Andy Tyndall Photography
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Iceland: It’s not all about the Northern Lights.

4/29/2018

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Keep an eye out for Icelands churches. Although most are of similar, simple design, their locations and views can be spectacular. Reykjavik’s Hallgrimskirkja, soars to the skies, dominating the city below and affording spectacular views from its summit, but it is the little ones which have taken our fancy. Small and discreet, they can appear in locations chosen, it seems to catch the eye: by a harbourside in Akranes where it can survey the fishing fleet,  or standing faintly aloof from the rest of the town in Grindavik or on the river bank at Thingvellir, remote from any other habitation except the small row of attendant cottages next to it.


The one that drew me in is the church at Saubaer.


We saw it first as we found our way to our cabin in the snow, a small church lying down by the dark, rippling waters of Hvalforður.


Saubaer Church has been placed away from any immediately visible human habitation. Presumably, like some of our own rural Western Australian churches, it is there as a ´halfway´ spot: a place where everyone can suffer equally to get there.


It is floodlit at night, as if a beacon to a lost local or, perhaps,  a whaler returning to the base of the head of the fjord. So, sitting in our hot tub, surrounded by snow  - as you should, if in Iceland (and, yes, I was sceptical less about the joys of sinking into hot water, but more about picking my way back over ice and snow on the return journey)  - looking for the few strands of gossamer green light which is all we did get to see of Aurora Borealis, we notice a tiny, glorious splash of light on the shoreline.


It must be investigated.


Next afternoon is still: a day of brooding skies and little wind makes for an eerie, silent ambience at the church. A building nearby has a Volvo parked outside. It is, presumably, the caretaker or priest’s residence but there are no signs of activity anywhere. Deafening footprints in the crusty, deep snow mark my journey around the church in the dusk. It is an idyllic setting: built on a small mound, the church has 180 degree views of the fjord and the light that shifts and changes off the opposite hillsides.


But as that light failed that afternoon, something else is revealed to me: the gloom must have reached just the right intensity to set off  the solar sensors in an unexpected array amongst the sombre grey headstones. Quite suddenly lines of crosses are glowing and glittering in the gloaming. It really is very pretty.


Icelandic traditionalists decorate many gravestones with lights in winter. It does not happen in the summer months - with 24 hour daylight, you would not notice them anyway - but around Christmas time graveyards spring into light in the evening, adding a magical, ethereal feel to a normally sombre place. It is not only a positive way to celebrate a loved one’s life but also a small array of welcome lights pinpricked yet defiant in the monochrome of an Icelandic winter dusk.
















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" and then there's the time I went to a brothel..."

4/22/2018

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The story so far:


Having found gold at a prospector’s camp, I’ve hot-footed it to Kalgoorlie, visited a gold dealer and now find myself in an unusual situation…


I am being entertained by a delightful, attractive blonde in Kalgoorlie’s last remaining historical brothel. I appear to have followed, in the last 24 hours, a well worn path and here I am, in this den of sin and depravity. Enjoying myself bigly. (Dear Editor, Please may I use that word?)
Except that there are twenty other people in the same room with me, on a fascinating, insightful and hilarious tour of Kalgoorlie’s last remaining working brothel. Carmel, who has owned Questa Casa for the last 25 years, is conducting a highly entertaining tours of her brothel.


“We could not survive,” she admits, “without the tours.”


Carmel, was a Queenslander in need of direction after a family tragedy when she bought the brothel after being marooned in Kalgoorlie having, initially, decided against purchasing  the 113 year old building.


In her quiet, well-spoken, understated tones she is very easily mistaken for a high end Pom, when, in fact, she is fourth generation Australian. She told us about the rules and regulations brought in at the turn of the century when men outnumbered women 20:1, a time when Kalgoorlie was rapidly overtaking Coolgardie as the principle mining town in the region. She told us why the high fences were constructed at the front of the building to shield negotiations from onlookers as well as to preserve the respectable nature of Kalgoorlie:


“Kalgoorlie was a family town,” she asserts several times.


She tells of the system of negotiations designed to protect the girls from finding themselves in dangerous or uncomfortable situations, talks of the demise of the other 18 brothels in the town  and talks of the rules and regulations that kept the family part of town separated from the seedier side: working girls had to come from outside town, could not live anywhere but in the brothel and must never, ever attend places where people gather - so no outings to the races, pub, shows and so on.
Breaches of the rules lead to banishment from the town and could mean permanent closure of the brothel.


Carmel’s daily tour, which she has run for the last ten years, lasts for one and a half hours, includes a viewing of all three ‘working rooms’ , and her gleeful demonstration, on a Bundy Bear lying face down on the bed of the “Domination Room”, of a few sharp strokes of a “paddle”.  There are numerous jokes and priceless anecdotes of unusual goings on, tales of some of the characterful girls who worked there, a history of the change of the town’s attitude to and reality of prostitution, a few statistics regarding number of clients and, er, speed of service. One of our  group was invited to work for Carmel after she cracked a particularly witty pun which I wish  - O! How I wish! - I could repeat. But, as you would expect, the tour is for over eighteens - and so were most of the tales and jokes.


