While I was looking for a ghost of the past, I've come across a blog called ghosts of the past. How spooky is that? Here's the story: When I was 19/20, the travel bug caught me and I decided to spend time in Spain and Ireland as an au pair. 6 months each. I've been thinking back a lot to my time in Madrid, because when I was there, I mainly spent time with the older boy, then 4-5 years old, but the family also had a wee baby, 4 months when I arrived, 10 months and crawling when I left. Not that I have a baby the same age, I keep trying to remember bits and bobs, and my memory is interestingly patchy.   more »

Hello everyone. I'm furious. Or rather, I was flipping furious yesterday. I'm sure I'm not the only one, but oh my was I furious. I almost cried with fury, just that I was too, well, furious. Air travel, which I don't like at the best of times, has become an obstacle course. Especially if you travel from London. Now, I KNOW you can't take liquids in greater quantities than 100ml on planes. I KNOW you can't take sharp objects onto planes. And I DO try my best not to accidentally leave screwdrivers and pliers in my handbag again (don't ask...) because I would really rather like to keep them.   more »

We've done it. Our first holiday with cubling. Boy was I nervous, not knowing what to take, what to forget and how on earth to keep cubling happy without her electrical swing. We did it nonetheless, and spent a long weekend in the ancient Kingdom of Fife, in a holiday house in Cellardyke to be precise, with another two couples with babies - the latter 4, 3 and 2 months old.

Cellardyke's recent claim to fame was the dead bird flu swan which was found in the harbour. Harbour is a grand word really. Sure, a harbour it is, it's the type of thing where boats can land, just that there are no boats and it looks a bit on the small side. Still, the harbour is the centrepiece of this former Fife fishing village, and it's even got a name: Skinfast. The village looks like an outpost of Anstruther, and we almost went right past it. All the more impressing is its history: apparently 200 fishermen found their daily bread, eh, fish here in the 19th century. And because fish prefer to be swimming even after being cooked, it also was home to 24 breweries and 70 coopers (that's the guys who make the barrels for the beer). Astounding I dare say.

We stayed in a lovely 5 bedroomed self catering house, with lots of attention to detail, a lovely garden including a real (non electrical) swing and barbecue. Not that the fresh sea breeze would be particularly inviting to take advantage of that, even in June, but it looked very pretty anyway.

Cellardyke is definitely in the shadow of its big and famous neighbour Anstruther, and yes, Anstruther is prettier, has more shops, and above all the world famous Anstruther Fish Bar. Where best to eat your fish supper than right at the source, where the fish comes straight from the sea into your plate. It really is a grand sight, the constant queue outside the chippy, plus those who've already beaten the queue and are munching their fish and chips at the harbourside. The fish is very tasty indeed, and the interior of the restaurant definitely helps pass the time between hunger and fish. Videos of fishing out in the rough North Sea, paper clippings, lots of little stories about the place and its history, and the nautical decor of the place make it easy to forget how long the wait may be. And they even cater for a yummy desert with their very own ice cream corner. What more can you ask for.

The next day saw my first proper walk with cubling in her babycarrier. Thankfully it was a flat coast walk, and the baby sling worked surprisingly well. Crail was our destination, and what a pretty little town it is, with an even prettier tea room/crafty bits place, and a pottery. The tea room looked oh so lovely, with lots of handmade items for sale, everything was so nice until the owner accused us on our way out of trying to evade payment of a bag of crisps. He made a real fuss, so he did, and blamed us for splitting bills (that's the non-feathery type) and himself for allowing us to have split the bills. I didn't quite see the connection, at the end of the day he wanted to charge us for something we didn't have, how does splitting bills have anything to do with it? Other than that we may not have noticed that we're paying for something we didn't have? Whatever, it spoiled my enjoyment big time. Such a shame, it's such a gem of a place really.

Oh, and I didn't forget to pack anything, or totally overdo the baby stuff. The only problem was her suddenly increased hunger. Nothing would console her, so at 10 weeks , with my boobs sucked dry, I had to resort to a formula feed. Heavy heartedly I dare say. It must have been the fresh sea air that made her ravenous. I did feel a bit rejected as cubling took the bottle without any niggles, gulping it down. Who says breast fed babies may reject a bottle of formula? Not mine, anything goes that fills her ever hungry tummy. With a big smile afterwards, all the previous crying forgotten. Ah well, whatever makes her happy.

