London in 1990

Time for a final retrospective post about my six-month journey through Europe in 1990. This final post, one of 26, covers the 16 days I spent in London. At the time, I was travelling with Dean, a sheep farmer friend from Portland, Victoria.

We arrived in London on 23 October after crossing the Channel by hovercraft. For the next few weeks, we based ourselves at my Auntie Shirley and Uncle Tony’s home in Lewisham. Dean and I had arrived in the UK with working holiday visas. Our original plan had been to find work in London and base ourselves there for up to two years.

However, after six months on the road, we were both exhausted. Dean was also incredibly homesick. We were also shocked by the cost of living in London. As a result, Dean decided to return to Australia. I debated staying on alone. I’d clocked up a huge debt on my credit card and thus desperately needed to clear it. I didn’t hold out much hope of saving money while living in London. I ultimately decided a Summer in Sydney, earning Australian dollars, was far more appealing than scraping by in the UK.

Dean and I decided to make the most of our final days in Europe by exploring all that London had to offer. We also spent a week exploring Scotland, based in Inverness. Our trip to Scotland split our time in London neatly, with eight days in town before heading north, followed by another eight after our return.

Like all good tourists, we ticked off all the bucket-list sights, including Tower Bridge, the Crown Jewels in the Tower of London, St Paul's Cathedral and Trafalgar Square. We watched the changing of the guard outside Buckingham Palace and explored the British Museum. Check out the photo above of Picadilly Circus. First, Foster's beer was a huge brand in the UK at the time, and second, every sign was a traditional neon billboard. The neon is long gone, replaced by high-resolution digital video screens.

My cousin Hilary also managed to secure a tour behind the scenes at Westminster Palace, otherwise known as the Houses of Parliament. I can’t recall the exact occasion. I think she was attending an event, or possibly hosting a corporate event in one of the building’s public spaces. She invited me to join her. I vaguely recall climbing a staircase lined with heavily lacquered wood panelling and a landing on the stairwell framed by a soaring wall of stained glass. It was all wonderfully ornate and undeniably Victorian by design.

At the time, Hilary was the Public Relations Manager for Scotia Pharmaceuticals. During our visit, she was promoting a new Evening Primrose Oil (EPO) supplement. This included a media event hosted in The Wellcome Galleries at the British Science Museum. These galleries display artefacts tracing the history of medicine from ancient times to the modern day. As I recall, she was promoting new research on the benefits of EPO for alleviating premenstrual syndrome (PMS).  I also recall being suitably impressed that she'd scored an interview with The Lancet, the world's premier medical journal.

I joined Hilary for the day, helping her with media interviews and final preparations for her evening event at the museum. I also manned the registration table, greeting attendees and handing out press kits. It was literally my first public relations event, and my first PR job. Little did I know that three years later, I’d join a technology PR agency and spend two decades working in the public relations industry. A career that culminated in me becoming the Chief Operating Officer of a global PR company.

I recall Auntie Shirley taking Dean and I on a walking tour of London’s lesser known sights. This included a visit to Temple Church, an iconic circular church built by the Knights Templar in the 12th-Century, the Royal Courts of Justice and the Old Bank of England. Shirley was determined to infuse some cultured British history into our otherwise backpacking, box-ticking tourism endeavours. I’m glad she did. Her passion for more obscure history was a timely reminder for me to look a little deeper wherever I travelled in the years ahead.

A final comment regarding my UK-based relatives. The first photo above of Shirley, Tony and me was taken at Crofton Park station. The second shows Tony trying on Dean’s classic Akubra hat much to my aunt’s amusement. These are the only photos I have of my Uncle Tony. Sadly, I never saw him alive again. He had long since passed away by the time Garry and I relocated to the UK in 2005.

I don’t recall much of our time in London beyond the experiences I’ve already outlined above. However, a series of ticket stubs I’ve kept shows that we visited the Imperial War Museum, Westminster Abbey and Madame Tussauds. We also visited the Guinness Book of Records exhibition, where entry cost the princely sum of GBP4.00. I’m sure I was excited to visit this attraction. For many years, I received a new hardback copy of its annual edition for Christmas. It was always one of my most treasured gifts.