We all spilled out into the late afternoon light chuckling about the most entertaining and risqué history lesson ever.


And it occurred to me, a little later on as I watched a huge full moon rise over the Superpit, that my journey around the goldfields and, particularly of the last 24 hours, was one which had been repeated (almost exactly) thousands of times before in the last 130 years, by men in search of that elusive precious metal. Journeys which, in the dying years of the 19th Century, were witness to unspeakable privation, tragedy, loss and love.  Which forged today’s state of Western Australia both politically and economically.
So little is now left as testimony to the hardiness and determination of men who built the multiple towns and their connecting railways., but it is all still out there to discover for ourselves. As are the various delights of Carmel’s brothel…

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A Walk by the Water, London

4/17/2018

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Years ago a friend of mine lived on a canal boat in London. Occasionally we would jump aboard his little boat and chug along waterways for a different perspective on the metropolis. We encountered small riverside pubs, long grassy, paddocks lined with blackberries and, in the autumn, sloes  (it’s fun to add sloe berries and sugar to gin: allow to fester for 6 weeks, open and approach with extreme caution around Christmas time!) All of this within a few minutes of Paddington, where my friend’s boat was berthed.


I’m reminded of all this as I peer over a bridge crossing a canal in Ladbroke Grove. Beneath me is a large barge grumbling up the canal. It is laden with a colourful assortment of red and blue gas cylinders and yellow bags of firewood. I had forgotten about the other world, a subculture beautifully integrated into London life -and most of us unaware of its presence.


London’s canal system is easy to access and well worth investigating. As canal boats were once towed by horses around England’s substantial network of canals, a wide towpath along the water’s edge makes it easy to navigate on foot and bike. I took to my feet.


On a crisp, spring like day,  I set off from Harlesden, easy to reach on public transport. I am heading for central London.


It is a lovely varied walk. Peaceful, too. As soon as you dip down and away from the traffic, you enter a different world. Ducks and geese paddle on the slow-moving waters, birds in bushes and the occasional clank of work on one of the dozens of boats moored along the canal. There is a still, almost lazy feel: people reading books in the sun on the deck or roof of their boats or cycling gently to or from work.


And the boats, too: most are neat, tidy, colourful and frequently ingeniously decorated with flowers, clever iron art. It’s like walking past an ever-changing floating art gallery.


Canals, of course, pass the rear of what people see from the streets: gardens, allotments, waterside factories still sprouting forlorn hoists in the hope of loading barges long scrapped; all invisible except to those on the canals.


Closer to town the semi-rural nature changes. Pubs and cafe’s, a supermarket, apartments now line the banks and, close to Paddington (a small stroll to the station from the canal bank) a pumpin’ canal boat café/restaurant. A perfect spot to finish this section of the canal.























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Swimming to america

4/8/2018

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We have, we think, become used to some of the more ‘unusual’ aspects of Iceland and  are not expecting anything but a peaceful walk through this unique, glorious, setting at Þingvellir (it is pronounced Thingvellir.).


We had left our small cabin in the hills near Akranes to wind our way around Hvalfjörður  in the ever-shifting light. Through light snow breezing across the single track cleared by the ploughs, we have driven past small, scattered, colourful farms nestling lonely in snow fields at the base of high, ruggedly-rounded hills. We have seen dozens of small, hardy Icelandic ponies,  and skidoos gliding over the smooth-as-icing  landscape.


Now we are at Þingvellir, which is a UNESCO World Heritage site.  It was home to the world’s  first Parliament in 930 AD when Icelanders  started the first annual camp out for a few summer days in the plain below  high rocks  from which they were addressed by the country’s various leaders or chieftains.


There is a stunning view from the rocks. Snow has rounded and softened what would be, in the summer,  a rocky, sparse landscape. A river runs quietly through the plain to feed into  Þingvallavatn, Iceland’s largest lake. On the banks of the river  stand the only visible buildings in the whole vista: a small church with its distinctive spire and simple structure and five houses standing side by side a short distance from the river. The weak, watery sun, barely peaking over the horizon on this midwinter afternoon, is glowing onto the plain and still waters through wispy clouds. Mountains surround the scene on all sides except the north.


So the signs warning us to watch out for divers -  then the actual sight of divers -  is head-shakingly bemusing.


These divers are not the avian type. We’re talking about scuba gear and oxygen cylinders - in ice- cold water. In the sub-arctic.
And you need to watch out for them on the roads, climbing up out of ponds, lumbering through the snow. It is very disconcerting  to the unprepared, but is easily explained.


Þingvellir is placed  on the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. The high rocks from which the chieftains addressed the early Icelanders are the crest of this 65,000km long ridge - regarded as the largest mountain range in the world.


The continental rift at Þingvellir means diving enthusiasts can swim between the continents. You can take diving tours to explore the  clear, glacial water which runs between the European and North American tectonic plates.  Pictures and videos show waters as clear, clean and colourful as you would expect to find at a tropical reef, although, of course, the scuba gear is dry gear. Anybody  who is over 12 years old, weighs more than 45 kg and is higher than 150 cms can go. You can be picked up from your accommodation in Reykjavik 45 minutes away or meet the qualified PADI guide at the site.


