We were supposed to go to Murano in August.  At the airport, I’d chosen my holiday reading – Marina Fiorato’s The Glassblower of Murano - specifically because of our own proposed trip to that very glassblowing island.  What I hadn’t counted on was the Italian heat at that time of year, and the fact that, in such a heat, glassblowing becomes a severely unpleasant activity.  Thus, in August, the glassblowers go on holiday and the workshops revert to being glass stores, trading on pieces blown in the months before.

So we picked up some rolls and cold meat and Italian biscuits, and travelled out to Burano instead.  It was still early, giving us plenty of time to get to the island which is located 14km and a 40 minute vaporetto ride from Venice.

While Murano is famous for its glass, it’s rhyming neighbour is known for its intricate lacework.  And there’s certainly plenty of stores along the main street of the island selling samples.  From bibs to bookmarks, table linen to tops – if it’s made in lace, it’s probably also made in Burano.

Aside from the lace, what stood out for me in Burano, was the lack of crowds.  Having just left the people filled alleys of Venice, it was lovely to walk down a side street in Burano, in between the multi-coloured houses, and be the only ones there.

Perhaps, next time I’m in Italy, I should look out for a book set in Burano.  Or perhaps, I should just move there and write one.

Tash

The Vatican City is an independent city-state located in the centre of Rome, with its own government (headed by the Pope), administration, postage stamps, guards and iron-on patches.  It’s also the home of St Peter’s Basillica, the Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel.

Matt and I originally visited the Vatican City (and purchased the iron-on patches) on our honeymoon in 2006.  In August this year, I returned with my family – and saw all the highlights at a much quicker pace.  I’d learnt my lesson from last time.  While, in other parts of the world, it pays to get to tourist attractions early, in the Vatican City, getting there early still means waiting in a three hour long queue.

This time, we arrived at the Vatican Museums about an hour before closing, and within fifteen minutes we were in.  Admittedly, this didn’t leave us much time to see the art – but I’d seen it before, and I just wanted to show my brother the Raphael Rooms and the Sistine Chapel.

We weren’t so lucky with the queue to visit the dome of St Peter’s.  We couldn’t find it at first, and when we did, it was long.  So we waited, and waited, as people were taken upwards elevator-load by elevator-load.  Finally it was our turn, and we squeezed into the lift, and followed the crowds, and suddenly we were inside the dome and it was amazing.  We could see the individual mosaic bits up there and the floor looked a long way down.

And then we noticed that the people in front of us were not moving.  And neither were the people in front of them.  And the floor was a long way down, and I started noticing that bits of mosaic were loose, and other bits had fallen away.  And I didn’t have my phone.  15 minutes passed.  We were still in the dome.  Suddenly from behind us, there was one of the St Peter’s officials, saying ‘Scusi! Scusi!’ and pushing his way through the crowds.  About five minutes later, the line started moving again.

It’s interesting, thinking back, I can only remember vaguely the art of St Peters, the Pieta, the statue with the rubbed away feet.  But I can remember intensely the fear that were were stuck in the Dome and the distance to the floor and wishing Matt was with me and wondering what would happen next.

Tash

After travelling around Europe, and seeing castles such as Neuschwanstein and Hohenschwangau, I have to admit we weren’t initally that impressed with Buckingham Palace.  Where were the turrets?  Where was the moat?  Buckingham Palace just seemed a grand house, fronted by guards, a gate and a constant stream of tourists.

Still, with the parents visiting, I decided to take advantage of a day’s leave and the Summer Opening of the State Rooms of the palace.  Of course, London attracts tourists all year around and every day of the week, so we were still greeted with long queues (which we couldn’t even join until the time printed on our tickets).

Once inside, we picked up audio guides, which led us through the nineteen State Rooms that were open to the public.  Buckingham Palace is far more palace-y on the inside, with all the expected impressive artworks and beautiful furniture.  Some of my highlights were seeing the pink ‘his and hers’ chairs in the throne room, the long hall of the picture gallery with its glass roof, and the state dining room, laid out as it would be for an official dinner.

I was also suprised by the vast gardens that exist behind the palace.  Having only seen the palace from the front, I had no idea that such an immense green space existed within the walls.  It was very difficult to be a good subject and stick to the path when faced with the beautiful lake and the wilds beyond which would’ve been lovely to explore.

