Svalbard August 2014

Longyearbyen, capital of the Svalbard archipelago, is the world’s northernmost town. It has been on my mind to pay a visit ever since I saw it on a map, God knows how long ago. I think most people will somehow have heard to Spitsbergen, the largest island of the group, named by a Dutch explorer, Barents, who also gave his name to the local sea. 78 degrees north, you cannot go any further as an ordinary tourist. 

 The domain of the polar bear, the walrus and the beluga whale, I failed to see any of these animals on my short 3 night trip. To see bears and walrus I would probably have needed to go on a specialised small ship cruise to the icy eastern areas, but this would have been a very expensive prospect, and maybe one day I will undertake such an adventure. My own trip was self-organised, whereby I arranged air travel from Dublin via Oslo with Scandinavian Airways. I had a choice of spending 3 or 6 nights and for expense’ sake I decided on the former. To venture outside the 2000 person centre of Longyearbyen involves the expense of an organised trip with a guide with a gun and flares because of the ever present danger of the polar bear. Accommodation is at the higher end of Scandinavian prices, so I had determined to see Svalbard on a budget, if one could ever called it so.

A couple of interesting facts about Svalbard; In the hill above the airport is located the world’s seed vault, which is housed in a building above the airport. In the case of Armageddon, hopefully the current main crops and flowers of the world can be recreated from this repository. The infamous Spanish Influenza killed more people than the traumas of WW1. Its make-up was discovered from the bodies of coal miners who died here during the epidemic and were buried the permafrost which preserves so much after death. Svalbard used to be located in the tropical latitudes and the burial of generations of rain forests has created the organic compound known to us as coal, creating a mining community founded by the American John Munro Longyear. There is no such thing as an indigenous community, and Longyearbyen is international place where English is the lingua franca, comprised mostly by Norwegians and Swedes, with Thai people forming the third most common community.

I had a choice of accommodation. I could have stayed at the Radisson Blu, which is a very nice place, but has a reputation for “tired” rooms. I could have opted for the guest house, or camp site, or the hostel-like hotel of character “Mary Ann’s Polarigg”, but I was attracted by the web pictures to "Basecamp Trappers’ Hotel", one of a collection of small rustic hotels located in places like the African bush. The cheapest option happened, for me, to be to book through Venere.

SAS offers free coffee on its flights, and I was already well caffeinated by the time I arrived in Oslo. A 6 hour wait in that airport had to be endured, complete with fire alarm and airport evacuation. I ended up going through security twice, which in Oslo thankfully only takes a couple of minutes. With Scandinavian prices for basic food options it’s not a cheap airport to kill time and I was might relieved to get on board my onward flight to Longyearbyen, leaving behind a dull and wet Oslo.

Strategically I had chosen a window seat in front of the wing at check-in the night before. For most of the way there was complete cloud between me and the sea below. Then came a break and I peeked my first glimpse of Svalbard at the top of the descent. I was truly excited and well rewarded for my midnight check-in! This has been my best ever view from an airline window, as the pilot guided us through stark treeless valleys with borders of snow-topped mountains and here and there a glacier pouring its melt-water seawards. It was midnight and the sun was bright and rising. The 737 was guided gently as possible onto the rough permafrost runway and I stepped out in my summer tee-shirt to a quite bearable 11 degrees C. This is polar tropicality! A stuffed polar bear greeted us at the luggage belt, and soon I was onboard the Flybussen coach service to nearby Longyearbyen and my lodgings, Basecamp Trappers’ Hotel.

Outside the front door to this unique hotel was the friendly resident German Shepherd dog as he stood guard by his kennel, complete with curtained window. The cheerful receptionist handed me my room key, which was attached to a dog’s bone. I made a mental note not to flash it in front of the hotel’s or any other doggy lest I lose it. My room was as tiny as one could imagine, but just perfect in character for me as a solo traveller. The cosy bathroom sported an arctic theme, and a few old books lay on the bookshelf beside window. I could see straight up the valley, and I pulled the venetian blinds to secure a couple of hours sleep. An 8.30 appointment awaited me next morning.

Breakfast was a very nice affair, with a simple choice of good quality items, including some nice cuts of ham, smoked salmon, chunks of grainy bread, fruits, and self-made waffles which are ever-popular in Norway.

A Viking-like man stepped off the blue coach and I came forward to take my place. Beside me, a stunningly beautiful and smiling 92 year old lady introduced herself and her son and daughter to me. They were from the east coast US. She said she was an O’Shiels of Irish origin. Between them, they had been everywhere in the world, including Antarctica and there was nothing they did not know, though this had to be extracted from them by careful questioning.

Back near the airport we all boarded MS Billefjord, a fine comfortable little ship which accommodated its small crowd very well.2 zodiac life rafts were at our disposal plus what seemed like an infinite number of life-jackets. With a German Captain and Thai crew we steamed over Isfjord to the most impressive Esmark glacier. The scenery here is absolutely stunning. All the time I was on the lookout for polar bears, walrus and whales (including the arctic beluga), yet all I saw were fulmars and puffins. I was informed that I would likely have to take a long cruise towards the icy north and west coasts to glimpse the more exotic fauna, though anything could appear anywhere here at any time. Only in 2011 was English schoolboy Horatio Chapple killed by a polar bear on a camping trip in the hills beyond Longyearbyen. There is always a risk, and anyone venturing out beyond the confines of Longyearbyen must be accompanied by a licensed guide with a suitable gun and flares to distract a bear.

