Leaving

30 May 2022

I awoke lateish (for me) and said farewell to Tom, who had to go to work in the city. 

More writing. 

Paula and Max seeing us off

Paula and Max took the boys on a quick excursion. Harry wanted to go to Harrods (in the mistaken belief that it was a toy shop). He had meant Hamley’s, to which Paula duly took him. They returned with more loot and we sat in the gathering long pre-flight limbo, waiting for the lift that would take us to Heathrow.

The cab arrived and we said our final set of farewells, to the boys’ cousin Max and his mother Paula, who is the hidden hero of this whole saga. Without her support and hospitality, the trip would not have gotten off the ground. So, a million thanks to you Paula.

Hoping for a smooth trip through baggage, customs, duty free etc., we arrived at Heathrow. Well, that did not quite happen. After queueing for about 40 minutes, we came to the head of the queue only to be told that we hadn’t downloaded and registered a particular Australian government app (my bad) and we had to do that and go back to the start of the queue. After filling in the forms we snuck back into line (well done Dan) and got through. (It turns out we didn’t need the app to get into Australia after all.) So let’s go to the bar after some duty free shopping? Not with that queue.

No more smiles to give?

It soon became clear that we were crotchety. Maybe there’s an inevitable moment in any group trip where everybody gets the shits with each other. Well, I think we’d reached that point. I don’t think it was personal; it was more structurally inevitable. After the interminable waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting, we finally boarded our A380 to take us to Dubai. A seven hour flight. It should be easy, right?

Dubai

Wrong. Squeezed together, our manspreading legs constantly bumping each other’s, unable to stretch, my knees were screaming in pain the whole trip. Landing in Dubai was such a relief. A three hour layover we could freshen up, get coffee and stretch.

Panic stations. 

Harry asked me for his boarding pass which he swore he had given to me. I swore he hadn’t. He couldn’t find it in his possessions. I couldn’t find it in mine. What to do? After more crotchety to and fro I had one more look in the bag that contained the duty-free I had bought. Oops (my bad again). There it was.

knackered but on the last leg.
Harry is sleeping btw

To get to our terminal, we needed to take the internal airport train, which took about 10 minutes. How big is this place? Upon boarding the next A380, we realised it was half empty so we could spread out to different seats, which was a big relief to all of us. 

The rest of the flight was pretty uneventful and we landed at 5:30 am on Wednesday 1 June. We got through customs fairly smoothly, the boys had to face the sniffer dogs whereas I just wandered through seemingly being adjudged as the non-threatening silly old man that I have become.

I was greeted by Eris, the boys’ mother and we waited 5 minutes for them to come through. I gave them each a hug and she whisked them away. And that was that.

Now where was I?

VAR what is it good for?

29 May 2022

I spent the morning writing while the boys did their own thing, off shopping at various markets. Harry splashed $280 on a beautiful looking pair of Doc Martens. 

The only outside activity planned for the day was watching the Championship play off at the pub. Despite the hateful VAR being in use, Huddersfield were denied two stonewall penalties by the nincompoop ref and Forest went up (which I had wanted at the start of the game, but not like this). 

As well as a few pints I managed to snaffle a scotch egg which, as I didn’t admit to the sceptical boys, was pretty mediocre.

Pauls snapped this shot, which seemed to capture something: 3 wiser and wearier men?

Anway. Bed time

Waterloo

28 May 2022

It was strange watching the A League grand final on a sunny (yes) London morning. The game was ok, but I had to laugh that a team with no ground, no fans and no raison d’etre won the competition. 

My old friend Ben Goldsmith had driven up from Bournemouth to see us and after the game the boys, Ben and I went to Waterloo to do some sightseeing and shopping. Ben, it has to be stated, is the worst tour guide ever – though perhaps there was some deliberate irony in patter like: “That’s the way to the station; and that [pointing 180 degrees the other way] is away from the station.” But it was lovely to reminisce with him; he remembers such a lot (maybe too much) from our times together in Australia.

The fab four, dressed for an Abbey Road we never saw

Unfortunately, I was in so much pain from my walking (100,000 steps/66km in ten days had wrecked me) that we had to cut our little excursion short. After a nice pasta meal and a half-pint (wtf) each we returned to Clapham. My role as an anchor/brake for the boys was becoming clearer. Indeed, I was physically and therefore emotionally finished with this trip. 

