'Happy' New Year

To paraphrase the laconic brilliance of a certain donkey called Eeyore: Happy New Year. If that's what is. Which I doubt.

Yes - we're back in dear old Blighty, in all it's cold, grey, damp and dowdy splendour. The trip back from Australia? Well, let's start by saying this: it's a bloody long way. Mind you, at least we were comfortable for the majority of the flight, which is more than can be said for those poor blighters in economy. Christ, 24 hours in one of those seats is enough to make you come limping off the plane like a Victorian orphan with rickets.

So how is it, I hear you ask, flying half-way around the world in a day? Well, not too bad really. A bit tiring. The following is a tidied-up version if a post I made on that noteworthy website, V-Flyer (if you're really sad, you can see it with all the ratings and related replies here). And it goes a little something like this...

A month of almost unbroken sunshine is something truly special, especially in December and particularly if you’re British. It wasn’t so much that it was hard to believe that our four weeks of honeymoonin’ were coming to end; it was just soul-wrenchingly depressing to contemplate the fact that not only were we going home, but we were returning to cold, grey, wet and miserable England at the bleakest of bleak mid-winters.

But what a month we’d had! Hong Kong and the incomparable Four Seasons; the sights and sounds of Sydney; sailing from Port Douglas over the Coral Sea in an authentic Chinese junk; eating stunning Italian food, drinking outstanding local wines and batting kamikaze flies from our faces in Melbourne.

For now though, we were sat in the late morning sun at a street-side café in the beautiful little town of Avalon. As we’d had to vacate the Beach Retreat at 11 (ish), we decided to partake in a spot of lazy brunch before heading for the airport. Freshly squeezed orange juice, coffee brewed from beans roasted on the premises, organic back bacon and the creamiest of free-range scrambled eggs. Boy, was I looking forward to getting home and tucking into a McMuffin? (Answer: No. Not one little bit).

After brunch we dawdled up and down the main drag in Avalon looking for, and failing to find, an elusive last minute gift. When you’re hoping to stumble on that one curious knick-knack, object d’art, or coffee-table-talking-piece to encapsulate your travelling experience, you quickly realise that a boomerang, a ‘genuine’ bush ranger’s hat or a cuddly cross-eyed koala toy just ain’t going to cut it.

Giftless, and with pretty low spirits at the prospect of leaving Avalon, Sydney and the Southern Hemisphere in general, we loaded ourselves into our hire car, set Nora Neverlost for Sydney Airport (yeah, that’s right, we named our Satnav) and started to make our way south down the coast. Around each bend we caught glimpses of yet another golden sandy beach, and every glimpse was like a dagger to my heart. I checked the weather back home on my ‘phone – 4 degrees and sleet. I glanced out of the window; sunny; warm; not a cloud in the perfectly azure-blue sky. Everyone was wearing shorts and flip-flops. Everyone looked happy. Damn them.

As we approached the city the beaches fell away and we suddenly found ourselves under Sydney. Nora had sent us through the Harbour tunnel, rather than over the bridge as she had the previous week, and now we found ourselves driving in and out of various other tunnels which, I guess, run under the central business district. One thing Nora really should have twigged to, however, is her absolute reliance on satellites and the rather simple reality that tunnels and satellite communications aren’t the best of friends. So, whilst travelling along a four-lane highway with multiple intersections and large trucks at either side of us the best she could offer was, “At your next opportunity, turn around”, over and over again. Yeah, we'd love to lady, but we do have a plane to catch.

Our love affair with Nora over, we hit the 'off' switch on the Satnav and, by following a mystic route laid out for us - possibly by an Aborigine shaman - involving a system of little pictures of aeroplanes on the road signs, soon found ourselves at the airport. We dumped the car with those nice people from Hertz - although not before doing our best to clear the detritus of crisps, muffin crumbs and god knows what else from in and around Tizer’s car-seat – and very quickly found ourselves at a pleasantly queue-free Upper Class check-in. Trust me, it's the only way to fly when you've got a two-and-a-half year old and the best part of 12,000 miles ahead of you.

We’d checked in online check-in the night before and secured our preferred seats, and the very cheery agent confirmed that all was well and we just needed to check our luggage and Tizer's push-chair. Her reaction to the sight of her push-chair being packed up and man-handled onto the conveyer elicited a high pitched “Nooooo – miiiiiiiine!”, with small toddler fingers at full stretch grasping for a wheel, a strap, anything. The check-in agent quickly pointed out that they had courtesy push-chairs and one was swiftly brought over for us. Tizer, placated, placed Betty – her stained, battle-scarred doll and constant companion, with one permanently shut eye and an interesting aroma about her – into the push-chair and wheeled her merrily off in the direction of security.

A similar experience faced us once we got to a very quiet security area, when one of the staff tried to take Tizer’s recently acquired packet of crisps from her, insisting they had to go through the X-Ray. This was rectified when another kindly and much more grandfatherly member of staff intervened and let her walk through with her crisps, craftily swiping them off her then handing them straight back before she even knew they were gone as she went through the metal detector. Hell, she even offered him one after that, though he wisely declined, noting perhaps that most of them had by this time clearly been sucked clean of salt and returned - still damp - to the packet.

We made our way to the Air New Zealand lounge that's available to Virgin's Upper Class passengers and which, for all we saw of it, was very nice. I literally had just enough time to make myself a G & T before the flight was called. We hadn’t even realised we’d been cutting it that fine, to be fair, so necking my drink we went straight back down to the gate to meet our lovely, shiny Airbus 340-600.

Maybe we’d flown too much in the previous four weeks. Maybe it was the fact that our holiday was all but at an end. Maybe it was the prospect of one hell of a long flight ahead of us, but as we eased our way via priority boarding down the tunnel toward the open door of the plane, Mrs V and I actually looked at each other, wrinkled our noses and said, “Eugh; plane smell”. I know – sacrilege.

Perhaps we were just feeling a tad jaded with all the travel, but the familiar smell of plane air-conditioning, aviation fuel and hundreds of gently warming economy meals was a stark reminder that we had 24 hours of this, followed by another flight to Manchester and a trip on the M62 before this particular journey could be deemed as ‘over’.

