Showing posts with label bus replacement. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bus replacement. Show all posts

Tuesday, 3 June 2025

Penrith, Stirling and Dumfries

A short trip to Scotland with a purpose is where I start my solo traveling life. 
I'll be visiting friends near Stirling and undertaking some family history research in Dumfries. But first, Penrith where I had hoped to see the legendary largest policeman uniform as the Cumbria constabulary's museum collection has largely fetched up at the Penrith museum. I sent them an email long before I left but their very prompt reply ruled out any specific Currie family connection. I thought I'd come anyway.

Day one

I get up at stupid o'clock. Stupid because it's over an hour before I need to, and even after a very relaxed breakfast I still have time for a full edition of Celebrity Antiques Roadtrip before I need to amble down to Fratton station. Even when I get there my train is still only the fourth one due. Sarah wouldn't have allowed this nonsense, but here we are.
An uneventful, if dozy, journey to Waterloo is followed by the Northern Line to Euston where I pick up some lunch (and for full disclosure, a pre-lunch Whopper Junior). There are, it turns out, absolutely no litter bins in Euston station. I'm booked on the 12.30 to Glasgow central which starts boarding at about ten past. My handful of rubbish is dumped in the train's bin as I get on. Without knowing, I've thankfully reserved a seat as the train looks to be very busy. Even better, the seat next to me remains empty despite it having been booked through Carlisle. The train is a pendolino and travels at a fair lick reaching our first stop at Warrington after only 100 minutes. Penrith, 290 miles from London is a mere 3½ hours of pretty comfortable travel. I have to wonder if HS2 is really worth it.
For once, arriving by train is super convenient for checking in to my accommodation as I arrive at the B&B minutes before regulation check-in time and am welcomed in. It's a very smart but homely place, very welcoming.
After a late afternoon's rest in front of the snooker, I head out for a quick wander around town, getting my bearings, before settling on the nearby Italian restaurant for dinner. This turns out to be a good choice as a very enjoyable dinner is served by exceptionally friendly (family?) duo. I have carpaccio and cartoccio, both excellent. After dinner which I pop in to the nearby pub for a whisky and then a beer and a watch of the football. Arsenal are playing and there's a Liverpool fan in desperate for them to lose.

Day two

Breakfast is early. It's good, but way too early really. As a result I'm up and out long before the museum opens. While I'm wandering about what is a very interesting and pretty town, I notice there are several references to "Dockray" which I must look in to later - the name appears in the family tree - and stumble across a newly opened and beautifully curated antiques shop where I buy a beautiful horn Quaich and have a lovely chat with the owners. Finally I'm able to visit the museum which is small and lovely but has nothing really police-related in it so I leave disappointed. Having pretty much exhausted Penrith  for entertainment I opt for an afternoon in "The Lakes" and after a fair wait at the bus station take a bus to Pooley Bridge at the head of Ullswater. The place is almost entirely geared up for getting the most out of tourists, the two main pubs serving expensive fairly ordinary food and drink for instance. The one bright spot is the local book and coffee shop where I pick up a couple of things to take home and am introduced to Westmoreland Pepper Cake with my coffee. It's a hot day, and a misleading bus timetable leads to an hour's wait for the next chance to return to Penrith and a quiet evening in front of the snooker.

Day three

After breakfast I leave for the station and a train to Edinburgh and on the Stirling where I am to stay with friends for the weekend. A very quick and efficient couple of hours later I'm met at Stirling station and taken to their new home near Plean. A quiet afternoon ensues. Whisky is imbibed in the evening.

Day four

Stirling Castle is our first destination. Booked in advance, we arrive early enough for a place in the car park and a wander around the churchyard which include the sentimental Victorian memorial to Margaret Wilson who was drowned for refusing to give up Protestantism during the Scottish reformation. 
Stirling Castle offers regular, free, guided tours and it is well worth taking one. Our guide was also very good and we had a great time. It's easy to see the importance of Stirling Castle in the history of Scotland as the position it occupies is clearly impossible to sneak an army past without being noticed.
After the castle we wandered down into the town itself for a poke about, finishing up at an art collective/shop where I added to my souvenirs.