We said goodbye to Ben who drove off in his gorgeous British Racing Green MG and resolved it was time to write up my blog, read and watch television. 

Indeed, we later watched the farce of the Champion’s League Final, policed by idiots and won, if not by anti-football, then by anodyne football at best.

Bed time.

London Calling

27 May 2022

Time for tearful farewells. In retrospect we might have stayed in Easington a day longer but London called. Uncle Harry was very sad and I must admit to feeling similarly. We don’t know if and when we’ll meet again but let’s hope there’s another opportunity. I expect we will though because I'm keen to revisit the Stadium of Light for a game sooner rather than later.

So we headed to ‘The South’ through the shifting accents, stopping at Barnsley (or summat like that) Services. After some consternation from me about avoiding the congestion charge, we hit London. Hit’s probably not the right word; more crawled into London. The final 10 miles to Clapham took about 80 minutes. If I wasn’t already convinced, I was now sure that, despite its many glories, I would never live in this city. We got to Clapham just after five and Dan regretfully took our trusty black steed back to Kennington.

The pub called and after several pints in the evening light bantering about the upcoming jubbly with Paula, Tom and Max, we headed home and hit the hay.

Surely to the Sea(Ham)

26 May 2022

This one was always going to be the hardest. 

We got up in our usual order: me first, Dan not long after, and Harry eventually. We didn’t have all that much planned. First we would go to Wheatley Hill for family reasons and then to Durham City to see the Castle and Cathedral. To round out the day we would go out for a meal with all the family.

We had breakfast and spent a bit of time with Uncle Harry and Eileen, next door. Uncle Harry gave us the most complicated directions for finding parking in Durham and I think I could see Dan’s eyes glazing over while his mind was thinking “Satnav’s got this!”

Our first stop was Wheatley Hill, the pit village I was born in and where my paternal grandparents, along with a number of other relatives, are buried. As someone who is not religious, this was about as close to a spiritual experience as I get (though had the SoL been open yesterday? …). I’m really not sure how the boys experienced this. They were respectful of my desires to see the graves but I’m not sure how they felt about it. Strangely, I didn’t ask them. Another strange thing was that I stopped taking photographs after I took this one of my grandparents grave, for which, sadly, I was unable to find flowers. As Dan said later, quite profoundly, I was in the moment and not observing the moment, so my phone stayed in my pocket even as we came across some fairly significant and interesting people and things. 

For example, the accompanying photo of Roy Lonsdale's sculpture, 'The Last Shift', was taken by Dan, who seemed at some deeper level to understand its significance.

Roy Lonsdale, 'The Last Shift'

The statue commemorates the closing of Wheatley Hill pit in 1969. It also symbolises the main reason I became Australian. In 1969 my parents decided to emigrate to Australia, recognising that my father having had a ‘limited occupational experience’ would find trouble obtaining work and a new career into the 70s in the post-mining North. Australia represented a land of opportunity (excuse the cliché) and I, at least, have few regrets.

When we arrived at the Wheatley Hill Cemetery we had little idea where the graves were. I phoned dad's cousin Robert to enquire and he said he’d pop down with his wife Irene to direct us. It was great that the boys got to meet another member of the extended family. I remembered Robert from my previous trip 25 years before and to be honest it felt like he hadn’t changed all that much. Now in his 70s he still looks fit as a fiddle, which is just as well for the racing pigeons that he inherited from his father and still maintains.

Irene suggested we go into the Wheatley Hill historical society, located perhaps appropriately in the cemetery, and we saw an excellent collection of photographs, documents and artifacts from the village’s history. Here I came across another example of a contradiction I’d noticed at the heart of English working class culture—an adulation of royalty, especially the Queen, while also respecting opposition to the status quo via such institutions as unions and the Labour Party. It’s a little like some of the Sunderland fans happy to sing, “F*** the tories” and “Keep the red flag flying” who then go on to belt out the national anthem at Wembley. But maybe that’s just my problem.