So, a deep breath and Tizer – who clearly isn’t burdened by the same world weary woes as a pair of thirty-something travellers – charged headlong onto the plane with us following obediently behind her.

Tizer once was wedged into her seat belt with the help of a couple of pillows and we began a particularly long taxi out to the runway. This really didn’t suit our darling daughter, who seemed to have made the decision that if we weren’t actually in the air, there was no way on god’s clean earth she was going to keep her seat belt on.

She quickly discovered that, for all the pillows to prop her up and special covers to stop her unfastening her seat-belt, the easiest way to get out of it was to simply stand up. There was no screaming, crying, or throwing of tantrums, you understand; she was just a bit bored and wanted to have a look around the cabin. She even smiled and waved at one or two of her fellow passengers which, whilst not exactly in line with current CAA regulations on the use of seat belts, was certainly very neighbourly of her.

Regrettably, this continued shortly after take off, and it was only a spot of quick thinking on my part and the resultant appearance of a large bag of M&Ms that remedied the situation. The downside was that, strapped as I was into the seat opposite, I couldn’t actually reach her, so had to resort to throwing the M&Ms at her. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t expecting her to catch them in her mouth (although that would have been cool, wouldn’t it?), but thankfully every third or fourth chocolate morsel I threw her way did land on her seat, which allowed us to coax her into sitting down and getting her back into the seat belt again.

Once the seat belt sign was finally turned off, Tizer wasted no time in retrieving the sweets that had failed to make it to her seat, despite her mother’s best efforts to stop her from eating them off the floor. I don’t know; the cabin may be ‘Upper Class’, the child – sometimes – is most definitely not.

I ordered my usual Tanqueray No. 10 and tonic with wedge of lime and ice, and was bitterly disappointed to get a Bombay Sapphire, a wafer-thin sliver of lemon and single shard of ice. On further investigation it turned out there was no Tanqueray on board, but when I went up to the bar to sort things for myself there was a profusion of lime and enough ice to sink the Titanic. For reference, the lime is the green coloured fruit, whilst the lemon is yellow. Are these the same crew who are expected to use a defibrillator on me should I collapse from a heart-attack? It worries me…

Mrs V ordered and received the same drink but – you’ll be unsurprised to hear – made considerably less fuss than I did. For dinner, I ordered some kind of duck salad followed by salmon; Mrs V went for the salmon too, but chose the soup option for her starter. I think I managed to find an episode of the Simpsons that I’d only seen seven times or so whilst waiting for dinner to appear and, to show there were no hard feelings, I gallantly accepted another sub-standard G & T.

The food was good, with the salmon coming out tops for once (past attempts by Virgin have ended up tasting rather like fish-flavoured cotton wool). The duck was fine, a bit too cold in a straight-out-of-the-fridge kind of way, which may have been the reason for its lacking much flavour. Mrs V also marked the salmon very highly and declared the soup as most palatable. I finished off with a lovely plate of cheese and some brown sticky stuff that later turned out to be quince jelly and was rather good.

Wine wise we both went white for a change and I think we plumped for a Sauvignon Blanc. Whatever it was, it was very good. I watched Shrek 3 throughout, which really ought to be the last of the franchise if anyone involved wants to retain a few shreds of artistic integrity. And bear in mind, I was watching this after a glass of champagne, three G & Ts and half a bottle of wine, so by all rights I should have been laughing my chuffing bits off. I know, Jonathan Woss is safe in his ‘Film’ role.

Tizer and I had our customary wander down the back of the plane to check out the unfortunate wretches in economy. Poor souls. If you transported cattle like that for 24 hours you’d have the animal rights people on your back. Returning with daughter dear I beckoned Mrs V to join me at the bar (oh yes, they have bars at 35,000 feet you know) and we indulged in another glass of that nice white before falling into conversation with an Aussie chap who I recall being called Craig, but my wife swears his name was Greg, so, in the interests of fairness and to avoid an argument, we now call him Graig.

I didn’t want to sleep on this leg and since Shrek was so bad and the bottle of wine in front of me – the contents of which were swiftly disappearing – was so good, I decided to stick around with Graig for a while. And, when a delightful young member of the crew was good enough to offer us another bottle – well – who were we to argue with her? She was also kind enough to nip into Economy and nick a few bags of pretzels, bless ‘er, with which Graig was terribly impressed.

After what felt like half an hour or so, Mrs V reappeared to inform me that Tizer was sound asleep and, more disturbingly, to ask me if I was aware that I’d been drinking at the bar for over two hours. Really? Well, that would certainly explain the profusion of empty bottles, as well as the inflated sense of well-being and self-importance. Had, I enquired, she met my good friend Graig?

She stomped back to her seat muttering dark mutterings under her breath, but even I was becoming aware of how much I was sinking. It was alright for Graig, he was only going as far as Hong Kong – I had another 12 hour flight ahead of me, and it was highly unlikely that I was going to be able to keep this pace of drinking up for that long unless someone was going to provide me with a liver transplant somewhere over Iran.

We finished the bottle, of course, it would have been rude not to, but caution, as they say, being the better part of valour, I bid Graig the kind of farewell one usually reserves for old school-chums or rich relatives, and wound my weary way back to my seat and a bit of mind-numbing telly.

I must have been at the bar a hell of a long time, 'cause my episode of King Of Queens was rudely interrupted by an announcement that we'd soon be landing in Hong Kong. Tizer was good enough to wake up at this time, but didn't seem to have the fight in her - or perhaps the appetite for M&Ms - to act up over the seatbelt again and we had a quiet descent and landing at Hong Kong Airport.

Feeling the effects of my 'sesh' with Graig, I dutifully followed my wife and child off the plane and up to a lady who kindly stuck a sticker on my shirt (this, I later discovered, was to identify me as a transfer passenger). We then, rather confusingly, had to go through security screening before being allowed to carry on to the Clubhouse. I was pretty much on automatic pilot by this time and was more than happy to keep my head down and follow the crowd.