So we left Þingvellir much wiser than when we arrived. Not only had we learned about the history of the site, but also that, geologically speaking, we had walked from North America to Europe and, had we known, we could have swum across too.


















 





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A Workhouse - Carrickmacross, Ireland

4/2/2018

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It’s funny what you come across when off the beaten track.


And sometimes it really is not.


We’re visiting a (officially named)  Community Resource, Training and Heritage Centre for a tour which is not likely to be jolly.
We are about to be guided around a former, partially renovated Workhouse. Workhouses appear to be places which are muttered about quietly, but about which we know very little (except for small mentions in novels by, for example, Dickens’ and Thomas Hardy.) It should be enlightening.


It is.




The enormity of The Workhouse is the first shock. The massive building, a short distance from the centre of Carrickmacross, just over an hour’s scenic drive north from Dublin, we learn, is only one third of what once stood there. Three storeys high at the highest, one hundred metres long, the original complex - for that is what it was - has been partially restored from dereliction, turned into a community support Centre and opened for tours for those brave enough to learn a bit more about one of the most sorrowful part of Ireland’s history. There are plans to restore the second, larger, derelict building that looms behind. The third building was demolished for its stones after the Workhouse closed between the Wars.


130 workhouses were built in Ireland in the early 1840s to help alleviate the distress of destitution suffered by one third of the country’s population of 9 million. It was a time when England ruled and owned Ireland. They were there just in time for the Famine that ravaged the country, killing a million citizens and forcing a mass emigration.


I’m braced for a bout of Brit-bashing, for it is well known that Britain did little, if anything, to alleviate the famine, preferring instead to export the produce that could have fed the populace. But our guide carefully steers around apportioning blame, instead concentrating on the workings of the establishment.


The Hotel California it ain’t: you couldn’t even check in anytime you liked. You certainly couldn’t leave freely.


There were strict  rules about when you could leave : everyone who entered as a group, had to leave as a group - that must have restricted an inmate’s (for that is how they were titled) ability to find work or betterment.
The genuinely dispossessed, having renounced all claims to land and possessions, were admitted for assessment and eligibility. If accepted, personal clothes were removed and a standard outfit was issued. Then men and women, boys and girls were separated. Children were housed in the renovated building, adults in the second, which sported a watchtower. The third was the Fever House, which included the death house.


The “work” part of the system meant, among other civil projects, building roads (you can still drive down Famine Roads today) and the women learned to make lace to sell to the affluent: Carrickmacross Lace is still highly valued to this day.


Our first port of call is a look at the adult building, it’s sightless windows and forbidding, gaunt skeleton serve as a reminder of all the souls who must have gazed out, trapped inside beneath a watchtower.
A small pile of rubble and indent in the long grass at the back of the complex marks the site of the Fever House. Beyond that, in the corners of the paddock  crosses stand tall. They mark the mass graves where countless unknown people were buried in pits after succumbing to the famine or its related diseases..


Our tour took us to the girls’ accommodation, on the third floor. It is  sparse: bare boards, bare walls, sombre windows. The girls, locked in at night, had no access to toilets: the floor was sloped and channelled to deal with the obvious results. The whitewashed walls and smooth boards belie the sheer misery and filth in which the inmates must have lived.


A small pile of boxes, the top one opened to display its contents, a yellowing sheet of paper detailing its contents, sits below a plaque with 38 names on it. These are the names of the girls who were sent from the Workhouse to colonies, like Australia, where settlers needed more females to settle the men and help populate the regions.
The box contained finery with which the girls were issued to help them get a decent start after initial housing in a camp in Sydney. One box belongs to Rose Sherry. It was understood that once overseas, these girls were never coming back to any family that remained.


Downstairs we look at the huge cauldron from which the sustenance would have been ladled to the queuing children. An artwork “The Last Resort" by Orlagh Meegan-Gallagher evokes poignantly the misery that prospective inmates must have felt upon reaching this point of last resort. An example of girls’ and boys’ issue outfit hangs dejectedly on a wall. But a colourful tapestry “The Land of Plenty” also by Orlagh Meegan-Gallagher draws us in. The accompanying fact sheet about the produce available, but never released is stunning, the figures shocking:


During the Famine years 3 million live animals were exported, together with tons of vegetables and dairy produce (more than 800,000 gallons of butter to Liverpool and Bristol alone). Well over 800,000 gallons of Porter, 250,000 gallons of Guiness and 175,000 gallons of whiskey were exported - all made from grain. And troops were brought in to protect the produce from the starving.


Just as we leave, still pondering the callous injustice and counterproductive rules brought in by those who had power over the hungry and dispossessed, it is mentioned almost as an aside, how Sting of the band The Police, dropped by for a private visit early lat year while on tour. He had come to pay his respects to his third great grandmother Mary Murphy from Inniskeen, who had been admitted and died in that Workhouse in 1881.


You never know what you may find when you leave the beaten track.

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Droning on about .... well, drones

3/25/2018

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A few weeks ago I attended an Art Exhibition in the Goldfields in which “Drone Photography” featured among the prize categories. The judge, when announcing the winner mentioned her excitement at the possibilities drones offer for photography and art. And she is right.