I asked Robert if he would take us up to look at the pigeons. He happily agreed. The boys seemed a bit confused by this moment. Why would I want to do this? I suspect they do not admire the art and culture of pigeon racing in a way that I do (where’s Bill Lawry when you need him?). There’s probably a degree of cruelty and control to the sport that I forgive while younger people just don’t get it. Forty years ago someone like Robert would have also taken us to see his racing dogs. I can’t imagine Harry or Dan having much truck with that. Anyway, I didn’t take a photo of the birds either, which I also regret.

Irene invited his back to their place for a cup of tea and a chat out of the cold and rain. We met their wonderful little dogs who kept us all entertained for an hour or so. Robert dragged out a couple of his old Sunderland tops for us to look at. One was from 1973. Robert insisted we take them but we but we declined. It was a strange moment because we felt that we probably had enough Sunderland tops already; but later I felt some regret about refusing his generosity. Anyway, not much to be done about that now.

My original plan had been to visit the house in which I was born, but by this stage I had been so convinced of the extent of the decline of the village that I felt seeing it would depress me. Probably silly but that’s how I felt. So we said goodbye to Robert and Irene and the dogs and made our way to Durham city.

  

 
Durham city is like Harry Potterland. It even has its own Diagon Alley. We found a car park not far from the city and walked over the river and towards the Cathedral. The pictures tell the story. I was taken aback by the Cathedral shop: a mix of religious iconography, local history, coal mining stories and Harry Potterness. It’s a beautiful Mediaeval (or even earlier) city but it seems to be being swamped by the inevitable franchise café/restaurants/shops that are the advance guard of commodification.

Clearly copied from the Quadrangle at Melbourne University

Lunch, cake, coffee. Then back to Easington.

We wanted to take Mark's family out to a nice restaurant to thank them for their generosity and love but also to celebrate our trip. After some argument, Eileen point blank refused to go to a Greek restaurant called Spread From the Med because it was located in an industrial zone in Peterlee—I agreed with her but more on cultural-linguistic grounds. In the end, we decided to go an Indian restaurant in Seaham. This was a good choice. The food was delicious and we had a terrific time.

Seaham Harbour

The Durham Coast is a beautiful region. I commented on Twitter that all it really needed was sand and climate a little like Brisbane’s in order to become a resort Paradise. As it stands, however, it’s too bloody cold even in summer and you’ll hurt your feet on the rocks on the beach. Seaham is particularly beautiful. It has a harbour, the wall of which is assailed by waves coming from the north in the winter storms. I’d love to see that. On the seafront, near the restaurant, is another statue, ‘Tommy’, also by Roy Lonsdale. As the title suggests it represents a British soldier. Now I’m not an admirer of military symbolism. And I especially don’t appreciate the glorification of war. However, this statue's impact is the entire opposite of that. It’s poignant, beautiful, and it captures the expression of multiple emotions: grief, sadness, regret, weariness but also dignity in those emotions. I loved it. If only all military iconography could capture such a diversity of sentiment.

We headed back to Easington sated and tired. Our trip was coming to an end and the adrenalin on which I had lived for 10 days was just about used up. Three more nights and we were off back to Melbourne.

Into the Light, Nearly

25 May 2022

Dan had a bit of study to do in the morning, so Harry and I went for a wander around Glesca. Being an incompetent packer, I had left myself three T-shirts short so I needed to find a Primark and buy a few £2 T-shirts. That was easy enough. On the way back we passed a Sports Direct and went in for a look around. At the entry a whole swathe of Rangers shirts and jackets confronted us with no sign of any Celtic gear to balance them. What was this: sectarian bias? I was actually looking for a retro Scotland top and we needed to go to the fourth floor to find it. Near the Scotland tops some Celtic shirts were hiding, segregated far away from the Rangers goods no doubt. Depressingly, the store contained more Liverpool gear than was necessary, at least in my mind. 

I bought myself a nice 90s Scotland top and we went to find some breakfast. I must admit to having a bit of a bee in my bonnet about this Sports Direct business. It’s not really a sports store. It’s a clothing store; perhaps even a fashion Store. This observation was to become even more pointed when we got to Sunderland later in the day.

Harry and I bought bacon sandwiches for breakfast and we found a yoghurt and muesli for Dan, having given up trying to fill his request for a fruit salad. At least the long black coffee shop was open.

