Mooching in Midtown

The Rockefeller Center, straight out of the A-league of historic skyscrapers, stands on West 49th Street, between 5th and 6th Avenue, sending up its enormous tower high into the clouds.  On our first visit, we're told there's no point ascending, as the view is non-existent, so we return the following day, when the sun is much brighter and the drizzle has ceased.  Top of the Rock - as the viewing platform is called - is the best-organised visit of our entire trip.  A timed ticket ensures we are not standing in a huge queue, and allows us enough time to wander the Art Deco lobby, and eat lunch in the plaza.  The flags are flying all around, and what's even better, there's Lego store, complete with their own take on this historic building.

The Rockefeller Center plaza

The Rockefeller Center lobby

The Center itself is actually comprised of 19 high-rise buildings, with the Top of the Rock sitting on the roof of 30 Rockefeller Plaza, currently called the Comcast Building.  The whole history of the site is something to savour, with development beginning in 1930, just as the Great Depression was starting to hit.  John D Rockefeller Jr originally planned for an opera house for the Metropolitan Opera on the site, but changed his plans following the stock market crash and Metropolitan's subsequent struggles.  As the financier himself said: "It was clear that there were only two courses open to me.  One was to abandon the entire development.  The other to go forward with it in the definite knowledge that I myself would have to build it and finance it alone."  The construction was the largest private building project ever undertaken in modern times, and the complex was completed in 1939.  You can only admire Rockefeller Jr's determination, given how many jobs he must have provided to New Yorkers at that most desperate of times.

30 Rockefeller Plaza

It takes the elevator 43 seconds to ascend the 68 floors to the observation deck, with another two flights of stairs to reach the highest visitor level.  From this vista, the views are - as expected - incredible, spanning out in all directions.  The vast expanse of Central Park lies to the north, the Hudson to the west, Brooklyn to the east, and lower Manhattan - and even the Statue of Liberty out in the misty distance - to the south.  The surrounding high-rise blocks include the famous Empire State and Chrysler Buildings, the latter being arguably the most beautiful skyscraper of them all.  From here we realise, for the first time, the scale of New York, for whilst the population of the city proper is about the same as London (8.5 million,) the urban area population of New York extends to some 23 million (London's is a little under 10 million.)  In this context, there are very few cities - four in fact - that are larger, and what unfolds under our feet and out into the horizon is nothing short of a mega city.

Top of the Rock looking south - The Empire State Building is in the centre, the Hudson River is to the right

Atop the Rock

Just around the corner from the Rock sits Radio City Music Hall, a famous entertainment venue nicknamed The Showpiece of the Nation.  Opened in 1932, the site served as a theatre and cinema, and following financial difficulties in the 1970s, was placed on the National Register of Historic Places.  Nowadays it's a popular venue for concerts and stage shows, notably hosting the Radio City Christmas Spectacular, and holding events such as the Grammy Awards, the Tony Awards, and the NFL Draft.

Lizzie outside Radio City Music Hall

Meanwhile, around the other corner from the Rock is an altogether different building, sitting unchanged and defiant amongst the skyscrapers.  The famous St Patrick's Cathedral, an oasis of peace and calm in this hectic part of town, serves as a sanctuary for the weary traveller, and is a wonderful twenty-minute stop, if only for its comfortable pews.  There's a juxtaposition to the whole experience, but such is the reverence to this old building, it has survived the development on its doorstep, despite having what must be astronomical land value.  The cathedral itself was finished in 1878, at the time dominating the Midtown landscape, and by the time the spires were added in 1888, it was the tallest structure in New York, and the second highest in the country.  Not for long, of course, with the onset of the 20th century, and now the very fact seems unimaginable. 

St Patrick's Cathedral

If you leave the cathedral and walk seven blocks up 5th Avenue, then take a left and walk three blocks along East 57th Street, you will come to the New York institution that is Bloomingdale's.  The city's premier department store was founded by Joseph and Lyman Bloomingdale in 1861, predating the Metropolitan Museum of Art, St Patrick's Cathedral and Central Park, although the opening of these sought to attract Bloomingdale's wealthy clientele to take up residency into Midtown.  There's a certain quality to the feel of the store, as we make our way up to the sixth floor for a browse at the home wear and the pool wear, inflatable lobsters, colourful towels and floating drinks holders included.  It feels as if Bloomingdale's has retained all the charm of an earlier era, and it's very easy to imagine the store in its 1940s heyday, where opulent shoppers perused quality goods in this finest of shops.