I am not , of course, the only photographer with a drone by a long, long way - and I would certainly not pretend to be the most proficient of drone pilots. However, I have found my new camera to be a perfect addition to my photographic armoury, allowing perspectives once only achievable by expensive helicopter rides. Now it is possible to show clearly the scale of, say, a building in the desert, the expanse of a town. Or give a viewer an idea of what it would be like to fly through a deserted village.


Choosing an affordable drone was not hard. Aware of much twitchiness among authorities at various levels, I approached the Civil Aviation Safety Authority (CASA) website for guidance. They have a whole section on drones which makes it clear, very early on, that if your drone is over 2kg you are going to need to be licensed and certified by CASA. There are exceptions for pilots flying their drones over their own property, otherwise training and certification is required.


So my drone would need to be under 2kg. I would still be allowed to fly it commercially subject to permission from CASA whose  simple red tape process is outlined clearly on their website.


Like thousands of others, I opted for a DJI Mavic PRO. It is cunningly compact, folding and fitting easily, with three batteries,  into a medium size camera bag. Its weight - well under 1kg - allowed for less restrictive flying rules but it was the huge number of image-making options that swung me. A 4K video option, 4000x3000px stills from a 28mm lens mounted on a controllable gimbal was not a bad start.


The flying mode options impress me still: I have easily programmed the Mavic to follow moving objects, fly along side them, guided it between buildings, positioned it exactly where I wanted it for stills. My fears of crashing it remain but are eased by the Mavic’s ability to detect obstructions (it stops dead, hovering, until I fly it around or over the object) and it lets you know in plenty of time how much flight time is left, heading for home  (it logs its take off point) itself or landing before the battery is drained.


Other modes are ‘Sport’ for rapid flight and agility, although I have mine set permanently on cinematic, a mode which allows for gentle movements and halts, perfect for videos.


Flying it takes a bit of getting used to but is a simple process using a controller, a mobile phone (check that your mobile phone is compatible with the app - not all are!) and DJI app. Joysticks, a touch screen and buttons control rotations, altitude, flight speed and direction as well as camera tilt and pan. The drone can also be controlled directly by wi-fi from your phone, but I found this much less easy or satisfactory.


I was surprised by its batteries’ power, too. Each battery lasts approx twenty minutes, which I have found is usually plenty of time to capture the images I want, although I nearly came unstuck trying to fly it back against a stiff wind: I watched the flying time diminish rapidly and landed it with 5 seconds to spare, glad I did not have to find out the hard way if the Pro’s emergency landing automation worked!


There are many rules to be aware of in Australia. Most are common sense brought in for all when the few disregarded others’ privacy, safety and peace. Be aware of the need to maintain visual contact with your drone at all times, do not fly over or near people and do not exceed maximum altitudes (usually 120m). All details are on the CASA website: http://www.casa.gov.au/.


The Mavic Pro came with a decent sized micro SD card (it took a while to learn how to reformat after downloading images), charger for drone and controller and three batteries all for under $2000. For the vast array of options the Mavic opens up for  keen photographers, it’s hard to pass up the the value at that price!

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The Golden Quest

3/18/2018

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I first heard of the Goldfields of Western Australia as a young boy fidgeting through Nigel Chapman’s geography lesson in an unremarkable classroom at school in Oxfordshire, England. The names of the towns of Kalgoorlie and Coolgardie were bandied about as the centres of the 1890’s gold rush - and the lesson moved on.
What was never clear to me as a boy, nor since (despite many, many photographic assignments to Kalgoorlie) was the extent of the gold rush - not just the volume of people involved, but the size of the area explored, settled, grown and then abandoned.
Until a few days ago I had no idea exactly what effect the region and the gold rush era had had on the economy and politics of Western Australia: the  gold fields’  “join” vote outnumbered the Perth “no” vote  in the 1900 referendum on Federation - in fact the gold fields was taking steps to pronounce a separate colony, Aurelia, in protest at the lack of referendum on Federation in WA. And then there are let the tales of individuals, their loves and losses, the heroes and villains.
I do now - because there’s an app for it.
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Three wonderful days on the Golden Quest Discovery Trail have just provided me with the most eye-opening experiences and insights into the Goldfields region that I could hope for - and not just about the rich gold mining history, but also about the environment of the region and its wildlife. I saw camels, dingoes, zebra finches, eagles and kites as well as the ruins and remains of once busy mining towns, now left to be subsumed by the desert.
Starting with half a day’s drive or train ride from Perth (or an hour on a plane) to Kalgoorlie, the Golden Quest Discovery Trail is easily travelled and navigated, especially with the new app and Trail Guidebook (goldenquesttrail.com). 
Download the Golden Quest Discovery Trail app, which sits well in conjunction with the guide, and you have all you need to find your way around the 965km figure of eight (sort of) trail which takes you from Coolgardie in the south up to Laverton in the north east and back down to Kalgoorlie. It contains information on the individual sites you will pass, brief histories and stories about events and characters which made the sites significant, details of services available (with phone numbers) at the larger towns you visit.
In addition to helping you plan your journey, the app can track your journey in real time thanks to GPS technology so you can see exactly where you are in relation to your next stop, last stop or, even, in the general Goldfields area.
Calling in at the visitors’ centres along the route is recommended, too. The centres are kept up to date with the trail’s conditions and can tell you of any upsets and updates relevant to your journey.
I called in at Coolgardie Visitor Centre and picked up the Trail Guidebook. Again, I recommend the purchase to anyone setting off on the trail, as it contains much more detailed information on the sites and events along the way as well as all the info on the app. It is a little under $40, and the historical and environmental information is well researched and written, providing fabulous reading long after the trail is completed.
The trail itself is best travelled in a 4WD. Having said that, I saw no reason why a reliable 2WD wouldn’t complete the journey. Most of the trail is on dirt roads and some is quite remote, away from mobile phone coverage, so common sense and the usual rules for outback driving apply: bring spares, water, food, warm clothing; look ahead and travel steadily.
Time to allow? I travelled it easily in three days (an average of an easily-achievable 320kms a day ) but suggest allowing at least four days, not because the going is slow but because there are so many unexpected, beautiful spots to stop, pause, camp and enjoy. It really was a shame I had to keep moving.
I stayed in accommodation throughout the trip, but the Goldfields area is “RV Friendly” meaning that self-contained campers and caravans are welcome in any of the towns. Free camping is available at multiple sites. You can camp by water every night of your journey if you want to - and every town has at least one campground.
So with the Golden Quest Discover Trail app, the guidebook, a reliable vehicle, supplies, camping gear and, say, a week to spare, you’re set to learn more about WA’s Goldfields while experiencing one of the most enlightening, surprising and enjoyable journeys of a lifetime.