Likewise, I loved seeing all the famous tombs inside Westminster Abbey. Weeks earlier we’d visited the tombs of Michelangelo, Galilei Galileo and Christopher Columbus. This time it was recognisable names like Charles Dickens, Sir Issac Newton, David Livingstone, and Charles Darwin. I was surprised to discover that Queen Elizabeth I is also buried here.

On 15 November, Dean and I caught the Tube to Heathrow (that’s us above waiting for the train) and boarded a flight bound for Singapore. Our life-changing journey through Europe had finally come to an end. Along the way, we’d visited 22 countries, travelled as far north as Harstad, more than 300km above the Arctic Circle; as far south as Meknes in Morocco; as far east as Varna on the Bulgarian Black Sea coast; and as far west as the Strait of Gibraltar.

I’d just turned 25. It was time for another life-changing adventure. This time, establishing myself in Sydney, Australia, the city that ultimately became my home for more than three decades. I’d eventually return to London on business in 1998, stopping off in Beijing on the way there. I’d continue to return time and time again on business until the present day.

In hindsight, the decision not to use my UK working holiday visa has served me well. My life in Sydney has been filled with wonderful memories, friendships and once in a lifetime experiences. My career has flourished, frequently paying for me to literally see the world.  Fifteen years later, I’d even fulfil my dream of living and working in London. Although, as friends often point out, Garry and I enjoyed a backpacker’s experience in the UK but did so on a champagne income.

No, I never met Yasser Arafat. This photo was taken at Madame Tussauds. As an aside, the padded jacket I’m wearing was purchased years earlier in the USA. I’d bought it to survive a snowy winter in upstate New York as an exchange student in 1983.

Singapore - the first time

I first visited Singapore in November. At the time, I was on my way back from a six-month backpacking odyssey in Europe. I was travelling with Dean, a friend from Portland, Victoria. We flew out of London on 15 November, arriving in Singapore late afternoon local time the following day. Dean and I then spent another three days exploring some of the city’s iconic attractions before catching overnight flights to Australia on 19 November.

We based ourselves at the Traveller's Club, a backpacker’s hostel on Bencoolen Street in central Singapore. At the time, Bencoolen Street was Backpacker Central with all manner of dodgy venues offering cheap food and accommodation. The Traveller's Club was an experience all its own. The hostel was in a high-rise apartment building where guests were hosted in crowded dormitory rooms crammed with bunks. Privacy was not an option, and you paid extra for a room with air-conditioning.

Dean and I spent time exploring the Singapore River zone, including its iconic Merlion statue. Back then, it sat at the mouth of the river, with the open sea extending beyond it. These days, the Merlion sits in a sheltered bay surrounded by reclaimed land, and the towering Marina Sands casino complex dominates the skyline. 

We also visited the Raffles hotel for a quick look at its famous Long Bar. Back then, you could visit without waiting in an insanely long queue or forking out for a pricey entry ticket.  The bar was also on the ground floor. You could walk in off the street. These days, the bar is on the hotel's second floor. I recently learned it was relocated less than a year after Dean and I visited, as part of a major renovation.

I fondly remember visiting Mount Faber, where we caught the cable car across to Sentosa Island. The image above is a postcard we received with our cable car ticket.  Dean and I were mesmerised by the view from Mount Faber. High-rise apartments filled the skyline and spread across the city in every direction.  We'd never seen such a condensed urban landscape before.

I also recall a sign in a public toilet cubicle on Mount Faber warning visitors they’d be fined if they failed to flush the toilet. It was a classic introduction to the nanny state that Singapore is renowned for. Although I wondered how on earth anyone knew if you'd failed to flush?

However, my memories of Sentosa were less inspiring. The island was billed as Singapore’s newest attraction, a playground for grown-ups. However, we felt the venues and themed exhibits were rather underwhelming. I also recall signs everywhere reminding us that spitting would attract another of those ubiquitous fines.