We made our way to the Virgin Clubhouse (another perk of flying Upper Class) and resisted the temptation to hang our jackets in the cloakroom, this being the spot where they spent their 3 day holiday whilst we were in Sydney. We found a seat near the TV and Mrs V managed to snag a shower for her and Tizer, but I, to my shame, needed to nip down to duty free for some cigs. To be fair, I really shouldn't have been allowed to wander around a large foreign airport alone as I really was feeling rather peculiar, but throwing caution to the wind I risked life and limb on a far from stable escalator, located and bought said cancer sticks then - and this is the really stupid bit - thought it might be a nice idea to go and smoke one of them.

There's a 'smoking room' at Hong Kong Airport (more of a hut than a room) which is the sort of place they should send people who have tried nicotine gum, patches, tablets and injections to stop smoking, but still find themselves on 80 Lambert & Butler a day. Five minutes in there should put you off smoking for life. And yet, in my somewhat tired and emotional state, this is where I ventured. To my credit, I did manage three of four drags on my cigarette before the smoking hut started to revolve, first clockwise then - sickeningly - counter-clockwise, with a bit of a wobble on it.

As none of my fellow smokers seemed to have noticed this, I realised that in my slightly sozzled state - and not having had a cig for the best part of a day - that it must be me. I quickly exited the hut with as much dignity as I could muster, then realised that trying to walk back to the Clubhouse through a revolving, topsy-turvy airport would either get me arrested, booted off the next leg of the flight, or both. So I leant casually against a wall a pretended to text a dear friend (possibly Graig?) until the airport slowed to a bearable shimmy, then slowly, delicately, made my way back to the Clubhouse.

Which was just as well, because people were starting to file out to board our Heathrow bound plane when I got there, and my rather relieved looking lady wife turned me around and guided me back to our gate.

Settling back into our freshly cleaned suites I quickly realised that this leg was going to be a lot quieter, so spying some empty suites I quickly snaffled three or four bottles of water. If past experience was anything to go by, I was going to need them, and my mouth was already starting to feel like it had recently been exhumed from Oliver Reed's grave.

It doesn't happen very often when I fly, but I actually fell asleep before take-off, and I didn't wake up until the seat-belt sign went off. I changed into my PJs, intent on getting a decent sleep. Tizer was already in the land of nod and I wouldn't be far behind her. Mrs V was dragged away for a manicure with the inflight beauty therapist (yes, they have those as well) and I suddenly realised that the smell of dinner from the galley was starting to make me peckish.

Having really enjoyed the cheese earlier, I thought this would make an ideal late supper, so explaining to a crew member that I wanted to get off to sleep soon, she rushed me out a plate of delicious cheese before doing the main meals round. OK, and a glass of port - I was eating cheese and biscuits, people, you have to have port!

I put the cheese away rather sharply, and catching the eye of the FA again, she was good enough to bring some more and this time fetched me an entire basket of biscuits. And one last glass of port, but I promise, that was it!

Having eaten enough cheese to ensure me dreams of opiate-induced clarity, I settled down to sleep in my lovely bed (yes, that's right, we have beds in Upper Class too). I woke after about three hours due to the cabin temperature doing an impression of the surface of Venus. I downed one of the bottles of water from my secret stash, through my duvet off and slowly managed to get off to sleep again.

I woke up about three hours or so out of Heathrow and, with Mrs V and Tizer still asleep, went to the bar and treated myself to a breakfast of orange juice and after dinner chocolates. I know, I'm a pleb. I had time to change into some clean(ish) clothes and make myself beautiful again away from the rush, as most of the cabin were still away with the fairies, then I settled down to play a few games on Mac.

The breakfast round proper came around, and I managed a danish and a coffee, not being the biggest fan of bacon, eggs et al at such an early hour. Then the cabin was being cleared and we were slowly beginning our descent toward Heathrow.

After bouncing through dark clouds for most of our approach we finally broke free and the smudged and dirty lights of a cold and foreboding London could be seen from the window. God, it was depressing, and we were still probably a good couple of thousand feet above it.

Landing was uneventful, getting the doors open took an eternity and waiting at the gate for the push-chair seemed to take as long as the flight itself. The gentleman delivering the push chairs and prams seemed to be suffering from TB or - at the very least - consumption, which I dearly hoped he would be good enough keep to himself. Oh, and not only was the lift out of order, but the escalator was turned off too so we all hand to carry Tizer, her pram and all our hand luggage up two flights of stairs. Welcome back to Britain...

We managed a very quick sausage sandwich in Virgin's 'Revivals' lounge where the staff, as ever, were absolutely delightful. Aware that things were getting tight for our BA flight up to Manchester and that we still had to negotiate getting to the other side of Heathrow, we scadoodled as fast as we could toward Terminal 1.

Things were going well until we got to the lifts that go up to departures, where we had to wait for 15 minutes whilst an East European family completely commandeered them to transport their 8 children and luggage, which comprised of various dirty cardboard boxes tied up with string. Finally we made it to BA check-in, where three check-in staff had a ten minute conversation on the best way to handle the push-chair. Then, once they'd agreed that it could go via Outsize Baggage - and this is my favourite bit - they were good enough to tell us that we'd missed our flight by five minutes.

There was no fight left in me, and we were very fortunate in that they got us the last three seats on the next flight at no extra charge. Back at Manchester our "Welcome Home!' experience was completed by Virgin sending a Volvo estate instead of the people carrier with child seat we'd been promised, but we were past caring by this time and managed, with the help of a truly pleasant and apologetic driver, to squeeze ourselves in.

And there endeth the 'trip report'. Once we were home we reunited Tizer with her grandparents who were waiting for us at our house. She was excessively pleased to see them, bless her. I guess a month is a long time when you're only two.

After a cup of tea and a natter with the parents we hit the sack and slept the sleep of the dead for 4 or 5 hours. The thing about jet-lag is that you can't allow yourself to get too much sleep in the day else you'll never get back onto local time. We also needed to be as refreshed as possible as this was, lest we forget, New Year's Eve. To be fair, as far as our body clocks were concerned it was the early hours of New Year's Day, but we weren't going to let that spoil us having a few drinks with family and friends.

It was tiring, but we managed to get our sorry arses to the pub, sink a few pints, tell a few holiday stories and see the New Year in. We were home and back in bed for about half midnight, I think, then we slept for 12 hours straight. I'm still tired now, to be honest, and I think it will take a few more nights to start feeling normal again.

