 and more recently from the uprising of 1956 when the plucky Magyars tried to toss out the Soviets only to be crushed. A small part of this was reenacted in the pool at the Melbourne Olympics when Hungary played the Soviet Union in water polo – the “Blood in the Water” match won by Hungary 4-0.

These are the reasons why Budapest is such a wonderful place. It has a magnificent smorgasbord of attractions, it has reminders of its tragic past and it is demonstrating its determination to eradicate, but not forget that past.

Meal times have generally resembled reenactments of the Battle of Agincourt with sharpened elbows and strategically positioned hips replacing long bows and cavalry. Now that we are in a hotel in Vienna instead of on the boat it’s even more so. This hotel doesn’t seem to check or even care who comes in for breakfast. People just seem to wander in off the street. Consequently the buffet is an ugly free-for-all of epic proportions.

This is in complete contrast, I might add, to the incredible elegance of the city centre, the focus of architectural splendour and more statues than you can imagine. I’ve commented on this previously but it’s worth repeating. Comparing what the artisans of the Renaissance and Baroque and other creative periods of relatively recent history turned out, with the “art” our pampered luvvies produce isn’t chalk and cheese. It’s the Sistine Chapel and finger painting.

I’ve always been more sport than art but will give credit where credit’s due. I can appreciate talent and creativity and I kind of like the idea of a sculptor’s life work and centuries-lasting legacy being half a dozen statues adorning a gob-smackingly splendid palace.

Speaking of legacies, Vienna is like many European cities which have retained or rebuilt their historical legacy. Various wars, not least World War 2, have conspired to destroy it but the good burghers of Vienna and countless other places across Europe have toiled to faithfully rebuild and replicate what was destroyed with spectacularly successful results. If only that hard work, dedication and vision could be replicated in the management of …….. well, everything these days. Making sure the stones of St Stephen’s Cathedral were put back in the right order was a politically correct – free process I expect.

These days our competitive nature is channeled into sport and politics and diving for the last croissant. Centuries ago the peasantry were competing for clean water and life beyond the next bout of hand-to-hand combat. The aristocracy however were in the death-grip of a my palace is bigger than your palace construct-a-thon. Because of this we have good reason (amongst others) to visit Vienna and Budapest and Paris and St Petersburg and London. Spending your money on buildings rather than swords allowed the people to eat and the men to not die even more prematurely and that’s got to be a good thing even if more could have been spent on “elf” and “edumacation” as every good wealth redistributor will tell you.

We just crossed the border into Hungary. There’s a lot to admire about the Hungarians in the current open-border craziness that Frau Merkel and her EU co-conspirators have inflicted on all of continental Europe. And it appears there’s an element of rat cunning flowing through their stoic patriotism. We made a comfort stop at a services place on the highway to Budapest and discovered that it cost a euro to use the convenience. After the complaining subsided, I read the fine print on the ticket the machine spits out after you insert your money. Most people don’t even see this ticket emerge or ignore it but it is redeemable for one euro if you buy something in the shop. How is that? A toilet driven economy.

Sorry for the paucity of posts dear reader as we have been having too good a time and spare moments for this particular political animal have been taken up following the government shenanigans in Australia.

So far so good. We’ve walked much more than we’ve drunk which is often a good thing especially on a boat when drinks are free at certain times – lunch time and dinner time for us. This is fine except when it is necessary to debate the restaurant manager on the definition, specifically related to time, of lunch “time” and dinner “time”. This is only generally necessary when we are the last to leave which is most of the time.

While on the subject of drinking, I thought I’d heard it all and then I heard a tour guide at the Faust Brewery in Miltenberg, Germany say if you can’t manage steps you can stay in the sampling room and “help yourself”. I’d take that tour every afternoon.

There are more than 70 locks between Basel in Switzerland, where we started this cruise, and Budapest. When we go through them it’s like flying Indian Airlines through a cyclone. I know because I’ve had this rare pleasure. In most of the ones we have been through so far there has been about a foot to spare on both sides. So you can excuse the driver hitting the wall occasionally. But I’m at a loss to explain how a boat travelling at slow walking pace can hit a wall less than a foot away and throw you off the toilet. And it’s more severe at night. I’m not suggesting there are substances other than black coffee involved here but there is a chance the apprentice is given an opportunity to drive when we are pretty well straight-jacketed by high walls and almost no speed.