Air travel is evil. I am sure of it. We're all being told how heavy a toll it takes on the environment and travel anyhow. Because it's cheap, because we want or need to travel. Living in the northern part of a long and thin and actually very long and thin island (aka the UK) while my family and friends live far enough to make other forms but air travel a real pain in the buttocks, I feel I have at least some sort of a right to occasional trips up high.

That doesn't mean I like it.

I've mentioned this before so won't bore you, but the usual double take of the water of life that gets me through panic attacks at take off and landing are out presently for obvious reasons, so things aren't easy. I was pleasantly surprised though at the lovely sunny day for take off at Prestwick and looking forward to a nice and soft hop across the channel.

Until the pilot attempted to land and failed.

Suddenly all the horror stories of Ryanair are in my mind. Lack of security, untrained pilots, pilots who may not be pilots at all, drunk pilots, rubbish planes, no fuel. And more. At the end of the day, to be fair, it was more the tail of the tornado that ripped through London and was having an away day at Weeze airport just as the plane I happened to be on attempted to land. At that moment, the plane was quite clearly not under anything that would deserve the term of "control" and whoosh, almost touching the tarmac with one wing, up we went again. My heart racing, visions of the day of judgement, I have to admit I even prayed. About two litres of sweat later and half an hour of testing hypnobirthing techniques for relaxations (if they take that long during labour they are rubbish), visions of starting panic induced early labour etc, I was ready to face the unpleasant truth that we would have to try landing again.

We did. Cartside and cubling are still alive. However, I need to fly back on Wednesday. Not a happy camper.

We rented a car for a week. And mastered the long and windy roads of Sao Miguel. We even made it to the west of the island, a mere 100 km, but a daytrip at that, but we did see the wonderful craterlakes and the magical village of Sete Cidades, a fairy tale village in a fairy tale landscape, with fairy tale lakes and fairy tale people.

What will the lasting impressions be? Maybe the utter relaxed nature of people here. There is no rush, even if the car in front of you trying to ascend the serpentines is a cement mixer. A chat amongst friends always takes priority to letting a car go by. You could, if you wanted, sit in any bar without ordering anything. Every beach is free of charge. Everyone is happy to help. Everyone speaks English or international sign language. No problems, whatsoever.

Then there are the bits I don't understand. My guidebook told me of a second museum in Nordeste, a museum of work. We never found it, until today, but today we weren't actually looking for it. Rather, we were on the hunt for souvenirs. I had noticed a sign for artesanato at the roadside, and today we set out to investigate. The building in question was called 'house of work and the protection of females in Nordeste'. I found that rather intriguing. What could that have to do with handicrafts? Maybe the sign was out of date and this was some sort of a job centre? Well, knowing that Azoreans are very helpful, we ventured in although the building looked more like a government office than anything else.

It turned out to be a handicraft workshop for women. A receptionist first showed us items for sale, such as woven pieces, cross stitched and crochet embroidered cloths.  Those were behind a glass vitrine, side by side by exhibits that represented traditional weaving tools and traditional dresses. The receptionist mentioned that these items were done in the house. That sounded strange to me, as this was an office building, not a workshop. Until she opened the door into a new world: There they were, about ten women, working away on all kinds of fabrics, spinning, weaving, knitting, embroidering. It was fascinating.

In the two weeks of our stay, we had not heard about this place, there is no advertisement, no sign of a shop, no hint at all to this fabulous place where old traditions are kept alive by two handful of women. It is here where the traditional dresses are made, and the crafts of making new fabrics out of old and broken cloth and thread are kept alive and made into new forms. They could publicise it, make it a success. Instead, it is a hidden gem, like so many other things on this island.

I'm writing this from the cutest little library I've ever seen. It's in a really old and traditional building, white washed walls, doors and windows surrounded by blocks of granite, some additional dark granite like swirls on the front as well. Next to the church. Overlooking the sea. Arched rooms, full to the brim with books, five computers, state of the art, tucked in the middle of it. Librarians speak perfect English here, hurray to them! In fact, it's easy indeed to get by in English, thanks to the centuries of emigration to north America? It is my guess, maybe supported by a definite American accent sported by those with good English.

We actually took a wrong turn. Nevermind, the road was beautiful. And we are quite happy to surf a wee bit on the internet anyway, even more so in such a beautiful library. I can see the sea from here, what can beat that!

