Comfortably Wandering

Last week I spent time in Edinburgh and Glasgow. Coming in to central Edinburgh down Christorphine Road was a weird experience. Some four years ago I used to play cricket for the Murrayfield-Dafs (or Muffs...) cricket club. Their practice ground is in the shadow of the Murrayfield Stadium. It seemed a lifetime ago that I played there. I remember being out three times in five balls in the 'let's see what the new players can do' warm-up game before the season began. At least I've progressed since then...

I had a couple of days with Wendy, which is always a good thing, as well as dinner with Kirstin and then dinner with Ruth. There was also the opportunity to go cow spotting in the city and send bovine photos to The Numpty.

On the Thursday morning I crossed the lowland belt to Glasgow for a days teaching. Teaching is often the most enjoyable part of the job as I get to meet up with people I've talked to over the phone. Some of my users ring me more often than others (I guess some people just like to talk to me... go figure) and Sal from Australia-but living in Glasgow falls into that category. After the course, her, her friend Emma (another Aussie) and I wandered out into the city. It was kinda of nice to spend time in Glasgow as I never spent much time there while living in Scotland. In fact I only visited it to go to job interviews and to catch planes to Stornaway. We began at Est Est Est, and then found dinner at The Dhabba in Merchant City. Both places worth visiting and the Murg Handi Lazeez (chicken in a cashew and pistachio suace) is definitely worth getting your teeth into. The night (and day after) in Glasgow did much to endear the city to me. The hotel Ibis in West Regent Street did much to undermine that. The worst bed I've slept on since I slept on some tree roots on the banks of the Clutha in Wanaka in 1994.

Included in the conversation topics was the mandatory 'what drives your life' question. Never a good question at the best of times and always a good question at the worst of times. My response is that there isn't a lot that drives me, except for a one litre Nissan Micra - boom boom, rather I'm generally finding myself casually wandering through my world with short moments of direction where I decide that 'I want this and that and I want it now' followed by long periods of semi-aimless wandering. Then I notice that I can no longer remember why it was I was wandering. OK, so it's a sounding a little like senility, which I'm comfortable with, and it's not very efficient, which I'm also comfortable with. And it sums up my day in Glasgow on Friday, where I decided to visit the Glasgow Cathedral (it's hard to go past a place that is also known as St Mungo's), and then decided to sit in St George's square and read Alistair Cook's Letters from America, while drowning out the traffic noise by listening to Money Mark and the Stereo MC's. Most of the time I'm completely happy doing this but every now and again some dissatisfaction creeps in. After a while that dissatisfaction starts to nag a little harder.

Tomorrow I am semi-aimless wandering in NYC. On Sunday, I'll be moving on to Monterrey. Again. Ho hum. I love my job...

The Sleepy Jackson played the Zodiac on Monday night. I arrived late as I had been umpiring my under 17 side, and only caught the last hour of the gig. It was a fair to middling experience, and Luke Steele was in good form (not that I've seen him before, so really I have no idea what form he is in normally), but he did make me laugh. However, I reckon that he is one of those people who's studio work is better kept in the studio than taken out on the road. Lovers is a GREAT album, but only ok on the road. Or does that just make me sound like a music wanker? Whatever, I'm comfortable with that too.

For the Love of Justice (and Anita)

On Saturday, in the gentle countryside of East Sussex, Justice married Anita.

It was a celebration of a relationship that makes me smile everytime I think about it. I do believe it was the closest I've got to crying at a wedding.