One of our Thai Able-Seamen took a chunk of ice from the sea and cut it up whilst the Viking poured out decent glasses of Grants whisky into which to put it. We all delighted in the wonderful whisky with genuine polar ice. The 92 year old lady was able to sprint down the incredibly steep ship’s stairs to partake of same! As we all supped our whisky the Thai seamen barbecued whale and salmon on deck and soon we were all tucking into ample helpings of delicious meat with rice and salad.

After lunch by the glacier we set sail for the Russian coal mining town of Barentsburg across the wide fjord.  Sea was calm, wind was low, and on deck it was nothing as cold as I’ve experienced elsewhere whilst nicely clothed with good waterproof coat and light woollen jumper. Svalbard has a lot of coal mines, some exhausted and some still working today. John Munro Longyear, an American coal mining magnate, gave his name to the capital, Longyearbyen. Barentsburg is the second largest settlement with just a 500 citizens of Russian and Ukrainian origin. A flight of over 200 steps leads up from the quay to the main part of town, and climbing them was good for my muscles even if I was temporarily out of breath in my state of unfitness. A young Russian guide showed us around the rather depressing but sheltered hillside settlement, and described the hotel as having 5 star comfort. I took a look inside this establishment which also housed the post office. It did sort of remind me of a poor relation to a basic Russian hotel in which I stayed in Moscow in 1979. A statue of Lenin still stands in the centre of town as a mark of Russian heritage. I’m glad they did not tear it down because it is part of history. I peeped inside the tiny Orthodox church where a lady was praying; hence I did not take any photographs of the beautiful interior. This church was built in memory of those who perished in a Russian aircraft on its approach to Longyearbyen in 1996. The coal produced here has always been of very poor quality, but the Russians maintained a strategic position here for espionage during the Cold War and they don’t feel like going home any time soon, this time I suspect for business reasons.

Having left Barentsburg our boat voyaged past the most majestic cliffs draped in rare greenery, courtesy of the nourishing droppings of the thousands of birds that nest here. Later we passed by the airport, and soon were back at Longyearbyen. That was a trip not to be forgotten.

That evening I dined at the lovely high-ceilinged panoramic dining room of the Radisson Blu Hotel. There was the offering of a limited four course menu or an all-you-can-eat buffet. Either was an expensive affair. I decided on the buffet which, appropriate to my trip, had an Arctic theme tonight. Generally I do not like strong flavours now in the way I did as a youngster. In fact I shy well away from them. This evening I decided to be brave and try tiny bits of everything on the buffet. Besides, like all dining in Scandinavia, it cost a fair buck and I was going to get my penny’s worth out of it. There were a number of reindeer salamis and smoked and dried meats; there was smoked salmon, subtle-flavoured caviar, and the strongest of all the flavours on the buffet-the prized red king crab. I found the flavour overpowering, but I do appreciate how gourmet’s might treasure the creamy flesh. The freshest and fluffiest of breads were available, including a wonderfully thin and crispy rye wafer. The hot selection featured whale, with which I am familiar and which tastes  like a slightly oily tender beef with the slightest whiff of cod-liver oil. It’s an excellent and very healthy meat. There was venison, chicken, lamb, salmon and seal, with trimmings of lemon wedges, lingonberry sauce, mustard and other condiments. I had read about seal tasting somewhat like the taste in the throat when one has a bleeding nose, and hating the taste of blood, I sure did not fancy this idea at all. I picked out the smallest piece of bearded seal I could find, and scooped plenty of delicious saffron flavoured chicken drumsticks as an antidote which worked well. Yes. The seal tasted as described, very irony, and I swallowed it whole to hastily get rid of the taste.

Next morning I had an appointment with Svalbard Husky for a Dog Wagon trip on wheels. The jeep picked me up, with a mature Dutch couple already on board. We drove inland through Adventdalen, past a compacted strip which at one time served as the airfield. When we entered their compound all 50 huskies were a-howl, with one particular girl making the most noise. We were advised that all dogs were safe to handle. They were all on long chains, each with a kennel and bowl of water. I went straight to the noisy one and was given a tremendous greeting. Likewise with all the dogs. At least I knew all had received rabies shots recently. The arctic fox is a carrier of rabies in this region and the threat has to be taken seriously. The dogs were all Alaskan Huskies, which are a mixed breed incorporating various husky breeds and all are bred for temperament and performance, and socialised with multiple humans at an early stage.

Our guide selected 12 dogs and persuaded them into the enclosed trailer with our help. The dogs didn’t mind in the least being held by the collar and persuaded to move by perfect strangers. Each and every one of them had a very tolerant nature. We drove back past Longyearbyen and upwards to a hill where a coal mining train of transport buckets begins. The jeep was parked and the 12 dogs harnessed to the wagon. We passengers were asked to help in the harnessing, and being a dog-lover I was delighted to assist.

