Category Archives: The Dream Trip Chapter

It’s Raining Blubber in Portree!

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Seems you guys like a good Scottish yarn too. Many of you enjoyed my last Scottish myth or fable about Scottish Botox. Since then I have remembered another absolute pearler. This was indeed the best story I heard out of Scotland. Might even top the Scottish Botox. It involves whale blubber and paint. Two ingredients for a ripper of story wouldn’t you say?

It’s all centered around the village of Portree on the Isle of Sky. It’s the largest town on the island. My memory is that it has a mean bakery. Oh my Lordy, so mean for a pregnant woman. Cheap (Like $1.75 for a pastie) and naughty (as in great, home made selection). I couldn’t get enough. Here is one of my treats I stole away with onto the tour bus.

ANYWAY. Whale blubber and paint….

Portree. It is famous for it’s colourful harbour. When I say colourful, this is precisely what I mean:

It’s the epitome of village cuteness. Cheerful too. I like cheerful villages, especially where the residents have funny (as in adorable) thick Scottish accents. This is the story about how Portree became to be so…..colourful.

Some years back, maybe a decade or two, when all good stories are born, the residents of Portree were surprised to discover a mother of a whale in their harbour. The poor lost whale decided to beach itself on these Scottish shores (why oh why do they do that??) The locals, the empathetic souls, decided to team together to get this whale back out to safety and into it’s home waters. The majority of the town felt so passionate about teaming together to save the little whale they took the day off work to help. Half the town shut down to form Team Whale! Now this kinda thing takes time but with the manpower of half the town and a whole lots of persistence, the whale was pushed back out to sea and seemingly saved! This triumph caused the town to erupt into celebration and the ole local swiftly re-opened and was fully packed out.

Many returned to work the next day with fully banging sore heads that no Berocca could help, but none the less the town felt united and uplifted by their efforts and team work. Town morale was sky high!

Of course, the whale decided it liked Portree and returned the very next day to do precisely as it had a day earlier. Beach itself. The town was devo. Morale plummeted. No one understood why this had happened, again. Some people gathered again to attempt rescue but many couldn’t take another day off work, that or they couldn’t manage to get their Hulk on with a fully fledged hang over.

Efforts, second time round where not successful. The whale died in the harbour of Portree. Sadness infected the towns spirit.

The whale sat in the harbour, and sat and sat until there was a whole lot of whale pong floating through the town. Pong like you cannot believe. Rotting whale does not make the prettiest of perfumes. The town had to meet to try and plot the burial of the whale.

There were loads of ludicrous ideas. Many a Scot wanting to play hero but mostly they had not a clue. Nothing seemed feasible. So the whale sat and sat. The town members dry reached from the vial stench upon stepping out. Their washing smelt like rotting whale. Would they forever be inhaling and smelling like funky whale corpse?

Then some dude, feigning to be Einstein, provided an idea which the desperate town accepted to dispose the whale. It involved tugging the whale corpse out to sea where a little matter of explosives would get involved. Yes, the whale would be blown up! The precise distance for the whale to be dragged out to sea had to be calculated carefully to ensure the town or neighbouring Isles would be kept clear of the exploding blubber. It all seemed sound and blow a whale day came.

A large crowd gathered to witness the great whale disposal operation. It was the biggest  (and stinkiest) thing Portree had ever seen.

The towing of the whale out to sea went to plan. The town awaited whilst the explosives were set and KABOOOOOOOMMMMM!!!!……………*Insert image of flesh flying into sky here* and…… SPLAT!

Yes, SPLAT! Like a sling shot, rotting whale blubber came flying at full pace into the faces of the shocked crowd. It was raining whale blubber.

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!  Could there actually be anything worse? There must have been a vomiting chorus from the crowd I would think for I could not imagine how putrid it was. To think I can’t even stand walking through the fresh fish aisle at the markets….

Rotting whale blubber was splattered not just over some very pale faces but over the entire harbour. Houses, washing and all. Calculations must have been a bit off. Einstein, I don’t think so.