The day itself was a corker. It was hot and sunny (which made my morning suit a bit cumbersome), and the wedding took place in a very typical English churcg in the very typical English village of Wadhurst. I had the honour of being an usher for the day. This provided me with a number of advantages. Firstly, I got to meet and greet everybody who came (no matter how late they arrived). Secondly, I got to be outside the church door as the bride and her entourage arrived, a view I had never seen before. Thirdly, I got to wear the aforementioned morning suit. This enabled me to look terrific. In fact I would go so far to say that this was as good as I have ever looked. This had the additional advantage of having an automatic 'in' for talking to people I like the look of. Handy... During the service, the other usher, Matt Knowles, and I even got to use our enforcer status to deal with an interrupting local. Part way through the service there was a bang, and a dishevelled looking man in a shell suit and dirty trainers came in through the door. He stood at the back and tried to get through another glass door. Matt and I, with the assiatance of another friend went up to him and tried to usher him out. No no, he claimed, I am the bell-ringer and I'm allowed to be here. Right, I thought, and I'm the Pope. With more banging of doors we managed to usher him into a small chapel at the back, where we could see him through some glass doors. As soon as he was through, he promptly opened the back door to the church and let in a whole lot of his mates. Matt and I decided that the best course of action was to leave him to it and hope that he kept quiet. Every few minutes, we would turn round and check on him. He'd always give us a smile and a wave and we'd go back to the service. The service finished up and the new family Justice disappeared up the aisle in celebration. At which point, the bells rang out.

Consider contraception allowed by the Catholic Church then, if you would.

On a sloped field in Tidebrook we gathered for the feast. One of the many beautiful things about this wedding was that there were people from many walks of life, and happily for me many of Justices and Anitas walks of life coincided with mine. It therefore allowed me to spend some time with a lot of quality people from my community. There were folk from Edinburgh, folk from London, and some folk from various parts of Oxford. Amidst the dancing and the eating there was plenty of 'Hey! Wendy!' and 'Hey! Tess!' and subsequent embaces. The whole day was in a tone of warmth and genuiness. My experience of A and J is that they create a vibe of warmth and enjoyment and the day was very much in that spirit. I have this lasting impression of Justice when he and I were in Freuds in Oxford, a bar and club that has been converted from a church, dancing to some Jazz Funk, and throughout the evening Justice had this contented smile as he cruised around the dance floor, dancing with strangers and loving every moment of it. This wedding was very similar, except without the strangers and this time all of us were dancing with contented smiles.

With a final stripping of the willow, the happy couple disappeared into their purple mini convertible and disappeared into the country night.

Since then, I have had the joys of spending a day on the Brighton beach with Wendy, Ruth, Alberto, Matt, Catherine, Joe, and Saga, an evening with the homies at the Angel and Greyhound, a day (with more to come) with Simon as I collected him from Heathrow (it is so nice to know that a very good friend from home is likely to be in Europe for the foreseeable future) and an evening with Sarah and Mike and their little ones. In the warmth of these summer days, it is more than just the sunburn from Brighton that is making me glow. There must be something in the air as most people around me seem to be feeling this at the moment. It is so good to see and hear my friends being in such fine spirits.

So to my little world out there; Cheers!

On a Break

After a long thought process (it was while I was making tea for four, but it's been on my mind for some time now) I've decided to give this blog a wee rest. I don't know how long for but it may be for some time.

Slammin'

Ladies and Gentleman,

Hammer and Tongue is proud to present The Hammer and Tongue final 2005 - 2006.

Eight top quality poet/performers from around the world have qualified throughout the season. They are:

Penny Ashton
New Zealand vixen aka The Hot Pink Poet, has been flashing her Hot Pink Bits globally since 2002. Her glandular poetry is a blend of Pam Ayres, Playgirl and Playschool, so enjoy.

AF Harrold
The champ. The greatest. The one to beat. A jolly good poet in the tradition of A.F. Harrold, the famous English poet. Current undisputed Hammer and Tongue slam champion.

Mo the Peoples' Nun
The hottest holy sister on the performance poetry scene. Comedy, poetry and guilt manifested as a stand-up performer.

Miles Chambers
Bristol-based actor/writer/performer/dub poet. Recently featured in a BBC Radio 4 afternoon play.

Lizzie Mc
Lady Lizzie of Mc: Oxford's finest feminist wordsmith. The true voice of the single mum.

Alison Brumfitt
The better looking half of "Beauty and the Beast" from this years Oxford Literary Festival Live Literature Arena.