Tash

Jess’ recent Italian entries have inspired me to return to blogging about our own summer adventure.  Today, in the darkness of a London afternoon, my thoughts turn to Rome and to our ‘hostel’ there, Campanella3.

Matt and I had stayed in a hostel in Rome before, during our honeymoon in 2006.  While that was a memorable experience, it was all for the wrong reasons.  Crowded dorms, people sleeping in the reception, only two bathrooms, snorers, no sleep, no security and so on.  So, when it came to picking a hostel for the return visit, I decided to spend a little more time on HostelWorld, researching our options.

But even it’s great online reviews couldn’t prepare me for the fabulousness that was Campanella3. It’s not near the main train station and wasn’t quite on the Central Rome map we’d photocopied.  So, once we got out of Ottaviano train station, we did end up wandering back and forth along Viale Giulio Cesare for what felt like half an hour before we found the turn off.

It was worth it though.  This was no hostel room, it was an apartment.  There was our bedroom with four beds, a television, plenty of cupboards; a double room next to us; a beautifully decorated bathroom; and best of all, a fully stocked kitchen.  Pots, pans, knives, forks, an espresso machine and directions to the supermarket – everything we needed to cook our own Italian meals.

Even better was the ‘breakfast’ that the owners provided for us.  Again, Campanella3 earns a set of inverted commas for exceeding our expectations.  Usually the second B in an Italian B&B is a croissant and a cappuccino.  Here, we were given baskets that were overflowing with croissants, muffins, pastries, juices, chocolate bars and much more.  And, when we decided to take some of the extras for lunch, we were embarrassed to find that they were restocked for breakfast the next day.

And, once we got used to the winding roads, we found that we were only 10 minutes from the Vatican, home of Renaissance artwork, guards in strange uniform, and a famous dome which we got to know a little too intimately.  But that’s a story for another day.  Maybe tomorrow.

Tash

November 11 is Remembrance Day here in the UK: a time of red poppies on lapels and remembering those who have died serving their countries. It thus seems appropriate for today’s entry to be about the New Zealand War Memorial, which was dedicated on November 11 2006 and stands in Hyde Park Corner here in London.

From a distance, the memorial looks like 16 large metal poles, rising from a grassy hill. But as you get closer, you notice the angled crosses on the top of each one. And as you get closer still, you notice that each of the poles are quite different: some with embossed Maori carvings, others decorated with ferns and fauna.

And, with the accents of other New Zealand visitors around and London traffic in the background, it was a good place to stop awhile and think about other New Zealanders who travelled before us. And those who didn’t come home. And to remember them.

Tash

I don’t know where to start writing about Italy.  I’ll probably end up doing a few entries over the next couple of weeks; I probably won’t do them in any sort of order.  It was my second trip to the country.  I was spending pounds and not New Zealand dollars, which was why on one morning in Rome, I ended up at the Ara Pacis Augustae.

This time round, €10 didn’t seem too much to pay for an audio-guide and entry to the glass museum near the banks of the Tiber River (€10? That’s only three and a half single scoop gelati for example).  It didn’t seem too much to get away from the crowds and the heat of the morning, into the quiet and cool of inner sanctuary.  To be able to take photos of the reliefs on the outside of the altar, to walk into it, to touch the stones which were first carved in memory of Augustus’ achievements in the years BC.

On the short sides of the altar, there are reliefs showing a procession of priests and members of Augustus’ family.  I stood for a while, even after the audio-guide had stopped explaining who they were – and thought about how their likenesses had stayed in stone for so many years.

I studied the Ara Pacis at high school.  I studied Latin.  I studied classics.  The Ara Pacis was there in my text books, maybe even my exams.  But it wasn’t real until almost 10 years later, when I stood there and touched the stones.

This morning, my parents are on a flight back to New Zealand, and I wish I could be everywhere in the world all at once.

Tash (naTacitus)

After having a Cornish Pasty in Cornwall, the next logical step was to have a Devonshire Cream Tea in Devon.

The only thing standing in our way was time. We’d already driven all the way from St Ives, I needed to be at Exeter Central train station by 4pm, and we still had all of the Dartmoor National Park to cross.

We stopped at Tavistock for some local advice on which roads a caravan shouldn’t attempt (having learnt through recent experience not just to rely on our TomTom). There wasn’t time for a cream tea there. In fact, it was the tourist information officer himself telling us to hurry or we wouldn’t make the train.