Oh, I almost forgot. I'm cold. Chilled to the bone cold; colder than I've ever been in my life. I can't see how I'll ever be warm again. Unless we went on holiday somewhere nice and hot. Australia, perhaps? Now, there's an idea...

From Mellow... to Mayhem!

It's Sunday morning, and we're going home today. Avalon Beach Retreat is a maelstrom of cases, bags, clothes, towels, shoes, and collection of tangled cables and miscellaneous chargers for cameras, DVD players and Mac. I've packed my hand luggage - which is the only thing that Mrs V insists that I do - so, in the interests of family harmony, I'm now keeping out of the way, tapping diligently at my keyboard.

We've got until 11 o' clock to vacate the house and - as it's now 5 past - I think we're a little behind schedule. Quelle surprise. Still, there's no sign of the landlord yet, so let's keep our heads and concentrate on the task at hand which is, I suppose, updating you on our exploits yesterday.

You'll be far from shocked to hear that, with the weather getting hotter by the day, there was nought for us to do but to hit the beach again. It was our last full day so we managed a relatively early start and installed ourselves on Palm Beach. It was pretty busy, it being a Saturday, but there was a very pleasant cosmopolitan atmosphere with a mix of young families, couples and groups of (well behaved) teenagers. I think I went on enough in my Boxing Day post about the stark differences between a day at the beach Oz style and its dirtier, louder and altogether less appealing alternative back home, so I won't labour the point much further, suffice to say that it was a nice, safe, chav-free environment that suited us just fine.

Tizer and I decided to dig a hole - well, I suppose it was mostly at my insistence rather than her's - but as my pit deepened she seemed suitably impressed and installed herself in it with glee. To be fair, this caused something of a sand-slide back into the hole, which I did my best to stem by digging around her, but I felt I was almost certainly fighting a losing battle.

We lunched on hot-dogs bought from 'Summer Bay' Surf Lifesaving Club. The sign outside actually said 'Summer Bay' - I assume it makes it easier for them when they're filming. The number of people all but queuing up to take photos of themselves in front of the sign astounded me. You will, no doubt, be proud to hear that I managed to resist the temptation myself.

After lunch all that was left to do was to make the most of our very last afternoon in Australia. It could have been a rather depressing and melancholy moment, but with the sun beating down from a cloudless sky, a gentle sea-breeze keeping us cool, children playing in the surf and Tizer destroying all the hard work I'd put into digging my hole, it would have seemed churlish to feel down. It's a truly beautiful spot, and so typically Aussie; I couldn't think of a better place to while away the last hours of our honeymoon.

Our last glimpse of beautiful Palm Beach

Come late afternoon we accepted that it was time to quit. We had the delightful Monica coming to sit for Tizer so that Mrs V and I could have our last night out together, so we needed to head back to get ready. We'd booked a table at Barrenjoey House, the restaurant we ate at on Christmas Eve, and if the delicious fish and mojitos we'd enjoyed on that occasion were anything to go by, we were in for a cracking dining experience to end our jolly hol.

Grown-ups showered and dressed in their finest (well, the finest we had left at this late stage in our trip) and Tizer bathed and pyjama-ed, Monica showed up bang on time. Tizer was very happy to see her again, charging towards her open arms shouting "Mony!". She's clearly made an impression, this lady. We'd booked ourselves a taxi to get us back up to Palm Beach and, as the house is set quite a way back from the main road and behind another bungalow, we went out onto the street to meet it. The allotted time for the cab came - and passed. We gave it 10 minutes, quarter of an hour, 20 minutes, then realised the awful truth: Taxis are a law unto themselves the world over and their reliability will only ever be surpassed by their cleanliness. It wasn't coming, and we were going to have to make alternate plans.

So, we headed back into Avalon and found ourselves at a little cafe/bistro type place on the corner of the crossroads in the centre of town. I ordered scallops and then salmon, as did Mrs V and, it must be said in all fairness, that this was the most appalling meal we'd had during our entire trip. Hell, this was possibly one of the worse meals we'd had in our adult lives - barring the odd and always unfortunate venture into a McDonalds (which in itself is something I choose to do about as readily as having root canal work). Over-cooked, over-garlicy rubbish. The wine was OK, but it wasn't particularly cold, and I'm really not the world's biggest fan of room temperature Sauvignon Blanc. This would have been a crying shame at the best of times, but on our last night it was a horrible disappointment.

We left, without bothering to be offended by desert or coffee and ensuring that we didn't leave a tip, and made our rather dejected way to the tapas restaurant that we'd had such a starkly contrasting evening in only two nights previous. Whilst we were in no mood for anymore food, we did have the energy for a mojito or two and that - combined with another pleasant chat with Charley and the barman - restored our faith in Avalon once again. By the time we made our way home to relieve Monica (who no doubt, by now, had taught Tizer the full Spanish text of 'Hamlet) we were feeling a little more chipper. After all, one has to be philosophical about these things, and one bad meal out of 60-odd can't really be sniffed at, can it? Just a shame it was our last night, that's all.

Tizer was away with the fairies and Monica was, once again, watching Spanish TV when we got back. We had a lovely long chat with her about Chile - which sounds like a fascinating country to visit - and she even gave is the card of a friend who runs a travel agency out there. So - watch this space for an upcoming Chilean blog, perhaps...

Well, still no sign of the landlord and his cleaning team, but by the looks of things we're very nearly packed (I say 'we', but as I've already pointed out, my input has been minimal to say the least). And so, it looks like it's home time, dear reader. The next blog I post will be from a much colder place on the other side of the planet, and the next proper bed I'll sleep in will be my own - in about 40 hours time. So long, Australia, and thanks for the time of our lives.

Sydney: No Jackets Required?

Hello again. We're in Sydney at the Intercontinental, and it's really rather nice

It was cold (well, cool) when we arrived yesterday morning and then it slashed in down sideways last night, which wasn't really what we were expecting from the-land-down-under. Matters weren't helped by the fact that - like the fools we are - we managed to leave our jackets in the Hong Kong Clubhouse (i.e. at the airport). We didn't realise until about 2 minutes before they closed the plane doors, which was galling. Apparently they're going to do their best to get them flown over and delivered to our hotel soon (preferably before we leave for Cairns), so watch this space...