Brenda Read-Browne
Part of the Birmingham team at the Big Slam 2004. A permanent fixture on the UK performance poetry scene.

Hosted by Steve Larkin "Tongue-twisting poetry" (The Guardian) and a special guest.

Tuesday the 2nd of May at The Zodaic, Cowley Road, Oxford - doors 7:30 show 8 - 11. £5/£4 conc.
Be there and cheer on your favourite.

My Grass is Greener

Right now my little bit of the world is a great little place to be. It's been like this for a while now and there is no one thing (except for the sense that summer is coming - I think I need to stop my oft repeated claim that 'I am not bothered by the weather') that is identifiable as the cause. I've been in a good mood for as long as I can remember and that feels pretty damn good.

Oh, and I'm turning into my father. This week I started making a vege garden and got quite excited about it.

He shoots... and he misses

A conversation between Muzz and myself this evening. Muzz is in Auckland, I am in Oxford:

Muzz: Working in cafe in titirangi. M N Jones is at the next table. (M N Jones is one of the finest people to play rugby for NZ and one of the finest servants of the game. But his autobiography was a bit dull).
Richard: Wow. Say Hi from me. I sat next to Thom Yorke for an hour last month.
Muzz: Who the hell is Thom York?
Richard: He sang a song called karma police and has made two of the finest albums the world will ever hear.
Muzz: Oh, the Radiohead guy. Shit I'm ignorant.

By the way, Muzz, a very happy 40th birthday, you great and beautiful man.

Random Musings

(Pointless mutterings for my benefit more than for yours)

Easter: A mix of church and tourism spent hOME and abroad. Easter Saturday at Dorchester Abbey, Easter Monday Westminster Abbey and the Tower of London. Westminster Abbey memorable for the communion disaster where a elderly clergyman with limited hand control attempted to baptise me in the chalice and resulted in my dribbling on the floor of the abbey while a somewhat younger clergywoman with impecable hand control dished out the bread. Was crying out for a trading of places.

The Tower (at fifteen groat, not worth the entry price - how have I gone twice?) was spent with Malcolm of New Zealand and Fiji and his girlfriend of Cambridge (this will require some work) and a million other tourists. I should stay away from tourist attractions. They are expensive, crowded, and I feel strong urges to yell at and punch people. No doubt the sentiment is returned. But people in these sorts of places are very selfish, and clueless with it. All that stopping in the middle of the path to get inside the map. In the case of the elderly German tourist, it was not to stop in the middle of the path, but to get very upset at the person who had stopped, grab them and everyone around them, and yell 'Schnell'. I yelled "wait!" back, got pissed off and admired his lack of control. How will people learn without him? But it was very good to see Malc again and meet the girl.

Brendon McLeod of the Fugitives was back in Oxford last week. He was the QI bar for a Hammer and Tongue gig. it was good to see him without the rest of the band and he was in good form. Less could be said for the venue. The bar was good, the food average and overpriced, and the staff ambivalent to the gig surrounding them. The venue has that certain air of pretenciousness about it, as can be seen by their rules - I especially like:

Men may not approach women directly. If a lady would like to speak to you, she will let you know. Men may ask a member of staff to introduce them to a lady.

Apparently Stephen Fry has something to do with the place.

But having been away from H and T for a while it was good to hang out with Steve and the rest.

Three Kings: £3 at a chain store near you and much better and poignant at second visit.

How does it feel?

Tonight, in an act of genius creativity (is that an oxymoron?) the BBC put on the Manchester Passion. The Manchester passion is the story of Jesus as told through the music of Manchester. It featured Darren Moffit as Jesus, Tim Booth of James as Judas and Keith Allen as Pontius Pilate. Ok, so I'd only heard of Tim Booth before this evening...

But the music included James' sit down, Oasis' wonderwall and cast no shadow, Joy Division's love will tear us apart, The Stone Roses' I am the Ressurection, The Smiths' heaven knows I'm miserable now and Jesus and Judas singing New Order's blue moon on monday to each other:

"How does it feel? To treat me like you do. When you've laid your hands upon me and told me who you are."