FACT FILE
Golden Quest Discovery Trail in THREE days
Day 1: Coolgardie to Kookynie – Overnight stay in Kookynie
Day 2: Kookynie to Leonora – Overnight stay at Leonora-Gwalia
Day 3: Leonora to Kalgoorlie-Boulder


Golden Quest Discovery Trail in FOUR days
Day 1: Coolgardie to Kookynie – Overnight stay in Kookynie
Day 2: Kookynie to Laverton – Overnight stay in Laverton
Day 3: Laverton to Leonora – Overnight stay at Leonora-Gwalia
Day 4: Leonora to Kalgoorlie-Boulder


Golden Quest Discovery Trail in FIVE days
Day 1: Coolgardie to Menzies – Overnight stay in Menzies
Day 2 Menzies – Kookynie – Overnight stay in Kookynie
Day 3: Kookynie to Laverton – Overnight stay in Laverton
Day 4: Laverton to Leonora – Overnight stay at Leonora-Gwalia
Day 5: Leonora to Kalgoorlie-Boulder


More on the Golden Quest Discovery Trail at goldenquesttrail.com 
More travel in the Goldfields at goldfieldstourism.com.au




Highlights:


Picking a top five from this particular journey is hard: I love the size and relentless bustle of the Superpit, the haunting echoes of times long past at Gwalia and the silent space around the Lake Ballard Gormley installation. This trip for me, however, was about surprise encounters and new, unexpected experiences of scene and ambience.
In order of occurrence:
  1. Coolgardie. Once the unofficial capital of the gold fields, Coolgardie packs a massive amount of fascinating history into its gorgeous historic buildings, most of which lie hidden away from its wide main street: displays of a world renowned bottle collection and the story of an incredible mine rescue; the school (still teaching local kids) built by the Bunning brothers who went on to found a certain hardware chain; the gnamma hole where the first successful prospectors camped and the town was named; Warden Finnerty’s house (also Bunning-built), run by the National Trust, lies on a hill with stunning views over the town and  east to Kalgoorlie and offers guided and ghost tours. The graveyard, final home to hundreds who died of disease in the fledgling community also holds explorer Ernest Giles’s grave (he ended his days working as a clerk in Coolgardie) and that of an Italian competition cyclist who died in a race in 1900. An early start and return to Finnerty’s house rewarded me with a spectacular gold fields dawn, too: with mists swirling in the flats, the rising sun burnished the haze and surrounds with a rich yellow appropriate to the gold fields.
  2. Menzies. Apart from finding the best coffee on the whole trip in Menzies, I loved the buildings, their murals and the iron ‘statues’ with the gloriously humorous quotes attached to them. Stop in Menzies for a coffee and a wander- you won’t regret it.
  3. Niagara Dam. Rowles Lagoon, with its tall trees, nesting kites and gentle rushes is only just pipped by the peace at Niagara Dam in my highlight list. Respect to the wag who named a trickle of water on a small decline after the Canadian falls: but admiration for the unexpected reservoir bounded by the rough, red rocks which draw the line of contradiction between the arid landscape for miles around and the expanse of still water held in check by the dam wall.
  4. Kookynie to Laverton. All of it. The. Whole. Journey. From Willie the Horse reigning (get it?) supreme over the ruins at Kookynie and its quirky, comfortable tavern. To the dingoes which crossed the road in front of us, the lonely graves and attendant stories lying in secluded spots in the bush, the string of abandoned mining towns. To the enormous feats of engineering which built the railway to Mt Morgans - and the sleeper-strewn embankment and bridges which are all that remain. To Laverton itself with its Police precinct, and jail - complete with prisoner graffiti - the Outback Gallery and The Great Beyond Visitor Centre with its good, proper coffee and stunning audio visual display and eclectic range of goods for sale. And the camels which appeared in the bush as we left the town for Leonora.
  5. Hoover House and Gwalia Museum. Treat yourself to this: Bed and breakfast in the elegance of Hoover House, once residence of the WA mine manager who became a US President. The peacefulness and views to the north are probably little changed from when Hoover was there. To the south, a working mine still rumbles on. Spacious rooms, period furniture and the right to roam the Gwalia Museum before it opens to the public. And perfectly preserved Gwalia ghost town lies just down the road at the foot of the hill. An unforgettable experience.
And autumn, winter and spring are exactly the right times to get out and explore the Goldfields! You won’t regret it!