Men and their explosives hey?

Now, you may not know this, cos like who would, but whale blubber can really stain stuff. That whale oil really soils anything it comes into contact with, including houses. The harbours houses were now fully stained with whale blubber and would be a mark of the towns stupidity forever unless someone came up with something. Alas, someone had some left over paint. Not all the same colour, but none the less it would hide the whale blubber stains and so the colourful harbour was born.

How’s that for a story?

I like to believe that it is completely fact, although the whale death is sad. Our Scottish guide assured us it was all true and that a video on YouTube could even be found of the flying whale blubber. Us travellers all made a note to find it when we returned home and of course I have searched now 2 years on but have yet to find that footage (do I really want to see it anyway?). Perhaps I’m just putting the wrong key words in? Blown up whale in Portree, Flying whale blubber in Scotland… ? Any other suggestions? If you find it… you gotta let me know right? Promise?

So yet another Scottish yarn. Is the story fib or fact? No one could make that up could they? What do you reckon??? Do you believe in flying whale blubber in Portree??

The Scottish Botox Alternative

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If you’ve travelled to Scotland you would know it’s a nation of legendary storytelling. Many a yarn and fable had been born and flogged in Scotland. So on my organised tour, you can imagine the case of RSI I developed trying to document the array myths I was partial to a zillion times a day.

I do love a good story. I listen. I relish the finer details. I believe, mostly. Let’s see if you believe too.

Way back yonder, when the clans of the McDonalds & the Campbells were cranky pants at one another they finally decided to call for peace and calm to end their bitter rivalry and bloodthirsty ding dongs. A way to overcome this was to become family. They volunteered the spunkiest young man (from the McDonalds) and most beautiful young lass (from the Campbells) and offered them up for marriage. A huge wedding was organised for their union and for what would be the end to all clan wars.

On the way to the wedding the bride was chauffeured by a swanky horse and carriage. Whilst on route, the horses got spooked and reared their heads high in the sky only for the bride to be thrown from her carriage and to be brutally bashed against the rocks below a bridge. Her beautiful face was mutilated and disfigured beyond recognition. Her eye fell out and all, so I was told. She wept for her lost beauty knowing how important her marriage truly was. I was reassured all of this story was 100% true up until this point – the rest is up to you…… Whilst laying on the rocks she was met by fairy like visions (concussion no?) who told her to dip her face in the icy waters of the river for a full 7 seconds for healing and eternal beauty. Feeling she had no alternative, the bride submerged her face in the chilly waters only for her beauty to be re-stored completely. Miraculous wouldn’t you say? She was able to marry that day as the beautiful image she always was with no trace of such a horrific journey.

It is said even today if you fully immerse your face into these waters for 7 seconds then you too will have eternal youth and beauty. Not bad. Cheaper than botox I’d say.

Of course our tour guide waited for the hoards of us to get down on the slippery rocks and dunk our heads under the freezing waters. No one seemed game. Not even with the promise of eternal beauty. What skeptics I was busin’ about with!

Leave it to the pregnant woman. Yep. I got down on my knees and my rounding belly, as uncomfortable as it was, and got my tired looking travel face under that water for something miraculous to happen. Here’s the proof.

 

It was feckin’ freezing. So freezing it took my breath away and blimey! 7 seconds is a really long time when you think you might freeze over.

Freezing enough to pull ugly faces….not quite the beauty I was hoping for. 

4 others lined up after I had my turn (out of 17!). Got their balls on. If the preggo woman can do it…

So how much flourish do you think is in this myth? Would you have dunked and experimented with this Scottish Botox alternative?

All I can say is, I haven’t aged a day since :)

 

 

 

Wordless Wednesday: When Love Finds You Far Away

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It doesn’t matter where in the world one travels a little bit of love can be found. This felt like a direct little message just for me, the pregnant backpacker who’d been away from home and partner for 5 weeks. In some way, this little piece of graffiti was a pocket of reassurance.

Where else could this be found? Paris. The capital of love.

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Madonna & I in Scotland!