Genius.

As Pilate and Jesus sang "Because maybe, you're going to be the one that saves me" I was starting to choke up. I seem to be doing that a bit recently.

I say it again.

Genius.

Lucky? I don't think so

In response to Naomi's post about being cheered up last week I offer this:

Last night WCC had its pre-cricket season dinner. It was a good night and a good chance to catch up with some friends. As second eleven captain I get to give out two awards, one being my player of the year and the other being the youth player of the year. Both were dead easy decisions, Ricky Prescott being the second eleven player of the year and Tim Treadaway being the youth player of the year. Tim won his award due to his enthusiasm in captaining the under 15 side that had a remarkable season in winning every match while the adult sides conspired to implode. He made my job as manager of the side extremely easy. As I gave him the trophy he handed me an England cricket shirt that was signed by Tim and his players. I could have cried.

Then last night I came home to this email from a guy I taught in Mexico last week:

Hi Richard

I am happy to receive the attachment, thanks a lot for your rapid response and for your help, I am very interested to use correctly the software, then I am going to star the use with a simple problems, and I hope when I found some problems (I think and y hope they will a few) I can get some help for you.

I insist, you are welcome in cuernavaca, my house is your house, you can come for vacation, it is a great place, because is near to many cities and towns very peculiars.

I`m sorry for my poor English,

Have a good weekend
Alfredo

I could have cried.

Over the past month or so I have has wonderful hospitality from people such as Patrick (I haven't forgotten your CD, Patrick), Jane, a bunch of people in Mexico, Grant and Rebecca in Dallas (sorry, Flower Mound) and I'm sure there are others. I remarked to David, my translator in Mexico as we took the bus between Cuernavaca and Mexico City that in my job and my life I am extremely lucky with what I have been given and what I get to do. David looked me and said, 'we're not lucky, we're blessed'. It's made me think a whole lot this past fortnight about what that means. And what I'm going to do about it.

Paper Reduction

After all the 'have you been a Nazi' and 'are you planning to commit a crime or immoral behaviour' questions on the US immigration form is the following. Note the spelling mistake and Paperwork Reduction Project. You might need 'ro' click on the image to see it all.

Seven beers, a football match and some chickens

Ok, as some of you know, I've been trying to go dry. This hasn't been working out so well in Mexico. There is an expectation that I will have a drink. Or two. Or seven.

Last night I went to my first ever football match. Los Tigres of Monterrey were playing Los Tecos of Guadalajara. The tigers versus the owls. My company for the evening was Jose-Luis, one of the brothers who run the firm I am visiting in Monterrey, his nephew Mario, and two of Mario's friends. Jose Luis drives a Dodge RAM, the biggest ute/SUV/truck I've been in. Jose-Luis speaks very good English but doesn't understand a word when it is spoken back.

So we go to the stadium. Jose-Luis and his brothers are responsible for the turf here. It is good looking grass. As we climb the stairs to our seats, he introduces me to one of two people who will conspire to get me drunk. I shake hands with Andreas, our 'bartender'. Andreas is lightning quick when opening multiple bottles of Carta Blanca, one of the sponsors of the evening. Before long there is a significant pile of CB bottle tops adorning the stairs at his feet.

The Bartender

The stadium is a sea of blue and gold. 40,000 people have come to cheer on the local side, while up behind the scoreboard and right beside (or on top of) the fireworks are the thirty Tecos supporters that have dared make the trip. I'm sure their were more before the fireworks were set off. This is just one of the ploys adopted by Los Tigres to put of their opponents. Later, whenever their players have the ball, the ground announcer thanks the sponsors. These include Cemex (that enormous cement factory), Coca-Cola, Carta Blanca and the tongue twisting Peter Piper's Pizzas.