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ButrintE  - or a day trip to ALBANIA

3/11/2018

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Our first glimpse of Albania is from the bus which, having wound its way along the narrow roads from Corfu town, has crested its final hill in the run down to the small fishing harbour town of Kassiopi. The ruins of a hill fort, a sweeping crescent  piazza waterfront and its attendant cafes are below us and in the distance, across a shimmering blue sea are hills. High hills and, at their base, tall white buildings. That’s  Albania, a country renowned for fiercely maintaining its privacy and traditions whilst surrounded by nations that have witnessed substantial and sometimes catastrophic changes. My parents, sailing near Corfu in the 1950s often retold how they came a  bit too close to Albania, only to be  ‘encouraged’ back to Greek waters by an Albanian gunboat whose artillery was definitely pointed at their vessel and not ahead of its bow.

The day after arriving in Kassiopi we easily discover more about Albania: the buildings we see are part of Sarandë,  a favourite holiday destination for wealthier Albanians; the snow on the Albanian hills is crystal clear to view on warm winter days from Corfu; there are many Albanians living on Corfu and - most useful to us - there are regular day trips to Albania with excursions to the little known World Heritage listed site of Butrint, barely half an hour from the port of Sarandë.

Tickets are booked (they are not expensive), an alarm clock set for an early rise and we are ready to step into the unknown.

The day started innocuously enough in the soft, blue pre-dawn light with a bus ride to the ferry which runs from the town of Corfu, one hour away.  It’s a bit of a milk run offering wonderful scenes of rural Corfu and stunning views from the ridge of the hills that dominate the geography of the north of the island. We pick up various tourists from resorts, retreats and private houses along the way and finally rumble into the old port precinct.

A short time queuing for the visa formalities in an unsophisticated shed and we are soon on board the boat and puffing our way  north up the coast of Corfu before swinging east to Sarandë.

Many years ago I landed at Tashkent in heavily Soviet Russia. The most memorable aspect of that brief sojourn was the line of armed, grim soldiers ensuring we couldn’t stray from the course that led to the breeze blocked waiting room with its faded posters, insipid apple juice and dubious-looking chicken wings.I suspect we will be greeted at Sarandë in similar fashion, by a no-nonsense squad of gun-toting uniforms sent to ensure we do as we told and not necessarily as we want.

And I am completely wrong. Not a gun in sight. Instead a small group of welcoming multilingual guides.

The visitors, divided into groups according to their language, are soon on board buses and creeping round the streets of Sarandë to a hotel for tea and some nibbles before we head off to what’s left of Butrint.

Out of the city we rumble, past new developments where goats bounce around half-completed buildings. It is, without doubt, off season, but nevertheless, I am surprised by the absence of people in the city, its suburbs or developments.
A narrow road winds its way above a fertile plane criss-crossed by waterways. On the other side we get occasional glimpses of a coastline with pristine beaches, islands and  hills sweeping down to rocky shores. We draw to a halt on a large area of levelled land by  a sluggish, wide estuary just as the heavens open long enough to persuade half the visitors to remain on the bus. The rest of us  steel ourselves for a drenching and pile out to discover the ruins and little known story of a fascinating piece of Mediterranean history.

A two hour guided tour of this UNESCO World Heritage listed city reveals its history. Settled since prehistoric times, Butrint  was occupied at various times by the Greeks, the Romans and the Venetians before being abandoned in the 19th Century. Its defensive walls and high perch on the hill overlooking  Lake Butrint must have made it impregnable to assailants while the still waters of the  Vivari Channel provided a perfect conduit for the trading ships of the Mediterranean countries.

So why  did Butrint change hands so often? Why was it abandoned?  The guide tells us it was the marshes and the Lake. The mosquito infestations caused such fierce outbreaks of malaria that Butrint, for all its logistical advantages for trade and defence, became untenable as a viable place for humans thanks to the tiny mosquito. Note to self: if returning, bring insect repellant suitable for bird-sized biters.