Starting up on a height the beautiful dogs worked away enthusiastically to bring us gradually downhill towards the airport. It was wonderful sitting in a cart with 3 other people being driven by dog power, and it was at the doggies’ discretion where’re we would go. Our guide had at his disposal a brake and words of command. We came to very sharp turning point by the airport where the guide had to negotiate with the dogs for about 8 minutes as they tried several times to tow us downhill across a little ledge which would have resulted in a turnover. It was a sharp right turn and the dogs wanted to commence it a bit early. The guide shouted “left” several times, and the dogs would initially move left before moving right again. Of course he wanted them to move left AND forward a bit, but the mutts didn’t quite comprehend. 10 minutes elapsed before they “got it” and we were on our way once again. The guide made a refreshment stop for us and the dogs. We distributed one drinking bowl to each pair of huskies whilst the guide went down to a freshwater lake on a bird reserve to collect the water in a bucket. He was attacked on the head by arctic terns protecting their chicks. As the dogs took their turn to guzzle the water through mouths foaming with perspiration, we sipped coffee from a flask and enjoyed a chocolate biscuit. After a well deserved thirst quench we set off back uphill and back to the jeep where we all helped with getting the dogs back in the trailer.

In the afternoon I acquainted myself with the town, visiting the world’s northernmost shopping mall and supermarket which stocked an amazing variety of foods. Some excellent clothes shops stocked top quality arctic gear. Gun cabinets are provided for the safe keeping of weapons-a notice in one shop states that “all the polar bears in this shop are already dead”. Prices were expensive, but at least they were duty free, making them cheaper than mainland Norway. I bought myself a little silver pendant in the shape of a map of Svalbard. The only thing resembling sweets from Svalbard were boxes of Belgian chocolates in a sleeve decorated with a polar bear, which I brought back to my place of work. The local library was staff-less and featured 2 internet computers and a small shelf of books. There were coffee shops and Thai and Japanese restaurants as well as a gourmet restaurant called Huset or “The House”. A statue of a coal miner stands in the main street of the town, which is pedestrianised.

I paid a visit to the museum, which features most of the information you might want to know about Svalbard. Like most places in Longyearbyen you are asked to leave your shoes in the hall and go around in your stockinged feet.  A room is dedicated to the international aspect of the archipelago’s current population, and I learned that one Irish person is resident. Long ago there used only be a male community comprised mainly of coal miners, but now plenty of families live in Longyearbyen and a couple of schools provide education. The main floor of the museum features simulated landscapes with stuffed native animals including a polar bear specimen.

There is an Airship Museum, dedicated to the airship exploration of the North Pole, but and I was sorry not to have enough time to visit it. My flight was due to leave at 4.30am, so I had to seek an early evening repast and get sleeping in good time to wake up before 2am. I enjoyed a very tasty bar meal of fine burger and the crispiest fries I have ever tasted at the Svalbar right beside my hotel, washed down by a nice Belgian beer.

There was nobody at reception to pay my hotel bill, so I had to leave my key attached to its dog-bone on the desk. My mobile phone rang after I arrived in Oslo Airport - I didn’t have to guess they were looking for payment, but they were most pleasant about it. Had I been better organised I would have settled the bill the afternoon before. I had just settled down with a nice breakfast of bacon and eggs when the airport fire alarm sounded. I wasn’t best pleased, having paid Norwegian price for my meal, but I was asked to leave the building. Thankfully it was still in situ when the alarm was over, but it had lost its warmth.

I endured another 6 hour wait before my short connecting flight to Copenhagen. Another 2 hour wait in Copenhagen awaited me before my final flight back to Dublin. I arrived home at 7pm, full of memories.

Newfoundland June 2014

Newfoundland was a place I had always yearned to visit. On one of those exceptionally stormy days last winter, when curiosity as to what airplanes were allowed to fly that day brought me to the Dublin Airport website, I noticed a News Announcement. It was not to do with the inclement weather and how it was affecting air traffic, but rather announcing a new direct route from Dublin to Newfoundland by the Canadian airline Westjet. This piece of exciting news brought me a sense of frustration because I was already booked on a cruise to Alaska, starting in Vancouver. I felt so tempted to book a flight to Newfoundland, but I said to myself “I can’t go to Canada twice in one year, that would be overkill.” Not long afterwards I received a phone call to tell me the Alaska cruise had been cancelled due to overbooking, and I felt slightly bereft. But then, I thought, this is my opportunity to book a self-made trip to Newfoundland!

On Monday 16^th June 2014 I went to the boarding gate for the inaugural flight of Dublin to St. John’s, capital of the Canadian Province of Newfoundland & Labrador. The CEOs of Westjet and Dublin Airport each gave a speech on the launch of the new service. Westjet’s CEO said that this has been the most successful new route in Westjet’s history; it had attracted an unforeseen level of booking, and was sold out for most of the summer.

In just over four hour’s time of trans-Atlantic coffee-drinking, the aircraft touched onto a very wet runway at St. John’s. A welcome party of traditional Irish music awaited us in arrivals, with servings of more coffee, savouries and cakes. After partaking in these I got a taxi to my accommodation for five nights, the Quality Hotel Harbourview. Although it was only 11am, my room was ready, and I indulged in yet another dose of caffeine from the coffee-maker. The continuous rain dulled a promising view from my window straight down the city streets lined with the so-called “Jelly Bean” terraces of different-coloured wooden houses, leading Downtown and up the hill to the Basilica and the Rooms Museum & Gallery.