Our depature from the Four Seasons in Hong Kong was as luxurious as our arrival, as we once again booked their outstanding limo service. It was damn hard to leave as well; what a fantastic hotel. Best we've ever stayed in (and we have been fortunate enough over the years to stay in some pretty swanky hotels). We managed a late breakfast, a wander around the adjacent shopping mall for gifts and a couple of glasses of Veuve Cliquot in the executive lounge before gliding away from the hotel, aiport bound, in a beautifully airconditioned 'luxury MPV', as I believe the Yanks call 'em.

Once we arrived at the airport we were greeted straight from the car by Kenzo and Hiro, who introduced themselves as representitives of the Four Seasons who were charged with ensuring our swift progress through check-in and security. Despite the wonderful service we'd received on arrival, we weren't expecting it again on our way out, so this was rather a pleasant surprise. And, make no mistake, Kenzo and Hiro were cool. In matching black suits they delivered the impecable yet effortless service we'd started to get quite used to in Hong Kong. They loaded our luggage onto trolleys, guided us to check-in and took our tickets and passports to give to the agent. They then put all the luggage onto the conveyor for us before escorting us to security where, regrettably, we had to part company, which was a crying shame 'cause I rather wanted to take them home with me.

We enjoyed the tranquility of the Virgin Clubhouse, a sarnie and a couple of glasses of mojito and champers afore boarding our flight (the pic above is testament to Tizer's inability to handle her mojitos) . As I mentioned earlier, it was around this time that we realised our jackets were still hung in the Clubhouse, which put me in one of the vilest moods (something which didn't go unnoticed by Mrs V) for the first hour or so of the flight. A G & T and a pleasant dinner soon calmed me somewhat, but I'm still cursing my own stupidity. Anyway, for the nerdier among you, those good people at V-Flyer have been kind enough to let me post a trip report of the flight, so feel free to take a look.

We arrived at Sydney airport relatively refreshed (thank god for Virgin Upper Class Suites...) and the only real hicough (yes, that is how you spell it) was being picked up by customs after their sniffer dog got a little over-excited by one of our cases. They emptied the whole case and all but took out the lining, bless them, but didn't find anything. Not that there was anything to find. Honest guv.

Our pre-booked limo was waiting for us and efficiently got us to the Intercontinental, though I felt at nearly 180 Aussie Dollars we were royally ripped off. The hotel is very nice, and the benefit of Club access on the top floor is great. There's a balcony on two sides of the lounge with stunning views of Sydney Harbour, the bridge and the opera house. Great staff and some lovely wines too, in particular a cracking local Shiraz from the Bimbadgen winery. Spicey and fruity and - as the great James May once famously put it - winey.

Today, we did the only decent thing a self-respecting tourist can be expected to do and, after a very nice breakfast in the Club Lounge, headed for the opera house. It's such an architectural icon that it's almost like seeing an old friend as it looms into view from behind the row of restaurants and gift shops lining the side of Circular Quay. It's truly a wonderful looking thing, unlike any building you've ever clapped your eyes on, and it certainly got my camera shutter clicking. Tizer loved it, mainly because it has so many steps on a number of different levels leading up to it. Even the most laid back and relaxed of toddler-rearers would be as nervous as a small nun at a penguin shoot watching their little ones make a break for it and start scaling their way inexorably upwards towards the tall white sails of the opera house.

After what would have been about a reel and a half of film in the days before digital cameras, I guessed I'd probably caught the dear old opera house from enough angles, so we headed for the Royal Botanical Gardens, all of a two minute walk away. This was when the sun came out for the first time and - quite rightly - Mrs V basted herself and Tizer in sunscreen. Me? Well, there was still a cool breeze, and a bit of fluffy cloud left, and I don't tend to burn too easily, so I left it for the time being. What I forgot to consider was the distinct lack of ozone layer that they have around these parts and although I finally slapped on some factor 30 an hour or so later, my forehead (expansive as it is) is glowing a bright crimson as I type. Lesson learnt. If you don't want to look like a typical tourist and/or avoid skin cancer, stick the sun cream on you Herbert.

We're all going to the zoo tomorrow (zoo tomorrow, zoo tomorrow) and we may very well stay all day.

Off To Oz!

All to brief a time in Hong Kong. All. Too. Brief. What a place. The people, the hotels, the food, the service, the sights. We will be back, and this time we'll be making bloomin' sure that the cable car to the monastery is running.

We're due to fly onto Sydney this afternoon, so we managed yet another relaxing and extensive breakfast in the executive lounge (the view from which can be seen above), followed by a rather frustrating search for nappies in the shopping mall under the hotel. Long story short, they seem not to do nappies in Hong Kong. What they offer as an alternative, I know not, but - in yet one more example of why the Four Seasons Hong Kong has to be up there as 'Best Hotel In the Whole God Damned World' - we enquired as to the availability of nappies with the staff at the lounge and, you guessed it, five minutes later they came up with the goods. I don't know where from. I don't know how they do it. I want to live in this hotel forever.

But, of course, we can't. Our car is due to take us out to the airport in little more than an hour and we've got the 10 hour flight to Sydney ahead of us. It's going to be tough to leave though. This is one hell of a fantastic hotel in one hell of a fantastic city. Hong Kong, Victoria Harbour, Kowloon, Mongkok (oh, and Disney, I suppose). There aren't enough superlatives to describe it and Australia is really going to have to put some hard work in if it's going to rival this place.

They're just setting out the third 'food presentation' of the day here in the executive lounge. It's incredible; the grub just keeps on coming. Breakfast is followed by morning coffee, which is followed by some kind of lunch offering, followed by afternoon tea. Then there's cocktails and aperitifs. Then there's something else, I lose track. If it wasn't for the fact that there's so much to see and do in and around Hong Kong, you could quite easily stay up here in the lounge all day and get fat and drunk (Veuve Clicquot is on tap all day, so the latter would be far too easy to manage).

We had a wander around the spa and pool (which we've been far to busy to take advantage of) before heading back up here. It's stunning. So beautiful. Next time we're here (and there will be a next time, be sure of that) we must make use of the pool if nothing else.