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Whilst in Scotland, Madonna & I knocked about in the same outfit. The exact same one. Something quite authentic and more conservative than what you may normally find adorned in Madonna’s wardrobe and no, it was not the cone bra. You would not see me wearing that, particularly 6 months pregnant. ‘Cos like as if my inflating breasts, closely mimicking Dolly’s, would ever fit into Madonnas cone bra. No. That I will save for an appropriate 1990′s dress costume party one day, not knocked up. But we did both wear a bit of tartan plaid. The very same piece of plaid. What can I say? I like to wear that of superstars!

I should probably give you a bit of background.

Fort Augustus. Pretty little town in the midst of the Highlands on the shores of the Loch Ness. I liked the quaint place. Anywhere that has an actual Loch seems magical to me. Besides searching for Nessy, which as you can see was very serious business:

My tour group met with some mad old dude who had dedicated his life to understanding and promoting the Jacobite’s (Scottish highlanders) history, collecting their weapons, clothing, artifacts etc You could ask him anything. He was a walking Wikipedia and he was a credit to his country. He was indeed the official go to man whilst they were making Braveheart (you can read my Braveheart revelations here). He was beyond passionate. He was borderline obsessive about it all. That’s why I gave him the title mad old dude. It was appropriate if you saw how fiercely he swung swords around just centimeters from his audiences heads.

So mad old dude chose 2 people out of the group to be dressed up in a traditional Jacobite’s outfit. No one from my group seemed to be keen to volunteer which at first I thought was strange and then I remembered I was no longer with a group of actors, like at home. I, of course was more than happy to volunteer myself but I decided to keep quiet and give someone else the opportunity. None the less, mad old dude picked me regardless. See, I had the perfect look for a female Jacobite. Ranga & pregnant. Cos lets face it, the woman were always pregnant and my bump could easily be catered for in this (very sexy) outfit.

Yes. He made the pregnant woman get down on the floor, in front of an audience. A graceful moment it was too. I ask, how did a woman ever dress herself with such mechanics involved?

Bump? What bump? Who knows how many babies I could be hiding under there?

I’m looking so Braveheart here right now, yes?

Here is me and my Jacobite man. The perfect Jacobite couple (except that hair cut of mine. Yikes!). Don’t we look so becoming? And don’t you like what I’ve cooked for dinner? I have no idea why we didn’t launch into a jig right then and there ;)

So. Madonna & me, remember that? Mad old dude told me that this was the very plaid and calico dress which he dressed Madonna in when she visited Fort Augustus. Yes, she too got down on that ground. How do you think it would have looked on Madonna? Swimmingly, I would say. The male outfit was also once worn by Mel Gibson. Who knew stars would be so attracted to the plaid?

So this was when I had my little Madonna moment in Scotland. I don’t know how recent it was that she was in the outfit. I found myself being a bit creepy and wondering for a moment if my skin had touched any of her dead skin cells she may have left behind in the dress… yeah. Bit wrong.

At the conclusion of the evening when we were wandering out of mad old dudes cubby hole of a museum, he approached me and asked if I was having a boy. He wanted so much for me to be having a boy. He presented me with a DVD on the Jacobite history and asked me to show it to my little boy one day in memento of this night. Mad old dude touched me. He loved the plaid and was a weapons enthusiast but most of all he just wanted the knowledge to be passed down. The Jacobites tales to live on. Well, my future little Jacobite descendant would know of his distant ancestors and I’d tell him about mad old dude and this night. I was thankful to old man dude for that. I often think I should write to him and tell him I did have a boy and that we will one day watch the DVD together. That it was not forgotten. Little Vick will indeed love the swords and battles and gory boy stuff, it’s a certainty.