Despite the cosiness of my room I tempted myself to explore the locale, and sporting a raincoat with hood I made my way uphill to the nearby historic building of the Commissariat House. It quickly became apparent that cars stop when one even looks as if one is about to cross the street here. The only other place I have observed this nicety is in the thick winter snow of Tromso in Norway. Indeed it was only back in May when Newfoundland had its last snow. Today it was just non-stop rain. Inside the historic wooden building I had my first encounter with the very peculiar local accent which was mostly “stage Irish” with some West Country English, and the odd touch of North American for good measure. “Are you really from hereabouts?” I asked the lady on duty, and she replied “Oi be from here alroigh-sh, and you be from...Oirland...I guess.” I assured her I was indeed, just off the first direct flight. She had heard about the new service and reckoned every second Newfoundlander would use it. A friend of hers has a daughter that spent two years in Ireland doing voluntary work for Simon, and followed that up by completing a degree in Sociology at St. John’s University.

Having completed the tour of the building I wandered through the leafy surrounds towards a gate which indicated public access. “Government House”, which is Newfoundland’s answer to Ireland’s “Farmleigh”, was closed until July according to my literature. The security man called me over, and I thought I might be in trouble for trespassing. “Come look in the hall, and get a taste for what its loike”, he beckoned. A magnificent spectacle it is. “Now come see some nice horses, this way”. At the stables I was introduced to four enormous animals, including Vince, who had stomach problems that was causing some concern. “Them horses be with the Mounted Police, for ceremonies loike.” I got a complete tour of the grounds, by which time I was thoroughly saturated, the rain having penetrated right through my raincoat, my feet and shoes sodden like sponges in the puddles. Back at the hotel I removed all my sodden garments and laid them out to dry over the next two days in my heated room.

It was way too wet to get my second raincoat saturated, so I dined in my hotel, which was rated as mediocre as far as food goes. I ordered the traditional Newfoundland Cod’s Tongues, which were served with fries and a wedge of lemon. Cod tongues are not actually the tongues of the fish, but a delicious piece of flesh in the area of the throat. They were absolutely scrumptious, and served with “scrunchions” or diced pork scratchings, which are a traditional accompaniment.

Thankfully, the morning brought sunshine. Loyola O’Brien picked me up in his minibus to bring me to my booked boat trip with O’Briens’ Boat Tours at the wee village of Bay Bulls, some 25km down the road on the Irish Loop. It was lovely to see some pristine countryside with forests and lakes. Loyola chatted away to me about the Irish connections and told me his brother Michael would be commanding the boat on this occasion. On board, Loyola took the mic and gave us a guided commentary. He began with the safety briefing, advising us that we wouldn’t last a minute in the freezing water, but that we should aim to keep dry and get straight into the life raft which was available to deploy at the back. He cautioned that once a boat of this size would get into trouble it would go down with determination and that we’d have to be quick about getting saved! Loyola followed this up with a rendition of Fiddler’s Green, a song about the afterlife of fishermen.

A humpback whale was spotted. Our skipper, Michael, followed the whale at a distance, as he surfaced now and again. A Minke whale also appeared. It took quite a lot of our time tracking the whale, so that when we came to the famous bird cliffs of Witless Bay, our bird-spotting was brief enough. Still, it was very exciting to see so many puffins in one place at one time, and the seas were a fantastic emerald green close to the rocks.

Before returning to base, Loyola “Screeched-in” a couple from another part of Canada to become honorary Newfoundlanders. The pair had don sou’wester hats in order to take on the supposed appearance of a “Newfie” (sometimes regarded as derogatory), then Loyola asked as per tradition “Is you a Screecher?”, whilst holding up the wet fish to be kissed. Following embrace of fish, the couple declared “We is”, followed by a shot of Screech, the Jamaican rum which used to be traded for cod. Loyola then declared “Long may your big jib draw, and may the road rise up to meet you”, the latter part of sentence derived from a famous old Irish saying. In the evening I dined out at a nearby Tripadvisor recommended Korean restaurant, where I enjoyed a most delicious meal.

A second bright sunny day encouraged me to my goal of Signal Hill, a mere two kilometres walk away, but it is 143 metres high. Half way up I stopped off by Deadman’s Pond, which is overlooked by Gibbet Hill, where executed criminals were elevated within view of the denizens of St. John’s to discourage them to follow suit. Today some happy local black ducks bobbed about in the water which was fringed by fluffy white bog cotton.

Across the road I made a detour into the Geo Centre, a vast and spectacular underground museum dedicated to local and world geology, exploration and mining, oil and gas harvesting, and even a room dedicated to the causes of the Titanic disaster which took place a few hundred miles offshore in “iceberg alley”.

A little further up the hill I called into the Signal Hill Interpretation Centre, which described the first Marconi signal from Cornwall to North America at this point, as well as the voyage of John Cabot, and Italian explorer who ventured here from Bristol. I recall, during a visit to that English city, learning about the voyage. There is a tower in Bristol named after him, just as there is Cabot’s Tower on the peak of Signal Hill.

Not being fit, I struggled up the hill, as people sauntered past me. Once up there, the reward was great. I had a terrific view over two icebergs, and south down to Spear Head, where the sun rises first in North America. Many trails lead from Cabot’s Tower around the cliffs. I came upon a beautiful black Newfoundland dog with his owner. Another tourist asked to hold his lead as she was photographed with him, and this is the picture I got taking of the dog. He was a real sweetheart.