A Cumbria landscape

We packed and got into the Merc at about 10 o’clock and set the controls for the Stadium of Light (SoL) via Carlisle. It is truly beautiful countryside. Travelling across Cumbria towards Sunderland was like moving through a mix of a Constable painting and a set for the TV show, Vera. As I was moving closer to my birthplace the emotions were kicking in, not intensely but enough to make me quietly thoughtful. Eventually we came to Sunderland and the SoL came into view. Our plan was to go to the club shop and buy a few items, most notably that Bailey Wright shirt Harry had been seeking. But we also had a bit of cash to splash on memorabilia for ourselves and people in Australia.

SoL's deserted carpark

We parked in a strangely deserted car park. A bit of activity was occurring in relation to setting up for some concerts that were to happen over the next couple of weeks. Ed Sheeran [is a w*****?] and someone else. Unfortunately and disappointingly the shop was closed, until June 10! Moreover, there was no chance of a stadium tour. Bitterly disappointing. We’d come all this way, had a great victory at Wembley only four days before, and probably naïvely expected a hive of activity at the club capitalising economically on the joy of victory and promotion. But no. All we could do was circumnavigate the ground and take a load of pictures, go back to the car and find a bloody Sports Direct. In the end we couldn’t get parked in Sunderland city centre so we gave up and headed down to Easington where we were going to be staying in my cousin Mark’s house.  As it turns out, there would have been no point going to Sports Direct in Sunderland because they don’t sell Sunderland tops. SERIOUSLY. No doubt they have hundreds of Liverpool tops and dozens of mag rags.

Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t expect rose petals to be strewn in our path or anything like that - though it would have been nice had the security guard inside the office not deliberately avoided eye contact and pretended we weren't there. But why does the club make it so hard to purchase replica tops and other memorabilia? I’ve heard tell that they won’t even post material to Australia. So we’ll have to test the truth of that report in due course.

From Mark's house in Easington, looking south east to Hartlepool

The ten mile trip to Easington took no time and soon enough we were reunited with Mark and his boys, Liam and Ben. Dan and Harry got to meet my Uncle Harry and Auntie Eileen, who prepared for us the first home cooked meal we’d had in a week. It was marvellous. We relaxed, chatted and reminisced over a few beers and wines and went to bed early.

I was back in the county of my birth. Tomorrow we would visit my birthplace and my grandparents’ grave, as well as my dad’s cousin Robert and his beautiful champion racing pigeons.

Looking back over this post, I detect a different tone. More serious, less playful, spotted with complaints and with somewhat less positivity than previous posts.

Maybe that’s what overthinking does. I'll snap out of it.

Football, Whisky and Deep Fried Mars Bars

24 May 2022

Strangely enough, Glasgow was the first place in Britain we found a decent coffee. Something to celebrate. It seems they were across the idea of a long black so we didn’t have to have one of those ridiculous Americanos or muck around adding water to an espresso. However, the bacon and egg rolls, containing bacon ✅ and scrambled eggs ❌ were disappointing. I guess we can’t have everything. 

My boys, let’s face it, are decent people. And they were keen for me (and them) to go to see one of the distilleries at which scotch whisky is made. Dan booked tickets to a tour of the Glengoyne distillery on the southern edge of the highlands. But more of this later.

Hampden Park

Having been to the ‘spiritual home’ of English football, Wembley, it was only right, given that we were in Glasgow, that we should first go to the spiritual home of Scottish football, Hampden Park. We booked a tour for 11 am. Arriving a little early, we got to take in the grandeur of the place from the outside. The tour began dead on time and our guide was an affable gentleman named Blair, a Queen's Park supporter. It was only after the tour finished that I realised that we had hardly covered any physical ground. We were taken to both dressing rooms (Celtic and Rangers) and to the liminal space between and then out onto the ground. I should say the edge of the ground because we weren’t allowed on the actual turf. We were given some fascinating history of the ground and told about its special and weird moments. If you get to Glasgow, it’s well worth doing.

Above: The boys got to show off their kicking skills with a contraption that measures the speed (MPH) at which the ball left their feet. I've managed to lose the video of my attempt.