Yesterday we explored the capital Ponta Delgada. To be honest, I didn't think much of it. Narrow streets without proper pavements, and cars determined to demonstrate how fast they can speed through them. I found it quite intimidating. There are beautiful spots in the town, but at the end of the day, this is a busy port town as many others, and the island has much more to offer than that. Well, let's not forget the whale watching tours that start from here, it's not all doom and gloom! My beloved went on one (I felt too sick and headachy yesterday to take a chance with a rubber boat out on the Atlantic, even if it was for whales and dolphins) and saw lots of them, even a really big one. Pity that the battery of his digital camera went down just before the sperm whale displayed his massive tail next to the boat...

Nordeste is lovely. Really. So pretty, amongst such lush garden Eden type landscapes and flora. We walked into the Serra Tronqueira, all the way up into laurel forests, that's the stuff that was around the whole of southern Europe before ice age and humans took over. It's  truly awesome and slightly scary because you feel so small and insignificant in this vast vulcanic mountain range, that could, just like that, explode. Now. Luckily, it doesn't (phew!) and the greenness of this tertiary age forest is preserved for now, creating the one and only spot for the priolo, a bird endemic to the Azores (that means native and exclusive I think). Just 120 of them are left and no, I haven't spotted one, I was too busy playing with a bamboo stick and don't think that convinced the few priolos that humans are nice and peaceful.

After five days though we wanted to venture a bit further afield than our feet would carry us. And that's when we hit the wall. There is one bus, and that one goes via the north of the island to Ponta Delgada. The bus that serves the south of the island, i.e. the closest towns, only departs twice a week. Both buses take absolute eternities, not surprising considering that mountains and very windy roads have to be climbed and descended. And climbed and descended. And climbed and descended. And... you get the picture. We also looked into visiting other islands, and again, public transport by ferry is virtually non existant, at least not in a way that would be feasible within a two week holiday. There is just one ferry which serves about six islands, but each only once a week...

This makes me wonder, how do people live here? Nordeste has a tiny supermarket, enough for the daily needs, but for anything else, well, one really has to go to the bigger towns. The big but is: Nordeste is the bigger town. Do people suffer 6 hours of a bus ride along the windiest mountain roads I've seen in a long time? Or does everyone own a car? Or do people simply not move (the amount of traffic on the roads would suggest that|) and produce everything they need in their own back garden? I'm not sure.

On the map, the whole island of Sao Miguel looks manageable, as if we could easily explore even the west on a day trip from Nordeste. I'm not so sure now. It may only be 100 or 120 km to get there, but hell, what are these like! Average speed of 40 km/h, up the mountain, down the mountain, constant bends just next to yet another abyss. Stunning scenery, if it weren't for my regular screams for sheer fear of the height manifesting itself right beside me. I simply couldn't drive, and luckily, forgot my driving license...

Yet the rented car is the only feasible option of transport, so be it. The first return journey after night fall suddenly brought home how isolated each village on this island is. Isolation which is obviously multiplied by the island being in the middle of the Atlantic, far away from any mainland. Little wonder that people here feel Azorean first before they feel Portuguese, and that the returned exiles from Canada are cheered big time when they perform in their own folklore group. You can take them out of the Azores, but you can't take the Azores out of them. And Canada is by no means any further away than mainland Portugal. There really isn't much in it.

We are staying on the main island of the Azores, Sao Miguel, which is the most populous and easternmost island, i.e. the closest to the Portuguese mainland. It's still 700 miles away from the mainland though, and I expected true isolation. The airport in the islands capital Ponte Delgada, where half of its inhabitants live, is tiny and indicated limited tourism. The tourist information was very keen to help, it consisted of a single guy behind a bar, extremely friendly, helpful, but regretfully telling us what we already knew, that the last bus to our holiday home of Nordeste left in the afternoon and that we would have to take a taxi.

The taxi drive was long and brought us a first impression of an island so lush and green it appears to be one big greenhouse, surrounded by the bluest sea one can imagine. My nose was having none of all that lushness, all the antihistamines in the world were defenseless when presented with such a cocktail of pollen. All blue hortensias, and so many other garden plants, coupled with tropical palm treas, banana plants, tea plantations, sweet corn and all the flora we are used to on top of that. It appears that everything thrives in this everwarm and evermoist climate, from European to tropical plants.