On our third day in Singapore, Dean and I split up and did our own thing. Although, if truth be told, I asked him for a day by myself. In hindsight, I probably didn’t frame my request in the kindest of terms. Dean was rather upset by the request. As a result, our final days travelling together ended on a slightly sour note. A month or so later, I travelled to Victoria and spent Christmas on his family farm.  I apologised, he forgave me, and our friendship was duly restored.

I spent my solo day exploring the city’s ethic districts, including Chinatown, the Muslim Quarter and Little India. The image above shows the Sri Veeramakaliamman Temple in Little India. It’s one of the oldest Hindu temples in Singapore. It was built by Indian pioneers in 1881 and is dedicated to Kali, the goddess and destroyer of evil. As you can see, the candy-striped temple's gopuram or grand tower entrance is adorned with an impressive array of colourful Hindu deities. The interior is equally impressive, filled with majestic statues of the goddess Kali.

On our second night in town, Dean and I joined the locals for Singapore’s annual Christmas Light-Up Ceremony.  The event was hosted inside Centerpoint, Singapore's largest shopping mall, conveniently located on Orchard Road, the city’s premier shopping street. We watched Wee Kim Wee, the city-state’s President, switch on festive lights along Orchard Road using a giant podium button. I've kept the event's program, which you can see above.  It was accompanied by a lyric sheet containing a selection of popular Christmas carols.

One final memory. Singapore is renowned for its clean and highly manicured streetscapes. Therefore, I’m sure its government would be mortified by the photo above. I took it in a back street of Singapore’s Muslim Quarter. I simply couldn’t resist the fact that even a city as polished as this still has a dodgy slum district. No doubt this street scene is long gone. However, one slightly ramshackle experience has survived. The colourful chaos, noise and clutter of Singapore’s hawker food halls is still the same three decades later, although they're better presented than their counterparts in 1990.

After three hectic days of sightseeing, Dean and I made our way to Changi Airport. Here we parted ways. Dean had changed his ticket to fly back to Melbourne, which was closer to home, while I continued to Sydney. Early in the morning on 20 November, I landed in Sydney, ready to begin a search for accommodation and employment. What happened next transformed my life and set me on a path that’s continued until this day. You can learn more about this watershed moment here.

Highland highlights

Time for another retrospective post. This time we’re off to Scotland. In November 1990, I spent a week exploring Scotland with Dean Keiller, a friend from Portland, Victoria. At the time, we were nearing the end of an extraordinary six months travelling through Europe.

Dean and I had made our way from the Netherlands to London on 23 October. For the next three weeks, we based ourselves at Auntie Shirley and Uncle Tony’s house in Lewisham. At the time, Dean had an Australian friend living in Inverness on a working holiday visa. After all these years, I don’t recall his name, but I’m almost certain he worked at a local hospital. His friend invited us to stay.

On 1 November, we caught the early morning Caledonian Express bus from Victoria Station bound for Inverness. The journey took up the better part of a full day to complete. For the next seven days, we literally explored Scotland from east to west and north to south.

Inverness was a curious place. I wouldn’t call it a beautiful city despite its coastal location. However, it proved an ideal base for exploring Scotland. The image above comes from a postcard I bought at the time. Dean’s mate had a car, which made all the difference. As a result, on our first full day in town, we borrowed it to visit Loch Ness and go in search of Nessie. We also stopped to admire the ruins of Urquhart Castle on its western shore.

However, back then, access to the ruins was somewhat restricted as they sat amid private farmland. You had to walk across an open paddock to reach them. Garry and I revisited the area in 2008. By then, the castle had been transformed into a popular tourist destination, with a car park, visitors' centre and guided tours.

We also stopped outside Invermoriston to admire the historic Thomas Telford bridge. This stone arched crossing was built in 1813. For more than a century, it was the only river crossing of the River Moriston Falls on the road to Fort William. The current bridge nearby replaced it in 1933. It was well worth a few scenic “we were here” photos.  That's me in the image that opens this post.