Going downhill I detoured through a wonderful nature park by the Geo Centre. Dozens of native wild plants were in blossom, all labelled. Here in St. John’s everything of interest to tourists and locals alike has an information notice. From the park I walked a trail into an upmarket new housing estate, and from her I walked half a kilometre to the most photographed of all Newfoundland fishing villages, Quidi Vidi, still within the environs of St. John’s city. Some beautiful wooden buildings and fisherman’s “rooms” surrounded the narrow hill-clad environs of the village. I went into the Quidi Vidi (pronounced Kiddy Viddy) brewery and purchased some beer, followed up by a visit to the Quidi Vidi Plantation which is an incubation centre for people starting a business in craft production.

On the way back to the hotel I stopped by the Inn of Olde, a very individual pub with an eclectic gathering of items on display. The lady behind the bar had the strongest local accent of any individual I had met. She was looking after the place for the owner, Linda, who was next door in her home doing stuff. She asked me if I was a personal friend of Daniel O’Donnell, who is a regular visitor to Newfoundland, and to this pub. She discussed his wife, Majella’s illness, and his mother’s recent death. She was also familiar with some of the cast of Coronation Street, which is followed by lots of Newfoundlanders. “Oi have to go to Gander next month, which is 4 hours droive, but Oi hate drivin’, what with the mousse on the highway. It’s as cheap to floi to Oirland, that’s whoi de Oirish route will do so well, as well as that, everyone here wants to go to Oireland.

A thoroughly wet day followed, same as the day I arrived. The weather does nothing by halves here. This was a day for the museums. I walked uphill and south to the Basilica Cathedral of St. John the Baptist, which was consecrated in 1855. Construction was supervised by Irish Contractors, under the eye of Irish Archbishop Michael Fleming. Stone from Clonmel was used. A funeral was taking place when I entered through its doors, so it was not appropriate to take a photograph of the interior. It is a fine grey stone building with two towers and a plethora of associated buildings extending from it.

Just across the road loomed the great modern building of The Rooms, a museum, gallery and archive centre whose design is based on the large huts used by Newfoundland fishermen for storing their equipment. It is a wonderful piece of architecture which, along with the basilica, dominates the skyline of St. John’s. Within, I viewed many exhibitions, including artist Pam Hall’s collection of paper houses, collected from many friends throughout the world and displayed in most interesting ways. I learned a great deal about the culture of the various peoples who make up the population of Newfoundland and Labrador, including a large section on the Irish!

I made my way downhill via the fine Anglican Cathedral to Downtown, or as we tend to call it the City Centre. On little George Street, the hub of some infamous wild carry-on at night, I made my way into one of the city’s Irish pubs, Bridie Molloys. This was no shamrock-kitsch version of an Irish pub, but one which you would find at home, without the leprechauns. Irish Stew and Guinness featured on the menu, but I opted for one of the traditional Newfoundland dishes, a Jigg’s Dinner. Not a pretty sight, but very tasty, it consisted of a mash-up of corned beef, turnip, carrot, cabbage, pease pudding, stuffing, and gravy. Washed down with Quidi Vidi beer.

My final call of the day was the Railway Coastal Museum which is at the southern end of the city. My walk took me past the Newman Wine Vaults and O’Mara’s Pharmacy Museum, both of which would not be open until July. The rain, by now, was worse than ever, and I was barely able to take a look at the beautiful historic engine and carriages parked outside the museum. Inside was a lovely model railway, featuring elements of the now defunct railway between St. John’s and Port Aux Basques on the south-west coast of the island of Newfoundland. The museum featured very interesting information about the now defunct railway service and the shipping lines to Nova Scotia on the Canadian mainland.

A long walk through the city brought me back to the hotel. I was far too wet and miserable to launch out for an evening meal, so I settled for a nice bit of Newfoundland cod in the restaurant.

This city is so full of hills, my legs were giving out. I decided to get a taxi to my final specific point of interest, the Fluvarium, and then walk the 3 kilometres downhill back to the hotel. It was a sunny day, ideal for my pursuit. To explain a bit about the Fluvarium; it rhymes with aquarium, one looks through glass at fish, but the glass has a direct view of brown trout and even salmon as they swim through the local river. It is an octagonal building located in Pippy Park, which is St. John’s equivalent of the Phoenix Park in Dublin. The visitor descends a staircase to the area underground where one can inspect all elements of the riverbed as well as the fish. There are plenty of displays on the rivers of St. John’s, particular Rennie’s River which was named after a Scottish Miller who operated a baking mill on it.

Following my visit I began my walk back, starting at the Long Pond where a few people were practising Canadian canoeing. I continued along the Rennie’s River Trail, which a walk akin to the ones alongside the Dodder and Tolka Rivers in Dublin. The Rennie’s River is very rocky in places, and makes for a picturesque river valley through the most upmarket suburbs of St. John’s. Beautiful boardwalks are provided with lovely foot bridges, a gazebo, and picnic tables. Many beautiful houses with verandas peep up beyond the banks, and some have terraces, gardens and steps descending right down to the river itself. I continued my walk through Bannerman Park, where a tiny Miniature Pinscher was frolicking about in the safe enclosure for off-lead dogs.