Nordeste, which, as the name indicates is at the north eastern tip of the island of Sao Miguel, is small and sleepy. It's whitewashed facades reflect the sunshine, its beauty is almost unreal. This is supposed to be the former poorhouse of Europe, but no sign of it at all. It is rural and each house has its own vegetable garden tucked into the sloping hillside, and the countryside still strongly suggests how hard the first settlers must have worked to plant anything at all, build roads into the volcanic mountainside and make a living out of this place which had happily existed without humans for such a long time. Yet the gardens are amazingly beautiful and blend in to perfection with the wilderness surrounding it, as do the whitewashed houses, small villages and people in cars, on horseback or carriage. The modern blends with the traditional, and in spite of the remoteness of the place, it is civilised to the brim.

There is no mass tourism here. Our hotel has 24 rooms or so and we hardly meet any other tourists. Yet, everyone we've met so far speaks enough English to make communication easy, and people are friendly even if ever so slightly reserved. The food is an unexpected mixture of all that is local here: seafood, but also all that belongs to the cabbage family which I find odd, given that if you can grow tropical plants, why on earth would you turn to kale, cabbage, cauliflour and broccoli? Not that I'm complaining, the food is good, very good.

On our second lengthy walk up and down the coastline, which is rugged and dominated by the mountain rivers slicing into the hillside which carry water from the highest peak, the Vaga, down to the sea where it came from, we encountered a group of Canadian expats. Or rather, Azorian expats. Before the European Union's structural funds turned the destiny of these beatiful islands at the edge of Europe and insured infrastructure and almost full employment, it was indeed a very poor part of Europe. And people emigrated - mostly to Canada rather than Portugal, Europe or the US. No, these exiles are coming back to visit, with their children, extended families and Scottish brother in law from Uddingston. The local knowledge is still there, even 30 years later and we were given directions for a fabulous walk up and down the coast, past a natural pool, bamboo fields and into the next village of Lomba fa something. The pleasure it gave him to explain his native land to us was obvious, and the pride of his mother even more so. He spoke with a clear Canadian accent, while her English still maintained melody and intonation of this place, a family truly at home in two places, so far apart yet linked at this moment.

So, it is up in the air we go again. Destination: The Azores. Nine islands in the middle of nowhere, out in the Atlantic, created by plate tectonics, vulcanos and openings in the earth, an tropical Iceland so to say. Suggested by Melanie, when we were desperate for a honeymoon destination that was politically stable (Nepal was out at the time), not too hot (like Thailand, Laos, Italy, in fact, most places) or too cold (New Zealand in the footsteps of Aragorn and Tim Jackson). The Azores promise to be temperate if humid, have plenty of walking to offer, and are unusual enough for this special occasion.

Strangely, they don't seem to be on the tourist map yet. There are few hotels, some of them look plain ugly and like motels, rather than pretty and cosy homes in fascinating surroundings. On some islands, there are hardly any hotels to speak of, plus the islands themselves aren't regularly serviced by air, making the planning stage slightly complicated. The nine islands are spread over a considerable distance in the Atlantic, so that island hopping may sound attractive, but may not be compatible with our budget or time planning. What's more, general information on places and hotels is spare and limited to the prospectus, and we almost booked a hotel which according to reviews found online at the last minute didn't exactly come recommended. Our own favourite was fully booked, so we settled on Estalagem dos Canonigos on the main island. The main island, because it's big enought to allow plenty of exploring in two weeks should we not make it to other islands, and the hotel as it's located in a village which has a least some choice of eateries, bars and cafes, rather than being utterly isolated. So we hope to rent a car for a week only, and explore the immediate surroundings of the town of Nordeste by other means.

The flight is over 4 hours, and alarm bells rang when a friendly security person looking for explosives in our power adapter (he WAS friendly, really!) mentioned that the capacity of the plane was 48 and that so few people flew to the Azores that often the check in desk was not in use. But, this is no propeller plane, it has two proper jet engines even if only about a quarter of the seats are occupied. It feels special travelling to this place that is so unknown, raises eyebrows with travel agents and relatives, and has no tourist infrastructure to speak of.

The latter means for instance that there is now transfer to the hotel and that we have to splash out on a taxi. It also means that the latest bus to the capital leaves at 3pm. But not to worry, I'm sure we'll find ways and enjoy a relaxing stay. The books are packed, so is the laptop, MP3 player and the walking guidebook.  

