​Dear Disneyland,
 
I first made your acquaintance way back in 1992 with my then boyfriend (later husband) on our first ever trip together.  You had been opened for about 27 years at that stage.
 
You were only the four lands – Frontierland, Fantasyland, Adventureland and Tomorrowland.  You also had a robotic/virtual image of Walt Disney himself telling people how his dream came to life.  This was in an auditorium, but I was unable to find it again on my return many years later.
 
There were also quite a few little booths where photos could be taken of people dressed up as Civil War soldiers, ladies of a similar period, American Indians, cowboys, etc.
 
I remember there was the Disneyland Express train which ran around the perimeter and there was also a monorail.  We travelled on both of these.  I remember stopping at the Disneyland Hotel on the monorail where you could get a “pass-out” and then return whenever you wanted to on that day.
 
Another of your rides was Thunder Mountain.  We had no idea that it was a rollercoaster inside a very dark area.  When you broke back out into the light, there was a rather steep drop into water.  We only rode on you that one time.
 
People were required to line up to go on the rides and I found that everyone was very polite with no pushing or shoving.
 
I next saw you soon after you celebrated your 60th birthday (around 2016).  Things had changed quite a bit. The Disneyland Express and monorail were still there, but now the California Adventure Park had been opened and quite a lot of more new rides were there.
 
To me, the California Adventure Park is geared more towards the little kids and not so much as us big kids, but it was very interesting in seeing and experiencing this new area.
 
I remember standing in line for one of the Star Wars rides, when all of a sudden there was a very loud bang from behind.  Some people screamed in fright, others jumped and on looking around to see what had happened. I noticed a Stormtrooper standing next to a steel cabinet with his hand resting lightly on top.  I have no idea whether he used his fist or what to make the noise, but he certainly got people’s attention.
 
My fondest memory of my last visit was seeing the night-time parade, having not witnessed it on my previous trip.  It was really spectacular and something I would really like to see again.
 
I certainly hope that I may be able to do this again in the next couple of years, but who knows whether or not this will actually happen.
 
Until then…………..
 
Joan
 
 

​We arrived in the United Kingdom on September 3, 2009. I had Long Service Leave and was keen to show John my country of birth.  Little did I know, it was to be another country that captures my imagination to this day. A place I would never have thought to have had such a strong connection.  Turkey.
 
Cousins Malcolm and Sharon had purchased a villa on the outskirts of Antalya, in Augustus Village. They were excited to show us and had booked four flights, giving us four days to recover from the trip from Australia.
 
To say we were nervous, would put it mildly. News from Turkey could be frightening, with fighter planes flying back and forth across the border. Still, we had to trust their judgement.
 
After a five-hour flight, we arrived at Augustus Village in time to hear Mecca from the local Mosque. The apartment was lovely.  We planned our day. A quick couple of hours sleep, before taking off in the hire car.
 
First stop was to the local food store armed with a translation book. Obviously not needed for veggies, meat or tin food, but if I wanted to make scones or pancakes, I had to know how to recognise plain and self-raising flour.
 
On return, we had a cold lunch, before heading for the pool. We had an early night to ready ourselves for what became two weeks of heaven.
 
Up, with the sound of Mecca, I made pancakes for breakfast. We then headed for the car.
 
Our first sight of the Mediterranean Sea was amazing. We proceeded through a little village called Gundogdu, before arriving at Fizz Beach. The beach was pristine, white soft sand, the water calm and clear.  We sorted out our beach chairs and laid our towels on them. Kicked off our sandals and headed for the water. We spent most of the day there, ordering our food and drinks from waiters who worked for the local restaurants.
 
Wherever we went for a day’s outing, we usually arrived back at the complex for a swim in our pool, before heading for a shower, then dinner.
 
Another terrific beach was Belek beach.  It had the same beautiful sand and clear water as Fizz. A wooden boat sitting in the sand was a restaurant. Very expensive, but worth a few trips.
 
One evening we went to a Cabaret. Isset, a young man from the complex, offered to drive us, so that our men could enjoy drinks. We just paid for his ticket. The dancers were gorgeous; the girls, especially beautiful. They picked men out of the crowd to dance with, mainly rotund men with big egos. It was hilarious. Well worth the $20 per person it cost.
 
Other memorable places visited were the Manavggat Waterfall, Serik Market, and the Green Canyon.
 