Bloomingdale's Department Store

We end one of our Midtown days at Times Square, the bustling centre of New York City, sometimes known as The Crossroads of the World and the Centre of the Universe.  Its image is known globally, blazing neon lights advertising everything from theatre to sneakers, phone networks to food outlets.  We actually crossed Times Square a number of times during our trip - all roads seem to lead here - but none was more dramatic than our night time visit, where the pavements were rammed with tourists, the bars and restaurants packed to the rafters, shops almost shaking with the rumble of cash registers, and excitement building as the curtains went up in the Broadway theatres.  We opted for the Palace Theatre's production of Sunset Boulevard, fronted by a giant of theatre, Glenn Close, playing the role of Norma Desmond, a washed-up film star from the silent era, whose dreams of Hollywood stardom in the new age of the talkies brings her to the brink.  Brilliant music and a wonderful show followed, all well worthy of the standing ovation it received at the end, with Close bringing the house down just like the billboards said she would.  On our exit, the Broadway lights give a false impression of daylight, even at 10pm, and my response is a mixture of both amazement and alarm, for this is Piccadilly Circus times a thousand - it must cost a fortune, use up boundless energy, and add humungous amounts of light pollution, but is also dazzling, breathtaking and mind-blowing in its enormity.  I guess this is why, if New York City was summed up in one single space, it would simply have to be Times Square.

Times Square

The Palace Theatre, home of Sunset Boulevard

Down Buckfast way for an otter day

Lizzie's birthday is soon upon us, which offered a stark reminder that I still owed her last year's present.  Back in June 2014, I gave Lizzie an otter experience - that is, a morning with one of the keepers at Buckfast Otters & Butterflies - but with a mortgage application, then the winter, I never actually got round to giving it to her.  A quick phone call, a couple of weeks ago, changed all of that, and so we trotted off down the A38 on a slightly muggy Saturday, Lizzie dressed in wellies, ready for a morning with some of the sweetest creatures in South Devon.  Readers of this blog may remember a previous trip to Dartmoor Otters and Buckfast Butterflies in September 2013 (click here to see that post.)  We love the place - it's a real genuine, caring, old-fashioned establishment where the people - you can tell - put their heart and soul into the upkeep of their enclosures, and the welfare of the animals.

Of course, there aren't only otters in Buckfast, and after dropping Lizzie off for her keeper experience, I took a stroll to Buckfast Abbey, home of an active benedictine monastery.  Buckfast Abbey is, in my mind, about the most spiritual place in our area.  Its tranquility consumes you as soon as you step through the gates, and there's an air of natural, peaceful safety that I just love.  The gardens, whilst not extensive, are absolutely charming, captivating even, in the warm light of the sun, now gingerly poking through the clouds.  The bountiful lavender garden thronged with bees, the sensory garden, fragrant in the morning air, and my favourite, the physic garden, home to culinary, household, medicinal and poisonous plants, based on the traditional monastic garden.  A small pond surrounded the poisonous section, and contained what at first splash appeared to be fish, but on closer inspection were in fact newts.  Delightful!

Buckfast Abbey gardens

A Buckfast Abbey bee

Lizzie, meanwhile, was having the time of her life, cleaning otter poo and preparing otter food - fish, chicks, and minced beef.  Returning from the Abbey, I caught up with her just as she was about to do the first feeding, of Asian short clawed otters.  As the photo below demonstrates, it didn't take them long to climb all over her and let's just say, she handled their fishy licks a lot better than I would have!  You don't tend to realise just how beautiful otters are (I've only ever seen an otter once before in the wild) but they are stunning creatures, brilliantly adapted to their natural environment.  Lizzie's tour continued on to European otters, and culminated in a North American rivers otter, 20-year old (and recently widowed) Splash who, despite her great age, seemed to have a voracious appetite, and strutted around her enclosure with a sense of worldly wisdom.

Feeding Asian short-clawed otters

There is, of course another reason to pay a visit here, for inside a spacious and steamy hothouse, myriad tropical butterflies (not to mention terrapins and beautiful koi) fluttered freely from plant to plant, some with wingspans the size of your hand.  I fell instantly in love with the Blue Morpho butterflies from Costa Rica, whose wingbeats are almost hypnotic to watch, and are just so perfectly formed.  In fact, I was so intrigued and interested that I ended up buying a book, The Illustrated World Encyclopedia of Butterflies and Moths, which is stunningly illustrated, and now sits pride-of-place on the coffee table.

