promenadingpeacocks

This year it seems that the whole world has decided Christmas starts on the first day of December, factually the first day of metrological winter. As someone who prefers to leave a decent interval between Guy Fawkes and the festive season it makes me appear a party pooper when I protest as each decorated tree goes up on Facebook. In fact, I leave that to Mr McGregor who mutters darkly about everything in the run up to the big day as ‘not necessary’.

However, over the last decade or so we have been pitchforked into an early celebration which has also means an even earlier start to present buying and card writing, but not decorating! This is because with my mother in a nursing home my siblings (five in total)and myself, used to visit her near Christmas time and we would take the opportunity to visit family living nearby. This ultimately led to the hiring of a hall to accommodate us all and it has grown into a family tradition, surviving the passing of our mother in 2021.

The Kent sisters organise the booking of the venue, hopefully with a bar, and announce it via an events page on Facebook. There is an immediate flurry of activity as the nearest hotel is identified and booked. Next comes the list of who is bringing what for the obligatory and necessary buffet. I have been designated mince pie provider this year so festive cooking started early in our house.

As this year’s community centre doesn’t have a bar I am taking wine boxes too as French ones are a more generous size and a lower price. Plus there is always the Poundland bran tub. I’m not sure who came up with the idea but it has become a popular fixture. Each present must be no more than a pound sterling and bought from Poundland. I scan the brochures from Aldi and Lidl and buy some festive and low priced nonsense. The three youngest family members have their own designated tub.

The present planning and buying begins and the pile on the landing gets bigger. As it grows, dependant in part on requests from our boys for favourite French edible goodies, Mr McGregor and myself can be heard muttering ‘will it all go in?’ each time we pass! It always does, of course, with some pushing and shoving and praying we don’t get a puncture and have to empty the boot!

The actual event is a noisy affair, bien sur. Especially if a DJ has been hired in deference to the ‘youngsters’. The older generation wince and have shouted conversations with hands cupped around ears. Even without a DJ there will be music and at a certain point ‘we are family’ will belt out and all five sisters and our baby (!) brother will sway onto the floor joining in with ‘I have all my sisters with me’…

The middle generation of nieces and nephews aka cousins will catch up on their past year and talk kids, work, gigs, football, fishing ..while their offspring, all of whom are now teenagers, huddle together poring over their phones and rolling their eyes at the antics of their embarrassing parents and grandparents. The two youngest boy cousins, born within a few months of each other, race around playing impenetrable games as only small boys can!

As the evening comes to an end there is a rush to swap Christmas carrier bags with one another while someone sorts the Christmas cards into family piles. Before the clearing up starts there will be shouts to get organised into a huddle for the group photo (this year we forgot!) Several will be taken by the chosen photographer to be WhatsApped around the family later. There is also the obligatory sibling photo where we stand in a chronological line, sometimes with offspring representing a missing parent. For days afterwards our group chat will be filled with other random photos taken by one another. A family page on Facebook will share the best with cousins across the Atlantic.

Back at the hotel there might be time for a last drink in the bar when the drivers can down some alcohol at last. But if not we know there’s always Sunday breakfast to come when conversations can be continued and lost items restored to rightful owners.

Trying to describe this now annual event to a neighbour I was asked if Christmas is celebrated at a different time in the UK! No, I wanted to reply, only by my bonkers family! 🙂

Our day started reasonably calmly with time for breakfast before we took our farewell from Callum, our friendly hotel manager from Norfolk, and went out to look for a taxi. Callum has told us the day before there was no need to book one as there were always loads on the rank just a couple of steps away on the main road …but there weren’t. Only one on the other side of the road dropping off a fare and turning round for his next one ..which wasn’t going to be us. Local son had told us the direction of the station and that it was only a short walk.

So that’s what we did. It was dry and sunny albeit a bit nippy but good exercise after all the weekend food not to mention Dublin! At the station the lifts were working again so we managed to cross to our platform with the minimum of effort.