My European adventure was a string of moments like this. Let’s face it. You can travel anywhere in the world, experience and see the most gob-smacking things but it’s the people and their goodness that leaves an imprint on your heart and that’s what I love about travel and that’s what I’m thankful for this Thursday. Thankful for how rich travel can make us. Thankful for a stranger, who I know not even his real name and who I’ve knicknamed, respectfully, mad old dude. Had I not meet mad old dude I would not have shared a plaid with Madonna and this gloating story would never have been :)

 

Today I am linking up with Kate Says Stuff & her Thankful Thursday link up :)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Brave Heart of Scotland

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Scotland I anticipated greatly. It didn’t disappoint and I totally did bus about the country listening to the Braveheart soundtrack too. I know, soooo cliche. I looooove cliche. There was something so romantic about the rolling hills and the heroic myths. I had to listen to something that matched the epicness of it all. Subsequently, I actually do love the soundtrack anyway.

I did visit some William Wallace territory. The Scots love the fella. This fella:

 

He doesn’t quite wear the mullet as well as Mel Gibson does he?

But he is available for a photo outside the Edinburgh Castle every day and anyone with a hairdo like that deserves to have their photo taken even if its for mockery sake right?

 

 

 

 

The largest human monument ever to be built is in Scotland and it’s dedicated to William Wallace. That’s how much of a champ the Scots think he is.

I hiked up to this somewhat drab but totally massive looking monument situated in Sterling. Yes, Stirling - where that big bloody battle for the bridge happened which was lead by Wallace and which made such a historical difference. So I got my puff on and got my preggie belly up that steep little track so I could pay tribute to Wallace who is virtually a God to the Scots.

 

 

 

 

 

Pretty big huh? 67 meters high precisely

The view was fairly rewarding too, once I staggered to the top

Of course there is no better place to learn some home truths about the film Braveheart, other than straight from the country that was made famous by the Oscar winning film. Yes, the film is not all fact. I was surprised. Don’t know why. Isn’t that film like gospel? Well you’re now hearing the home truths from me and I heard them straight from some old dude Scot who knows this stuff, k? Seriously he was the type you’d have to believe cos he’s been living for like 200 years and you don’t doubt the old wise guy.

Firstly, the English didn’t bed the wives of the Highlanders new brides at this point in history. Not for another 300 years but it was good propaganda for us to dislike the English that bit more right? So, Will had his wifey all to himself on their wedding night however the English did steal her away later on and brutally burnt her alive in the house where they were holding her hostage. In retaliation Wallace boiled the Sheriff alive and tore his skin off his back (symbolic for what he was doing to the people by taking their money for taxes) and made it into a handle on his sword. Epic much? Wallace meant business.

Blue paint most certainly was not painted on their faces for battle or anytime at all in fact. Nor did they wear kilts at this time. The weapons were all wrong and so were the bagpipes featured. They were a few hundred years too modern.

There are numerous historical battle points of course, but it’s true they mean less to me and are more fiddly to remember, but what I was surprised to find that loyal Wallace actually nicked off to Rome and France until after the Scottish surrender. That doesn’t quite fit in with the patriotic, loyalist portrayed in the film however does it?

Lastly, his little love affair with Princess Isabella towards the end of the film – that couldn’t have happened unless there was something illegal going on. This princess was in fact a mere child (9 years old) and living in France when William Wallace supposedly was having a great love affair with her. But hey, he got a bit of hanky panky in the movie just before he died so we all felt a little bit better about it right? A man can’t die without a good shag now can he? Not in Hollywood anyway.

What can be certain is that William Wallace was a man with a brave heart. He fought for freedom (and paid the price with his life) which significantly propelled Scotland in the war for independence. He deserves to the be the nations celebrated patriot and you can probably guess what was one of the first movies I watched when I got home was?

V xxx

If you’ve missed my two earlier Scottish posts you can read them here and here.

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Oh Scotland, How You Got my Jig On!

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Last week one of my posts was about jigging with Jock the jockless piper. It was not the first nor last time I jigged child like in Scotland. Oh no. Gettin’ my jig on was not a once off occasion. It was a thing of mine. It became my Scottish photo pose. My Kodak moment.

Why? I’m still baffled myself. It just came to me each time someone got a camera out. My inner Scot perhaps? Maybe. My inner cheekiness? More likely.