The following weekend, we took a trip to the West Coast, stopping overnight in Mallaig. We departed early on Saturday, 3 November and drove west along the shores of Loch Ness and onwards to Fort William. We then turned inland towards Glenfinnan. While I have no recollection of seeing the iconic Glenfinnan Viaduct, I can’t imagine driving this far and not stopping for a good look.

Dean’s mate decided to take the scenic route to Mallaig, so we followed the western shoreline of Loch Linnhe (which is actually a fjord) as far south as Strontian, then turned towards the west coast. Along the way, we stopped to explore the picturesque ruins of Castle Tioram. This castle was once the ancestral stronghold for the Clanranald branch of Clan Donald. It was destroyed in 1715 during a Jacobite rising and never rebuilt. As you can see above, we timed our arrival perfectly as the castle sits on an island that’s only accessible by foot at low tide. The final image shows Mallaig harbour the following morning.

The following morning, we retraced our steps back to Inverness, stopping to admire the first snowfall of the season on Ben Nevis, the UK’s highest mountain. We also visited the sombre and rather poignant Commando Memorial near Spean Bridge. It overlooks the training areas of the Commando Training Depot, with Ben Nevis providing a suitably awe-inspiring backdrop.

If you look closely, you’ll see me standing in the phone booth above. Even in the remote Scottish lake district, home was only a phone call away. It’s all too easy to forget that in 1990, mobile phones weren’t a part of everyday life. A public phone was your only option if you ever had to make a call while on the road.

On 5 November, I fulfilled a childhood dream with a day trip to John O'Groats. This tiny village on the northeast coast of Scotland is the traditional starting or ending point for cycles, walks, and charitable events to and from Land's End (at the extreme south-western tip of the Cornish peninsula in England).

The drive north was an exhausting six-hour round trip. Back then, the Dornoch Firth Bridge was still under construction. As a result, I had to drive inland via Bonar Bridge, a detour that added an hour to the journey there and back. I took a few mandatory photos of the hotel and international signpost at John O'Groats, then drove to nearby Duncansby Head Lighthouse, located on the westernmost point of Scotland. I also took a short walk to explore a series of deep, rectangular rock channels carved into the lighthouse coast by an unrelenting North Sea. 

Perhaps the strongest memory of my day trip north was the ubiquitous presence of the North Sea oil industry. This was the era of peak North Sea oil production. Towns all along the coast were active bases for infrastructure and vessels that serviced oil and gas platforms in the North Sea. Vessels that bore no resemblance to traditional fishing boats were everywhere, along with plenty of hardcore industrial structures.

For example, I recall seeing a massive oil platform floating in Cromarty Firth, about half an hour north of Inverness. I later learned that this deep, naturally sheltered inlet served (and continues to serve) as a parking lot for mothballed and decommissioned North Sea rigs.  The image above was pulled from the web as an example of the astonishing scene I encountered all those years ago.

On 7 November, Dean and I packed our bags and headed back to London for a final week of sightseeing. Eight days later, on 15 November, we boarded a flight bound for Singapore. Our European adventure was finally over. It would be another eight years before I’d return to the UK, this time on business.

Feeling a little flat

Our car battery died last Saturday. This is the third time I recall a battery giving up the ghost. On each occasion, it has always occurred when a major event or critical deadline is at stake. This time, it was a movie screening due to start in 30 minutes. 

I'd bought a ticket online to see the new Ryan Gosling movie, Project Hail Mary. It's been on for a while, so the nearest theatre still screening it on Saturday afternoon was Eastgardens - not a venue within walking distance. The car refused to start. Garry came down to the car park, fiddled around and agreed that the battery was dead. I was forced to book an Uber and race to the theatre.

The last time the battery died, Garry and I had packed the car and were heading off to Tasmania for the first time.  With a ferry sailing booked for the following day, we still had a full day of driving ahead of us. At the time, we had no idea it was a battery issue. As a result, I caught a cab to the airport and booked a last-minute rental car for the next two weeks. 

