Mousehole

The tiny fishing village of Mousehole (pronounced "mao-zil") was a truly unexpected delight. Located a few short miles along the coast from bustling Penzance, this sleepy corner of Cornwall has carefully preserved much of its original character. Most of its homes are built from local granite, nestled in a series of narrow, twisting cobblestone lanes that hug the rocky seafront.


In the centre of the town sits a sheltered harbor, protected from the sea by two towering sea walls. Historical records reference a port here as early as 1266. Even today part of the south quay can trace its origin to 1390. In the early years of Christianity in Britian it was the embarkation point for pilgrims heading to Rome. As you’d expect, fishing was Mousehole’s primary industry for centuries. A small fishing fleet still operates today. However, given its picturesque setting, its modern economy thrives more on second home ownership and tourism.


During the winter months, sturdy wooden beams close off the harbour entrance, protecting the village from the worst of the winter storms. However, this is no ordinary port. On the afternoon of our arrival we discovered, much to our surprise, that low tide eventually drains the entire harbour leaving boats stranded on its sandy bottom. Some boats even have special stilts, extended from slots in the hull, to keep them upright until the water returns.


Garry and I stopped for a night, sleeping in an old building that once housed the area’s coastguard quarters. We spent a soul-restoring afternoon wandering Mousehole’s quiet cobbled streets before downing local ale at an old stone pub on the harbourfront. Later I wandered out to the end of the seawall where St Clement's Isle - a small rocky islet – is visible. I've read that an old hermit once made this desolate place his home.


Earlier in day we’d driven south from St Austell, stopping briefly on the shores of Marizon to marvel at St Micheal’s Mount. This iconic island rises gracefully from Penzance Bay, capped by an abbey and castle on it summit. It was originally built as a complimentary site to the tidal island of Le Mont-Saint-Michel, directly across the English Channel in Normandy.


Much like its French counterpart, St Michael’s Mount has been an important pilgrimage destination throughout the ages. Such devotions were encouraged by an indulgence granted by Pope Gregory in the 11th century. From here the first warning beacons were lit in 1588, warning Southern England of the approaching Spanish Armada.


The island is accessible by foot along an old causeway at low tide, or by boat when the tide peaks. I timed our arrival to coincide with high tide. I’d seen images of the island surrounded by water and was keen to capture my own postcard moment. Sadly, the weather was rather bleak, with a bitter wind and heavy cloud. However, as you can see, the island is still mesmerizing.

A pub called Afron Gwy

The mouth of the Severn River neatly divides England from Wales. It’s also home to the world’s second largest tidal range where, at its highest point, the river rises 15 metres above the low tide mark. The eastern border of Wales is marked by the River Wye; one of the Severn’s largest tributaries. It’s here that you find the border town of Chepstow, often called “the first town in Wales”.


The name Chepstow comes from the Old English words Chepe and Stowe, which mean marketplace. Its Welsh name, Cas Gwent, means the Port of Gwent. During the 18th and early 19th Century a bustling river port and shipyard dominated the town’s economy. However, its industry was simply the latest in a long history of commerce and settlement. Iron Age settlers once lived in the area five thousand years ago, followed by the Romans, three millennia later. In 1067, the Normans built a grand castle on a cliff overlooking the Wye. Its ruins, the oldest surviving stone fortification in Britain, can still be explored today.


A short walk down-river from the castle is an elegant cast iron arch bridge. Built in 1816, it links England and Wales. The bridge’s access road is also home to a small, non-descript pub called Afon Gwy. A pub has survived on this site since 1735. My cousin Caroline recently traced the family’s history on my mother’s side to this quite corner of Wales. Her research found that two female members of the family ran the pub, known as the Full Moon Inn, from 1815 to 1826; and again between 1830 and 1876. It seems that a bankruptcy in 1826 prevented an unbroken period of ownership.


While staying in Bristol, Garry and I took a day trip to Afon Gwy to retrace the steps of my ancestors. I was keen to witness the passage of seven generations. Sadly, the owner of the pub was out when we arrived. I told the owner’s mother of my journey but she seemed disinterested. I was disappointed that such a personal pilgrimage meant so little and didn’t stay long.


Afterwards I walked across the Old Wye Bridge to reflect on my family’s time here. The tide was out, graphically demonstrating the Severn’s dramatic tidal range. The river scene was once the subject of a series of Turner paintings. He depicted Wye, the Afon Gwy and the nearby castle a number of iconic landscapes.


Garry and I then went on to explore Chepstow Castle. The ruins are well preserved. Its construction began less than a year after William the Conqueror was crowned King of England. For another three hundred years, new additions were progressively made until the castle reached its maximum size during the Tudor era. Its final occupants, an army garrison, abandoned the castle in 1690. The ruins then passed into state control in 1953.