The pre-match entertainment is a continual series of cheerleaders, a barrage of teashirts into the crowd and a man wearing a spiderman shirt (sponsored by Coca-Cola) who is doing astonishing work while holding a bottle of coke and, occasionally, who I can only presume is his two year old daughter. Whether or not the coke gives him his powers is a moot point. Occasionally he leaves his daughter to perform more tricks. She is non-plussed as both teams are warming up my kicking footballs around her at high velocity.

The home fans

The action. In the far corner are Los Tigres Locos, or the crazy tigers. They sang and danced non-stop for 90 minutes

Jose-Luis, the second man conspiring to get me drunk, continues to order beer from Andreas. One for you, one for me. I am impressed that I am matching him beer for beer and increasingly disturbed that he is also my ride home. As the first half continues, Los Tigres dominate through a mixture of their own skill and the timing of the ground announcer. They get the ball in the back of the net and the stadium erupts. Jose-Luis wags his finger at me. 'No goal' he states and after a dissappointed moment we all sit back down. There is distressingly little protest from crowd and players.

Half time and it is still nil-nil. Spiderman is back with his coke bottle, but his daughter is absent. Presumeably she has gone to bed and not been knocked out by a football. Suddenly some bales of hay are laid out all over the field. Two teams of children appear at each end, one in white the other in red. The ground announcer shouts 'uno, dos, tres!' and a man in a cowboy hat releases something. For a minute I can't work out what it is, until I realise it is a chicken. The two teams chase the chicken across the field until one scrags it to the ground and holds it aloft triumphantly. They go back to their places, and with an 'uno, dos, tres!' they're off again. I find myself cheering for the chicken. On its third attempt, it jumps the ditch that surrounds the field and gets away. After another chicken is found, the teams are back at it, and eventually the nasty white team from the far end emerge victorious, 4-2.

Somewhere here is the chicken.

The battle for the football resumes and this time Los Tigres are playing towards our end. They completely dominate but are thwarted time and time again by the Tecos goalkeeper. Suddenly it is fulltime and Los Tecos escape with a draw. No goals, no fights, no yellow cards even, but a thoroughly enjoyable evening. Jose-Luis pays the bartender, who shakes my hand profusely. Jose-Luis and I have knocked back 14 Carta Blanca between us.

The cups. Jose-Luis would place the new beer cup inside his old beer cups as he drank. I tried this but only managed to spill beer down my shirtfront.

We negotiate traffic and on the affirmative answer to Jose-Luis's question 'you like beef' we go and find a restaurant. As we sit down, he orders another beer. I have obviously been influenced by spiderman as I order a coke. As Jose-Luis starts his beer he points to it and says 'twelve. Four before the game, seven during the game and now this'. The man who is driving me home has drunk a dozen beers without having a visible effect. My seven beers have removed my fear, so I accept his ride home.

I can't say that no chickens were harmed in the making of this blog.

You're welcome

A wee add from the United Church of Christ in America can be found here.

Parque Fundidora

My hotel in Monterrey is adjacent to the Parque Fundidora. This park used to be an iron foundry before it went bankrupt due, according to Esteban, the idleness of the workers. Something about clocking in, going home, and then coming back to clock out.

Much of the foundry has been turned into trees and grass, but scattered in amongst the trees are preserved machine tools and pipe work. In the middle of the park is a large piece of the original foundry that is being repaired. It is not being repaired to be functional, rather as a monument/sculpture. In addition there is a chimney from the factory that Esteban proudly claims to have been involved in the restoration of.

Near the large piece of the factory are two large buildings that originally were used to cast iron. The huge machines are still there (and have also been restored) but in place of ironworking is artwork. It all combines to make for a rather striking juxtaposition and an utterly rewarding place to spend time.

On the subject of heavy industry, I have learnt today that one of the huge industrial complexes that I can see out my window is the largest cement works in Latin America. The other is a very large brewery. I sampled their produce this evening after the local dish that is cabrito. I am dubious that it was worth the decrease in air quality. The cabrito, on the other hand.... Bueno.

It Hurts

Apparently Apple are introducing volume control on iPods. There is a fear that they might be irreversibly damaging hearing.