Day five

Today is distillery day! But first a jaunt around a very nice antiques centre at Buchany nearby. It's a place one can spend hours and fortunes. I seriously toyed with the idea of a beautifully boxed decanter set but both the price tag and the logistics of getting it home forced me to see sense.
Deanston distillery is on the banks of the River Teith housed in an old cotton mill. The whisky it produces is beautiful too. We had a warehouse tasting and were very well served, leading to me spending a stupendous amount in the shop.
Another relaxed evening with a good amount of whisky followed.




Day six

My onward journey involved a couple of trains (three, as it turned out) and a change of station in Glasgow to get to Dumfries and the meat of my trip - ancestor hunting!
I was dropped at the station an hour ahead of my train so it was a relaxed time doing the games on my phone as I awaited the train to Glasgow Queen Street. This was very straightforward, arrived on time and I made my way to the station concourse for the next leg. The train to Dumfries left from Glasgow Central and my ticket included a bus transfer but the location of the bus stop was unclear and it was only a 10 minute walk, the weather was fine, so a stroll through the city centre it was. Glasgow Central is a large station made to look older and posher than perhaps it is. My train was probably leaving from platform 14 (iirc) so I made my way over that way and started staring at the small departure board there. It got perilously close to the scheduled departure time before the board finally confirmed that the train that had been there all the time, a good twenty minutes, was indeed the train to Dumfries. 

The weather was warming up nicely as the train dawdled out and across the Clyde. We hadn't gone very far; Stewarton I think, before it became clear that the engine was not in the best of working order. After really struggling to engage its gears to pull out of the station, the train manager (Guard for older readers) told us that the train was now incapable of going beyond Kilmarnock where we would either get a bus onwards or we could wait for the two o'clock train (it was now roughly 11.30am). We limped into Kilmarnock where the station manager assured us the bus was on its way. Several passengers were on time sensitive journeys and were increasingly anxious as the bus continued not to arrive. Refunds were sought and taxis investigated. It was by now well after noon and the chance of the bus significantly beating the two o'clock train to Dumfries was getting slimmer so I decided I'd wait for the train. By the way, Kilmarnock station is at the top of quite a steep looking hill and the thought of dragging myself back up it after investigating the dubious delights of the town for an hour made my mind up to wait on the platform for the now eighty minutes before the next train arrived. As I reached the platform a shout came from  the station building that the bus had finally arrived and did I want to catch it? I declined. All this palaver meant that I arrived at Dumfries station in the late afternoon rather than just after lunch as planned.
I was staying at a guest house just across from the station. They had sent me a text that morning detailing how I was to access my room - the code to the (back) door and the key to my room lodged in the door itself. It seemed odd not to be met, the place itself was lovely and very comfortable, and when I finally met my host at breakfast the next day, they were very nice and very welcoming.
The station, and therefore my guesthouse, is a good ten minute walk from the town centre and anywhere nice to eat. After settling in therefore, I went for a bit of a wander without any clear idea of where i was going. Fortuitously I found myself outside the Burns House museum a good twenty minutes before it closed. It's a very nice, very small museum of the later years of Burns' life and I had a nice chat with  the guardian before going on to St Michael's churchyard where Burns' mausoleum is situated.
The early evening was still warm as I wondered around the churchyard, taking note of any Currie graves I came across and pausing to look at Burns' mausoleum. After leaving the church I made my way down to the river where I encountered the man from the Burns House again who told me of the delights of the main museum including, which I did not know, its Camera Obscura! We parted as he crossed the river and I turned back towards the town centre again where I eventually settled on a curry at the India Palm which proved to be a wise choice. Back to my guesthouse, some world snooker on the telly and an early night, for tomorrow would be genealogy heavy.