Before leaving Chepstow we briefly stopped at the Priory Church of St Mary. My cousin’s research uncovered the story of pew inscribed to the memory of an ancestor in 1827. Unfortunately the church was closed for urgent repairs. It seems that my family history wasn’t a topic of interest to anyone in town. I left without ever truly connecting with my past, that is, until we visited the SS Great Britain.

In preparation for our trip to Bristol, I’d actually considered dropping it from our tourist itinerary. However, a slow morning saw us at a loose end. This grand old ship, was the world’s first ocean-going propeller-driven iron ship. It was built and launched in Bristol by Isambard Kingdom Brunel in 1843. Brunel is considered one of the nation’s foremost engineers.


Abandoned in the Falklands Islands in 1937, the SS Great Britain was salvaged in 1970, towed back to Bristol and restored to its former glory. Today you can visit the ship, sealed in a low-humidity dry dock. It's incredible experience, wandering along the rusty keel, past the ship's giant replica rudder and up to the solid cassion wall holding back the harbour's water.



In 1852, the SS Great Britain made the first of several immigration voyages to Australia. It carried 630 passengers to a new Antipodean future in Melbourne. Here we were more than 150 years later, wandering through its interior, experiencing the daily trials of first class passengers and those in steerage class. It was here, in the bowels of the ship, that I had my seminal family moment.


As I stood looking at the cramped, simple steerage bunks it suddenly dawned on me that this was exactly how my ancestors first ventured from Wales to the shores of a distance New Zealand. For the first time in my life I genuinely connected with my past. How ironic. I’d waited more than a year to visit Afon Gwy and was disappointed. I never expect to finally commune with my heritage on an iron ship I’d dismissed as just another tourist trap.

Alpha Foxtrot

On November 26, 2003 an aircraft called Alpha Foxtrot, made its final journey to Fliton aerodrome, located five miles north of Bristol. Alpha Foxtrot, also known as Concorde 216, was the last Concorde to remain flying and the last to fly supersonically. During its flying career, Concorde 216 flew 18,257 hours, made 5,639 supersonic flights and completed 6,045 landings.


Filton was an appropriate resting place. It was here that a dozen Concordes were assembled between 1969 and 1979. Concorde 216 was the last Concorde to roll off Filton’s production line, taking to the air for the first time on 20 April 1979. It eventually entered service with British Airways on 13 June 1980.

Garry and I recently had an opportunity to tour Concorde 216 while on holiday in Bristol. We joined a small group of 26 in a tour of the Filton production site, before being taken on board Concorde 216 itself. Our tour guides included former Concorde production staff who told plenty of fascinating stories about their involvement with this aircraft.


It was an awe inspiring experience to be taken on a walking tour of this aircraft. We were free to walk under the tail and wings of this majestic aircraft, before being taken on board to visit the cockpit and sit in the same leather seats once graced by royalty and celebrity alike.


Like all good tourists took our photo in every conceivable position, including the famous Mach 2.0 speed indicator. The indicator was an important addition to the cabin interior as there was no perceivable change in the aircraft’s motion while passing through the sound barrier.

We also learnt that Concorde grew incredibly hot while travelling at supersonic speed. As the metal heated and expanded the aircraft literally grew as much as a foot in length. This turn opened up a special expansion gap on the flight deck between the flight engineer’s console and the cabin bulkhead. Today, on Concorde 216, you see a flight engineer’s hat trapped in this gap where it was placed during the final flight.


The aircraft itself was surprisingly spacious. I’d been told it was incredibly cramped. However, the leg room and width of the cabin was more than I’d expected. The luxurious leather seats were also incredibly comfortable. I think I’d have been perfectly happy to fly at supersonic speed.


Perhaps the most surprising aspect of the cabin is the size of the aircraft's windows. Concorde typically flew above 50,000 feet. At this attitude the air density is very low so that a loss of cabin pressure would have been incredibly dangerous. Concorde, therefore, was equipped with smaller windows to reduce the rate of air loss in the event of a breach. Its windows are at least one third the size of a regular commercial aircraft. While very apparent outside, this smaller aperture isn't immediately obvious inside thanks to a clever window frame design.

Bristol

Isambard Kingdom Brunel was one of Victorian England’s greatest engineers. His legacy can be found all across the south of England, nowhere more so than in the city of Bristol. First, the Great Western Railway from London carries you into town. Brunel had the foresight to anticipate a future in which trains would travel faster than those of his time. In response to this vision he built a more level track, with gentle curves, that would enable higher speed travel. The result is a rail service that covers greater distances in less time than similar length journeys elsewhere in Britain.