Ah well, best pack the Mac and have glass of the afore mentioned bubbly before the car comes. Next time you hear from me we should be in the Southern Hemisphere. I wonder if the water really does go the other way down the plug hole. Only one way to find out...

Big Buddha (or not, as the case might be)

Today it was time to get all cultural, head out to Lantau island and visit Po Lin Monastery, home to one of the biggest bronze Buddha statues on the planet (this one weighs as much as a jumbo jet, apparently).

I'd spent quite a bit of time researching this one on t'internet and it looked pretty impressive - flights of stone steps leading up to the Big Buddha, ornately decorated temples and halls, and the exciting prospect of the cable car ride up the mountain to get there.

The train whisked us to the far end of Lantau in less than an hour, we disembarked, made our way out of the station, then - disaster! Mrs V was standing a little ahead of me pointing dejectedly at a sign curtly informing us that the cable car service was suspended until further notice. There was a bus service available, but this, after a lengthy discussion with a transit official who had about as much understanding of English as we did Cantonese, turned out to take the best part of an hour each way on winding rural roads and we didn't feel that Tizer - or at the very least, our potential fellow passengers - would be up to it.

By this time it was mid-afternoon, and we were both bitterly disappointed at missing out on the monastery. I started to suffer from a customary spot of OCD (as is my wont) about screwing up a precious day of our precious trip and couldn't really think of a way of salvaging things. The day was two-thirds done and we were at the far side of Lantau Island, an hour's train ride back to the hotel. The only things close to us were the airport and Disney.

And so it was; within the hour, we were back on that feted 'Main Street USA'. As we arrived, the parade was just passing back through town, and it was snowing once again in South East Asia. OK, so it wasn't a Buddhist monastery nestled on a Lantau mountainside, but it was still a splendid afternoon out. Plus, we got to see the fireworks again and this time Tizer stayed awake for them. Loved 'em, so she did, so whilst I got a great big duck in terms of our cultural advancement and spiritual enlightenment, I still managed full marks for being the kind of top-notch Daddy that takes his daughter to Disneyland twice in three days. Christ, she's spoilt rotten...

Mongkok & Back

Today we decided it was time to visit the mainland proper. No longer for us the safe and sanitised environs of Hong Kong and Disneyland, we were taking the famous Star Ferry across Victoria Harbour to spend the day exploring Kowloon and Mongkok.

Hong Kong as the colony it once was – and now as an SAR (Self Administrative Region) of China – is a small chunk of Southern China and about 100 other islands, the most well-known being Hong Kong Island itself. Kowloon is the mainland ‘bit’ immediately across the harbour from Hong Kong, and it was over this busy stretch of water that we took the Star Ferry – lower deck $1.70, upper deck $2.20 one-way. Since we’re on honeymoon we threw caution to the wind and went for the upper deck – that’s nearly 20 pence each I’ll have you know. Tizer went free, so our economy drive is still firmly on course.

It’s a wonderful experience as the aging ferry plows it’s way over the harbour, and the views are superb. The whole trip was over in less than 10 minutes, and we disembarked in Kowloon. You don’t get very far from the ferry terminal – say, 5 steps or so – before being approached by the first of many gentlemen of Indian extraction who are hell bent on fitting you for a tailor-made suit. And if you don’t fancy a suit, they’re more than happy to sort you out with with a ‘designer’ handbag – “for the lady”.

Declining politely (but getting less polite with each fresh assault on every street corner) we decided to check out the contrasting opulence of the Peninsula Hotel. This is alleged to be the hotel in Hong Kong, with it’s own fleet of Bentleys to transport its well heeled guests to-and-fro, and there's certainly a kind of faded grandeur about the place; it’s lobby is essentially one large tea room with customers being waited on by white-jacketed staff whilst listening to the strains of a string quartet. It’s impressive in it’s own way but all rather dated, and the vast majority of those partaking of the (no doubt very pricey) dainty cakes, sarnies and Earl Grey seemed to be there more to be seen that to be sustained in any significant way.

Still, I got to use the loos, which was a relief, and we continued to dawdle up Nathan Street, the main drag through Kowloon. It’s a wonderfully atmospheric place; jewellery shops, designer clothes shops, hi-fi and TV shops line the street one after the other, all selling the best names in their field, and all of them clearly knock-offs. Rolex watch sir? Only $2000 (about £120) to you sir, and comes complete with certificate of authenticity. Yeah, right…

About halfway along Nathan Street we clambered up the steps to Kowloon Park which is actually sited on top of the shops - says it all really. Such a haven of peace and quiet you will seldom find, especially slap in the middle of the mayhem and noise of downtown Hong Kong. Diligently pruned ornamental trees brimming with fragrant blossom lined the gently winding paths, which lead us past groups of Hong Kong OAPs slowly practicing their Tai Chi. Mini-pagodas sited in the centre of small lilly-ponds provided shade for pairs of quietly bickering old Chinese men and young courting couples, surrounded by dainty trickling streams and a surprisingly wide range of gently chirupping birds, all of them beautiful but pretty much unrecognisable to the average Westerner (Bill Oddie excepted).

Rather like entering an old wood-lined library, this was the kind of place that made you subconsciously quieten your voice to a murmer. I loved it. But then Tizer broke my revery somewhat by chasing and terrorising the resident pigeons which was vaguely amusing until our attention was drawn to a poster clearly forbidding said act under pain of a cash fine, so we decided to move on.

Back on the street we decided we'd had enough of Kowloon for the time being and headed down into the MTR for the two stop journey north to Mongkok, a poor neighbourhood of crumbling apartment blocks and hectic street markets, and home - apparently - to the Triad, which is nice. The MTR was, once again, immaculate, but on climbing the stairs out onto the streets of Mongkok, we were made instantly aware of why this is reputedly one of the most densely populated places on earth. It was like being suddenly and inadvertently plunged into a game of sardines with several thousand Chinese people, all of whom seemed perfectly at home with the idea and all of whom appeared to have heard of a much better hiding place in the exact opposite direction to the one we were trying to head in.