Stunning Buckfast butterflies

We certainly came away from this little corner of the county, feeling like we'd got the most out of the morning; and hopefully the opportunity to get up close to these elusive river creatures will live long in the memory for Lizzie.

Lizzie with otter keeper Tim - thanks for a great day Tim!

The ancient Greek jewel of Siracusa

Siracusa, Sicily, arguably the most historic city on the island, if not in the whole Mediterranean, greets us with a rather smutty introduction, our train reaching its terminus station following mile-upon-mile of dirty, suffocating, petrochemical plants.  It's not quite the welcome we expected from a city dubbed "more Greek than ancient Greece", but we arrive in good spirits and set off for the Neapolis, an archaeological park north of the city centre.  The sun beats down early.  The roads are not signposted.  The city's street layout is in stark contrast to that in the guidebook.  The pavements give way, without warning, to wide roads of heavy traffic.  We take several wrong turns.  An elderly couple point us in the right direction, but even when we think we've found the site entrance, all we've actually found is a local market.  Astoundingly, getting to one of the island's most famous tourist attractions is made just about as difficult as it could possibly be.  Even when we finally get there, the ticket office is nowhere near the park, but a quick glance around reveals exactly why things are the way they are - the infrastructure for Neapolis has been purely set up to cater for the coach tour.  There are no independent travellers here, so there is nothing to assist them - why would anyone in their right mind try and walk here from the railway station after all?

Parco Archeologico della Neapolis sits in an enormous site, about a twenty-minute walk from central Siracusa, and contains the monumental remains of a once very powerful city.  We've just about beaten the tour groups here, but feeling them hot-on-our-tail, we're quick to make for the most famous site in the complex - the enormous ancient Greek theatre.  Built in the 5th century BC, reconstructed in the 3rd century BC, then modified by the Romans, it is one of the largest ever built by the ancient Greeks, with 67 rows, divided into nine sections, with eight aisles.  It's difficult to see the original edifice, covered as it is with wooden boards for modern performances that no doubt take place here year-round, but you can still get an idea of its complexity and enormity.  What I like best, however, isn't the theatre at all, but rather what lives within, for out of holes in the porous terraces dart colourful little lizards that, by my reckoning, have probably been living on this site since the Greeks first put on shows all those centuries ago.

Ancient Greek inscription at the theatre

A theatre lizard

As it turns out, the authorities at the Neapolis (and just about all the visitors too) are only interested in the theatre, and so we stroll into the nearby ancient Roman amphitheatre without even having to show our ticket.  This, too, is sizeable, but crumbling, overgrown, and far more atmospheric.  Siracusa became a Roman colony in 21BC, and the conquering army wasted no time in building themselves a further entertainment venue.  The amphitheatre is classically Roman, but has a gruesome addition - a square reservoir in the middle of the arena, in which the blood and bodies of wild beasts and wild men would be swept during barbaric competitions.  It is said that the weak and enfeebled from the audience were allowed to make their way up to this reservoir at the end of the spectacle, and drink from it, the belief being that the blood of the vanquished would make them strong again.  Somewhat disgusted, we leave, running almost immediately into a stall selling fresh blood-red orange juice.  Putting the matter of gladiatorial combat behind us, we enjoy a refreshing drink in the company of an eccentric accordionist, who provides one of those holiday moments you just don't forget.

Siracusa's Roman amphitheatre

The old town of Siracusa, called Ortigia, sits across a bridge on a small island jutting out into the sea.  We make our way there via the Catacombs of San Giovanni, an underground honeycomb in which there were once several hundred burials.  Legend has it that Saint Paul himself stopped and preached in one of the crypts on his way from Malta to Rome (Acts 28:12 states: "We put in at Syracuse and stayed there three days"), and it is well established that this is one of the earliest Christian sites in Europe, featuring many ancient tombs and frescoes.  Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your point of view), the bodies were removed during the Second World War, when Siracusans used the space to shelter from the relentless Allied bombings of 1943, but one nonetheless gets a sense of both spirituality and mortality.