Upon arrival in Bristol, Brunel’s next masterpiece comes into view; a grand and soaring train shed, now a museum. As you continue through the city, more and more of Brunel’s work is revealed. Garry and I managed to see much these engineering feats during our time in Bristol. Perhaps the most dramatic of these is the Floating Harbour which celebrates its bicentenary this year. This is nothing more than a dammed section of the Avon River, accessed by a series of locks. The creation of this harbour eliminated centuries of tidal extremes that left commercial shipping high and dry in the mud twice daily.


Today, the wharves are no longer active. In their place a process of gentrification is taking place, progressively converting the water front into a new residential, retail and leisure zone akin to that of Darling Harbour in Sydney. Even here you can find Brunel’s work. We had dinner one evening at the Severnshed , one of his original harbourside warehouses. The meal was superb and the view across the habour was magic by night.


The following day we visited yet another spectacular Brunel legacy, the Clifton Suspension Bridge. This graceful bridge is the city’s icon, spanning the entrance of the Avon Gorge, soaring 76 metres above river below. We drove across the bridge and parked so that we could walk back across its span and up to the parkland overlooking the gorge. The scene was truly spectacular. It's one of those rare postcard scene that really does hold up in real life.


Our final Brunel sight in Bristol was the SS Great Britain. For more on this magnificent ship, read this blog post. However, one of the most indelible memories of I’ve taken away from Bristol has a far more humble origin; a tram rail. Let me explain.


We stayed in a hotel in Redcliffe, across the road from the spectacular gothic church of St Mary Redcliffe. In the church grounds can be found a rusting iron tram rail embedded in the turf. This rail is a relic from the Second World War. On April 11, 1941, a German bombing raid blasted this rail over a set of neighbouring houses and into the church grounds. It still catches me by surprise to recall that this nation, and much of Europe, was once at war.

"Atlantis, you are go for launch"

Space Shuttle Atlantis successfully lifted off at precisely 2:01 p.m. local time today. I should know. I was there! The shuttle's crew of seven astronauts are heading to the Hubble Space Telescope orbiting more than 560 kms above the earth. After 19 years of active duty, Hubble is in urgent need of maintenance. Four previous shuttles have visited the 13-ton observatory on servicing and repair missions. However this final mission is the most ambitious yet. Five spacewalks are planned in an effect to extend its life until at least 2014 before it's finally deorbited some time after 2020.

Several months of planning, a last minute flight change and an early pre-dawn start saw me spend just a few short minutes watching this fiery craft rise into the Florida sky. It all happens so quickly. In fact, I didn't realise until some time later I'd even caught the shuttle on camera as it cleared the launch tower (above). The noise is awesome. The rocket's glare is brighter than you can ever imagine. You're left in no doubt that this machine is burning fuel at a furious pace.


I almost didn't make it to Florida. The shuttle was originally scheduled to launch on Tuesday this week. In anticipation of this date, I took advantage of a business trip to New York and organised a day off. My original plan saw me flying into New York on Sunday evening, then flying down to Florida on Monday evening after a day in the office. However, NASA brought the launch forward by a day to secure an additional launch window this week.

This new date created a last-minute dilemma. My ticket from London to New York was fix-dated and couldn't be changed. Furthermore, the last flight on Sunday evening from New York to Orlando, Florida departed less than 80 minutes after I was scheduled to land. On previous occasions it’s taken at least this long to simply pass through customs and immigration in New York, let alone transfer to another terminal. A domestic transfer to Orlando clearly wasn't practical.

I was left with only one cost-effective option; cancel my Orlando flight on Monday and rebook on a later flight Sunday evening to Tampa, hire a car and drive for almost two hours through the night to Orlando. With luck I'd reach my hotel shortly before 3am. My tour bus was then scheduled to depart for the Kennedy Space Centre four hours later.

However, lady luck was smiling upon me. My flight into New York arrived early, the immigration queue was short and my bags appeared within minutes. I made a quick dash to the JetBlue airline terminal and was able to transfer back onto the last Orlando flight ten minutes before it closed. The flight itself was susequently delayed 20 minutes, all but guaranteeing that both myself and my luggage would make it to Florida. JetBlue must love me after handing over two sizeable rebooking fees.


Witnessing the launch made for a long day. My tour bus arrived shortly after 6.30am. It was one of four departing from the hotel. A crazy queue system in the hotel carpark then kept us waiting until 7.45pm. Waiting and queuing was quickly becoming the order of the day. Eventually everyone was seated and we were on our way to join more than 30,000 people watching today's launch from the Kennedy Space Centre. By 8.45am we were at the gates of the Centre and left to endure the day's second slow-moving queue through security. A third queue several hours later finally took us to a causeway located less than 10 kilometres from the shuttle itself.