The first time I recall our car battery dying was in the Sainsbury car park on Finchley Road.  Garry was in the hospital recovering from a burst appendix.  He was starting to move around after being bedridden for days.  I decided to surprise him with a pair of slippers.  After I'd made my purchase, I returned to the car, and the chaos began. As I waited for roadside assistance to arrive, Garry began calling me from his hospital bed in tears because I was running late for the visit I'd promised to make.

While last weekend's dash to the theatre was annoying, it was definitely a better outcome than the alternative. The day before, I'd taken the car to Artiwood's warehouse in Minto, on the southern outskirts of Sydney. It would have ruined my day had I found myself stranded in an industrial estate, almost an hour from home.

As for the movie, Project Hail Mary was brilliant. It was 2.5 hours long, and for much of this time, it was just Gosling and a special effects alien character on screen. The screenplay is based on a book by Andy Weir. This author seems to have a knack for writing compelling single-character science fiction. He also wrote The Martian, a movie in which Matt Damon spent a great deal of time alone on screen.

To London by Hoverspeed

Riding a hovercraft across the English Channel was always a childhood dream. As an engineering fanatic, I simply loved the futurist look and feel of hovercraft transport. I finally fulfilled my dream in October 1990, when I caught a Hoverspeed craft from Calais to Dover. This trip was the final leg of a six-month odyssey travelling through Europe. At the time, Dean Keiller and I were on our way to London. We’d just finished a three-month Eurail backpacking adventure around Western Europe and were running out of time to validate our UK working holiday visas.

On 23 October, we caught a bus from Rotterdam to Calais, passing through Belgium along the way. We’d just completed a four-day whirlwind tour of southern Holland, exploring its dikes and windmills. I’ll share more about this experience in a separate post. We’d bought a combined ticket that included a bus to France, a hovercraft crossing, and a bus to London.  

The bus we caught to Calais had originated in Amsterdam. At the time, much like today, this Dutch city was renowned for its liberal regulation of marijuana. As a result, the French border guards in Calais took one look at Dean and me with our heavily laden backpacks and casual track pants and decided we were prime drug-smuggling candidates.

They searched our backpacks from top to bottom, quizzed us relentlessly about our assumed drug habits and our potentially illicit intentions in the UK. They were understandably flummoxed by our stories of travelling through Eastern Europe preaching the gospel and the Bibles in our bags. They eventually let us pass, stamping our passports and directing us into the Hoverspeed departure lounge.

The arrival of the Princess Anne, a Mountbatten-class (SR.N4) hovercraft, was an awe-inspiring sight. Watching it glide up the hoverport’s gently sloping beachside ramp was simply breathtaking. At the time, it was the world’s largest commercial hovercraft, powered by four massive Rolls-Royce engines that drove four equally impressive propellers. It could carry up to 418 passengers and 60 cars (loaded from the front) and cross the channel in less than half an hour. You can see her in the opening photo above.

Dean and I were booked on a slightly smaller vessel, the Swift, which carried 278 passengers and 36 cars (loaded from the rear). That’s my photo above of the Swift arriving in France. I recently learned that it was taken out of service less than a year later, while the Princess Anne continued operating until 2000. Its retirement marked the end of an era. Apparently, at the time I rode it, the Swift held the record for the fastest crossing. In 1995, the Princess Anne crossed in 22-minutes to claim a new record, one that remains unbeaten today.

The channel crossing was a disappointment. We’d anticipated a smooth ride, gliding, effortlessly across the water on a cushion of air. The reality proved very different. The day we crossed, the sea was rather choppy with small white-capped waves. As a result, the hovercraft bounced, or rather crashed, its way through the cresting waves. As a result, it was a bone-jarring ride across the channel. It would be fair to say that a fast crossing that was this uncomfortable wasn’t something I wanted to repeat anytime soon.

Upon arrival in Dover, we transferred to another bus that took us into central London. We then transferred on the Tube to London Bridge station and caught the train to Catford Bridge to stay with my Auntie Shirley and Uncle Tony. Dean and I based ourselves on their lounge floor for the next few weeks as we explored London and debated our working holiday plans. You can learn more about our time in the UK here.