The dozens of structures and  fortifications still standing bear testament to the various occupying forces. The view from the  ramparts over the marshes to one side and the lake and mountains to the other are breathtaking despite - or perhaps because of -  the swirling rain clouds.
It is extraordinary how intact so much of it is considering the several hundred years of opportunity for weather, nature and humans to degrade it. As it is, we gazed onto the amphitheatre where Romans would once have watched plays, we stood on battlements where Byzantine soldiers would have once watched for signs of enemies, we wandered through temples and basilicas where Greeks would have worshipped and picked our way through the ruins of once decadent Venetian merchants’ houses.

At the foot of the ramparts are portals through which produce would have been imported and exported. Today the only boat visible is far out on the lake, a small dinghy occupied by a yellow raincoat figure optimistically fishing in the downpour.

We make our way to the Venetian tower at the high point of the  site in a bid to make some geographical sense of Butrint’s location. To the east stretch long rich pastures interspersed with waterways or flooded roads- on that day it was hard to tell. To the south lie the dark, forbidding mountains towering over the lake and the former city. To the west, over the trees we can view glimpses of water and the hills that line the channel to the sea, while to the north the view is similar, bar the water.

We return to the steamy-windowed bus and the tourists who remained.

Back in Sarandë,  we are free to walk around the town. The rain has eased enough that now we can see over to Corfu. Sarandë is unpretentious. It has tall buildings which appear designed for function rather than glamour: they are there to house holidaying Albanians. Occasionally we stumble across a house which, having seen better days, gives us a glimpse of the struggle Albania must be facing to progress and appeal to Western tourists. The harbour front provides a wonderful view back onto the city and its mix of old and new buildings. Colourful boats decorated with bright flowers lie by the quay which I suspect they rarely leave. Bright yellow  nets piled on the quay suggest, however, that there is still some fishing activity.

There are also plenty of cafe, tables and umbrellas to welcome visitors on a sunnier day. it would be good to return in the tourist season.

We return to the port and set off back for Corfu as the heavens open again. This forces the passengers on the deck into the saloon down below and it soon becomes apparent that most of the day trippers, rather than filling up on ancient history, had availed themselves of some fine Albanian hospitality in several Sarandë taverns.
It also becomes clear that the little boat is very ‘practical.’ For while the alternative transport to and from Albania - an aerofoil -  no doubt has rows of seats and, possibly, a television to entertain the customers, this little tub does not. But we do have the Poles.

We are seated at one of the many, many tables available in the saloon. Not one of them is fixed to the ground - and nor are the chairs. The plus point to this is that you can pick up a chair and move it to where you want to join the rest of your family. the negative side is that, if the tub rolls too extravagantly, you are going to move - and the table isn’t going to stop you.

None of this bothers the Polish. They have stocked up with something potent from the Albanian duty free and a party of a dozen or so young Poles are leading the singing at one end of the boat .Their raucous chant lifts and rolls with the boat, two old ladies near us are singing away to the song, an extra loud cheer rising whenever the boat pitches into a particularly deep trough. there’s much table thumping and laughter. It’s better than any television and it may be just as well the words are unintelligible, so that I can answer truthfully, when asked by our youngest child what they are singing about. “I have no idea.”

And that’s how we chugged back into Corfu.  It was disappointingly quiet without the Poles on board the bus back to Kassiopi. But as we disembarked near the harbour front we could see the shimmer of lights of Sarandë across the water. Strange to think we had  been there that afternoon. Wonderful to have seen a bit of  this unassuming country and a glimpse of such fascinating history,

If you get a chance, visit Albania. In the summer. Bring some  insect repellant - and some Poles.







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Iceland: land of laughs and lava...

3/5/2018

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Picture
The first indication of what was in store was, I suppose, on the plane. An Icelandic movie about two friends driving round Iceland to raise money for charity. An American-style road movie  set in Iceland, I thought. Yes. But it’s been given an  Icelandic twist: they drive round in reverse. The film (“Bakk”) is  ‘different’, quirky and very amusing.
Much like Iceland itself, it transpires.


The second indicator manifested itself  as the plane drew to a halt. Amid the tumult of passengers standing up, the pilot  added, very unobtrusively, a final rider to the usual airline-style welcome-to-country.


“You may,” he said nonchalantly, “wish to put your jackets on as it is a little bit chilly out there.”


And there you have it - the delicious Icelandic understatement still  in our windblown ears as we clung to the rail of the icy stairs descending to the tarmac below, small flurries of snow swirling past us as we traipsed to the bus. A “little bit chilly”, in Icelandic terms refers to a -7 degree temperature, it seems.


Later that evening and the next morning we encountered this humour in all sorts of locations around Reykjavik: on walls, cafe blinds, T-shirts, tourist guides, menus and from the people we met and talked to. It’s a humour that would resonate with most Australians: a dry, obtuse view of the world moulded to understated observations bordering on gallows humour. Is it because, like Australia, Iceland is a country settled in the face of grim hardship that forces, in the grip of the realities, a wry humour as a means to cope?


There’s the first floor cafe terrace announcing it will only open when the ‘temperature reaches a toasty 5 degrees.’ Despite it being a mild winter by Iceland standards, I suspect that terrace would remain closed for  a few weeks yet.


A little array of single gloves is arranged on the spikes of  an unobtrusive entry gate It appears to be someone’s original advertisement for, I think, a speed-dating meeting. And there’s a random mural on how to tie a tie, just in case you find you need to be reminded. In Reykjavik, on the main street.