The Centre had a giant outdoor screen erected in its Rocket Park. Here we watched and listened to Mission Control making final launch preparation. Sitting in the shadow of rockets from the early days of manned spaceflight simply added to the experience. I watched long enough to see the astronauts catch their transfer bus and witnessed the first of them board the shuttle. It was then time for me to board my own transfer bus. We joined dozens of buses driving in convey out to the NASA Causeway, located across a broad lagoon from Launch Pad 39A. Garry and I were briefly here last year as part of a regular Kennedy Space Centre tour.

Today we had an incredible view, midway along the causeway. I could clearly see the shuttle in the distance, gleaming white in the roasting Florida sun. Mission Control audio was broadcasting continually from a string of poles nearby as we waited for lift-off. The sky was hazy with humidity high and the temperature soon climbed above 30C.

After waiting two hours in the baking heat the crowd suddenly fell silent as the countdown reached its final minute. The shuttle really was going to launch. You know it's real when you see the final supporting arm retracts from the shuttle's giant external tank. The entire launch stack is now sitting free of any restraint. Shortly after the countdown ends.


The initial moment of liftoff is an oddly disappointing experience. At first all that can be seen is a small, silent white cloud of steam bellowing on the horizon. The shuttle swiftly vanishes from sight. After an agonising couple of seconds the white cloud transforms into white hot light as the shuttle slowly rises into view. Its glow is an awe inspiring sight. As the shuttle rises it quickly gathers speed. The first sound waves wash over you shortly afterwards.


The noise of launch is everything you’d imagine it to be. As the shuttle rises higher and higher the sound grows louder and lounder. Sonic booms split the air as it passes through Mach One. The crowd cheers and claps in response. The noise isn't a steady sound. Instead the shuttle's thundering roar is punctuated by a distinct "popping" sound. This crackling is the sound of its solid rocket boosters burning at a slightly uneven pace.


Within minutes the shuttle is nothing more than a tiny glowing dot in the sky. Moments later it vanished behind a heavy cloud and my launch experience was over. A bellowing pillar of cloud slowing disapating from the launch site is all that's left to remind the crowd that a launch really happened. It's almost an anti-climax after so many hours of queuing and waiting.

Within half an hour we were back on our bus and heading home. A chronic traffic jam then engulfs the entire area as thousands head for home. It took us more than three hours to reach my hotel, a mere 43 miles away - the day's final long and agonising wait.

I know the phrase is getting cliche but that's one more childhood dream finally realised. I guess I had an active imagination as kid. Tick that box. Hooray! Atlantis has left the planet.

PS: Did I mention David Milibrand, the UK's Foreign Secretary, was on my flight to New York? I dare not admit it took almost the entire seven hour journey to finally work out who he was. Don't you hate it when someone looks vaguely familiar and you can't think why?

Ultravox

As a teenager one of my favourite bands was a British electronic pop band called Ultravox. The band was most popular between 1979 and 1985; a period that later came to be known as the Classic line-up. I bought every album during this period and enthusiastically played them at full volume for weeks on end.

The band had several hits including Vienna, which peaked at No.2 on the UK and New Zealand singles chart in 1980; and Dancing with Tears In My Eyes, which reached No.3 in the UK in 1984. It's lead singer, Midge Ure, also co-wrote the 1985 famine fundraiser, "Do they know it's Christmas?" which became the UK's fastest selling single of all time. It sold a million in the first week and stayed at No.1 for five weeks. More than three million copies were eventually sold.

Living in distant New Zealand, I naturally assumed I'd never see them play live; that is until tonight. Six months ago Ultravox announced plans for a reunion tour of the UK and Ireland. To date 19 concerts have been scheduled including one at Camden's Roundhouse venue, a short walk from Swiss Cottage. After a brief internal debate I soon had a ticket ordered and on its way.


This evening I dragged Garry down the road to see Ultravox live, fulfilling a teenage dream. For 90 minutes 25 years disappeared as the band performed my favourite tracks. I suspect I wasn't the only one in the room taking a trip down memory lane. The average age of the crowd had to be at least 40, with plenty of pot-bellies and receding hairlines in view.

However, for a brief moment, we all rediscovered our long lost youth while chanting the lyrics of their greatest hits. I never thought I'd find myself with thousands of others singing Hymn at the top of my lungs. It's moments like that make our time in the UK so unique. Ultravox live in concert? Never in New Zealand. 15-minutes from Swiss Cottage? Absolutely!