The church of San Giovanni (St. John)

Ortigia comes as something of a relief after another battle with the Sicilian road system, and by the time we get to the island, we're almost too tired to explore.  Pizza revives us, and we go in search of the Temple of Apollo, built in the 6th century BC, and something of a prototype for how temples would eventually look across the entire Greek world.  A short walk up the hill, we come to the gentle Piazza Archimede, named in honour of the great Greek mathematician, physicist, engineer, inventor, and astronomer who met a sticky end in Siracusa in c.212 BC, when he was killed by a Roman soldier, despite specific instructions that he should not be harmed.  It is then only a stone's throw to the centre of Ortigia, and the magnificent Piazza Duomo, described as the "loveliest square in Sicily."  The cathedral itself (incidentally, the only church on our trip to Sicily to charge entrance, albeit a paltry two euros) is just as historic as every other part of the city, its nave incorporating another very ancient Greek temple, dedicated to Athena, and converted to a church with the advent of Christianity.  

The Temple of Apollo, Ortagia

Piazza Duomo

Beyond the cathedral, the Castello Maniace marks the tip of Ortigia, watching over the sea and keeping the city safe since AD1240.  Nowadays, the site is part-military, part-university, and although it accepts visitors, it only accepts them before lunchtime, and we are left locked out, peering through the bars of a large iron gate.  It scuppers our plan for our remaining couple of hours, so instead we browse the shops of Ortigia, which are situated on curious winding streets, all the time wending our way back to the new part of town.

A street in Ortagia

Siracusa has exhausted us, and we leave with aching legs and mixed feeling about the city.  I love the city's history, its reputation as one of the most important ancient Greek cities on the Mediterranean, and its confident nod to its past, and I do feel we've seen much more of the place than the aforementioned coach tourists.  However, Siracusa has been one very tough nut to crack, and as we pull out of the station and make our way through all those smelly petrochemical plants, I get the distinct feeling we will probably never be back.  Perhaps that fact alone makes it worth visiting this corner of Sicily; or perhaps we should have just done it by coach.

Catania Part I

That feeling again.  That rare, exuberant feeling.  The one where you step out, once again, onto the streets of a foreign city.  That foreign city smell (it's different to how cities smell at home), the signs that make no sense, the moment you almost forget to look the opposite way when you cross the road.  Fume-belching, ramshackle busses, battered old cars in faded carnival colours, graffiti over every wall ("Mafia = Merda"), illegal street sellers, beggars, stray dogs, all playing out their lives under an indomitable Mediterranean sun.  It's intriguing travel heaven, it's sweaty travel hell, and it's name is Catania.

Catania, Sicily's second city, enjoys a well-located life on the island's east coast, in the looming shadow of Mount Etna, Europe's largest active volcano.  They say Catanians love the volcano - it protects them, it defines them, but it also punishes them, most notably in March 1669, where the lava flow reached the city, broke through the defenses, and caused massive damage (24 years later, a 7.4 magnitude earthquake would finish the job.) The resulting reconstruction saw the city centre built in the Baroque style, and the local population made extensive use of black volcanic rock, which gives Catania a smouldering, weary, melancholy feel.  Nonetheless, it's our base for the week, and we arrive with all the usual excitement, our feet itching to get out and see what we can find.

Etna smokes, Catania trembles

Up the city's main street, Via Etnea, Lizzie and I grab a gelato, do some window browsing, and head for the shade of Giardino Bellini, the city's premier gardens, named in honour of the composer, Vicenzo Bellini, who was born in the city in 1801.  The well-planted, lovely park is obviously a popular choice with residents, for it is a busy place, and who can blame them - the park represents a green oasis, nestled into a sea of lava rock, a perfect place to rest awhile, to gather one's thoughts, and to watch the world go by.

Grabbing a gelato or two on Via Etnea

Giardino Bellini

The next morning, and we have a lot to tick off our list.  We're staying in Catania all week, but with all our other plans, we only really have a day or so to get under the skin of the city.  We make a short detour to the church of San Nicolo, built following the 1669 eruption of Etna, and designed to be the biggest church in Sicily.  This ambition was achieved, but at such great cost that the project was bankrupt before the interior could be furnished.  Alas, what is left is an enormous, impressive, empty space - probably the biggest empty space in Sicily - but one which is almost a sad experience, and a warning to those looking to be the biggest and the best.  As is always the case, it's what's inside that matters most.