A direct train to St Pancras International and we were soon threading our way through the morning crowd up the escalators to the main concourse. Finding the Eurostar check-in was easy, just follow the crowd which became hordes by the desks. Spotting the walking stick a member of staff lifted a tape and we had jumped our first queue of the day. The signs said 10.31 to Paris. Please note the departure time!

Then there was the pressurised rigmarole of automatic passport control. Yet again I got through easily but Mr McGregor had two cracks at it. The baggage check went better and he could take his stick through the scanner. But trying to empty the trays of our stuff while a mechanised voice repeated ‘stack up your trays,please, stack up your trays please…’ I wanted to shout ‘I’m doing my best here’ as I heaved both our cases off the conveyor belt and made sure himself had all his bits back.

The departure space beyond was absolutely rammed with people so no chance for a quiet coffee and sit down. We began watching the board for the platform number to come up. Finally, number 9, 10.31 Paris.

There was a mass movement towards the moving walkway and I went in front, bad idea. The suitcase of the lady ahead of me began to slide backwards as the walkway rose. I twisted mine to stop it doing the same and turned to warn Lou. Too late, he was gently falling back into the people and luggage behind him. Not a complete spill fortunately.

Then we hoofed up the platform for coach 13 (note the number, unlucky for some). The usual wait to get on and then wrestle the bags into place. Our seats were at the far end of the carriage.. and two people were in them. I opened my ticket as did the chap nearest to me did. I am on the right train, he said, 10.31, yours is 11.31. Oh, bum! And it was almost that time! So back up the carriage apologising to passengers coming the other way with a confused husband behind me, grabbing the suitcases and getting off the train as quickly as we could.

Then we sauntered nonchalantly (!) back along the platform. A very kind guard asked what the problem was, schoolgirl error, I replied. It happens a lot, he said reassuringly and led us to a lift (that stick!) that slowly took us back down to the departure area, I hesitate to call it a lounge!

It wasn’t quite so crowded now as two trains had left together, ours (sic) and Amsterdam. I found us some priority seats decorated with a wheelchair logo, man with stick and pregnant lady. I sat down too. I needed it!

Mr McGregor asked how come I got it wrong, ignoring the fact that he had his ticket with the same information on it as mine. I can only think I got check-in time (an hour before) stuck in my brain. Hey ho. Now we had time to buy sandwiches for our lunch and I could try and calm down.

A repeat of what had gone before but platform 7 this time and we both clung to the handrail and our cases on the moving walkway. No one in our seats and a speedy journey to Paris (21 minutes in the dark of the tunnel!).

At Gare du Nord we trundled towards the taxi rank when suddenly a tall man pointed at me, asked if we wanted a taxi and walked away from the rank towards the road outside. I felt uncomfy and Lou was asking what was going on. The chap turned to me and said I look worried, what was wrong. In turn I asked why we weren’t over by the rank. There’s a queue, he said, there’s my car just there, only 65 euros. Stuff that, I thought, turning round and walking away. Scam or potential mugger?

There was a very long queue snaking around the waiting area by the rank with two big guys sporting security on their uniform shoulder pads and a smaller SNCF chap. He saw us walking towards him and told me to come to him and then pointed to the third taxi on the rank and said it was ours! Must have been that stick again! We had a young driver who chatted cheerfully as we crossed Paris to Austerlitz and only charged us 18.30 euros. He got 25! 😊

We might have left Dublin but the holiday wasn’t over. As we were travelling back the way we had arrived we had to go through London again and it seemed sensible to stop and meet up with our two sons. One lives north of the river and the other on the south coast but with a direct train service to his brother. Youngest son told me we’d prefer to stay in St Alban’s as it was a more interesting town than his and close enough for him to join us easily.

Travelling on Friday the 13th worried me a bit but it was all fine. We got up at crack of sparrows and witnessed a beautiful red dawn. ‘Would you look at that?’ our taxi driver remarked. Our last Irish accent. 😊

The day turned blue and sunny and the sea was pancake flat…so much for all the naysayers! I went out on the tiny bit of deck devoted to smokers and marvelled at the jet propulsion that was making our crossing so fast.