Day seven

I have booked myself into the Dumfries and Galloway Family History Society reading room from opening at 10am and I'm quite prepared to spend the bulk of the day there. I'm early. At about 9.55 they notice I'm waiting and invite me in. They're lovely people and can't wait to help look for records while  I browse the many booklets of monumental inscriptions, making notes of locations and inscriptions for further future cemetery visits. We make some small but not insignificant progress before I decide I've exhausted what I can achieve there today and after offering profusive thanks, I set off for the museum at the top of the hill. Sadly for me I miss the pedestrian turn off and end up following the signs for cars in what turns out to be a long and winding route up the hill on what is turning into quite a hot day.
The museum is lovely and well curated and I spend some time there before booking my spot for the camera obscura. The operator is not very experienced but it's a good one despite the much taller trees now than when it was built, obstructing some of the views.
At the bottom of the hill, on the river, is the Burns Centre which has a café/bistro attached and my large breakfast is wearing off. Lunch is nice and then I make my biggish mistake. One of the books I read this morning was Monumental Inscriptions of St Michael's churchyard, towards the back of which is a record of one of the graves myself, Heather and other members of the Facebook group are looking for. The book says it is in the new part of the cemetery which I take to mean it's in the new cemetery a way up the hill. The day is now hot and the walk is a lot further than I thought so I arrive in what turns out to be a very large cemetery on a very hot day without any further refreshment. After a rest in the shade I start looking for that particular grave in the area the book says it is. I can't find it but there are other Curries and related families so I trawl the entire section walking up and down the rows of gravestones taking photos and getting increasingly exhausted. After over an hour I've also exhausted all possibilities and decide to leave. Footsore, I find a local shop and inhale a bottle of water and some chocolate (for energy of course!) and set off back down the hill, eventually arriving back at the guesthouse for a well-earned nap before contacting Heather about my day, having a shower and heading back out for dinner at the popular Italian restaurant in the town centre. A couple of pints at the Tam O'Shanter before bed, along with a nice chat with a worried Preston fan (the final matches of the season are at the weekend and Preston are in danger of relegation) I try to reassure him that Pompey are likely to get a result and Preston will be safe - which turns out to be true.

Day eight

Today I'm meeting up with Heather (and her friend) for a day of churchyard visits and other local landmarks associated with the Currie family. Rather than them driving into Dumfries and back out to Lochmaben, it's easier for me to catch the bus out to them. Sadly two scheduled buses don't turn up and I wait over an hour before another suitable service arrives and I finally get to Lochmaben where we meet a the townhall/library and go for a coffee to get acquainted and plan our day. Naturally the first stop is just round the corner in Lochmaben's cemetery which is a bit overgrown and lumpy, but we find a few possible family graves that we photograph for later research.
Not far away is the Cruck Cottage museum which is an excellent preservation of a cottage like those some of our ancestors would have lived in or at least have been familiar with. We find it open and wander in before the guardian comes across and points out the newly repaired patches of floor we've walked on. He's very helpful though and we have a good chat with  him about the cottage and the area and our research before we move on.
Next stop is the graveyard at Torthorwald church where we know there are family graves to be found, one of which people are keen to have re-photographed and then on to Collin (tiny) before a refreshment stop where they have some lovely ice cream and I have a very disappointing sandwich.
Heather has been in contact with the farmer who lives at a place our ancestors were married, Rockhallhead nearby, and we are able to visit the farm at least. He gives us thankfully detailed directions and after trying and failing to convince the woman who now owns the old farmhouse to let us take pictures, we meet the farmer for a quick chat about the history of the farm etc., and he also gives us a tip about the best place to photograph the house from the road.
The day is wearing on and they decide they need to go to Dumfries for something so are happy to drive me 'home'. We arrange to meet for dinner the next evening.

Day nine

The DGFHS is open again today and I need to check what I thought I read in the book on St Michael's on Tuesday. I find the book again and read the section more carefully and of course, the "new" section of the cemetery predates the New Cemetery and is a walled section secreted behind the Burns mausoleum and when I get there it is a matter of moments before I find the grave exactly where it should be. I check the rest of the section for other potential family graves before taking it easy for the rest of the day, exploring the town a bit more, watching some more snooker before dinner as arranged at the tapas restaurant near the river. It's not any tapas a Spaniard would recognise, but it's tasty and we have a lovely evening before saying our goodbyes.