The empty space inside San Nicolo

Leaving San Nicolo behind, it's a short stroll to the city's Roman theatre.  Not being the types to pass up the opportunity to look at some ancient ruins, we are almost too eager to enter, and as some of the first guests of the day, our twenty-euro note is accepted with scorn and derision.  Chaos ensues in the ticket booth, but they eventually scrape together the last of their change, send us on our way, and we are soon picking through stone tiers, and looking down on an ancient stage which, over the centuries, has become submerged by a natural underground stream.  Stray cats prowl in the rows, one pounces on a butterfly but misses, and we stroll around the site, which we have virtually to ourselves.  All around, old palazzos and apartments overlook the ancient structure (which actually has its origins in Greek rather than Roman culture - the Romans rebuilt here) and for the archaeology graduate, it's hard to imagine a better view.

Catania's Roman Theatre

Catania's centre is delightfully compact, so it's a five-minute stroll into the very heart of the city, which is symbolically punctuated by the Duomo.  Catania Cathedral, dedicated to Saint Agatha, is a cool retreat against the increasing strength of the sun.  Inside the surprisingly light interior, there are the usual shrines to Mary, but nowhere near as ornate or wealthy as some that I have seen in Italy, and elsewhere on the Continent.  Out on the Piazza del Duomo, the cathedral's exterior stands dominant and eternal, whilst in the centre of the square, the crowds admire a lava sculpture of an elephant carrying an obelisk on its back. Probably a prehistoric sculpture, the elephant is synonymous with the city, and can be found on the Catania's coat of arms, and on the badge of the local football team.  The sculpture itself is impossible not to like, with its playful shape and jolly grin, and may be my favourite piece of the city.

Catania's beautiful Duomo

The city's iconic elephant

A space for contemplation

There are few places in the whole county more suited to a little thought, contemplation and reflection than Buckfast Abbey.  On a Sunday spent soaking up the rays on the South Devon coast, Lizzie and I lurched in-land to pay a visit to this gem of a site, nestled in the foothills of the Moors.

Beautiful Buckfast Abbey

Part of a Benedictine monastery, the site was first recorded as having an abbey in 1018, and was believed to have been founded by either Aethelweard (Aylward), Earldorman of Devon, or King Cnut.  In the 1130s, King Stephen granted Buckfast to the French Abbot of Savigny, and a newly established abbey was home to Savignac monks.  The Savignac congregation merged with the Cistercians following financial difficulties, and thus Buckfast Abbey became a Cistercian monastery - at this time, the abbey was rebuilt in stone.

Buckfast Abbey's Cistercian Guest House may have looked like this (source: Buckfast.org)

The abbey became rich during the medieval period, through fishing and the wool trade, and Buckfast was known to be one of the wealthiest abbeys in the southwest.  By the turn of the sixteenth century, however, it was in decline, and when Henry VIII's infamous Dissolution was put into effect, Buckfast only had ten monks in residence.  The abbey was surrendered for dissolution on 25 February 1539, when the monastic buildings were left for ruins, and the monks granted pensions.  Following this, the Crown passed the land to Sir Thomas Dennis of Holcombe Burnell, and was then bought by Samuel Berry, who constructed a mansion house there in 1806, on the site of the abbey's former west cloister.  The house and grounds passed on to Dr. James Gale in 1872, who sold the site ten years later, advertising it as "a grand acquisition which could be restored to its original purpose."  The advert worked - in 1882, the site was purchased by a group of French Benedictine monks who had been exiled from their own monastery.  A temporary church was constructed, and between 1907 and 1938, the new abbey church was built.  Buckfast Abbey was consecrated on 25 August 1932, six years before building work was complete.

A drawing by W. Gaucci, 1830, depicting the gothic mansion with
the old abbey ruins to the left (source: The Dartmoor Trust)

There's a definite air around Buckfast Abbey.  It's an air of peace, simplicity, and spiritual contentment.  We wandered around its beautiful interior, which is surprisingly light and airy, and includes the stunning Blessed Sacrament Chapel, added later to provide a place for quiet prayer.  The stained glass here depicts Christ at the Last Supper; it measures eight metres (26 feet) across, and was designed and made by the monks in the Abbey's workshops.

Blessed Sacrament Chapel window (source: Wikipedia)

Back outside, we strolled through the lavender garden, sweet and subtle-scented even in early spring.  As we sat with a drink (and a tasty homity pie) overlooking the grounds, I quite fancied that I could throw it all in and live there. Essentially, it has everything you need - enough food to eat, a roof over your head, religious fulfilment, and a relationship with nature and people that is pure, untarnished and innocent.  So you can keep your internet, playstation and 24-hour news channel; In a weary world of unrest, a visit here is an enlightening little glimpse into another way of looking at the world.