Four jets propelling 60 tonnes of seawater a second! The sight and sound of it was very exciting. I was mesmerised watching the roiling water as we left a wild wake behind us.

The rest of the journey passed uneventfully although walking between Euston and St Pancras in the Friday evening rush hour was not much fun but we managed. A fast train to St Alban’s, a taxi to the hotel and an evening with youngest son and petit fils rounded off our day.

Saturday morning is market day in St Alban’s centre and we wandered along, me enjoying hearing the market calls I remembered although the fruits might have changed! ‘Come and get yer luverly mangoes!!’ ‘Only a parnd’..

Down by the cathedral we found a quiet spot for coffee. Our son had been right. It really is a pretty place that we had never visited except for a colleague’s wedding years ago in another part of town.

Around midday the various family members arrived and we decided on Zizzi for a jolly lunch although the choice of restaurants in town is vast and varied.

Petit fils, a veteran of the get togethers of his dad and uncle told us he was going to be our guide around the Cathedral…and he was excellent. 😊

(this website is telling me I don’t have enough space for some of my photos and I can’t remember how to resize them! So words only now, I’m afraid). Update, I think the problem was the internet speed so here goes with adding photos! Arghhhh! Only let me do one! 22/9/24 still trying

The cathedral is vast and it takes quite a while and some dedication to explore it all as well as read the useful information here and there.

Part way through our visit the choir started practicing which added to the whole experience. Petit fils made sure we didn’t miss a thing. Sadly, the place where he did some brass rubbing seemed to be closed off for some reason.

Towards the end of the afternoon the seaside dwellers headed off for their train while the rest of us retired to our hotel room to relax before it was time for them to leave.

Hoping for a simple supper in the hotel restaurant we were disappointed to find it closed so went out looking for a suitable place nearby. After a couple of false starts we found what we wanted to eat but in a very noisy setting. No matter, it was Saturday night and cheerful.

On Sunday the food stalls were replaced by bric a brac or what is known as brocante in France. I loved wandering around but himself muttered and sighed until eventually I agreed to a coffee stop.

We had a lunch date booked with youngest son, his ex partner and petit fils at an Italian restaurant, scarcer than hens teeth in our part of la france profonde so I was really looking forward to it.

And it was as good as anticipated with the added bonus of catching up with my lovely daughter-not-in-law as I’ve always called her affectionately. Another jolly family lunch.

But before that once more petit fils had been our guide. This time around the St Alban’s museum in the town hall and former courtroom. His favourite part is downstairs in the holding cells where we were ceremoniously and gleefully shut in. Upstairs the courtroom is now a cafe but with all the seating, gallery and dock still in situ so Dada was put in the dock and our ‘judge’/guide sent him down for 25 years!

Then a drive over to our son’s home for the rest of the afternoon, our first visit and surrounded by pretty farmland with Roman remains nearby. There had been some interesting finds on display in the museum attesting to the antiquity of St Alban’s and its Roman past. Well worth another visit!

Saying goodbye to them all is always hard, either in France or in Blighty but it is what it is and we are hoping to meet up at the extended family Christmas ‘do’ in December.

Meanwhile we needed a early night for the return on Eurostar today…and that has been a whole other story!!

Leaving St Audoen’s we walked down Lower Bridge street to the Liffy passing the Brazen Head public house, the oldest pub in Ireland. The present building was constructed in 1754 as a coaching inn but a hostelry has stood on the site since 1198. Given what I’d just learnt about the river one would think the drinkers had wet feet! But a nearby street is called Usher’s Island so the clue is in the name?

The embankment is fairly humdrum along this part until you come to a row of scruffy houses by the James Joyce bridge that look as if they may have known better days. One of them was lived in by his great-aunts and he used it for the setting of a short story called ‘the Dead’. Google lists it as a museum in 2013 but now it is shuttered and sad with an official notice on its battered black railings saying change of use is granted from a visitors centre to apartments.