A comment here on the legendary German efficiency. We stopped for a couple of steins of Wurzberg’s finest at a quaint bar overlooking the old town square and struck the absolute antithesis of said efficiency. Our waitress had the attitude of a surly French waiter, the focus of a Fawlty Towers Manuel and the commitment of a Greek bureaucrat a week before retirement. I was beginning to think this legendary Teutonic planning is mythical. Prior to that we walked around this palace called The Residency and saw a gardener who managed to rake the same square foot of soil thirty or fourth times in the time it took us to walk past him. Maybe I’m confusing thoroughness with efficiency. But having three people to trim a tree was just too much. As best we could make out one of them was there to scowl at approaching tourists.

Just sat down with a Highland Park single malt and it’s seductive properties are making me wonder why I started writing this when my attention should be elsewhere. Back in a short (or maybe not so short) while.

It’s now a day later – that’s a serious seduction. This is a whisky which is distilled in the Orkney Islands and I have discovered to my very pleasant surprise that it is available at our local Uncle Dan’s in Brisbane. Oh joy.

The reason I have been able to sample this drop is because our hosts at the Cawdor House B&B in Nairn have provided a whisky bar honour system arrangement. How civilised is that? This gives me a perfect opportunity to mention our hosts of the past week as this is our last day in Scotland. So, to Jan at Beaches in Ayr, Toby and Bev (a couple of Aussies) at Mansefield House in Fort William, Agnes at Hazel Bank on the Isle of Skye and Andy and Anika at Cawdor House, many thanks for making our trip to Scotland memorable and enjoyable. And thanks Andy for allowing me to sample the aforementioned Highland Park – one of those unexpected pleasures that we live for.

They’ll probably never read this but you never know. On a cold miserable Highlands winter’s day, one of them, with nothing better to do, may type the name of their establishment into Google and there on page 412 will be a link to this blog.

Now back to said blog.

Yesterday we travelled from the Isle of Skye to here, Nairn near Inverness. On our way we got lost in Fort Augustus because I forgot to look at the compass in the car. We needed (I thought) to cross from the right side of Loch Ness or its southern equivalent to the left side for the trip north. After five traverses of the town and wondering why the satnav kept taking us in the opposite direction to what we thought we wanted, I realised we had travelled south into Fort Augustus and not north – duh!

Then we stopped at the Loch Ness Visitor’s Centre and were told why every sighting and theory regarding the monster does not stand up to even (in some cases) the most cursory scrutiny. Way to kill your business. I always had Nessie up there with Santa and the Tooth Fairy as romantic fantasy figures but there’s no Centre for the Debunking of Santa Claus is there.

Next stop Inverness. The traffic is as bad as Bangkok. That’s all you need to know.

Today we found a pub. Also, we visited some wonderful places – the very solemn Culloden Moor, site of the last major battle on British soil in 1746 which the Jacobites who were mostly and nominally Scots lost resoundingly to the mostly and nominally English. Incidentally we also visited Fort George, built in the 1750’s and 1760’s mostly to help quell any future Jacobite uprising which never came. There was a reenactment of scenes from the TV series Outlander being performed. And the people watching were still cheering for the Jacobites. That’s loyalty for you. I’m also reminded of an old adage regarding doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome. If you don’t know about Outlander, look it up. Or not – suit yourself.

But yes. We found a pub – the Cawdor Tavern. I have previously commented about the scarcity of pubs up here. So we had to go in and sample their wares which were more than adequate. A modicum of confidence in Scotland was restored but I have to say Jocks, you’re about 5000 behind Ireland at this stage.

While on the subject of Cawdor, those of you with a smattering or English Lit may recognise the linkage with Shakespeare, specifically Macbeth who aspired to be and eventually became (by nefarious means) the Thane of Cawdor. We visited the castle and said hello in passing to the Dowager Duchess who still lives there and looks nothing like you would imagine Lady Macbeth to look. She wasn’t even carrying a dagger.

Now we all consider Scots to be quite dour (apart from Billy Connelly) but the person who wrote the commentary about the various rooms and features in Cawdor Castle was either me or someone with a rather unusual piss-taking sense of humour. So we read about the maid whose job it was (ostensibly) to warm the duke’s bed and how British Rail could learn from the Duke’s train time keeping and many more nuanced comments which I can’t remember now because it’s quite late.

I’m going to finish today’s entry with a bit of political commentary. Scotland wants to be independent. I suspect this is one of those all care and no responsibility independence plans, as in they want to be masters of their own destiny but want the English to pay for it.