One final observation.  Our bus to Calais stopped for a mandatory driver's rest break in Belgium. This was my first time in Belgium.  However, the stop didn't meet the minimum criteria required for me to mark it as a country I've visited. It would be another 18 years before I'd finally return to Belgium.

 

Going Dutch

For the last ten months, I've been publishing posts on my backpacking odyssey through Europe in 1990. This is my twenty-third post, covering the final leg of this epic journey from Paris to Delft in the Netherlands. This was to be our final stop in Mainland Europe, before travelling to London, where we'd activate our working holiday visas and spend a year or two in the UK.

On 19 October, we caught the train from Gare du Nord to Rotterdam, where we transferred for the final leg to Delft. After more than five months on the road, it was a bittersweet moment watching the conductor stamp the final flexi day on our Eurail Youth Pass. However, our last Eurail journey didn’t go as smoothly as planned. While waiting for a train in Rotterdam, Dean’s daypack was stolen.

Our trusty backpacks came with detachable components, including day packs. Dean had removed his to grab a few items. As he momentarily turned to talk to me, an opportunistic thief swooped in and whisked it away. Fortunately, nothing of real value was lost, unless you have a fetish for used socks and underwear. However, we did lose a sentimental souvenir, namely some small, colourfully painted chunks we’d chipped off the Berlin Wall months earlier.

Despite this setback, we made the most of our brief stop with a walk into town to explore central Rotterdam. The port city was badly damaged by heavy bombing during World War II. As a result, the inner city is relatively modern, filled with largely uninspiring, functional buildings. There are some exceptions, including a series of colourful, cubical homes built in the mid-1970s, and a house designed to look like an upright pencil. Go figure!

We based ourselves in Delft, rather than Amsterdam, mainly for easier access to more of the nation’s Classic sights. This included its traditional windmills, its endless dikes and canals, and its famous Delft porcelain-ware. Delft was also the last time we’d pitch our pup tent. Although we soon discovered that camping season was well and truly over. The campground was nearly empty and scheduled to close the following week. We also endured rising damp that penetrated the tent’s porous fabric floor at night.

Our first full day in the Netherlands was devoted to a day trip to Kinderdijk. This quaint village is known for an iconic row of 18th-century windmills aligned along a picturesque waterway. In all, 19 mills and 3 pumping stations, plus dikes and reservoirs that control flooding in the polder (low-lying land) surround the village. If ever you want to see old-fashioned Dutch windmills, this is the place to go. Although, getting there took several hours as there was no direct bus from Delft.

The following day, we caught another bus south along the coast to see one of the nation’s most ambitious engineering feats. Just four years earlier, the Oosterscheldeking, or Eastern Storm Surge Barrier, had been  completed. This massive nine-kilometre-long structure spans a tidal opening across the Rhine-Meuse-Scheldt river delta. It was originally conceived as a closed dam. However, after public protests, a four-kilometre section was converted to open sluice gates that only close during adverse weather conditions.

We got off the bus at Neeltje Jans, one of two artificial islands built along the barrier. Here we toured the visitor centre and enjoyed a stunning view of its sluice gates disappearing across the open sea. It was pure geek heaven. I also recall confronting archival footage that brought home the importance of the structure. In January 1953, the North Sea inundated the region during a violent storm. In a single night, 1,836 people died. Nine per cent of Dutch farmland was flooded, 47,300 buildings were damaged (10,000 destroyed), and 200,000 animals drowned.

On the way home, I picked up a treat for Dean’s birthday. I discovered a selection of chunky chocolate alphabet letters at the supermarket, so I bought him an uppercase letter D. Apparently, giving chocolate letters is a popular centuries old Dutch tradition. Every year at Sinterklaas (celebrated on 5 December), children are given the first letter of their name made from chocolate.

Our last full day in the Netherlands was spent exploring Den Haag. We started the day with a tour of De Delfse Pauw, the largest of Delft’s porcelain factories. These distinctive blue and white products were developed as more affordable alternatives to Chinese porcelain in the 17th Century. 