Some guy called John Kiel Patterson, of Louisiana, "is suing Apple in the US District Court in San Jose, California. He says his iPod is capable of generating more than 115 decibels, a dangerous noise level, and is not safe for prolonged use."

Is it just me or is it very hard to have sympathy for him? He did this to himself, and now he wants to have someone take the blame for it. I'm sitting here, in the Holiday Inn in Monterrey listening to my iPod, and if it's too loud, I turn it down. It's not exactly rocket science...

The Language of Paradse

Ok, so Rhys was right. The language that is spoken in Mexico is Spanish and not Mexican. I have a colleague who was sure they were subtly different, but I have been corrected. For the three days I was in Cuernavaca I had a translator, David. David, who is a wonderful man, insists that the language of Mexico is Spanish and not Mexican.

I was wrong.

I was also wrong when I stated that more often than not the western way of doing things is garbage. Ok, well not so much wrong so much as it being the case that I got carried away. Sometimes the western way of doing things is a garbage, but the garbage in the water here made me sick. Thank the good lord (or proctor and gambol) for Pepto-Bismol.

Rhys, again I was wrong.

I was also wrong about the height of Cuernavaca. It is 1540m above sea level. The pass between Mexico City and Cuernavaca is 3100m, or 10140 feet. This, I am sure, is the highest I have ever been without the aid of cabin pressure and Boeing Industries. Not so far from Mexico City is El Popo, the second highest mountain in Mexico at 5610m and an active volcano. Climbing this would allow me to achieve one the four things I stupidly said I wanted to do before I die.

Today, and till Tuesday, I am in Monterrey. The day dawned smoggy. Outside my window appear to be two very large industries. The air is grey and the mountains impossible to see.

Yes, Rhys, I was wrong.

Paradise Regained

For the second time this month I am in a place where I don't speak the language. This time I am in Cuernavaca, Mexico. It is about an hour and a half from Mexico City (or about the time it takes to see the new Herbie movie that stars Lindsay Lohan because, in Mexico, the intercity buses show movies and serve you food. In fact, a Mexican bus is a far more comfortable journey than, say, an Scandanavian Airways flight from London to Oslo. Who would have thought that? And... I wasn't even in first class. The movie was slightly longer than the journey, which I am sure is a shame for some people, but for me, this was less of an issue. The movie was dubbed into Mexican but I am sure I could tell what was going on).

Being in Mexico is much like it was for me when I visited Banjar, Indonesia. I find it very humbling to be here. I love the busyness of the people here and the suave and confident nature of those I see.

So, Cuernavaca. It is higher in Altitude than Snowdon, and about a kilometer lower than Mexico City. This is a mind warp. It is a lovely wee town, from what I have seen of it. I am teaching and staying at IMTA, the local hydraulic authority. The grass is greener here. The only place I have worked that is more pretty was the summer spent calibrating piezometers in the Hunua Ranges. Photos to come later, suffice to say that there are lots of green trees, lots of birds, (both varieties) and a surprising tranquility. It is hot in the day, cool in the evening. The people I am staying with, Esteban from my company, and David who is my translator, are lovely and give me constant grief about how much I like the Mexican women and how Salma Hayek is ordinary in the context of other Mexican women. I cannot disagree.

Last night was spent playing tennis with Esteban against some locals. We won the first set, they won the second, through myn fatigue, my desire to belt every ball and their cunning use of their rackuets to deflect the ball to where I wasn't. It was flood lit and all was peaceful.

Tonight some indian kids have been invited to play basketball on the IMTA court.

Tonight I also went down the IMTA offices where one of the admin girls had a machine that generates authentic air tickets. I wonder where I can get one of those.

It makes me think that more often than not, the western way of doing things is, as Esteban would say, garbage.

Mexico has been a wonderful place to visit. I guess the company helps. And I haven't touched a single drop of tequila.

Yet.