I must have looked like a nuffa. 26 weeks pregnant, rounding everywhere AND giggling and kicking my heels up like I was playing Mel Gibsons wife to be in Braveheart. Not that I fancy him much at all.

Anywho. One of those moments when I was frivolously being a jiggin’ Scot-try-hard was on top of a Scottish mountain. As you do. If the whole concept wasn’t ridiculous enough before, it surely was at this point.

When I was pregnant I refused to be seen as an invalid and I did not want to slow my tour group down at all no matter what the physical task. Climbing a mountain? Sure thing. I was on it and I was ahead of half the group before you could even say Vicki do a jig! I was a hardcore traveller not to mention a hard core preggie traveller. I impressed myself at times, just quietly.

Quirang was the mountain I would conquer – in my no grip, fashion boots. This was the location for the next jig it about photo:

Pretty pretty isn’t it? Worth the hard yakka. I felt like I was up in the heavens it was so high and crazy windy. Lucky I had the weight of a few extra kg’s to hold me down. I was thankful too to snuggle into my over sized, fashion-less Rivers jacket which I detested buying pre trip (it was the only thing that would fit me and that didn’t cost me a zillion bucks).

Quirang (pronounced Cuith-Raing) is on the north east of the Isle of Skye and to get there you have to be prepared to zig zag in and out of the jagged coastline and up and down hills. It’s travel sickness material, not that I have ever been a sufferer, pregnant or not. I loved the rawness of the Isle of Skye. Boy oh boy, it’s remote. There were sheep about the place and little white stone cottages occasionally dotted along the hillsides fairing well in the blistering winds. The type of scenes you’d see in an art-house movie.

I think i was just so joyously happy to be there. To be living my dream. To be on the other side of the world. I had fought a battle to get there in many ways and I’d finally made it. That was worth jigging about and I was seeing it all with little taps in my belly reminding me I wasn’t alone :)

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Wordless Wednesday: My Big Ben Baby

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When I was in London in 2010, I had a little love affair with a tall, strapping type. I was mesmerised. His name was Big Ben. Indeed, he photographed so well I couldn’t help but take a shot or two for keeps.

He was built in 1858 and has since become one of the most prominent icons of London

He is mighty tall. 96 meters to be exact.

Heavy too. The bell inside Ben weighs 16 ton!

Have you met with Big Ben before?

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That photo with Jock the Jock-less…

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That picture, right up there. The one staring at you. The one that stares at you every time you visit Knocked Up and Abroad. Have you ever wondered what the heck I was actually doing? Or who on earth that old geezer in that bagpipe get-up is?

That old geezer is Jock. Jock the jock-less, if you believe those old Scottish yarns. Although I’m sure such yarns are just a ploy by the Scottish lads to entice woman to show some interest or curiosity in them. They who wear kilts – which we all know is just an elaborate title for a skirt…. AND I’d like to point out, it’s clearly too cold to have their nads out and about dangling in the fresh breeze in blowing an icy gale, Scotland. Just saying. Anywho, I wouldn’t know if Jock was actually jock-less and keeping up that Scottish facade. I’m a no fun conservative type, as you can tell by the picture.

Jokes aside, Jock was just waiting for me in the middle of the nippy Scottish Highlands in 2010 when I hoicked by pregnant (expanding by the every European pastry I had) butt over to the other side of the world to get myself a worldly education. Scotland was my second stop on the itinerary (following England). It is my homeland (on one side of the family anyway). Not too hard to believe considering my obvious pale, ranga state. I wanted to get a feel for my place of heritage and not just skim over it so I booked a week long tour of the Highlands (still skimming it really) with an eclectic group of people who became my family for the week. This tour groups name was inspired my rounded awesomeness. We were called Clan McUptheduff. I was the front lady or mascot, or whatever, of course. The first knocked up type to travel on a Haggis bus tour apparently. Although I suspect the young, twinkly eyed lad of a tour guide has probably knocked up a few of his guests whilst on the actual tour (he did have a sleep over with one of the travelling ladies on my tour. Obviously I wasn’t contraceptive enough).