Day ten

Home today. A light breakfast - I don't want to be uncomfortable - and then quite a wait for my train. I'm sitting patiently on one platform when the driver of the train on the other platform calls across; am I going to Carlisle? then I should go with his train. It's an hour earlier than my booked train but it seems fine and so I'm off. In reality I'm just moving my hour's wait from Dumfries to Carlisle but there's probably a better chance of a more comfortable wait and coffee in Carlisle. I do indeed get some coffee, encounter a stag party changing into drag in the loo (ironic) and have an altogether more interesting wait before my train arrives. This train is going to London but I'm getting off at Crewe to catch a later train that will get me there earlier by not going via Birmingham. They're both Pendolinos so fast and comfortable so even with the tube across London and the usual SWT to Fratton, I'm home by 6.30pm which I think is pretty good given the stick handed out to the trains in this country.

Tuesday, 13 October 2020

Lisbon, Barcelona and Paris

November 2019

A week or two before we set off on this journey to Lisbon, emails started arriving talking about how southern France was flooded and no trains were crossing the Franco-Spanish border. Other information suggested that efforts were being made to work around the floods and connect somehow with the French TGVs to Paris. So because any potential problems were limited to the route home, I resolved to carry on as if there was no problem at all and deal with whatever occurred as it happened.

The taxi, due at 3.15am, was early and sat outside our open bedroom window gently purring while we got dressed. Bang on its due time the phone rang loudly to let us know it was here and we set off into the chill morning headed once again for St Pancras International. After an uneventful crossing we trundled out of Gare du Nord towards the waiting taxis to cross Paris to the Gare Montparnasse where we were to catch the TGV to the Spanish border. It seems to take ages and we pass through unfamiliar parts of the city but we finally arrive and get dropped at a side entrance to the station, where there was work going on, lifts out of action and signage not as clear as it might have been, particularly for the non-francophone. Time was on our side though and we soon found a staircase, hauled our cases up to the drab concourse and found a grocery cum coffee shop for a more than adequate late-ish breakfast of croque monsieur and café au lait while we await the train to Hendaye.

Incidentally, travelling through Montparnasse leaves just Austerlitz of the Parisian mainline stations we have yet to set off from, so perhaps a visit to Provence will be in order in the future.

It's an awkward winding stair down to the platform when you've got suitcases to manoeuvre, and the security barrier is both overmanned and porous, but we find our way to our carriage and board. Settling in on the upper deck of our train, we leave the capital and head off towards the Atlantic coast. Sarah starts knitting some extremely complex Sanquhar gloves and I read my book and look out of the window before the desire for a smattering of lunch drives me to the buffet car. Catering on TGVs is so much better than what's on offer from the trolley on SWT and OK, it was €8 but lunch was a very tasty cheeseburger that did not suffer at all from being microwave reheated. The wine was of a pretty decent quality too. As we travel on towards the coast the weather worsens and it isn't long before announcements are being made about delays. The high speed line was flooded in several places so we have to use the regular lines between Bordeaux and Biarritz (which, incidentally, looks glamorous even through the deluge). Our original connection time was 50 minutes and estimates of the delay range from 30 minutes to an hour and a half. In the event we make the connection at Hendaye for the Lisbon sleeper, the Sud Express, comfortably, even allowing for some confusion surrounding a group ticket ahead of us in the queue.

Retiring to the buffet bar to enjoy whatever they have to offer for supper (bacalhau à brás as it turned out), we end up sharing a bottle of wine with a lovely Dutch couple, bemoaning the absurdity of Brexit and drinking to future Anglo-Dutch relations before turning in.
The tracks across Spain are a little bumpy but you get used to sleeping in fits and starts and letting the swaying and rhythm of the carriage rock you back to sleep and this cabin was cleverly designed to be roomier than most too. A knock woke us about 30 minutes out from Lisbon.