Just beyond us was another bridge, resplendent in blue and white paint.. the bridge we’d come to see. As we crossed it I searched for the name my friend said was somewhere on it. No joy but as we turned for town I looked back to take a photo and, there, emblazoned forever in the metal facing oncoming river traffic was our friend’s great grandfather’s name!

A triumphant photo was taken and sent off to our friends.

Back to the Halfpenny bridge, stopping for coffee on the way drunk out of china cups for a change.

Then a wander back through Temple bar now coming alive for the lunchtime trade. Our goal was Marks and Sparks food hall for replenishing my redbush teabags supply.

And there was your man, commemorated in a statue. Dublin is full of statues, I’ve discovered.

Dublin is also a mishmash of building styles and periods, always something to make you stop and stare….

Teabags found, it was lunch at a very different kind of place next door to Peter’s pub and then an afternoon of packing and blogging. Out for dinner at the Hairy Lemon again as it was close by and where the portion control is a lottery!

A friend asked if it fed the whole pub! There was live music later but with the whole place crowded and no idea where in the rabbit warren the group, whom we saw arrive, would actually be, we reluctantly called it a night. A very early start next morning for the first ferry…

Thanks, Dublin, it’s been a blast! 😊

With nothing in particular planned we had a lazy start to our last day. We hadn’t visited various ‘must see’ sights preferring to wander at will absorbing the atmosphere of the city. However, online I had come across a short walk around some of the last vestiges of medieval Dublin and my best friend had mentioned a bridge over the Liffy forged in the foundry of her husband’s forebears in Lancashire, purported to bear said ancestor’s name. We had to include that!

It was sunny and bright but the wind was still cold so wrapped up warmly we retraced my steps to the Chester Beatty library and then on around past Dublin castle, a rather gloomy and rambling affair..

Although someone had had fun with gaily coloured render on attached buildings!

We slowly climbed up Castle street and emerged across from Christ Church cathedral, another imposing but grey building. We pressed on past the Dublinia experience towards St Audoen’s Catholic church.

Walking past it (for now) we turned into the little park next to it and climbed down the steps to Cook street, so called because originally it was a street full of food vendors but outside the contemporary city wall to avoid fires from their many ovens.

Much to Mr McGregor’s confusion we walked east again along the longest surviving stretch of the medieval city wall. Sadly, the celebrated St Audoen’s arch is undergoing restoration so it was impossible to see. Then climbing up again along Schoolhouse lane. Lou’s face was a picture!

Once again in front of the church I nudged himself down to the visitor centre with the bribe of finding him a seat. We got a great welcome from an enthusiastic guide who ushered us in and settled my reluctant husband onto a garden style bench.

Our new friend then rattled through a quick explanation (‘Can you tell I’ve said this before?’) about the age of the building and some of its treasures eg organ, bells (600 years old and still in use!) and tombs. Taking me to look at posters and maps he sensibly thrust a folder into my old man hands before leaving us which allowed me to wander off for a good look around.

St Audoen’s is the oldest church in Dublin and dates from the 12th century. The Liffy used to lick that city wall below it at high tide until the Normans arrived and couldn’t bring their deeper hulled boats within reach. Slowly the river bank was extended to its present location.

Looking down into the nave of the original part of the church I could see Mr McGregor deeply emmersed in a folder. When I rejoined him he told me it was full of expressions still in use and their origins. I half expected him to put it under his coat, he was so enthusiastic!

We woke up to blue skies and sunshine and a forecast that said it would stay for the day with maybe a few showers in the afternoon. So it was off to Trinity college retracing our steps from the morning before but able to saunter rather than shelter. A stop at the post office opposite Molly to post the obligatory cards and on to College Green. The pedestrian crossings here remind me of the ones in the Hong Kong as they click down to green and then clang as you rush across…except the volume in Hong Kong was deafening! 😊

The entrance to the college is flanked by two statues, Burke and Goldsmith, and wild flowers. I even spotted some late poppies.

Once we were into the enormous courtyard the wind was cutting so I stopped to put on my raincoat, a great buy as it is for hiking so thin but windproof. We followed the signs for the Book of Kells and were ushered in straightaway with my pre-paid tickets.