It distresses me that in this country I am scared to drink the water. It distresses me a great deal more that for the vast majority of the people they don't have that choice. I think I have learnt somewhat from my experiences in Banjar last December in that I am doing as the locals do and the consequences be damned. But it makes me very angry that we let the status quo here exist. Give more money to wateraid, please. And give your governments hell about preventing people from reliable access to drinkable water. Grrrr.

To cap the environmental thing off, I am reading the book 'The Weather Makers' by some guy I think is called Tim Flannery. I haven't finished the book, but as a counterpart to Michael Crichtons 'State of Fear' it makes for an interesting balance. Where MC sees Global Warming as scare mongering, TF pretty much regards the earth as close to being cream crackered. It has made for pretty miserable reading and probably not the best thing to study while sitting on an aeroplane. I'm looking forward to seeing how it turns out. Or perhaps I'm not.

A final random observation about the US. I spent two days there with Grant Rebecca, enjoying their wonderful hospitality in Dallas. I enjoyed being back in the US, things were pretty much as I remembered. G and R talked about transplants. This confused me till it came clear that they were talking about people forced from their homes by Hurricane Katrina. It seemed all rather like Judge Dread. Very sterile and impersonal. Or is that simply because to call them refugees be too much of a blow to US pride?

This little blogger went to...

Mexico.

Off to the land of Tequila in the morning. Work requires me to go there.

I know, it's rough.

World Water Day

Today is World Water Day. My favourite charity, WaterAid, is proposing that people donate an hour of todays wages to them.

You can read (and do) more about it here.

More from WaterAid:
"22 March 2006 will mark the 14th United Nations World Water Day. On this day WaterAid will be commiserating the fact that in 2006, one sixth of the world's population still do not have access to clean, safe water. This World Water Day, WaterAid is encouraging the public to take a minute to consider the 1.1 billion people who do not have access to clean, safe water. During the course of that minute, four children will have died of water-related-diseases. This is not inevitable and it certainly isn't acceptable"

Go on go on go on.

Grace and Favour

In Cesky Krumlov is the church of Sv Vit. Along with the castle it is one of two dominant buildings in th town. I wandered into the church on Thursday morning. Inside the entrance is the obligatory donation box. There is a sign attached that reads: 'May God bless you for your donation towards renovating our church'. I have two thoughts about this. Firstly, I'd like to think that my blessings weren't tied to my donations, and vice versa. Secondly, I think I'd rather they just charged me an entry fee. I'd be happy to pay, as I am seeking shelter from the storm, and it is a pretty place to stand for a few minutes.

Favour shouldn't be on sale from the Church.

The B Line to Zlicin

The B Line to Zlicin is kind of like the Piccadilly line to Heathrow, but on a better underground system.

Photo's from Prague and Cesky Krumlov, but without the cool alphabet.

Hood ornament for a Skoda

Cesky Krumlov in the snow...

A pack, a hrad and a cow.


A blank canvas...

That I had to fill.

What it says on the tin.

Many hands...

The bear moat at Cesky Krumlov. The only bears I saw here, came in the kegs you can see in the middle of the picture. Maybe the bears threw a keg party and were hungover.

The bus to Rozmberk. A superstitious man would have spotted something amiss here.

The Castle/hrad at Rozmberk. I came to see this. I ended up standing in the cold.

I tried to seek sanctuary at the local church, but gaining entry to it presented somewhat of a problem.

I resent that I live in a culture where these sorts of instructions for being in a park are required.

The art gallery in Cesky Krumlov. Fantastic building with utterly unaccessible and probably communist art. Had I known the art was so bad I probably would... have still gone, 'cos it did use up some time, and was warm. Miserable git.

The view from my bedroom in Cesky Krumlov. The Vltava is in front.

Dinner tables in Prague.

The patience of a saint. Imagine being in this weather in only a robe.

Charles Bridge. Note the dedicated beggar.

The Prague hrad in the snow. Pretty...

Solo kiwi on the Charles Bridge.

More on the Charles Bridge

The Karlstejn hrad


The Karlstejn Railway Station.

The only non-pornographic picture by Saudek that I could post...