So we’re on this little bus, zig zaggin’ in between all the cliffs and bends and then we came to a stop and right there at a little look out (the one overlooking the Loch that is shaped like Scotland) was Jock. Standing and playing the bagpipes. How he got there one would never know considering he had not a car from what I could see. Perhaps he is a character from Brigadoon who just drifts in and out of the mist. I’d believe it. There was definitely something mystical about it all AND he didn’t say a word. Just played his pipes.

I am a fan of the odd so I was off the bus in a preggie second and side-ling up to him for a snap shot. He didn’t even seem to note my up the duff state nor the fact that I started to jig about him. Well, why not? Wern’t we in Scotland? And wasn’t there music being played? And don’t I have the jig built into my genes? Well OK… I was more making fun of it all, but it was just that, FUN. I guess he’s seen it all. He was probably just happy I wasn’t lifting up that kilt of his to check if those rumours are true….

One day I want to visit Scotland and try and find Jock, the mystical bagpiper again.

I love this photo. I guess that’s why it has become the banner for Knocked Up and Abroad. I get so many compliments about it. Do you think it should stay as my banner or be updated to something more Mummy bloggy appropriate? These are my current contemplations. Your input would be appreciated :)

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Oxford Street, A Red Double Decker Bus and (Knocked Up) Me

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I had never found myself so far from home when I arrived in London in 2010. After a little email home after my arrival, I actually started explorations and officially became a knocked up tourist in this journal entry. Here is the recollections of day one of the Dream Trip Chapter in London.

12/5/10

Today was the day I made my big debut as a serious Brittish tourist. It was the big day one. I was hitting London town and I was excited, ready to obsorb and to be perfectly frank, slightly poopin myself.

None the less, I was more than ready to get into it. I mean, I was destined to be good at this. I had waited a good length of time for it to happen, so I would know what it was I should be doing right? I would have all the sites memorised and I’d be a historical know it all. I should practically be a walking  Lonely Planet Guide. Nup. I don’t know exactly what I’ve been planning, but I have zilch action plan now I’m actually here. Lucky I have my real Lonely Planet Guide in hand.  

I followed Sonia my Londonaire host extraordinaire into the city where she was finding her way to work like half the masses. The other half were like me. Strangers to the city. Ready to explore and discover Queen Elizabeth’s almighty town.

Sonia left me behind at some underground station. I came up to the light. It was my big moment. This is the moment I thought I’d know what to do. Truthfully, I was just happy I made it out of the underground without complication. I hit the pavement. I looked around. Surprsingly the streets were relatively deserted. Where’s the exciting bussle? The metropolis of London? Not even London likes 8am. I want to hit the street running but remind myself I can take my time. I have a lot of time….. don’t I? Maybe? Yes, yes, you do, slow down Vicki. You’re here for a week. Don’t birth your baby just yet. I scan the street to determine my location. Oxford Street. Doesn’t look much. Probably a back street of nothingville. No palace or historic building or anything of particular note was hitting me in the face. I seemed surprised about that. Instead I am left wondering what my next step should be and which way up the street I should wonder. I know my sense of direction has never been too sharp so I give in. Damn. Have to pull out my Lonely Planet to determine, well, everything. First little fail. Couldn’t even get my crap together at the starting blocks. 

I scan my second hand, Brittish Lonely Planet guide to find the section on London. My bible. My saviour to be. My everything for the trip ahead. My life was in it’s hands. I scan. Page 110, 111, 112, 113…………..page 147? I look again. Definitely goes from 113 to 147…. Don’t tell me, please don’t tell me…. yes. London has be removed. Torn out, in fact. My bestie Penne who leant me her guide was obviously fond of removing relevant pages for her travels. Saves carrying the heavy clump of a book around right? Great motto. Great if you’re not me and that is why I will never borrow a Lonely Planet Guide again (by the way, this is only time second hand hasn’t worked out so great for me. I am still a full advocate for pre loved everything else, besides undies).