Lisbon Day One

The only problem with arriving by sleeper is that your hotel is never ready for you to check in that early. The train approaches the city, as most do, through its least salubrious areas arriving alongside the cruise terminal. Giving the address of our hotel to the taxi driver, we travel the short distance up the hill of Alfama until our path is obstructed by a police officer who, for some undiscovered reason, was preventing vehicles from going any further up that street. In an echo of Tangiers we drag our cases up the remaining 50m of cobbled street to our poorly-signed hotel. As expected, we couldn't check in but they were extremely welcoming, stored our cases and even gave us breakfast. With the rest of the morning to kill we set off for the castle at the top of the hill, winding through the narrow streets and arriving just as it opens. For a while we have much of it to ourselves and after the obligatory photos of the spectacular view, and a wander through the romantic garden, we settle at a outdoor café table for a coffee and our first pastel de nata, surrounded by peacocks, in the warm Lisbon morning sunshine.


The Castelo de S. Jorge is the perfect place to start your visit to Lisbon. There are stunning views in every direction from the ramparts and towers, and it has the added bonus of a camera obscura with regular 'shows' in a variety of languages. We happen to time it just right to get it to ourselves, in English, which helps add to our growing familiarity with Lisbon's topography.

Outside the castle is a regular looking bus-stop and we would have passed it by unnoticed but for a sheet of A4 paper pasted to the back. It's funny how in a place surrounded by an unfamiliar language, the sight of something in English catches the eye. This was a sign about how the popularity of the authentic experience offered by Air BnB was encouraging landlords to evict local tenants in favour of tourist dollars and begging visitors to use hotels rather than opting for staying in such a local apartment. Not something we'd ever considered before and certainly thought provoking.

Just below the castle is the church of Santa Cruz. After a quick stop at a 'convenient' pissoir (for me), we visit both the charming church and its adjacent bell tower, payment for which supported its restoration and affords us access to the very interesting photo exhibition of life in mid 20th century Lisbon up in the gallery.

It's getting pretty warm by now and we stop for a beer at 28 Café, decorated as one of the traditional yellow trams that hurtle around the narrow streets of Alfama and are a vital transport option around Lisbon. We wander further down the hill, visit the darkly impressive cathedral and poke our noses into a nearby church before fetching up for lunch in a port bar at the bottom of the hill just off the Praça do Comércio. It has a whole wall of Port and some other Portuguese wines and plenty of tables. There is a bewildering variety of port by the glass available but before we can order the waitress draws our attention to the fact that they only take cash. Strange, given the prices of some of the vintage port on offer, but there's a nearby atm and we share a plate of charcuterie and cheeses washed down with a delicious dry white port (or two).

By now we figure we'd be able to check in and freshen up so we climb back up the hill to the hotel. Our room is very comfortable and a quick doze seems in order. The hotel also has what it calls a fitness centre in its other building just up the street, which includes an outdoor pool and Sarah loves a swim. We try it out, which means making our way through a garage area, past a couple of gym machines and out into a quite pleasant garden, again with great views. The pool however is freezing cold and the swim doesn't last long.

I like to book a table at a restaurant near the hotel for our first night at least, just so we know where we're going to be eating. This time I have booked at Fado and Wine, hoping it delivered on its name at least. It's just inside the main commercial area of the city, so we take one of the several staircases down the hill, squeezing past a group of young people noisily milling around boxes of books seemingly being hawked by someone or other. The restaurant turns out to be more of a wine bar with food, much like we'd had at lunch, but the host was delightful and charmed with us being English so we had a very pleasant meal before beginning the climb back up the steep staircase to the hotel. Barely 20m from the hotel however is Tasqinha Canto Do Fado and we fancy a beer. It's getting quite crowded as they've got live Fado on tonight (and as it turns out, most nights of our stay). We cough up €7 for a table and are thoroughly entertained by two fado singers accompanied by the traditional guitarist and guitarrista. So we drink more beer, and a cocktail, and finish with coffee before booking a table for dinner the following night, prompting our hosts to refund our €7 and a packed first day in Lisbon draws to a close.