Thankfully (and I mean this without the slightest trace of racial slur) the Hong Kong Chinese are not only terribly polite, they are also - generally speaking - all rather short which, being just a little vertically challenged myself, was a positive boon. It meant that, despite the crowds, we were able to see over their heads (a real novelty for me) and although progress was slow we soon found our bearings. What an astounding place - decrepit tenement blocks with washing festooned from window-to-window, huge neon signs in Cantonese, blaring car horns and thick exhaust fumes, some of the most curious and (on occasion) stomach-churning smells wafting from street corner eateries and all the time the relentless surge of far too many bodies, all stoically enduring the complete absence of personal space.

We found Ladies Market a couple of blocks (and about 20 minutes) from the MTR station. Narrow lanes of stalls selling everything from 'China Town' tat to knock-off designer trainers, Kung Fu DVDs to English Premier League football shirts. We actually spied a pair of Converse pumps for Tizer, but despite the stall holder's attempts to assure us that they were the right size with added claims of, "they fit soon, she grow fast", we decided not to entrust the health of our daughter's feet to the vagueries of cut-price market footwear and ploughed on.

After several blocks of markets and malodorous food stalls, and working our way from the Ladies Market to the Goldfish Market (which, unsurprisingly, sells nought but goldfish, in bags, just like the 'Hook-a-Duck' stall at your local fair), we descended again into the MTR. We took the train as far as Kowloon, then got back onto the Star Ferry - which gave us 10 minutes of stunning night-time views - before setting us back into the relative calm and, on reflection, much more sanitised atmosphere of Hong Kong.

We'd booked ourselves a baby-sitter for the night, and a table at the Four Season's renowned restaurant, Caprice. Those who know me will attest to my abject food snobbery and it is fair to say that I'm pretty hard to impress in the culinary department. But this was good; damn it, this was stunning. The setting (overlooking Victoria Harbour) the service (typically Hong Kong, typically flawless) and - oh my god - the food! This was the real McCoy; I think we ended up going through about five courses, but mentions of merit must go to the langoustine and sweetbread ravioli, the foie gras terrine and the lamb fillet with pears. Wonderful, wonderful grub, the likes of which I can't envisage us being fortunate enough to stumble over for quite some time. Ah well, it is our honeymoon....

Big Buddha tomorrow.

Who's the leader of the club that's made for you and me..?

Our second full day in Hong Kong and, despite our oversized and most salubrious surroundings (I'm not saying the suite is big, but Tizer and I managed a half decent polo match in there earlier today; I won), neither Mrs V nor I managed more than 4 hours sleep. We can only presume that the jet-lag has mangled our body clocks more than we thought. It's all well and good that in this modern age of ours we're able to whisk ourselves a third of the way around the globe in just 12 hours, but it's rather disconcerting that it takes our brains a good three days to catch up. It's just not natural. Maybe they should bring Concorde back. Or would that only make things worse?

Today was officially marked as a 'Tizer Day' – the poor mite has put up with quite a lot in the last few days and probably doesn't get quite the same buzz out of flying Upper Class or partaking of the Four Seasons' seemingly unlimited levels of service and hospitality, so it only seemed fair to give her a break. And – well, hell – if said break meant that us 'grown-ups' had to suffer a day with her at Hong Kong Disney, then that's just the kind of sacrifice that we – as parents – sometimes have to make.

We set off typically late – why is it when you can't sleep all night, the one time you do fall into the deepest of slumbers is 20 minutes before you're due to get up? After breakfasting like kings in the executive lounge, and with the vague trepidation that can only be felt by a Northerner who manages to limit to once a year his use of the hot, dirty, overpriced and entirely unreliable transist system that is the London Underground, we descended into the bowels of the Hong Kong MTR – the Metropolitan Transit Railway. My god, it's clean. You could eat your dinner of the floor of one of their sparklingly clean and punctual trains (if you were predisposed to do so. I was still full from breakfast).

We were swiftly and efficiently delivered to the gates of the Land of the Mouse and, it had to be said, we were all feeling just a little giddy. I say we. Tizer was, thus far, rather nonplussed by the whole experience. Once through those glittering gates, however, and she really started to pick up. As soon as we set foot upon 'Main Street USA' – a quaint depiction of a homely, stylised, Americana-esque town which, without doubt, never existed outside the minds of Disney Corp executives– she was presented with the man (or should I say rodent?) of the hour; Mr. M. Mouse him very self. Boy was she excited, so much so that we felt compelled to join the over-long queue of parents, all with children in similar states of delirium for the chance of a ‘photo opportunity’ with an underpaid and no doubt over-hot Hong Kong bloke in a sweaty mouse suit.

All went well until we got to the head of the queue; it was our turn, and Tizer went charging toward Mickey’s open arms. Then she hesitated. It seems the closer she got, the greater the realization dawned on her that this was no ordinary mouse. This was one big bugger of a mouse. In fact, for a child who doesn’t quite top three feet, this was a gargantuan mouse. This was no mouse – this was a monster. She slowed; she stopped; she turned heel sharpish and ran like hell back to her mother, screaming, “Mummy! Mouse, no!”. As you can see from the pic above, we still managed to get our photo, but Tizer was far from happy and insisted she be kept a safe distance from mutant the cheese-muncher.

We hit the ‘attractions’ after that, and managed the carousel, the spinning tea-cups (just a little nausea inducing), a ride down the ‘river’ complete with pretend animals that reared out of the water at you, and a visit to Tarzan’s treehouse. He wasn’t home, but we had a good nose round all the same.

The climax of the day was the firework display over the fairytale castle (Cinderella’s? Sleeping Beauty’s? Maybe they ‘castle share’; mind you, I bet Cinderella does all the cleaning and Sleeping Beauty never gets out of bed, lazy cow). Stunning fireworks, although Tizer managed to sleep through the whole display, which was a shame. Oh, and best of all – it snowed! In Hong Kong! In 70 degree heat! OK, so it was just soap-suds blown out of the rooftops along Main Street, but it was still particularly Christmassy, even for a jaded old fool like me. Snow gently falling, Hong Kong kids going bloomin’ cock-a-hoop for the stuff, carols playing and a huge great Christmas tree twinkling away at the bottom of the street. Bloody marvelous.