Departing, after fourteen wonderful days with Malcolm and Sharon, John and I gave Turkey the big thumbs up.

Jan Nichols
​May 2025

"Dear Budapest,

Cruising down the Danube one night in May 2017, we arrived at Budapest the capital of Hungary.  It was mesmerizing sailing under the Liberty Bridge, one of two bridges in Budapest, and seeing the fairytale Parliament buildings all lit up.  It was one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen.  The river was quite choppy, and the lights reflected off the water.  We were all on the top deck of our boat, totally spellbound by the beautiful lights.  The waiters were handing out schnapps and even though it was cold we soon warmed up.

The captain sailed our boat past the Parliament buildings and back to our moorings so we could get the full view of this spectacular sight.  It was truly magnificent. ​

​Budapest is rich in history and was ruled under Communism until 1989.  The evidence of this cruel regime is everywhere with bullet holes in many buildings.

As I mentioned, there are two bridges in Budapest connecting the old Buda and the new Pest.  They were originally two separate cities. The Liberty Bridge or Chain Bridge is covered in love locks.  These are an international symbol of love and romance.  The other bridge is called the Margaret Bridge which is of a traditional bridge design with arches.

Buda is known for its beautiful thermal baths, swimming pools and saunas which date back centuries.   

The Pest side is where the market hall is.  As we strolled around the ground floor with its fresh vegetables and meat stalls, we were taken aback by the smell of the aromatic spices used in making their traditional dish, the Hungarian Goulash.   We then ascended the stairs to the first floor where the beautiful craft stalls and souvenirs awaited, and wonderfully embroidered tablecloths and clothes sold.

Our day of exploring soon came to an end and we returned to our cabin thinking about all the sights and sounds we had experienced in this fascinating city.  We were flying out of Budapest the next day, but we were left with beautiful memories of a wonderful city.  

Cheers


Robyn Desmier"

Robyn Desmier
April 2025

They say “absence makes the heart grow fonder’.  If this was love for a place I longed to visit, ‘The Cedars’ - Hans Heysen the artist’s wonderfully preserved home, studio and garden at Hahndorf, South Australia - was it.   A living museum I had waited several years to visit, having missed doing so on a previous trip to Hahndorf. 

The family home holds a collection of Hans and his daughter Norah’s art.  The rooms are as they were when the family were/lived there.  I could imagine sights and smells of their daily life.

The garden wrapped around the home, showing much love and care to maintain it as it had been, nestled in the shade of the original Cedar trees.

I stood by the small picket gate that opened to the garden, taking in the warmth of the morning sun.

My wish fulfilled, an 80th birthday gift from my family.
 

"Querida México (Dear Mexico),

I am writing to you to thank you, almost forty years later, for allowing me recover in your beautiful country after an exhausting year teaching in Canada in 1982. 

My friends Peter and Anne had bundled me on to the early morning train at Kamloops Station in late December 1982, my overnight bag full of papers which I needed to finish marking before my students returned after their short Christmas/New Year break.  I wouldn’t be returning to ‘Kam High’, where I’d been on an International Teacher Exchange for the past year.  Looking up from time to time to the terraced views of the Canadian Rockies, this marking needed to be returned before I left Canada after visiting friends in Vancouver to say farewell. 

The next leg of my journey would be from Vancouver to Mexico City, before returning via LA to Melbourne for the beginning of the school year at a new school in Melbourne’s bayside suburbs. 

The timing of my trip to visit you was fortunate.  I arrived at the Bureau de Exchange of the Aeropuerto Internacional de la Ciudad de México to discover that there had been a significant devaluation of the currency overnight.  My US traveller’s cheques fetched at least twice as much as I had expected!  Flush with funds, I booked in to a small, comfortable hotel suite in the beautiful central area of Mexico City rather than my usual single room in a fairly basic hotel.  How wonderful!  I was so tired after my year teaching in Canada.  I remember sinking into the comfortable bed, sleeping for hours and having meals delivered to my room, before eventually venturing out to the hotel restaurant and then on to the streets below.

The Mexico City I remember, the city of artists Diego Riviera and Frida Kahlo, was a city of wide streets, blue high altitude skies and temperate weather.  I’d arrived during the smog free Christmas to New Year holiday break.  Industries had closed.  Many people had left the city to visit families in rural areas or to take a break at one of Mexico’s many beachside holiday destinations.  The Art Galleries and restaurants which remained open in the city were by no means crowded, the people friendly and welcoming.  I eventually surfaced to explore the city, to undertake day trips to Mayan temples.   I particularly enjoyed discovering restaurants and finding waiting staff who had time to chat – I’d lived in Spain five years earlier and was thrilled to speak Spanish again.  Indeed, this was one of my reasons for choosing to return home from Canada via Mexico.