Lisbon Day Two

We've decided to spend our second day in the city out in the Belém area. There's a lot to see out there so first we head down to the Praça do Comércio to pick up our Lisbon cards and catch tram to Belém from the main square. It stops eventually outside the Jerónomos Monastery which is a beautiful confection of Gothic Manueline architecture.



We spend a large chunk of the morning exploring the monastery, together with an exhibition that includes a very helpful timeline of Portuguese history set against world and wider European events. By the time we emerge into the late morning sun we're more than a little thirsty and scout around for a café. All we can find however is a little coffee truck near the monument to Portuguese explorers on the waterfront. It's very welcome. Just along the way is the Museu de arte popular, not something we'd noticed in the guidebooks but what could be wrong with a 'popular art' museum. Nothing in the end, but popular means 'folk' in this instance and there's not a huge amount in it but for an extensive exhibition on basket weaving with many and varied examples of the basket maker's art. Curiously, given that we were pretty much the only people in there, the attendant paid us very close attention all the way round.

We continue along the waterfront towards the tower as it approaches lunchtime. There are several options nearby but we settle on a café literally on the water, and share a curious pastry sandwich with some daring sparrows before going to take a look at the Belém Tower itself, pausing only to admire the memorial to the first aerial crossing of the South Atlantic, undertaken in 1922 by two Portuguese aviators Gago Coutinho and Sacadura Cabral in a Fairey III.

The Belém Tower is another gorgeous example of Manueline architecture but there's not a lot to see inside and it will be some time before it reopens today so we content ourselves with a good look round what we can see of the outside before crossing the park to a very open footbridge across the main road so we can visit the Museu Coleção Berardo with its impressive array of modern art including a couple of very interesting temporary exhibits before weariness gets the better of us and we catch the tram back to the Praça do Comércio and stagger back up the hill to our hotel.
We indulge in a brief snooze before showering and dressing up for dinner at Tasqinha where we are thoroughly entertained by Fatima Garcia and others while we eat very presentable food served by our extremely friendly hosts. It's gone midnight before we stumble into bed.

Lisbon Day Three

I'm probably a little hungover as we start our third day here. There's a flea market sprawling over the hill behind the cathedral, but I need a coke and a coffee before I can face diving in. We spend all morning poking around the vast market before catching the iconic Number 28 tram down to the centre in search of some lunch. The tram is packed and hurtles breath-catchingly close to some of the buildings in the narrow streets of Alfama but it's a lot of fun.

The weather has turned a bit dreary and there's rain in the air as we wander about looking for a suitable place to eat. There's a good many cafés, and many a tourist trap before we settle on the fish restaurant Concha d'Ouro with tanks of fresh seafood lining the entrance and where Sarah dives into a hearty fish stew. I, still on the delicate side, have something grilled with chips. It's all delicious. The restaurant is packed but the service doesn't flag and we have a great time.

Just around the corner is the Santa Justa Lift. Built in 1902, the lift is a magnificent cast iron edifice linking the commercial district with the Bairro Alto. Today there's obviously something amiss, perhaps understaffing, as the queue takes forever to deliver us to the, admittedly very well appointed, lift compartment for the ride up. It's still gloomy and damp as we wander around the Bairro Alto and we're not sure whether to stick around or head home but I've heard the Church of Sao Roque is worth a visit. It's not very inviting from the outside, but the interior is more than spectacular and the associated museum turns out to be well worth a visit too. It's one of the earliest Jesuit churches in Portugal and the inside is Baroque on acid; gold, lapis lazuli, marble, Azulejo tilework, sculpture and art compete screamingly for your attention. We're very glad we made the effort.

We have had enough wandering now and even though it's properly raining now, walk back down the hill through some of the more high end shops and find our way back to the hotel before another evening of food and Fado at Tasqinha.


Lisbon Day Four

It's Sunday, and it's going to be a busy one; Sporting Lisbon are at home this evening and we've got tickets. First up however, is the tile museum; it's a little out of the centre so we catch a bus that should go past the door. After about 20 minutes it's clear we've gone too far so we get off and cross the road to catch one going back the other way. We get Google maps out and take a guess at which bus stop to get off at this time. The driver is clearly puzzled as to why these English people want to get off here and pulls up beside us and asks where we're going. We tell him, he rolls his eyes and says to get back on; "Why didn't you ask?". We shrug instead of trying to explain how unlikely it is an English bus driver would be as helpful. Two stops later we get off at a Lidl and follow the signs to short way to our target.