Even the trip back to Hong Kong was a pleasure. Seeing so many people leave Disney en-masse after the fireworks, we were fearing the worse when we got back to the train station, but one has to keep reminding oneself that this is Hong Kong, not the UK. Folk filed in an orderly fashion towards the station; the transit authorities, wise to the fact that this is a busy time, put on extra staff and trains to cope, and everything went smoother than Micheal Buble gargling with chocolate syrup whilst wearing silk pyjamas.

My good lady wife and I dined in our suite after putting our comatose daughter to bed, whilst enjoying views across Victoria Harbour. It was almost like being on honeymoon…

Kowloon and Mongkok tomorrow (reputedly one of the most densely populated places on earth), so that should be fun.

Hello from Hong Kong

Evening all. I'm sitting here in the executive lounge of the Four Seasons in Hong Kong, so for anyone who was worrying terribly (and I know you're out there), rest assured, all is well, you can sleep soundly again.

Our flight over was wonderful - more so for me perhaps than Mrs V, as Tizer wasn't really in the mood for sleeping as much as we'd like. I got a good 6 hours sleep, which was nice. Made it a pain getting a decent kip last night though, what with the 8 hour time difference. You can read my trip report on dear old V-Flyer. Me? Well, I'm luxuriating with a 'free' G & T whilst me good lady puts number one toddler to bed.

The Four Seasons is one stunning bugger of a hotel. We'd arranged to be transfered from the airport with their limo service - we were met off the plane, driven in one of those wonderful golf-cart style buggies to immigration then left to sort things there whilst they went off and collected our luggage for us. We were then whisked into our waiting limo (given warm towels and mineral water by the driver) and 40 minutes later we were at the hotel. A delightful lady welcomed us by name when as we stepped from the limo, then we were taken directly to our harbour view suite (upgraded from deluxe room!).

We never even saw reception - we completed all the paperwork and formalities at the dining table in the suite. Humble as those who know me will tell you I am, we have stayed in some pretty swanky hotels in our time, but this place tops the lot! The suite is colossal (two bathrooms, sir? No problem at all, sir...) and they'd even left complimentary strawberries and champagne for us. Well, it is our honeymoon. Unfortunately, Tizer took a liking for the strawberries so we hardy got a look-in. The only down side is that the Four Seasons go for a very 'beige' theme in their properties, a fact that a designer somewhere really needs to re-think, at least as far as strawberry covered toddlers and fawn scatter cushions are concerned...

We visited Victoria Peak today - it's the big mountain behind the main district of Hong Kong (Photo of jr. and I basking in the December sunshine above). There's a tram that takes you up a 70 degree gradiant with stunning views. We then stopped for lunch at the top - dim sum and noodles. Mrs V and I were, of course, given chopsticks; Tizer was allowed a fork. I was rather envious of her, to be honest. Steamed pork dumplings are a bugger to eat with chopsticks when you know that the waiters are watching you just praying the you'll screw up (I didn't, but more through good luck than good management).

Anyway, I've just had my buzz busted by realising that Mrs V has taken the cigs back down to the suite with her. I was really looking forward to a last fag on the terrace, so to speak. You will have to excuse me whilst I go downstairs to admonish her.

The Difficult Second Post

So, it looks like I haven't lost interest yet. That can only be a good thing, right? Well, I've worked out how to stick photos and links on here, so as learning curves go it isn't proving too overtly strenuous.

We're still in the middle of a suitcase/clothes maelstrom here in the wilds of Yorkshire. Hopefully all the packing will be sorted by the morrow. I take on more of an advisory role in these things; I hand over my list of requirements to my dear lady wife - in my best hand-writing on a crisp sheet of two-holed, yellow file paper - she then crosses half the items off said list (apparently five pairs of jeans is excessive, even for a month long trip) and packs the rest whilst I take refuge in the pub. It's worked like a dream for the past decade and I'm very much a believer of the not broke/don't fix adage.

Generally, I return from the pub to find her sitting atop a particularly recalcitrant case (usually having sunk a bottle of red while packing it), swearing like only a Yorkshire girl can and trying to get it to close over a partly compressed mass of underwear and beach towels. My added weight is normally enough to rectify the situation, but then, of course, we have to weigh the damn things.

Airlines seem to be decreasing their weight allowances for luggage at such an alarming rate that we'll soon be permitted little more than a clean pair of trolleys in a Tesco carrier bag before being charged for excess baggage. Actually, come to think of it, we won't even be allowed that; after all, obtaining a carrier bag from Tesco is now deemed tantamount to building an oil-fired power station on the Antartic ice shelf, or going off on a panda poaching expedition. What we need is for Madonna to fly half way around the world on her fuel guzzling private jet so that she can stand on a stage with amps and lighting that require the power output of a small nation and tell us not to leave our telly on stand-by.

Yeah, that should save the planet. And I bet she gets all the baggage allowance she needs and more. She probably packs a brace of African orphans in a couple of pet carriers to boot.

Anyway, we're allowed 30Kg (and that's travelling business class - the poor schmucks in cattle class have barely enough allowance to fit a spare shell-suit and a Burberry cap in their fluorescent case). That's not a lot for a month long holiday, but with the help of hotel laundry services we should survive. Just my hand luggage to pack now - I'm proud to say I do this all on my ownsome; Book, Mac, Bose QC2 noise-cancelling headphones (indispensable when travelling with a toddler), iPod and selection of DVDs all to hand and I'm ready for the off.

Just the small matter of a haircut and completing the purchase of our new house and we're on our way to Hong Kong. Yay.

Notes From A Small Brain

Cheers! And welcome to my rather enigmatically entitled blog. I'll explain where said title comes from in a later post; it seems a shame to sully ourselves with detail so soon.

So - what are you having? Me? I appear to be enjoying a cosmopolitan, but only because the bar has run out of mint, rendering them incapable of making a decent mojito. Damn their hides!

I don't think I would ever have entered into the world of 'blog' had it not been for our upcoming honeymoon to Hong Kong and Australia. We're off on Tuesday, and Mrs V is packing our cases around me as we speak. To be fair, she seems awfully pleased that I'm showing my heartfelt support by tapping diligently at my keyboard. Perhaps that's how Mrs. Peyps felt...

In the meantime, if you're heading for the bar, I'll have another cosmopolitan. Ta.