So we drove on through Dartmoor National Park. It’s a rather bleak place, kind of like Desert Road in New Zealand, but without the mountains. Just openness and scrub, and sheep with spray-painted markings who sometimes choose to lie in the middle of the road.

In Princetown, there was a prison but no obvious sign of cream teas on the the road through town. In Postbridge, we stopped and parked, but we could only find a place which sold ‘takeaway cream teas’, which we thought might detract from the experience somewhat.

We continued driving, and as we did, I saw a small sign advertising a castle where you could have cream tea on the ’south-facing terrace’. Of course, by the time I told Dad, we’d already driven past. So he pulled into a small lane, turned around, and back we went. The path to the castle was through a golf course. Through stone gates, and we arrived at a large manor house. The carpark obviously wasn’t intended for caravans, and we were all feeling a bit scruffy after two days of travel – so it was back through the golf course, and back on the road.

We finally found our cream teas in the little village of Moretonhampstead. The epic struggle over many miles faded from our memories as we were presented with individual pots of tea, strawberry and raspberry jam and clotted cream. Yum.

Tash

As I was heading to St Ives, I was trying to remember that nursery rhyme I learnt at primary school: something about a man and his wives and cats and sacks and kits. And I was wondering if the St Ives that I was heading to was the St Ives from the nursery rhyme because when I had typed the destination into our hired TomTom, it gave me a whole list of St Ives’, spread around the country.

As I was heading to St Ives, I discovered that it’s not such a great place to take a campervan. Especially if you haven’t booked a campsite in advance. And particularly if you are following the directions of the TomTom, down some very narrow English lanes with stone walls on either side.

We stayed overnight at Balnoon Camping Site, at took advantage of the 20p per four minute showers. In the morning, we relocated to the car pack above the village, and walked down towards the sea. We didn’t see the Tate St Ives. We didn’t hire a boat or take a trip to view the seals. But we did watch bakers make Cornish Pasties in a window of Cornish town.

We walked along the narrow streets, and took photos of the hanging baskets and heard the seagulls. When around just one more bay, and then just one more. Mum checked the water temperature. Unusually for the British beaches I’ve seen so far, there was sand and people with body boards.

As I was leaving St Ives, I saw a postcard which had the nursery rhyme on it along with a signpost showing St Ives and Lands End. And I thought I had been to the famous St Ives, and the thought sustained me as we walked back up the hill. But then, tonight, I’ve Googled “as I was going to Saint Ives”, and it seems that several towns claim it. Wikipedia, source of all knowledge says: “There are a number of places called St Ives in England and elsewhere.”

So really, I’m none the wiser.

I’ve been to St Ives though – or at least, one of them.

Tash

My parents last visited the UK in the 1970s. They lived here for a year, got married, travelled around the country in a campervan. I grew up with their stories. And now, 32 years later, they’re back. The Tower of London is still where they left it, so’s St Paul’s. Mum could still drink in the pub where she once worked. We could still travel south to the fishing village of Clovelly in Devon, one of their must-visits from the past.

Only these days, it costs £5.50 to get in.

Don’t let that put you off though. Once you get past the car park and ticket office, the huge giftshop with endless boxes of fudge and pictures of soccer stars, once you get past the huge glass windows and the audio visual presentation, the actual village of Clovelly manages to retain a certain historic charm.

There are no cars in Clovelly. The steep, narrow stone streets are prohibitive of that. Instead, deliveries are made on wooden sleds that are dragged across the stones. This definitely isn’t a place for high heels – even in sneakers, my toes were squashed against the front of my shoes as we descended towards the harbour. We bought postcards from the village post office – once that may soon become a casualty of the government’s closures.

We visited the Methodist Chapel and the Chapel of St. Peters, and a fisherman’s cottage which was set up with it’s 1930s furnishing. I read about the village fisherman lost at sea, the ones who Charles Kingsley wrote about in his poem, The Three Fishers, then walked down to the sea myself, across the quay, across the pebbles. There was a sign there which said NO STONE THROWING.

Clovelly’s been a bit of a tourist town for over a century. The narrow streets and the sea will guarantee that. We left at 10 on a rainy morning, and even then, it was starting to fill up. I guess, in the scheme of things, those £5.50s make sense. If they weren’t charged up front, I’m sure the actual village would be a lot more commercialised. Though I’m still not sure they need the sport star portraits in the gift shop.

Tash