For evening dinner I came by a plain but good Chinese restaurant, frequented by Chinese people, always a good sign. I chose an absolutely delicious dish of beef sizzled with fresh orange zest, unforgettable. A few men at two tables men were speaking across to one another in Cantonese, and one of turned around and apologised to me, and introduced himself as hailing from Hong Kong, I told him it is very much on my bucket list!

On the day of my departure my flight was leaving at around 11pm, so I had the best part of a day to fit in something. I considered going to the Botanic Gardens, but they are at the southerly end of Pippy Park, and difficult to get back from. Besides, it was a day of mixed weather, with some nasty rain showers on the horizon. I decided to take another boat trip, this time with Dee Jay Charters. The boat was small enough to enter the narrows of Quidi Vidi harbour, so I was able to see this beautiful village from a different perspective which was very worthwhile. The boat passed very close to the two glaciers outside of St. John’s Harbour, and they looked enormous by comparison to what they appeared from shore. The voyage continued to Cape Spear, the easternmost point in the whole of the Americas. It was fun waving up to the folks wandering about the elevated shore and lighthouse. The boat returned to St. John’s close to some picturesque bays with interesting rock formations, and one with a waterfall splashing from cliffs down to a pebble beach. Voyaging through the narrows of St. John’s Harbour was fascinating with views to Signal Hill.

Before departure I had a lovely meal in the Sheraton Hotel -3 minutes up the hill- of salmon with Screech sauce and ice-cream, again with Screech sauce. The flight home took less than four hours, and I was just delighted to arrive in Dublin at the dawn of a new day.

Easter trip to Baltimore, Cape Clear & Sherkin islands

As part of my quest to conquer all of Ireland’s inhabited offshore islands, I made plans to stay in Baltimore, West Cork, during Easter 2014. From there I could visit both Sherkin & Cape Clear Islands during a 3 night stay at the Channel View Bed & Breakfast, just outside of the lovely Baltimore village which is famed for its excellent sailing waters.

I chose to get there and back by public transport, which involved a journey from Dublin to Cork city by rail, an onward bus connection to Skibbereen, and finally a short bus ride to Baltimore. Bus Eireann (Ireland’s public bus company) provides an online Journey Planner, so that I could confirm what times suitable buses would run.

As is my typical experience, rail travel to Cork was very pleasant and relaxing, and it was a short walk across the city to the bus station. The buses to Baltimore were very comfortable and smooth, and I was able to enjoy seeing the beautiful towns and villages through which we passed, especially Clonakilty and Rosscarbery. This would have been denied me had I been driving. The only negative is the price of the bus travel between Cork and Baltimore, which is more expensive than the longer rail journey from Dublin to Cork.

Channel View Bed & Breakfast was merely €40 per night single, which was very reasonable. The view from my room was very beautiful; as the name suggests a view of a channel of the blue estuarine channel of the River Ilen as its sweeps around Ringarogy Island. Host Margaret provided all day tea and coffee in the front room with an everlasting supply of biscuits. It was only a 6 minute walk to Casey’s Hotel, which is famous for its delicious food.

Having journeyed down on a bright and pleasant Good Friday, I awoke on Easter Saturday to sunshine and a full Irish breakfast, after which I walked the 20 minutes down to the ferry for Sherkin Island. A quick 10 minute crossing brought me to the pier on Sherkin Island, where a local lady was bravely swimming in the chilly waters. Just a minute uphill brought me to the almost complete ruins of the Friary. Many years ago I remember landing here in a small yacht whilst on a sailing course with the Glenans sailing school which used to be based in Baltimore. Over 20 years ago I saw Sherkin in the sun, and again today here was the most beautiful bright sunny day. I walked past the community centre and its adjacent portacabin library, the national school and waste recycling centre en route to the delightful beaches of Cow Strand and Silver Strand. Sherkin is a gently hilly island with some excellent grazing land for cattle, together with shady lanes, copses, rocky headlands, sandy coves and land-locked stilly bay, a little bit of everything that are the classic features of south West Cork. I visited the island church, and came across a third sandy cove. Ancient run-down, un-taxed and probably un-insured wrecks of cars passed me occasionally, belching black smoke and making raucous noises from broken exhaust pipes. No police to supervise the motoring activities of the islands!

The previous time I visited Sherkin Island I had lunch in the piratically themed Jolly Roger pub, but this time it was closed, in the process of changing ownership. Instead I enjoyed lunch in the Islanders’ Rest, a hotel with a terrace overlooking Baltimore Harbour which today was the scene of myriad white-sailed laser dinghies. Just below the hotel lies a yacht marina, and nearby is beautiful Horseshoe Bay which is shaped exactly as its name suggests.

Easter Sunday proved even sunnier than Saturday, a lovely day for the 45 minute ferry ride to Cape Clear Island, Ireland’s most southerly piece of land. Passing the Baltimore Beacon, a navigational monument set on top of the headland at the entrance to the harbour, the boat battled more open waters as it sailed by the south coast of Sherkin. I sat out on deck with my face to the sun, surprised to be feeling this warm on the open seas. Just ahead lay the hilly profile of Cape Clear Island, its south shore plunging almost sheer to the sea. The ferry swung around to hug its more gently sloping north shore, with signs of habitation here and there. Some impressive rock formations appeared just before the narrow entrance to the island’s natural harbour, and shortly I was on terra firma. A sign indicated “Gaeltacht” to signify that this is an Irish Gaelic speaking area, though I was to hear not a word of the language spoken during my 3 hours on shore. Children were wading waist deep in the waters by the harbour beach, and I can testify that the cold hurt my bones as I paddled merely ankle deep. The Bird Observatory seemed to be deserted, but the shop-come-pub-come-bistro by the beach was doing a roaring trade with folks enjoying beers and ice-cream at the outdoor tables.

