Taking the waters

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took the BBC at its word today, and assumed that a weather forecast of "bright" meant "occasional glimpses of sunshine filtered through clouds and no actual precipitation". Never mind the Eskimos and their words for snow, the English have a thousand euphemisms for cloudy with intermittent rain.
Anyway, "bright" was optimistic enough to pack the Hasselblad and head for Bath. I attempted to catch a train, failing to allow for British Rail. Eventually, I caught a "rail substitution bus", which, "owing to the engineering" in the words of Clive James, had replaced the train between Bristol Temple Meads and Bath Spa for the day.
You will have to wait for the artistic shots until I find a dinosaur who develops real film, but in the meantime, here are some happy snaps of what is arguably the loveliest town I have ever visited.

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It certainly ranks well up there with the Old Towns of Stockholm, Prague, Warsaw and Brussels, without feeling like a museum piece. Contemporary Bath is predominantly Georgian in style, and therefore frozen at about 1825. The town centre has a graceful, coherent feel, and seems to escaped the worst insults of post-war reconstruction.
Bath is another stop on the World Heritage checklist. According to the City of Bath World Heritage Site Management Plan, people have been living in Bath and enjoying the hot springs since at least 5000BC. The Roman Baths are a wonderful palimpsest of Roman, Georgian and Victorian layers. Oddly, I found one of the most interesting things was observing all the other gawkers enjoying their World Heritage.

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After I visited the Baths I paid a brief visit to Bath Abbey. Not greatly memorable, but some lovely examples of funerary art on the walls. One of these days I will read up on Victorian funerary allegory, because there were a few recurring themes, such as the Good Samaritan, wreaths, animals and broken colums that would be interesting to understand further.

11 flats, 8 agents, 4 possibles and one offer

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Took a whirlwind tour of central London on Wednesday to find the perfect flat. I was not wildly optimistic - I had heard too many stories of gazumped offers, greedy agents, and fruitless searches. The relocation consultant was very efficient, and we drove briskly from possible property to possible property. Then we drove briskly around and around the block looking for a parking spot that would not result in a wheel clamp. Then we wrestled with the council to make their pay-by-mobile-phone parking system function. Then the consultant just parked in the middle of the street while I ran in to pass judgement.
By property #4 I had perfected the art of the 30-second decision. Too small, too pokey, hideous wallpaper, 5 flights of stairs, strong smell of mothballs, funny-looking caretaker, funny-looking neighbour, faint aura of boiled cabbage, too far from the Tube, too close to the Tube, too Laura Ashley, too Terence Conran, yellow walls, net curtains, no storage...
Flats #1, #5, #8 and #9 were all acceptable. #8 won on location, amenities and understated decor. We put an offer in, it was accepted verbally, now I wait to see if anything goes awry.
I hope this is the one - I have already located and Google mapped the local leisure centre, library, garden centre, Tube station, whole food grocer and branches of Habitat, M&S and Muji, not to mention testing the walking route to the office (35 minutes).
Even had enough time left over for the V&A, Hyde Park, and arguably the world's most tasteless monument before the train back to Bristol.

The Brunel Mile (after mile after mile)

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as promised, I had a Brunel adventure on the weekend.
On Saturday, I walked from my cosy flat at the water's edge to the Clifton Suspension Bridge where it spans the Avon Gorge. A few factoids about the Bridge, some stolen (oops, I mean cited) from the official website:

• This was Isambard Kingdom Brunel's first major commission, which he gained by winning a design competition in 1830.
• The bridge was not completed until 1854, 5 years after Brunel's death.
• 11-12,000 motor vehicles cross it every day, even though they have to pay 30-40p a go.
• It is only ever sunny in Clifton when other people are photographing. All my pictures are grey and dreary.
  

On Sunday, foolishly optimistic, I thought it might be warmer and sunnier. However, as the 17th corollary to Sod's Law clearly states - "adverse weather is naturally attracted to the recreational days of the week". At the thermal peak of the day, the mercury registered 6.6 degrees. On such a day, I heartily (though not warmly) endorse a visit to the SS Great Britain in Bristol. No other reason is required than the comfortable warmth and 25% humidity of the below-decks, where a massive machine called Deep Thought labours to keep the fragile iron hull of the Great Britain from further deterioration. Nevertheless, the SSGB (getting too lazy to type the whole thing) offers a very entertaining couple of hours, with interactive exhibits, funny stories, dressed-up shop window dummies, and even authentic smells...

I finished my visit to the SSGB (still lazy), but did not entirely bid farewell to Brunel. Tuesday morning I set off to London to house-hunt. I left from next door to the Great Western Railway Terminus (as designed by Brunel), travelled by First Great Western (though at a price that I'm sure Brunel would gasp at), and stayed at the Paddington Hilton (former Great Western Railway Hotel). I don't think Brunel would have been very impressed by the gym or the food or the central heating, but the room was nice.