The Book of Kells experience is very well thought out. Room one introduces you to the history of it and two other books from the same era and place, Iona, then guides you through the techniques, the imagery, the inks used…

We spent a long time reading explanations and descriptions, trying to avoid the guided groups who tended to station themselves in front of things for a bit longer than always felt necessary. Despite the timed entrances it seemed a bit crowded.

Discovering that our surname has such significance in religious texts was a surprise so we soon started to see how many we could spot.

There are two here if you look hard! I loved learning about the imagery and the difference between the scribes (four had worked on the Book of Kells which contains the New Testament) and the artists who illustrated it; how mistakes were highlighted and/or covered up; how there were no rules for how certain letters should be decorated. I discovered a new meaning for the word shrine, not a building but a solid box to keeping the testament safe from harm.

The second room of the Experience was the actual book. Alone in its glass display case in a room with subdued lighting we moved past it as if queuing for a lying in state! There was a small label telling us to look for corrections and I made sure I read it and found them…as I doubt I’ll be here again! 😊

Then it was up the stairs to the Long Room or library. The place is under renovation and most of the books have been moved and undergone a thorough and painstaking cleaning and conserving while the library itself is brought up to current safety standards.

So a lot of empty shelves but a huge installation hangs above you which was inspired by the renovation but seemed at odds with the historic atmosphere of the place.

More in keeping seemed the oldest harp in Ireland, much smaller than I’d been expecting.

Back outside and into the biting wind we put all the layers back on and went in search of coffee..

Walking up Grafton street to St Stephen’s green, we ducked into one of the many souvenir shops so Mr McGregor could buy a woolly hat as he was suffering from that wind. I was very glad of my soft and warm scarf. The shop assistant recommended a coffee shop and so that’s why we walked the length of the street, past the buskers and the carriage tours, to finally sit down in the warm.

Mr McGregor modelled his hat for an online friend and looked very much like a manic leprechaun!

We surprised ourselves by finding a quicker than we had imagined route back our hotel, passing the Gaiety theatre on the way with its celebrity handprints set into the pavement outside..

For lunch we chose Peter’s pub, close to our hotel, a quiet bar but with a bustling proprietor who took a big interest in his customers by asking where they came from. We were amused by his response to the couple next to us from the Isle of Wight, he assumed it was a Scottish island. The Americans from Ohio were told there was a Dublin in that state! On hearing Lou’s reply he decided it was hot where we lived. Not all year, himself replied!

Comme d’hab, while my old man rested his eyelids I went off to visit a museum I’d seen advertised and which piqued my interest…books.

It was in the Chester Beatty library which, when I finally found it, turned out to be the collection of an American business magnate who took British nationality and ended up being knighted. He collected middle and far eastern texts, a lot of them medieval, so I found myself poring over more beautifully illustrated manuscripts from Iran, Turkmenistan, Turkey, Japan…. There is definitely a beautiful book theme to this holiday, it was like being in the British library treasures exhibit all over again.

I had wandered into this particular exhibition space, ‘The art of the book’, because it was on the same floor as the one I intended visiting so it was a wonderful bonus.

But I wasn’t disappointed by that one either. Much smaller and decoration of a different style but just as beguiling if, like me, you love flowers and plants.

I was surprised and delighted to see butcher’s broom in one illustration, a plant I had no knowledge of before moving to France but which grows abundantly in the woods at the bottom of our garden that I pick every Christmas for decoration…of a different kind!

We rounded off the day by revisiting O’Neills where we had lunched the day before. It was absolutely packed despite it only being 7 o’clock and as we about to abandon any hope of finding a table in its rabbit warren of bars up and down, a woman generously offered to share her large table with us as she was leaving when she ‘finished her drink’. Thankfully, we accepted and talked to her for a while. After she left an American couple next to us started to chat as we all ate our food. Jim and Mary-Jo were from Colorado and here with their grown -up children and trying to adapt to driving on ‘the wrong side’. After they left the place was still busy and as we would soon be leaving too we moved aside to their vacated small table so three chaps could have our bigger one. It transpired two of them were French and trying to translate ‘shepherds pie’. I couldn’t resist and soon the talk was flowing again. Crazily, one came from Villeneuve de Rouergue, about two hours from us, and knew our department well. Just as we left the other one asked if we knew a certain person from our area. We did, I said, he replaced the roof on our little house!