An impossibly steep road climbed the vertical hill to the east, and I had no intention of expending my energies legging up that in spite of the possibilities of getting a good shot. Moreover I was worried about meeting one of the island car wrecks making its way downward with nowhere to step out of the way. Instead I followed the crowd up the more moderate slope to gain views of the South Harbour, an attractive bay which is overlooked by the campsite where Mongolian yurts provide overnight accommodation for some very happy campers. I met these folk in friendly Cotter’s Bar, and they spoke of the heated comfort of their luxurious tents. Cotters was supplying dinner for the island’s tourists that evening and the choice was between 3 types of Thai curry. To quote Basil Fawlty “duck done in 3 completely different ways” and “if you don’t like duck you’re rather stuck”.

Cape Clear had suffered greatly during the immense winter storms, and work was in progress to repair the harbour. The weather was so blissful this day I could not imagine such a thing as a tempest. Returning to Baltimore, the ferry took the route to the north of Sherkin, which made for a very smooth passage and provided further interesting views.

Monday morning was chilly and wet, my day to return home. The Bed & Breakfast owner kindly gave me a lift to the deserted bus stop at Baltimore. I wondered why I was the only one waiting, only to be told by someone “sure no bus comes here on a Sunday or bank Holiday Monday”. I chirped “Bus Eireann’s Journey Planner assured me there was a bus” and the guy just answered in a strong West Cork accent “you poor stupid thing...imagine you believed that” With this horrible new knowledge I hopped up to Bushe’s pub and asked them could they phone a taxi expeditiously as I had a bus to catch in Skibbereen. It took 3 phone calls before they could get me one, and I waited nervously fidgeting with a beer mat. I made it to my Skibbereen connection with minutes to spare and hence reached the homeward bound train on which I was booked.

Kaunas, Lithuania March 2014

I had no intention of adding annual leave onto the St. Patrick’s public holiday weekend, so I wanted somewhere to pop to for two nights. With this in mind, I played around the websites of Aer Lingus and Ryanair to see where I could fly over to on the Saturday and return from on the Monday. My intention was to see somewhere new to me, and Kaunas emerged as the only candidate and the air fare was within reason. I must confess I didn’t know too much about Lithuanias’s second city except that I remember having picked up some brochures at the Holiday World exhibition as well as from a lonely Lithuanian tourist board stand at Farmleigh courtyard. I remember saying to the girl who manned it that I would definitely go there one day, but just as I walked away I confided to the person in my company that Lithuania has the highest murder rate in Europe and I was a tad nervous about the idea of a solo trip there.

Still, without thinking too much, I booked my flight and followed up by checking out Tripadvisor for a suitable hotel. There was a selection to choose from, but the one that stood out for me was the 4 star 48 roomed Daugirdas Hotel, pretty much the only option located in the Old Town. It offered single rooms with breakfast for €50 per night, using the Trivago website. I could have chosen cheaper and equally recommended options in the new town but my heart set on this conversion of an old town house with modern comforts.

Boarding at Dublin Airport, it seemed that I was the only Irish person on the flight, the remaining were part of the huge Lithuanian diaspora who live in Ireland. It happened that the taxi driver bringing me to the airport was Lithuanian, and he told me how much he hates the climate of his home country and that he would never settle back because of the cold. He loves the relative mildness of Ireland and spends his summer holidays back home where his Irish earned money goes a very long way. The flight took exactly 3 hours. All the sleeping babies on board woke up during the turbulent approach to Kaunas in gale force winds, with the mother beside me trying to make a fun game out of the lurches as if it were a fairground ride. All clapped at the perfect touchdown, which was quickly drowned out by Michael O’Leary’s traditional “on-time” bugle.

One of the first things I observed travelling into the city by taxi was the unique sequence of the traffic lights. Red – orange – flashing green – green. The taxi came to a stop on the orange. The countries of old “Eastern Europe” (bear in mind Lithuania is really a central European country) have had a bad traffic accident rate, and I have been terrified travelling by car in Poland, but I felt perfectly at ease in Lithuania. Maybe it’s because I’ve been in the likes of India in the meantime!

The hotel website had advertised the single rooms as being small, so I was pleasantly surprised at how spacious my room was. My high ceilinged first floor room (201) had two side windows overlooking the atrium where the reception is located and a window at the end looking out onto a lane. The bathroom had a heated floor with non-slip tiles that dried out minutes after getting wet. The bed was very comfortable indeed and the very quiet location made for a great night’s sleep. One can drink the tap water without any problem and it is quite palatable, and a separate waste water system is used in this hotel to fill the toilet cisterns, hence the yellow water as if one had failed to flush. Breakfast had the usual cereals, pastries, fruit etc. as well as bacon, eggs, sausage and tomato.