After a week in the land of single track roads, cattle grids and unpronouncable place names, it feels utterly weird to be in a city. So many people. So many cars. Actually, less cars than usual, but that's due to the Easter weekend. Still - it's quite uncanny that I managed to survive a full week without access to anything remotely like the internet, in fact, no access to phones (no reception or phone boxes kaputt), no access to TV or DVD, and, no access even to decent grocery (or other) shops. Instead, there were plenty of deer, sheep, seals, puffins, waves, beaches, walks, boats, basalt columns and sick bags. Thanks to the suitably bad weather, the time was spent nose in books, games, open fires or on mountain paths, boats and passing places. And we found teddy bears which looked like monkeys.
A life beyond the internet is possible!

What surprised me most is how people get by without a decent shop. I was told that the peninsula of Morvern is inhabited by about 300 people, we added 20 to them for a week. It's a big peninsula, it takes you about two hours to drive around it. That's not going too fast due to the single track roads, but still. The one and only shop offers leeks, onions, carrots, turnips and ... well, that's it really. Apparently you can place orders and once a week the meat comes in. Failing that, it's off to Fort William, which is at least an hour's drive away. To get to Morvern, taking the ferry across is quickest, and strangely, the first sign on Morvern is: "no dog fouling. CCTV in operation". They  must have little worries if the criminals they chase with CCTV are dog foulers.

We stayed in Ardtornish house, a mansion which has been converted to self catering and self contained flats, accommodating lots of people (there were two groups, and we were a flock of 20, so you can imagine how big a house it is). It's grand, with open fires, lovely views of the loch and Mull, right in the middle of the Scottish nowhere. Time passed quickly between reading, talking, cooking, walking, boat tripping and sleeping.

One trip took us to Staffa, the Scottish end of the giant's causeway built by mythical Finn McCuill when jumping across between Scotland and Ireland in his giant's frenzies. Staffa is an island off Iona, which is an island off Mull, which is a bigger island off Morvern peninsula. That makes four boat trips in total, plus lots of single track road in between. It was an adventure indeed, and we just about made it. First, we arrived early at the first potential ferry slip for getting to Staffa. No phone reception, no working payphone and there was precious little we could do to tell the boatsman that we were establishing a demand for a crossing. You see, the ferry operates on demand only, to any of the many islands off the coast of Mull. So really, it's not even a Staffa ferry, but an Ulva ferry, which, if you want and pay for it, gladly takes you to Staffa as well. But as we had no means of contacting the boatsman apart from waving across the bay, we went all the way to the other end of the island to get the ferry to Iona. By that time, the sun had decided to do us good and the magic got to us. Unreal colours, unreal people living on an unreal island. All is small, post office, boats, houses, beaches, cars, shops, tearooms, abbeys. All is also very pretty.

Half an hour later and we'd really seen it all, as nice as it was, and decided for more adventure, and the boat trip to Staffa. It takes an hour to the island, theoretically you spend an hour on the island, and back on land. Effectively, the sea wasn't in favour of us landing, so we got thrown about for three hours non stop and my panic at the very high waves, and the consequential movements of the small boat was soon given up for amazement at the sight of half the passengers making good use of sick bags which were not so altruistically provided plentifully and free of charge. There they were, grown men and young women, old ladies and young boys, all getting rid of their lunch. Such a waste. I held firmly on to the lovely apple pie I had swallowed just before boarding the boat, I never like wasting food you see.

The puffins were cute, the dolphin curious, the basalt columns impressive. I felt invigorated when returning to Mull, ready for the single track road trip back to Morvern. I fell asleep instantly of course. The next day, a 10 mile journey in search of a teddy bear shop got me car sick galore, I've seemingly been given sea legs for some unexplained reason. Maybe I was a sailor in a previous life. Or a whale. As for the teddy bears, they were really hiding away at the end of the world. Go to the end of the road in Drimnin (that's the end of THE road in Morvern), then turn right after the phone box, into a private road. Take the next left. Leave the car, walk up to a building site of a house, ask the builder for a key and you'll be shown into a 2x2m box. This is the teddy bear shop. They had 4 teddy bears, all handmade and collectable, clearly not yet making a rivetting business out of it. But nothing is busy, or business, in this part of the world. It doesn't need it, and we didn't need it either.

Oh, and we never saw John Snow.