The museum is excellent and well worth the trauma getting there. After over an hour looking at tiles we catch a bus from just outside the museum this time and successfully find our way to lunch in a café near Praça Dom Pedro IV.  We're heading north today so catch the metro at Rossio so we can get up to Museu Calouste Gulbenkian for the afternoon. Suffering a minor diversion after turning left instead of right on leaving Sao Sebastiao metro station, we find the museum complex with its two architecturally interesting buildings situated in a lovely park. There's a very wide range of works from the ancient to contemporary art from around the world collected by the British Armenian businessman and philanthropist Gulbenkian and a modern exhibition centre including a brilliant timeline of modern Portuguese art history. The café is thankfully great too, as refreshment is much needed by now.



The José Alvalade stadium is further north and a change of metro lines away. The stadium is a riot of green and yellow atop, among other things, a large Lidl store where people are still shopping as the fans gather. I try to order some food and end up with what turns out to be a cold hotdog topped with chipsticks! The football is pretty good and 'we' end up winning quite comfortably.


Back in Rossio, in the square, there's a large marquee affair and lots of noise and bonhomie. It's a food fest and after our weird hotdogs, we're still a bit hungry. We stop for mulled wine while we decide what to eat and get a bell ring and hearty cheer when we tip the enthusiastic server. We settle on a vast quantity of grilled pork to eat and finish the day with, yes, a drink at tasqinha.

Lisbon Day Five

Day five is largely set aside for any shopping we still have to do, various gifts are purchased along with some Port for us and a couple of t-shirts for me. We visit the oldest bookshop in Portugal and brouse some of the more 'fashionable' precincts. After a couple of hours wandering the streets of central Lisbon we fetch up at the small beach by the main square and buy a cone of roast chestnuts from the nearby cart. It's warm and sunny and it's nice to relax for a little while and reflect on our time here.

We've arranged a car to take us to the station, further out of town this one, where the sleeper to Madrid will leave at about 10pm, so there's plenty of time for some food and a last drink at tasqinha before we leave. The train is a bit late and the platform is cold but ultimately we're on our way, sad to leave Lisbon but a day in Barcelona beckons.

Barcelona

There's quite a queue for local train tickets across Madrid to the Atocha station from where the Barcelona train leaves. We've been here before and grab some breakfast at a small concession before looking for our platform. The indoor rainforest is still quite impressive but the security queue and the queue for the travelator down to the plaform are both a little chaotic so we have no time to linger.

It's still very early as we leave Madrid and the onward problems we have thus far ignored are now beginning to play on our minds. We consider several options as to how we might complete the next leg, given the floods in France and the apparent lack of a connection across the border. SNCF still considers our TGV cancelled. We arrive at Sants station a couple of hours later and search out the Renfe help desk where they are utterly unconcerned at our worries, pointing to an A4 sheet of paper that we are assured says we are to turn up on time in the morning and all will be fine. Mollified we cross the Placa de Joan Peiro to our smart and business-like hotel, check in, freshen up and nap.

We have no firm plans for the day but want to do something so we decide to head for La Rambla and see what happens. The Metro calling itself Barcelona Sants is, judging by the length of the tunnels we have to walk down to get to it, actually in the next county. We're tired and thirsty and perhaps a bit tetchy but we get there and wander about until we find a suitable, if somewhat trendy, café for much-needed refreshment.

The Palau Guell is around the corner and we settle on that as a suitable visit, one we hadn't been to on our previous trip to the Catalan capital some 18 years earlier. It's an impressive Gaudi concoction hidden away in an otherwise anonymous side street. 

Another wander and we stumble upon the Mercado de Las Boqueria and we love a local market. This one is beautifully presented and we spend a happy hour there before catching a metro at Liceu back to Sants.