Just as I’d sought out the flamenco restaurants in Madrid, I sought out Mariachi music in Mexico.   In Mexico City (and later in Acupulco and the beach resort of Ixtapa on the Pacific Ocean), I came across Mariachi bands at local markets, restaurants and theatres.   I also followed up the music of a singer I’d seen perform in Madrid, Nacha Guevarra, who was living in Mexico.  On New Year’s Eve, I shared my table with a handsome traveller, recently divorced and keen to have company.  Serenaded by a mariachi band, we were the only diners in the restaurant.

An interest in matters political also tends to surface during my travels.  I had received a letter from friends in my social justice oriented embroidery group at home in Daylesford.  They were working to raise awareness of the work of ‘The Mothers of the Disappeared of El Salvador’ and understood that they had a base in Mexico.  My task?   To locate, and hopefully make contact with, ’The Mothers’.  I love having a project while I am travelling, however found this task enormously difficult.  I contacted a group of women’s lawyers who might have been able to give me a lead.  They couldn’t do so, however were keen to tell me about the work they were doing to raise the profile of women lawyers in Mexico’s legal system.  I sought out alternative music stores for possible leads – again without success.  One store owner showed me artwork and let me listen to cassettes of the music of El Salvador, including a revolutionary song written to lead its disenchanted people through the task of assembling a gun.  (I wonder if that is in an intelligence gathering file on me somewhere?)  Somehow I managed to bring the artwork and cassettes back to Australia to show my friends in Daylesford, eventually giving them to a young musician, an exile from Chile. 

After a year in Kamloops, in the hinterland between Vancouver and Banff in Calgary, I found myself longing to see the Pacific Ocean again.  I left Mexico City’s bus station bound for Acapulco, a rather windy but interesting journey, buying simple silver rings embedded with amethyst at Taxco along the way, rings not worn for decades, long ago taken to a local opportunity shop.

My recuperation continued rather blissfully in an historic, still beautiful but needing refurbishment, hotel in Acapulco situated high up on a hill side, its view of the ocean including the cliffs of La Quebrada where I could watch the world-famous cliff divers in amazement.  A grand old hotel which had seen better days, I loved its views and the the ocean breezes which swept into my room which look towards the ocean and opened out onto beautiful arched arcade balconies.  Time was spent sitting looking out towards the ocean from the balcony of my room, walking along the beaches, enjoying the relaxed lifestyle, enjoying mariachi music when I could find it, and at times listening supportively over dinner to another rather handsome man who had been recently widowed.  I don’t remember details.   I think I just relaxed and continued to let the stress of the past year leave my body and soul before returning to Melbourne for another busy year. 

My final week was spent at your beautiful beach at Ixtapa, north of Acapulco, a restful way of completing my year away in preparation for another busy school year.   I remember many hours spent walking along the beach, interrupted by a leisurely siesta after lunch, a swim, then an early evening stroll along the beach before dining at a beachside restaurant.  I felt so relaxed, indeed quite restored, when I eventually boarded the plane for San Francisco en route to Australia. 

Mission accomplished!

Gracias por todo, México.

Con mucho cariño,

​
 
Beverley Lee
Febrero 25, 2021

"The sun was kissing the terracotta rooftops, bidding farewell to another day and casting long shadows on the cobbled street. Slowly people were gathering, as though they had been waiting for this precise moment in time to emerge from their hiding places. Music could be heard faintly wafting into the Plaza and mingling there with the sounds of people greeting friends. The smell of food beckoned me.  I realised that my stomach was protesting that it had been too long since my last meal.

Absolutely nothing around me was familiar as I wondered how it could be that just days ago I was standing in my kitchen moving through the drudgery of preparing the evening meal for my family. The daily grind, nothing alarming, but seriously boring, was now consigned to another place and time. For now, my feet seemed to move more easily than usual and I wondered at the freedom that travel to this place had brought to me.