Robert Harvey and the boys at Hampden Two,
Cathkin Park. Note the terracing and crush bars

The site of Hampden One. 
"The spiritual home of world football" (Ged O'Brien)

But the real treat came at the end of the tour. Robert Harvey, an associate of the tour guide, realised that I had a deep interest in football history and asked me if I wanted him to take us all to the older Hampden grounds. I couldn’t believe the offer and of course I said yes. The old Hampden grounds are not that far away but they are hidden in both geographical and archaeological senses. Hampden One was situated on the site of the present-day Hampden Bowling Green. Archaeological work has revealed that the ground was situated at an angle to the Bowling Green and has been almost completely obliterated. Robert then took us to the second Hampden, Cathkin Park, a ground that was used by Third Lanark after Queen’s Park moved to the present Hampden  and is still used by the Jimmy Johnstone Academy. Once holding up to 50,000 spectators it is now a shadow. The terraces and crash barriers remain in parts of the ground though they are covered with trees, undergrowth and weeds.

It's a pity we didn't have time to visit Lesser Hampden, built on the old Clincart Farm adjacent to Hampden Three where recently, the original farmhouse-cum-pavilion was demolished -- a shame for all of those who care about football history (see Ged O'Brien's comments on the matter). Robert returned us to the Merc and after my effusive expressions of gratitude for his brilliant generosity it was time to learn how whisky was made.

AU$2 million worth of whisky
in these barrels

The narrowing roads and the stone fences told us that we were in a different, older part of the world. We arrived at Glengoyne distillery a little ahead of time and so took the opportunity  to look around informally. I did a cheeky price check comparing the distillery prices to the Dan Murphy prices in Australia and I was disappointed to see that there was no saving to be made buying whisky on site. Nonetheless we enjoyed the tour. And we learnt some interesting facts about the process of whisky making. For example, the ingredients of whisky are pretty simple: water, barley, yeast, admittedly of the highest quality. The technicalities of the making were also interesting but I am unable to convey them well here. We were taken to a storeroom where the barrels were kept and we were shown four barrels of 50-year-old whisky. After some quick maths I worked out at the contents of those four barrels were worth about AU$1 million.

In the end we did a tasting and were given some useful drinking information. First rule: never put ice into single Malt whisky. Second rule: if you want water only use a smidgen. So I’ve been right all along.

The boys were keen to see some of the lochs after the distillery. Dan set a course for Loch Lomond which wasn’t all that far away. We parked the car and wandered down to the water for a few photos. Looking the other way was a fairly high mountain/hill and I wonder if that was Ben Lomond. Anyway, I took some photos and here they are.

Balloch's finest

But the true holy grail of our journey was not far away. Driving alongside Loch Lomond we came to the small town of Balloch and we noticed a fish and chip shop. Might we find there an example of the mysterious deep fried Mars bar? We went inside and indeed we did. Each of us ordered a deep fried Mars bar lathered with raspberry sauce. That’s one thing we don’t ever have to do again. The women serving is recognised that we were Australians and had a laugh about that. I wonder if Australians seeking deep fried Mars bars is something of a repeated occurrence for them.

Back to Glasgow, where we had organised to meet up with an Australian, Dwayne Mulroy in a pub about 2 miles from where we were staying. In order to reinforce my silly-old-man status I organised an Uber but accidentally sent us on the way to Celtic Park. Once we realised that we were going the wrong way we pulled up and got out of the Uber and had to wait for another one. The boys were in hysterics and I was just about losing my temper. I calmed down and we got in the next Uber that took us to meet Dwayne.

Dwayne’s a Melbourne victory supporter who works for a Scottish Premier League club. We had an awesome night with him and, much to my pleasure, my sons really enjoyed his company. Dwayne was full of interesting facts and analysis. One of his beliefs is that Scottish football (if not football in general) would benefit from a salary cap. The Rangers/Celtic oligarchy will not wither without it. At least that’s my gloss on Dwayne’s position.

He very generously gave me a copy of Jeff Webb’s Scotland's lost clubs as a parting gift. I really hope our paths cross again.

By the time we left the pub, hunger pains had re-emerged and when the cab dropped us off we found a late night kebab-ish shop. As if to outdo the health benefits received from the deep fried Mars bars, we ordered a bunch of deep fried things served in a pizza box. We ate with a relish we will be paying for for a good while yet.

We got to bed. I snored. So it goes.

For more information on the three Hampdens the Hampden Collection  and Ged O'Brien's site are great starts.