Dean and I watched as clay was moulded into plates. These were then kiln-fired, dipped in an opaque, white tin glaze and hand-decorated, usually with cobalt blue, before a second and final firing. The factory’s skilled artists hand-paint just four plates a day. No wonder Delftware is expensive!

On the way into Den Haag, disaster struck again. This time it was my turn. My wallet fell out of my pocket on the bus. I didn’t realise it was gone until the bus drove away. Fortunately, I kept large domination banknotes and my credit card in a pouch around my neck. 

As a result, we lost some loose change and a few small banknotes, but nothing of significance. In hindsight, this unforced error, along with Dean’s daypack theft, was driven by fatigue. Six months of relentless travel was clearly starting to take its toll.

Den Haag is a relatively compact and quaint coastal city filled with traditional buildings. We ticked off its main sights in a single afternoon, including the Hague and the iconic Peace Palace, house to the International Court of Justice. A note I made on the back of the photo above referenced the constant stream of bicycles we encountered everywhere we went. The Dutch really do love their bikes.

On outskirts of city we toured the Flora Holland Naaldwijk, a satellite branch of world’s largest flower auction house. Flower auctions take place most days in a building resembling a lecture theatre. As bidders watch from tiered seating, auction lots trundle past on motorised pallets in quick succession. Overhead, a giant clock with a single hand counts down to zero. The successful bidder is first to stop the clock. The pricing setting hand moves surprisingly fast, taking less than 20 seconds to reach zero. However, it’s a surprisingly calm, almost silent affair, yet breathtaking efficient.

On 23 October, we packed up our tent for the final time, made our way to Rotterdam, and caught a bus to London. You can learn more about our rather unusual crossing of the English Channel here.

The City of Light

Time for another retrospective post. Visiting Paris for the first time was the fulfilment of a childhood dream. For as long as I can remember, I was mesmerised by images of the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe. I finally got to see them with my own eyes in October 1990.

At the time, I was nearing the end of a three-month backpacking odyssey through Europe. Dean Keiller, a sheep-farming friend from Victoria, and I had leveraged a Eurail Youth Pass and travelled as far north as the Arctic Circle in Norway, and as far south as Morocco. Our final two weeks on the road were devoted to visiting Paris, the Netherlands and then making our way across the Channel to London.

Getting to Paris was another bucket list moment. On 13 October, we caught the 15:52pm TGV service bound for Paris in Avignon. As a civil engineering geek, I’d always dreamed of riding a high-speed train. The TGV had entered service just nine years earlier on a new high-speed line from Lyon to Paris, reaching a top speed of 270 km/h.

As a result, the train we caught travelled on a regular rail track until it reached Lyon, where it transitioned onto its dedicated line. You know immediately when the transition has occurred as the train’s speed increased dramatically. Dean and I were like kids in a candy store as the French countryside began to blur past the window. It was definitely worth the extra surcharge we paid on our Eurail tickets.

However, this wasn’t the only unique rail travel moment we experienced. Earlier in the day, we’d crossed the border into France after catching a train from Barcelona. Back then, Spanish trains ran on Iberian gauge tracks (1668mm width), while France used standard gauge (1435mm). As a result, when the train crossed the border near Perpignan, it had to transition onto the narrower French rails.

Carriages on the Spanish train featured an adjustable boogie that allowed their wheels to be slowly pushed together or pulled apart using a gauge-changing device. However, the train engine’s wheels were always fixed, so it was always swapped at the border. Converting the entire train took about ten minutes. These days, the high-speed train network in Spain runs on standard gauge, so its trains travel seamlessly across Europe.

After travelling continuously for almost 18 hours from Seville, we finally arrived in Paris mid-evening. Here we transferred to the local rail network and made our way to a campsite in the outer suburbs. For the next five days, we explored the City of Lights from top to bottom.

Naturally, our first full day in Paris was devoted to visiting its most iconic sights, including the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower. We climbed both structures. The Eiffel Tower was particularly challenging. You could climb the stairway from the ground to the second level for seven francs or spend 11 francs and climb the stairs to the third level. As budget-wary backpackers, we elected to climb the stairs all the way. I’m glad we did, as it gave us a more intimate look at the tower’s structure and engineering. I loved it.