Anxiety hits immediately. I have no map to determine my location or how to get out of it. Not one single map of London??? This place is HUGE. No information. NOTHING. DAY ONE. Gulp.  

Woman. Get. A. Grip. As far I checked last, the people of London speak English.

I know I had said previously, my motto was to get lost and look foolish but I was feeling a little nervous about the concept now. I fumbled for the next half an hour or so. Wondering up that strip on Oxford Street but not really going anywhere. The shops gradually opened and I was drawn in like a moth to a light. London fashion, HELLO! Oxford Street…. now it dawns on me. THE OXFORD STREET. Perhaps hailed as one of the worlds most exciting shopping strips. I WAS THERE!!! I naturally wanted to purchase. It was overwhelming. It was all beyond amazing. I must buy one of everything. Neutical and floral is the hit of the season. My favourites. I knew they were the next big thing. I need to get the word back to my girlfriends in Oz. Then I did what all pregnant woman should never do when in the surrounds of high fashion……. I looked in a mirror. The self crucifixion began. I’m so fat…. horrendously fat.There’s an elephant in the shop wearing a maternity top from Kmart and an over sized grey puffer jacket from Rivers, which the mere site of wants to make me kill myself (it was the only thing under $50 that fit me before I left). I don’t usually look like this. Please know that. I was talking to the the retail assistants, in my head, who resembled insipid but very attractive candles. I purchased a pair of two pound spotty sunglasses (they’re in too) and left the shop smothering down my old self and giving myself a stern talking to about what is important, now. I’m here. I’m in London. You don’t need floral leggings that will give you camel toe and a sailors hat. I’m not sure I was entirely convinced, but I left with just the sunglasses anyway.

I stepped back out on the street. A red double decker bus swooshes past. I sigh back into my reality….red double decker buses…I’M IN LONDON! WOOOOOOOO……Let’s get it on London town. My mojo is back.  

I ran (ok ok… I did a preggo run which is a fast waddle where I was silently hoping I wouldn’t slip or have an awkward fall in public) to the bus stop. I pay my 25 pounds for my all day ticket, take my geeky tourist ear phones (seriously, they don’t recycle those I hope do they?) and find a seat up the back. All was good again. I had no idea what I was going to see but I reckon I was on the right track. Besides I could hardly call myself a true London tourist if I hadn’t experienced one of the big red buses right? They are hailed as Englands national iconic symbol after all.

I felt exhilerated and delighted as the bus took off. I audibly gasped at the fairly tale buildings which snuggly fit together down the skinny stone streets. Pure wonderment filled me up. I peered at a particularly pretty building wondering what prestigious somebody owned it. Turns out it was just a public toilet block. Sheesh. This place is magical. I am living a fantasy.

 So there I was on that double decker bus which was just about the right size to fit my big pregnant butt on, breathing in all the fancy foreign sights, listening to the hectic London soundscape and cuddling into my over sized, want to kill myself grey, puffer jacket to protect myself from the London nip (it was about 10 degrees). I was being more of a stereo typical, Nanna style tourist than I’d hoped, but I was living it and loving it and that ain’t bad for the first half of the first day now is it?

Me on the double decker wearing my new spotty sunglasses (I wonder why they were so cheap???)

The double decker red bus story is to be continued….

V xxx

 

Wordless Wednesday: There’s An Elephant on Brighton Beach!

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How much your life can change in a matter of a year, or two.

This time 2 years ago I was in England. Ready to embark on a all girls English road trip. Ultimately we would visit Bath, Stonehenge, Stratford Upon Avon, Newquay and sunny Brighton.

Whilst in Brighton we were blessed with a “heat wave”. The locals literally left work, took their shirts off and headed to the white pebbled beach to pretend they were actually having a summer. You would think it was 47 degrees. It was not. It was 22 degrees and possibly the only glimpse they would ever get of the sun, one would think. So I joined in with the spirit.

The way people stared at me, you would think an elephant had stepped onto the beach.

If you want to follow Vicki re-telling her knocked up European adventures, follow along on Facebook.