In most cities the area around the main railway station is less than salubrious but the neighbourhood behind our hotel is wonderfully "local" and we have a mooch around and grab a beer at a small bar while we wait for our restaurant to open. I cannot recommend La Tere Gastrobar enough. Modern, delicious, tapas style menu, beautifully presented, it turns a one-day stop-over into a memorable part of the holiday. We sleep with smiling faces.

Journey to Paris

For once we need no taxi, tram or other transport to the station, which is becoming a familiar place to us and we buy breakfast at the concession we'd used twice before. The queue for the Paris train, which SNCF still insists doesn't exist, is growing so we join it and are eventually given new reservations and an explanation of what is to happen. We will get a regular Renfe train to Beziers where we'll be put on coaches to Montpellier (a strange station in the middle of nowhere as it turns out) where we will catch the TGV from there to Paris Lyon as planned and only a couple of hours later than scheduled. A quick email to our Paris hotel reassures us both that we'll be there, just later than we'd arranged and we're off. The journey goes almost exactly as they had said, even if I did have to email SNCF to get on the TGV wifi because our ticket reference was for a train that wasn't running!

The taxi to our hotel gets stuck in a jam along a street that seems entirely populated by wedding shops but eventually turns up the hill of Montmartre and pulls up outside a large blue door. The building used to house Theo van Gogh and we take a few minutes to decipher the instructions for the gate lock to find our boutique hotel looking like a small house in the garden. We are welcomed heartily and shown to our basement room, which is very funky with a bath nestled in an alcove. More or less across the road is what one would describe as a typical French bistro and we have a typical French bistro meal and thoroughly enjoy it.

Day Nine - Birthday in Paris

Today is my birthday and I've woken with a stinking cold. It's a chill morning, the warmth of Lisbon long behind us, and it's not promising to be a great birthday. We climb Montmartre to Sacre Couer and find a pharmacy where after a few questions the pharmacist sells me a packet of cold cure which knocks the whole shebang on the head within twenty minutes, certainly by the time the Montmartre museum opens at 10am.

The museum itself is set in Renoir's house and is packed with everything relating to Montmartre and its artistic legacy, including the brilliantly preserved atelier de Suzanne Valadon, model and painter, the first woman painter admitted to the Société Nationale des Beaux-Arts.

It's going to be a very "arty" day. At the Grand Palais, just off the Champs Elysee, they're hosting two exhibitions; El Greco and Toulouse-Lautrec and we're off to see both. We emerge from the Metro just outside the Palais to be confonted with a labyrinth of barriers making up an elaborate queueing system. But there's no-one in it. Fairly relieved, we twist and turn our way to the entrance and get a double ticket each. Turns out there's no queue because everyone is already inside. The El Greco is packed but brilliant. There's a café and we manage to get in, find a table in what turns out to be a lull in proceedings and get a pretty good lunch before tackling the Toulouse-Lautrec, which is equally fascinating.

Dinner is at La Maison Rose, a charming restaurant in Montmartre run by a lovely couple; she very business oriented, he just loving having people round for dinner. It's a great meal and a lovely end to my birthday.

 

 

 

 Day Ten and Home

The oft dreaded 'last day' arrives and we book an Uber to Gare du Nord, who turns up on time but for some reason 50m up the road. The Eurostar lounge at Paris is as grim as usual with the added confusion of a lost belt. Okay, mislaid. Thoughtlessly I wore trousers requiring a belt to stay up which, having a metal buckle, had to be removed for the x-ray machine. Trouble was, it didn't seem to come out the other end and it wasn't in there - they checked. Train waiting, passports to be checked meant I had to abandon the mystery and move on. Only after getting through the entire check-in process and finding a seat for the duration did I find it tangled up in my coat. Oh well.

The traffic in London was appalling and our taxi driver got caught in a worse jam by taking a 'quicker' detour but we got to Waterloo in time and caught the train home after lunch at the café we had breakfast after Scotland. The journey had a final twist however as we were taken via Winchester seemingly just for the fun of it. But home we were.


Carbon saved by not flying: 320kg