And get away with it they will have to because the Highlands comprises no manufacturing, a few kelp farms, logging and tourism. So there is very little wealth generation up here. The upside is that consequently the requirement for scenery destroying windmills to provide planet saving power is at a minimum. But they are still making their insidious way into this pristine landscape like so many triffids. But I digress (as usual). Regular readers will be aware of my unhinged hatred of these monstrosities.

And I’m going to finish with another non-sequitur. Why are a bunch of skirt wearing kelp farmers considered so tough as the Highlanders undoubtedly are? I’ve lived here for a week, in summer. And I don’t wear skirts. Even in an Australian summer. Enough said.

I write a lot of stuff about travel but it’s never been my intention to review accommodation or hand-out “to do” lists although I do occasionally write about these things in passing. I’ll leave that to the Union of Soviet Socialist Lonely Planets and stick to quirky and interesting (to me, anyway) observations.

So I was going to tell you about the bathroom in the B&B we stayed in in Ayr in Scotland. It’s roof over the toilet and washbasin was about 5’6″ high (we were under stairs). If you are shorter (like the child bride), no problem. If you are 6’0″ it’s at eye level so you are reminded to duck. If you’re 5’8″ like me you will have hit your head on it three friggin times after only 3 or 4 hours in the room. And the showers all over the UK – intelligence tests one and all – twist, push, pull, smack, dial, smack again, swear, freeze, swear again etc. My cousin has one with a tap. She stole it from the London Museum.

But enough of these trivialities. We travelled through Glencoe on our way to Fort William and any thought of showers and bathrooms was as ruthlessly put down yesterday as the MacDonalds were in 1692. I’m talking about the scenery which completely dominates everything so there’s absolutely no room for petty quibbles when presented with nature’s overwhelming majesty.

If you appreciate glacial geomorphology, this is the place for you. The Principles of Physical Geology by Arthur Holmes or “Holmes” as we knew it in high school and at university, came flooding back. Well, not quite but recollections of U-shaped valleys, cirques and tarns and drumlins were still sufficiently clear to appreciate the awesome forces of nature that produce them.

And it’s not just nature that sculpts and builds. The Scots have been pretty good at it as well. There are eight locks at the Fort William end of the Caledonian Canal which stretches up to Loch Ness forming a waterway that goes from Fort William to Inverness and effectively cuts Scotland in half. These locks drop the water level 20metres and they were built between 1803 and 1822.

But if that’s not impressive enough, there’s a castle here called Inverlochy which was built in 1280. There’s another with the same name which was built in 1863 which is now a hotel and has a better roof than the 1280 version but impressively, most of the 1280 version still stands. In this throw-away, built in obsolescence society that’s some serious longevity and something a few builders I know could learn from.

We joke about Melbourne’s weather – if you don’t like it, wait a minute. Now I don’t know if this absolutely applies to Melbourne. The weather there is generally pretty atrocious (just ask anyone from any other state in Australia) and it’s making even more people go to football games in winter so they can huddle together to stave off the cold. Comrade Dan, Supreme Leader of the People’s Democratic Socialist Republic of Victoria has closed another coal fired power station so people can’t turn on their heaters as much, thereby reducing the earth’s temperature and saving the planet. I’m not sure it actually works like this though.

But the weather variability thing absolutely does apply specifically to Fort William and the Highlands generally I expect. We must have transitioned through the four seasons numerous times over the past two days. Being freezing cold, dripping wet, sweating and occasionally comfortable in five minute intervals just comes with the territory I guess.

We are now in Scotland; Ayr to be precise. I love Scotland because there are more redheads per square metre here than in any other place on the planet. Having said that, it is necessary to be a bit careful because they are a volatile bunch. I’ll let John Cleese take over here temporarily and he’s talking about security threat levels as in the American Defcon 1-5 and the English version which ranges from “miffed” through “peeved”, “irritated”, “a bit cross” to “a bloody nuisance” which was last invoked in 1588 when the Spanish Armada threatened.

“The Scots have raised their threat level from “Pissed Off” to “Let’s get the Bastards.” They don’t have any other levels. This is the reason they have been used on the front line of the British army for 300 years.”

Thank you John.

So I suggested to the CB that she not irritate the locals. This is somewhat problematic because she has recently taken to suggesting better or more interesting ways to cook food to waiters in restaurants. As long as this happens after the food has been delivered I am sort of okay with it. Doing it beforehand is really asking for trouble (or food poisoning).