We happen across the ‘Iceland Phalllological Museum’ - yes, that is exactly what it’s about! - proudly advertising itself on T-shirts as being ‘Not for Pussies.’ Other, less risqué outlets cheerfully sell similar garments pronouncing “Don’t Mess with Iceland: We May not have the Cash, but we’ve got the Ash” I would have bought one, but the word ‘Mess’ was actually substituted for something less child-suitable.


Reading up on one of our destinations, Thingvellir (more on this fascinating place another time), we discovered a line about the location’s suitability, in the south west of the country, for a meeting point for ancient chieftains. The guide observes that those making the seventeen day journey  from the eastern side of the island did find crossing the glaciers and rivers ‘problematic.’


A little bit down from the inexplicably named ‘Chuck Norris Burger Bar’ we are trying to buy orange juice. “Appelsinusafi”, we learn. Not to be confused with Apple juice , which is “eplasafi”.
“Yes!” the assistant happily explains in perfect English (all Icelanders learn English from seven years old). “The word apple entered our language twice and we kept both!” And why not?


Do walk around Reykjavik’s centre. It’s marked by the towering  Hallgrimskirkja Church which affords quite exhilarating 360 degree views over the capital’s colourful roofs to the harbour, inlet, lava fields and crisp, clear, snowclad ranges beyond. This vibrancy of colour lends a wonderful energy to this subarctic city, home to two thirds of Iceland’s 350,000 strong population. Houses are coloured brightly, people wear colours (and occasionally even black,) buildings and installations are lit at night by colours, predominantly echoing those of the Northern Lights.
Mix these colours, the humour, the sharp air, the inconsistencies - the political incorrectness - and the snow together and the refreshing energy is there even in the long subarctic nights kept crackling with the boom of fireworks .(Icelanders love fireworks: selling them as fundraisers for various community organisations, they let off 650 tonnes of them each year.)
A soft, understated pulse running through the world’s most northerly capital city, warms you to its quirks  even when it is “slightly chilly out there.”


And I haven’t even touched upon the geothermal hot-tubs in the snow yet….


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Waylands Smithy

2/27/2018

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PictureWaylands Smithy, Berkshire, UK
I am visiting Wayland’s Smithy on a day made spectacular by weak light and threatening cloud.  It’s a serene spot, easily forgotten by visitors to its nearby, more famous neighbours: Uffington Castle (constructed 7-8 BC, it is a toddler compared to the Smithy) and The White Horse  (crafted around 1000 BC, a hipster youth) are a short stroll away.​

It is the tall trees encircling the 50 metre long barrow tomb of Wayland’s Smithy which set the mood whatever the weather of the day:  I remember, as  a boy, it lying still and hushed in cosy shade on a drowsy summer afternoon and yet, somehow, even on a bitter winter’s day, when the wind whips up the bare downland from the north, it retains, as it has done for 5000 years, a sense of peace and restfulness.

You can drive close to it, but sooner or later you will need to walk in the footsteps of legionnaires, for Wayland’s Smithy is set back off the Ridgeway, part of Britain´s oldest road. Roman legionnaires  once marched along here between Salisbury Plain and East Anglia.  At this point, high on the Berkshire Downs, chalk downloads sweep away south, west and east.  The Smithy’s trees provide a landmark to people in the Vale of the White Horse to the north for there are few trees on the windswept ´scarp, but acres of crops and grassland.

The Smithy is like a grassy embankment, its entrance marked by rock slabs, its flanks by intermittent, solitary rocks. Of course, the entrance is sealed, the tomb having been excavated, dated, preserved and retained long ago.

No ancient site in Britain would be complete without its lore. The Smithy, according to an account written in 1738, was a place where a traveller whose horse had cast a shoe could leave the nag and some money and return a short while later to find the money gone but the horse shod  - both deeds done by an invisible smith. As a child I remember a TV series involving kids, ghosts and witchcraft  (well, The Devil’s Kneading Trough also lies nearby!) set around the Smithy.

A short drive from a pub lunch in Uffington, followed by a gentle walk up the the slope reveals spectacular views both to the south over rolling downland and to the north over the Vale of the White Horse from the Castle’s double ramparts, reduced now to embankments. The White Horse is too large to be well viewed from up here: take a drive into the Vale instead.

The Smithy, however, is utterly peaceful, a microcosm of serenity, a near-reverence felt when treading where people lived, worked and roamed thousands of years before. The sounds of a light breeze through the bare branches of the trees is all that breaks a stillness so apt for an ancient burial site.

(Wayland’s Smithy, The White Horse, Uffington Castle and The Devil’s Kneading trough are easily reached on foot from a car park near Uffington, Berkshire, easily reached from London via the M4 motorway or Oxford.)

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    Travel has always featured strongly in my photographic work: whether on assignment for a newspaper or on holiday with my family, I have always enjoyed recording the unique scenes and sights appreciated most by eyes fresh to a region. This blog is a small record of some of my travels and experiences - and even some photography tips. Some have been published, some not. Whatever, I hope you enjoy the blog.

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