The Abbey's lavender garden

Merry Christmas

But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah,

though you are small among the clans of Judah,

out of you will come for me

one who will be ruler over Israel,

whose origins are from of old,

from ancient times.

Therefore Israel will be abandoned

until the time when she who is in labour bears a son,

and the rest of his brothers return

to join the Israelites.

He will stand and shepherd his flock

in the strength of the Lord,

in the majesty of the name of the Lord his God.

And they will live securely, for then his greatness

will reach to the ends of the earth.

Micah 5: 2-4

Nativity scene from the south window, Church of St. Thomas a Becket, Tugby 

Somewhere, beyond the sea

For a relatively isolated corner of the country, we're remarkably well-connected here in South Devon.  We have two direct rail routes to London, a motorway connection to the national road network, and an international airport linking us to many far-flung corners of the world.  Furthermore, if you head down to southwest Devon, you'll find an international ferry port servicing us, in a few hours, with both France and Spain.

Last Saturday, Lizzie and I made the short drive down to Plymouth and hopped aboard Brittany Ferries' vessel, the Armorique, bound for the little French fishing port of Roscoff.  The Armorique is a lovely ferry, full of amenities - a bar, a restaurant, two shops, a cinema, a games room - a floating city of entertainment.  First stop for us; a sweet treat at the ferry's restaurant, followed by a stroll out on the breezy deck, to watch the old naval port slowly disappear from view.

Next morning, and a significant amount of cloud greets our arrival into Roscoff.  Passport control is a luxury compared to the harrowing routine of airport security, and we are let into the French Republic in ten minutes flat.  Time is brief, so we immediately make for the town centre, only a short walk from the ferry port, where the small fishing boats lay motionless in the low tide.  It turns out there isn't much to do on a Sunday morning in the town, so we take a Continental breakfast, then explore the town's principle church - Notre Dame de Croaz Batz - whose stained glass windows illuminate the grand old interior.  It is easy to feel the importance of this place to the townspeople, and I fancy I can hear the sermons, prayers and remembrance services for fishermen out on the dangerous seas, some of whom would never see land again.

The architecture of Roscoff is lovely, and the town is very pretty, clean and well-presented, the stone buildings providing a very natural backdrop to the blue-grey sea, as well as providing at least a little buffer from the punishing wind, hitting us straight off the endless expanse of water at alarming strength.  Down on the sea front, there are a few people milling around, dressed in hats and raincoats, disguising the fact that this is supposed to be a summer's day; indeed, coming off the back of a stunning Saturday, Lizzie and I are dressed only for summer weather, our short sleeves and sun hats utterly useless against this cruel twist of weather.

Following lunch at an excellent little bistro, which included sampling the local Brittany cola, we leave the town and walk out into the French countryside.  It's amazing to see how light the traffic is in-and-out of Roscoff, and we're very quickly strolling at the side of a road, surrounded by fields.  In various patches of land, totally open and unprotected, artichoke plants grow happily in their hundreds, almost as if having accidentally sprouted in the scrub land.  

Our destination is the exotic gardens of Roscoff, where for a nine euro fee, we are treated to one of the most well-planted gardens I have come across.  The gardens, which hint at a far balmier climate than we have witnessed today, are a kaleidoscope of colour, stunning even under the cloudy sky, and with an oceanic backdrop reminiscent of South Pacific.  At the centre of the gardens, a rocky outcrop with views across the Brittany countryside, the beach, and the Armorique, cleaned and ready for our departure.  The gardens were, in my opinion, the undoubted highlight of the day.

 

It's amazing how quickly five hours can pass when you're exploring a brand new place, and all-too-soon we are boarding our vessel again, and watching the French coast fade into the shroud of sea mist.  Our crossing back is a much faster affair - we will arrive back at Plymouth by 9.30pm, which gives us just enough time to take dinner on board.  A delicious chicken in tarragon sauce follows, then a visit to the bar, a wander around the top decks and some shopping in the boutiques.  Some five hours later, Plymouth comes into view and our adventure draws to a close.  

Passport control cleared, a great deal more slowly due to the staffing policies of the UK Border Agency.  Eventually, we make our way out of Plymouth, with only one wrong turning along the way, and half an hour later, we are driving through Teigngrace, our journey complete.  As we make the final turn into our countrified little road, it seems hard to believe that another country, with a different language and culture, can exist so close to our winding Devon lanes.  Yes, we're remarkably well-connected down here!