But let’s backtrack a bit first because we had a few terrific days in England. England is part of Great Britain which if we’re completely honest is better described as “Fair to Middling Britain” these days. But after all of England went ape-shit due to winning a penalty shootout to advance to the last eight of the World Cup, try telling that to anyone from Carlisle to Bournemouth. I know I’m mixing countries here, but it’s my blog. However the places we go to and the people we see (mostly relatives) still qualify for greatness I have say.

So after a few days of “hostile hospitality” (a phrase coined by a very good friend of mine in India who was and is peerless in this regard), the CB and I are now able to regroup and do a bit of touristy stuff.

Still on England, many years ago Francis Rossi asked his legion of fans “Would you like to ride my Deutche car”. If this is a bit esoteric for some, refer to Status Quo’s classic song “Paper Plane”. The legion responded by saying they would like to ride in a Deutche car but not his and promptly went out and bought their own. Consequently every second person owns a BMW / Audi / Mercedes / Volkswagen (strikeout whichever is not applicable). Either there’s a massive amount or wealth in this country, a massive amount of debt or we in Australia are being massively ripped off. It reminds me of Cambodia where every second car is a Lexus. That’s a Machu Picchu-like mystery which no one has been able to adequately explain to me yet.

The real Scotland experience starts tomorrow when we visit Fort William and seek out some Scotch distilleries. Hopefully the child bride won’t start telling them where they’re going wrong.

We haven’t hit Europe’s impressive river system yet. That’s about 10 days away. First up is visits with rarely seen relatives and some wonderful (if you call a raging hangover wonderful) reunions. So the title of this and the next few entries will be something of a misnomer. So, from the beginning.

The CB and I are now winging our way to London. A break of almost a day in Hong Kong was nice. The CB hasn’t been here for years and it’s changed a bit. However it’s good to be back on our way to the final destination. Actually that’s an interim final destination – Manchester and probably better described as “the start” as Hong Kong has been designated Day Zero. The “final” final destination is Budapest in four weeks.

Anyway, it was a good day spoiled by the fact we have been given the two middle seats of a row of four on our flight to London. Those of you who have read my previous travel stuff will know I am a firm believer in frequent traveller privilege. That’s a bit like white privilege but not as insanely PC. We are in premium economy with seats configured 2-4-2. Qantas wouldn’t have dared put us in those seats but we are on British Airways and despite the fact I was born in England, I suspect winning back the Ashes hasn’t counted in my favour. And just for the record, when sitting in a Cathay Pacific premium economy seat, I can’t reach the seat in front of me. On BA I can almost reach the seat in front with my elbow. And not to labour the point (much) when the seats are dropped back for sleeping (they go back a long way – big plus), I am trapped.

But let’s scroll back. The flight to Honkers was fine. I had an aisle seat. Okay, okay, enough. Pretty uneventful. Airline coffee is not remotely like real coffee and I fell asleep before Stephen Hawking had got though the two years he was initially given to live, in the movie about his life. Did you know he outlived his doctors?

It’s August so Hong Kong is hot and sweaty. Notwithstanding, the usual haze was absent so the CB and I got the Peak Tram up to the Peak (funnily enough) to look at one of the most spectacular views in the world. We had to queue for about half an hour. Not too bad considering the time of year but I am willing to bet money that in all of that time we didn’t encounter one member of Asia’s most exclusive club – the Personal Space Appreciation Society. When I traveled frequently for a living and especially during the period when I had a pathological hatred of wheeled luggage, I used to carry a suit bag, the sort that carried a week’s worth of clothing, a couple of pairs of shoes and a spare book. If anyone nudged up behind me, they wore that bag which could be swung around savagely, ostensibly to realign it on my shoulder. In these circumstances I’m always reminded of a sketch on the old Dave Allen (the late great Irish comedian) Show where about eight cloth capped workers marched into the sardine factory, for want of a better phrase, dick to bum.

A few cold beers and a bit of pub food in Lan Kwai Fong (see previous post, A Week in Honkers) and we were knackered. It would have been almost unbearable had we not been able to walk almost all of the way from Hong Kong station to the Peak Tram station, undercover and mostly in air conditioning. The walk-way system round Central is brilliant.

We have now landed in London. Immigration hasn’t improved since last time (see European Safari). We faced long queues, minimal personnel and total indifference. If minimum airline connection times used Heathrow as their base line, they’d all be increased by an hour.

To finish Day Zero on a positive note, the weather is excellent…….but we haven’t got to Manchester just yet – sorry, couldn’t help myself.