Essentially, I had Sunday to explore Kaunas (pronounced like ice-cream “cone” with “ass” as in donkey tagged on), so I had researched my walking route with reference to places of interest open on Sunday. Naturally I had to exclude quite a number of places located outside the city centre, such as the notable Pazaislis Monastery. I was greeted by snow, and indeed this was followed by hail, strong winds, sunshine, mist, rain, cold and relative warmth, all seasons in a day. First, I strolled through the Old Town, and my route brought me through the old town square where the Old Town Hall is the centrepiece, known locally as the “white swan”. It serves as the marriage registry office. Lithuania is a predominantly Roman Catholic country as people were busy heading to the local church services. As I strolled past the red round turret of Kaunas Castle a local girl walked her Irish Setter on a long lead in the grassy moat. I headed down Vilniaus Street, the main pedestrianised avenue of the old town, and took a look inside the Cathedral with its magnificent statuary and relief work around the altar area. Lots of individualistic buildings in the area commanded attention, including the medieval House of Thunder, named after the pagan god Perkunas. Lithuania was the last country in Europe to have a non-pagan religion. The Old Town has a distinctly village feel with nearly all buildings elevated no more than two stories. Some lovely pubs, cafe-bars and restaurants line the streets, and two historic telephone kiosks stand near the cathedral.

The far end of Vilniaus Street meets the main thoroughfare of the modern city, Laisves Boulevard, which is also a pedestrian only area. Now I could describe Kaunas as a walkers paradise, and indeed it would be except for the fact that a large number of paving slabs are half uprooted by the vicious icy winters, and there are all sorts of holes and pitfalls for the pedestrian to all into or trip over. I had to keep my eyes glued on the pavement, which to some extent spoilt my enjoyment of the beautiful street scenes. There is a fair bit of graffiti, yet the streets are immaculately litter-free thanks to both the inclination of locals to use litter and recycling bins, and street cleaners vigorously in pursuit of the slightest slip of paper being blown about in the high winds.

Being Sunday, this meant that a lot of places of interest would be closed, yet I was surprised and delighted to find a lively Sunday market adorning the long length of Laisves Boulevard. Splendid wicker furniture was the product of a few stands, some of it adult sized, some fashioned especially for children. Woodwork featured at many stalls, with bird houses appearing to be a national obsession with miniature ones for dolls’ houses, as well as cheese boards, spoons, and even elaborate children’s swings which were there for the testing. Many other crafts were represented, including elaborations on the dried flowers theme, pottery, national motifs, and a host of products produced with the aid of bees. Bee-keeping is a venerable ancient tradition of Lithuania, and of course honey, cosmetics, mead and beeswax candles featured large in the market. Food products were omnipresent, with an abundance of charcuterie, cuts of dark rye bread, smoked fish from Palanga, sausages, stews, Cornish-pasty like pies, stuffed cabbage leaves and all sorts of heavenly aromatic savoury delights cooking over charcoals. Stall-holders did all they could to stop the high winds from blowing over their canopies, but everyone, including passers-by stepped in to help. Many stands served delightful beer, including hot heated brews to warm the cockles. It reminded me of a German Christmas market, with benches and tables to sit at whilst consuming the consumables. I enjoyed a lovely simple potato delight, a potato cut into a thin spiral and deep fried as one potato crisp.

Children delighted at the candy-floss stands, and enjoyed petting the impeccably behaved and manicured Shetland pony which was available for rides. I passed a fashion shop with had in its window display a toy “stuffed” Lithuanian Hound which resembles a hound crossed with a Doberman Pinscher. I didn’t see a real life native breed, but there were pugs, poodles, Siberian Huskies, Yorkshire Terriers and a West Highland terrier in show trim, which rendered him rather vulnerable to the cold. I saw an enormous advert for cat food, but I reckon all the cats must have been warming themselves indoors.

Diverting off the principal streets I took one of the city’s two short funicular railways up to the Christ’s Resurrection Church which was founded in 1918 as a thanks to God for the independence of Lithuania in the city which was the then capital. A stark white building, not quite my cup of tea, yet it is beloved of the citizens.

From the sacred to the demonic, I paid a visit to the Devils Museum, the only such one in the world. A large collection of devil figurines and masks from Lithuania and much further afield, it was initiated by the landscape artist Žmuidzinavičius. Part of the museum is the house where he lived and on display are his pastoral scenes and his studio. I love his impressionistic style and I found it interesting that he depicted scenes of women with enormous hands working on the land with men portrayed in a rather servile role.

Returning to the Old Town I called into the modestly sized Presidential Palace which houses part of the city’s Curlionis Art Collection, and is also a museum of how a well-to-do family typically lived in pre Soviet Lithuania. The building is still used for civic receptions.

At dinner time I tried out my hotel’s cellar restaurant. I chose the salmon poached in veal stock, served with a caramel and orange reduction, accompanied by boiled potato rectangles and courgette spaghetti. It came presented as a work of art on a rectangular plate. Wine was out of range of my pocket, and without the option of a single glass or half bottle, so I chose to have a sensibly priced glass of Martini. My desert was delightful and quite unique; a chocolate fondant deep fried in a chocolate drop scone mixture and served with drops of raspberry coulis and a sprig of mint. It came in three teardrop shaped pieces with long crispy tails, the most mouth watering sweet I have ever had the pleasure to consume.

My flight home from Kaunas arrived in Dublin fifteen minutes early, and I was gobsmacked at the flight crew’s failure to blow the “on time” Ryanair bugle, having braced my ears for its reverberation. A sacking offence, I guess, in Michael O’Leary’s books.