I’m still not sure he believed me though! 😊

As if to prove the veracity of all those doom merchants who warned me it would rain while we were in Dublin…it did! I woke up early and heard it lashing against the window of our room. Bum! Not even going to have a first morning here in the dry. But, undeterred, we layered up our clothes (the temperature had dropped too) and topped it all off with raincoats before venturing out on our first exploration of the city. Even so, my face and hands became quickly cold and the map I was trying to follow soggier and soggier. Mr McGregor’s phone persisted in saying he was offline so no help from Google maps. We found Molly Malone’s statue but resisted the temptation to rub her generous and shiny bosem for luck!

We found College green but then I had a crisis of confidence in my direction finding instinct and made us walk back some way before deciding the river was not up ahead. How can you lose the biggest landmark?

Splashing down the cobbled alleyways we finally fetched up on the riverbank next to what turned out to be the Halfpenny bridge so called because of the toll charged by the original owner when it replaced his ferry service.

Our idea had been to walk along the other bank to the Jeannie Johnston, a sailing ship that took starving migrants to Canada, although only about a third made it across alive. Tugging our hoods closer we turned into the wind and kept walking.

These two needed a brolly! By now we had resorted to ours as the rain was getting harder. The walk took us past O’Connell bridge, the one I’d been trying to find, faced with an imposing statue of the man himself. Then on past the enormous Customs House. We kept hoping to find a cosy coffee shop to shelter in but no luck. Finally we got to the EPIC centre, the famine museum. Too gloomy a subject to visit given the gloom outside but under its huge steel and glass roof there were consumer outlets and a coffee shop.

We peeled off the wet coats and recovered. Across the road at the Jeannie we decided against the guided tour there too.

Still raining and it looked dubious as to whether himself plus stick would be able to negotiate it easily. Probably bang my head, he observed. So we turned back and walked along the riverside to the famine memorial statues.

As we stood there wrapped up against the weather and warmed by a decent breakfast and hot coffee it was horrible to imagine the hideousness those poor people suffered being forced to leave the land and Ireland to attempt a better life elsewhere. There are similarities all around the world today which suggests we still haven’t learnt any lessons from it.

By now we, or least I was beginning to get a feeling for where things were and we were soon back at College green, passing Thomas More and retracing our steps back to Molly. A nearby pub offered soup and sandwiches which seemed just right for warming us up.

As we feasted the sun began to shine and we could glimpse blue sky beyond the window.

Finally we could saunter around the roads and alleyways of Temple bar.

We visited Grafton street, a pedestrianised thoroughfare full of big name shops, where I bought a lovely warm woollen scarf from one of the many Irish souvenir shops. I have many scarves at home but didn’t pack one. I’d been wearing shorts and a t-shirt the day before we left!

Back through the lively and jam packed George street arcade which had been shuttered and closed earlier…

And to the hotel for tea and the blog (me) and snooze (himself).

Later I went off on a personal quest to the National gallery of Ireland who have an exhibition of Women Impressionists who are finally getting some recognition for their work and talent.

I passed through a more upmarket part of town noting Bonham’s, the auctioneers, and the National Irish library. The sun was determinedly out now and I just made it in time to the gallery as it closes earlier than galleries in France.

St Anne’s, ‘the church in the city’….

I thoroughly enjoyed my quiet wander in the gallery and did have enough time to study each of the artists exhibited, three of whom I knew nothing about. I scribbled their names so I could swot up later. Berthe Morisot was very familiar but I had never seen so many of her works exhibited together.