Next blog, 26 bathrooms in 260 minutes, as I search for the perfect London piéd-a-terre...

feather-footed through the plashy fen passes the questing vole (not)

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first thing to point out about Ishmaelia - it's not really Ishmaelia - names have been changed to protect the innocent. I can confirm it is a small, French-speaking country in West Africa, that may or may not have been immortalised by Evelyn Waugh.
First impressions? We arrived in the evening after a long day of travel - Bristol - Heathrow - Paris CDG - Ishmaelia. The airport was a blur of dark faces, noise and bustle. The car park and the area around the airport was crowded with people - all neatly dressed, immaculately clean and quietly chatting with each other.
The hotel was fine - I didn't expect the Ritz-Carlton, and what we got would have stood up well against the All Seasons Karratha or Kununurra.

Some interesting quirks of the accommodation:

• The lifts did not like to go up. Pushing the up button either did nothing, or sent the lift sailing gently downward to the ground floor. I kept expecting a lugubrious voice to intone "May I ask you if you've considered all the possibilities that down might offer you?"
• The lift lobby was not air-conditioned - you would go from your nice cool room on the way to a meeting room, and would be met with a warm wave of tropical heat. However, the resident praying mantis seemed to enjoy it.
• Brushing my teeth with Perrier - not nearly as luxurious as it sounds...
• The food was surprisingly excellent - classy French cuisine and everything very fresh. However next trip I will take Vegemite, cliched though it is.

The last night we were there there was a dinner with the cream of local society - I met several ambassadors, the chief of the port, and I believe the head of the navy and several politicians were also there. Spent most of the evening practising my limited French and trying not to make a fool of myself.

I tested my personal theory that you have a very good chance of avoiding tummy upsets and adapting to the local food if you eat lots of yoghurt. 2nd day back in Bristol and still healthy, so I think it worked.

We spent most of our 3 days there in workshops, so I only have a few hurried photographs from out a car window. We did get a tour of the port, and watched ore cars being unloaded and ships being loaded.

Return trip left on time at 23:30 - I am told this is not normal. At least Air France have good food and service. One of these days I will do a rating of the various forms of international business class.

Arrived back in Bristol late morning (see the above itinerary, just in reverse) with about an hour's sleep behind me to a cold and frosty morning. Made an executive decision that the office was beyond my powers and worked from home. Climbed the Mount Everest of relocation and successfully opened a bank account!

This weekend's agenda, seeing my time in Bristol is short - Isambard Kingdon Brunel and what he built...

7:00 am and the sun only just came up

well, that was the first 24 hours in the UK. Unmemorable trip over. Sat next to a young woman with her (thankfully) good-natured baby, watched movies, tried to sleep.
Arrived 5:00am, 4 hours to kill until the embassy opened, so my taciturn driver took me to a little hotel called the Gainsborough in Kensington. When I say little, I mean the rooms and the stairs. Note to self - when you have 50kg of luggage, choose a hotel with lifts.
Nice enough place - pretty decorating, if peeling around the edges. Some of the little homey touches that remind you you're back in the country of period conversions - the 15 minute wait for the hot water to arrive - the curious way the lights dim when you turn on the hairdryer - the mysterious drillholes in the walls...
One mystery (for a hotel called the Gainsborough) was the obsessive hanging of Dante Gabriel Rossetti reproductions and bad copies in the foyer. I looked everywhere, and didn't find a single Gainsborough in the plethora of prints. Another mystery was that the entire staff appeared to have come from somewhere in Eastern Europe.
Went to the Ishmaelian embassy early so I could walk around Kensington a bit. It was a perfect sunny day, so I got to enjoy the Friday morning bustle of the upper middle-class. The embassy was a surprise. I know it's a poor country in Africa, but the tiny office up rickety stairs on the 3rd floor of a faded Victorian was a little unexpected. However the staff were brisk, friendly and efficient, and I got my visa in only two hours.
To make up for the morning's silent driver, the one who took me to Bristol could talk for England. Fortunately he didn't seem to mind if I was listening or not, and nattered happily along for two hours about the weather, his cousins in Australia, and the motorways of the Home Counties.
Flung my pile of luggage in the middle of the apartment in Bristol and raced to the office for a few hours of meetings.
Last surprise for the day - left the office at 5:00 and it was pitch dark. Never mind - got some groceries, went home, cooked dinner, went to bed early.
The sun has finally lumbered above the horizon this morning, so today is stock the fridge, unpack, find all the things I forgot to pack, wonder if they are in the air freight, buy them twice just in case and recover from jet lag.
Tomorrow is another continent.

Una última mirada en Buenos Aires

20071310_Pasaje_de_la_defensa

It's three weeks now since I left Buenos Aires . Probably for the last time, but last times have a habit of turning into long-time-away rather than never-to-return.
Back in Perth for four more days then time to pack a much bigger set of bags and go to the UK. Expect the next post from Bristol - a brief waypoint on the road to Africa.
Here are the results of a few days with the Hasselblad on the streets of Puerto Madero and San Telmo.
All photos shot with a 503CW using either a 250mm CF or a 50mm C. BW film Ilford Delta Pro 400, Colour Fuji Velvia 100 transparency.

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