I had the same reaction to a scale model replica of the Statue of Liberty standing on an artificial island in the Seine. The original statue was designed by French sculptor Bartholdi, and its innovative iron skeleton by Gustavo Eiffel. It was built and assembled in a workshop in Paris before being shipped to New York as a gift to the American people in 1887. The local replica was one of the workshop's working models. Parisian expatriates living in the United States bought it and gave it to Paris in 1889.

Our remaining days were filled with many highlights, including a trip up the hill to Basilique du Sacré-Cœur de Montmartre, the iconic white-domed church offering uninterrupted views of the city. At the base of the hill I still recall my first glimpse of the faux windmill atop the equally iconic Moulin Rouge cabaret hall. Although we never ventured inside.

Dean and I also visited Hotel des Invalides to see Napoleon’s tomb, marvelled at the crazy pipework cladding on the Pompidou Centre, and gazed in awe at the interior of Notre Dame Cathedral. A note on the back of the photo above reminded me that I took it while sitting on Dean’s shoulders. It was the only way to get a shot with plenty of Autumn colour in the foreground.

The collonaded building shown above is La Madeleine. It’s actually a regular Catholic Church, surrounded on four sides by soaring Corinthian columns. This rather unorthodox design reflects its origins as a royal showpiece. Louis XV commissioned it as the focal point of the new Rue Royal, leading to the new Place Louis XV, the present Place de la Concorde. It’s easy to understand why the French eventually overthrew their king when you see one indulgent building after another around the city.

We spent at least half a day exploring the Louvre from one end to the other. Like all good tourists, we stopped to admire La Giaconda, better known as the Mona Lisa, and like so many before us, came away surprised at how small and unassuming the portrait really was. I also loved seeing the Venus de Milo sans her arms and the equally iconic Winged Victory of Samothrace.

Once again, much like our experience in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, we couldn’t believe the endless stream of iconic artist names on display throughout the museum. As an aside, Dean and I visited the Louvre long before its glass pyramid entrance opened. This famous structure didn’t start greeting guests until 1993. 

On our final full day in Paris, 18 October, Dean and I ventured out of town to explore the Palace of Versailles. This former royal residence was easy to reach by train, about 18 km from the city centre. Commissioned by King Louis XIV in 1661, it became the seat of the royal court the following year and remained so until the French Revolution.

The palace is an extraordinary complex. Its statistics are mind-boggling. The palace itself sits on an estate of more than 800 hectares (8 square kilometres). The main building boasts 2,143 windows, 1,252 chimneys and 67 staircases. Within the grounds sits an equally impressive building, a French Baroque-style chateau known as the Grand Trianon. It served as a less formal retreat for the royal family.

Without doubt, the most famous room in the entire palace is the iconic Hall of Mirrors. This 400-metre-long gallery links two wings of the palace. It features 17 windows facing west towards the formal gardens and parkland, while the opposing wall has 17 equally large mirrors. These mirrors reflected the king’s wealth as mirror glass was an expensive luxury in the 17th century. It could only be made with considerable effort, which took time and money to complete. 

As you can see from the image above, which I’ve pulled from the web, the ceiling in the Hall of Mirrors is also richly decorated. One final fun fact: the infamous Treaty of Versailles, which ended the First World War, was signed here. It was the most opulent palace that Dean and I had ever seen. Decades later, I’d get to explore royal residences in London, St Petersburg and Vienna that rival Versailles. However, as my first experience of European royal decadence, it made a lifelong impression. 

On 19 October, Dean and I packed our bags and headed for the Netherlands. This was to be our final destination in continental Europe before making our way to London. However, we decided to base ourselves in Delft, rather than travel further north to Amsterdam. 

We chose this southern town for its proximity to iconic locations, including Kinderdijk and the nation’s dike system. In particular, we were keen to see the engineering marvel that is Oosterscheldekering, the enormous storm-surge barrier which had opened just three years earlier. Not sure what I’m talking about? Follow this post, which explains everything.