Back to the hotel, studying menus on the way but, finally, we opted to go back to the Hairy Lemon, us and about half of Dublin! 😊 Fishy choices for us both plus Guinness for Mr McGregor again.

ps an old advertisement for Guinness that reminded me of passing a similar but enormous depiction of the toucan on a hoarding somewhere near Bromley south station as I came home from school. Blimey, that was a long time ago!! 😊

One thing I did while waiting was go and talk to the girl in the ticket office. I’d had an email saying the train we were booked on for the return Holyhead/Euston was no longer running. She checked online and said we might have missed it anyway as the passengers had been late off the boat that morning and it had already gone . Very kindly she printed off two more tickets for me for the later train with booked seats and told me it was a direct train to Euston.. no messing about at Chester. Then she spoiled it all by asking how much I’d paid. With a wry smile she told me if I had booked directly to Dublin it would have been a lot cheaper as there is an arrangement between Avanti and Irish ferries. Ouch, about half the combined train and ferry prices I had paid..

Finally check-in opened and we were first in line. Very efficient staff whipped us through security, taking our suitcases away while we were checked over. I was frisked by a very chatty lady. Then it was a short wait in the departure lounge before a bus took us to the gangplank. An attentive member of the crew spotted the stick and led us to the lift so we arrived regally and slowly on the main deck, keeping away from the walls. A baggage lift, presumably!

Despite dire warnings from friends and family about the usual conditions of the Irish sea it was on best behaviour and we had a smooth crossing. Maybe due to the boat being called Swift, a smaller than usual car ferry, it only took two hours fifteen minutes. Still daylight on arrival.

We were led downstairs and into a bus again before alighting at the terminal where we grabbed our cases and went looking for a taxi. About to share one, another turned up and we switched to him. And what a treat that turned out to be! Born and bred in Dublin and immensely proud of his city the ride to the hotel was like a guided tour. Our driver pointed out places to visit, places to avoid (too expensive and not genuine), how to get about the city and chatted all the way, even breaking into song at one point! Great to hear an Irish accent as all the boat crew sounded Eastern European, not a problem but not what I had expected.

A quick freshen up in our room on the top floor and we were off to look for dinner. Just along from our hotel was one of our driver’s recommendations so in we went. Sure enough, full of music and noisy chatter. A large glass of the black stuff followed by sausages and mash. Happy anniversary to us!

Another 7am alarm call as our train from Euston was 10.02am. In the event we were sat waiting ages before the platform announcement which only came ten minutes before departure. Then it was platform 2 at the far end of the station and our carriage at the far end of the train. So after arriving so early, so early we had been able to buy our picnic lunch and a paper, there we were panting along with only about four minutes to spare!

But our booked seats were fine and we had the benefit of a table. Although a gloomy start the sun broke through somewhere north of Watford. I swayed down the carriages for coffees and it all felt very civilised.

But not after the change at Chester. A friend was jealous as she loves Chester but all we saw was a scruffy and crowded platform confusingly called 3a and 3b. Again we needed to push our way through to the far end for 3b. The next train in went out again back the way it had come, very confusing. Ominously, our ticket for this part of the journey said sit where you like which in reality translated as sit where you can! Only two carriages bursting at the seams arrived for us. I shepherded himself in front of me, stick to the fore, and into a single available seat and then retrieved our cases ignoring the tutting of a young woman. I wanted to hiss you may be old one day too if you’re lucky!

Fortunately there was a nearby seat for me too and as we approached the North Wales coast the train began to empty. Just before Prestatyn I spotted the sea and the holiday chalets began to appear either side of the tracks.

Rhyl, Colwyn Bay and finally, Bangor, saw the train empty. By now the sky was blue and the Menai strait looked beautiful now the sun was in control lighting up the mountains that came closer now.

On Anglesey the train began to make unannounced stops at tiny stations with low stone buildings and the scenery was lovely. Lots of sheep!

Then we rolled onto Holyhead. The ticket inspector had told us the ferry terminal was at the end of the platform and it was. Very modern, very big, very empty! We had a three hour wait before our ferry left but there was a shop/cafe with hot drinks and comfy chairs so between coffees and strolls outside above the peaceful harbour on a Celtic gateway bridge, as it calls itself, we whiled away the time.

More later …