At the doorway Cara, my daughter, hesitates, not sure if the eatery would suit me.  Any place where I don’t have to cook and clean up qualifies as perfect!  Kevin, now keenly embracing this new experience, pushes past Cara to the interior of the cafe and proceeds to strike up a conversation with the bewildered Spanish barman. Looking up, he greets us with a smile and welcome “Hola”, before slipping easily into English, at once making us feel at ease.

We sit near the window, Cara and I, sipping our sangrias while waiting for my husband James to emerge from the Church that sits inside this magical Plaza.  Kevin continues to chatter to the barman, making himself at home on the barstool. He’s discovering that conversation comes easily in this exotic place.

The minutes turn into hours and the Sangria flows freely.  Every now and then I wonder how it is that I’m here, living in this moment and drinking Sangria as if it were water. Where is the responsible middle-aged woman I am, where did she go?  James has joined us, food has been ordered and consumed and dusk has given way to the night.  Around us, the bars and cafes have filled with noisy groups enjoying life. I get the idea that this is not a unique experience for these Catalans.  I envy them this place, this way of life.

I’m aware that the hour has turned very late, and that I have not stayed out as late since I was a woman without responsibilities - that time BC (before children). We wander now through the maze of cobbled streets, vaguely aiming for Las Ramblas and our temporary accommodation.  

Music wafts out from late-night bars and since my inhibitions are already dulled by the many Sangria we have enjoyed, I declare we should investigate each and every source of music. The journey to our lodgings becomes very slow as we variously find ourselves in small bars tucked down unassuming laneways. I’m tipsy and giggling and laughing like a young girl.  James too is in high spirits and we find everything funny.   A window display of toilet paper takes on an energy of its own. Official looking guards monitoring the comings and goings of a function that looks like something serious could be happening attract our mirth.  Our hearts are light as we wander about this fabulous place.

Ah, Barcelona.  

A song comes on the stereo and my memories return …  

And you and I we're flying on an aeroplane tonight
We're going somewhere where the sun is shining bright
Just close your eyes
And let's pretend we're dancing in the street
In Barcelona
Barcelona
Barcelona
Barcelona

(Ed Sheehan)"


Michelle Aitken,
February 2021

​In 1993, I spent three weeks in Siberia with a small group of International ornithologists. We were invited to enter Russia on scientific permits.
​
"The midnight sun cast a deep golden glow across the Arctic tundra. It's 1.25 a.m. and the Earth is hushed as I walk alone across its soft green carpet. This is a vast remote area with shades of green and brown treeless tundra as far as the eye can see. The deep golden light of the low angle of the sun spreads gently across this wonderful landscape.

The predominant feature here is a deep silence. Every brief sound seems subdued at this magical time. The silence is broken briefly by the cry of a distant loon, or the unexpected  splash of a paddle being dipped into the water as two youths clad in reindeer skin clothes row silently across the lake to the conical reindeer skin tents of the Chukchi reindeer herder’s camp.  A faint peel of spontaneous laughter comes from happy children who are still out playing. We have been told that the Chukchi are night people and sleep very little in the summer.

​Heading off into the distant landscape I am often wading through ankle deep water. Wild geese are calling in the distance. On a dry patch of land small mouse like creatures scurry down into holes in the ground. I have disturbed a colony of lemmings!

The sun sinks lower and the chill is setting in as the light fades to yet another subdued shade of its golden hue. Wild geese, sounding like lost souls, are again calling to each other in the distance.  Reluctantly, I turn back towards the shore of the lake and my small green tent where Janet will already be asleep.

We flew here yesterday afternoon in an ancient Russian helicopter that had a dirty oil exhaust stripe across its orange paint work.

These helicopters usually have a crew of four. It’s Sunday so we only have a pilot who is not in uniform, with his bottle of vodka  under the seat. Hessian bags of supplies for the reindeer herders are piled in the centre between our seats. Lying on top of the bags is a very inebriated local who is cadging a lift to somewhere further out! 

After half an hour’s flying the cloud thickens. The pilot asks if anyone has a map. He is lost. No one has a map! It’s a case of just flying around to find where the herd is grazing.

We land beside some tumble down ancient huts, the home of a ranger who looks as if he has been here for years. We are in luck; by chance there are three families of reindeer herders camped on the other side of the lake.

​We visit the herders and are welcomed into a large reindeer skin tent. There is a fire in the middle of the tent and a hole in the roof for the smoke to escape. One side of the tent is pegged up for ventilation. They are an extended family from grandfather down to a baby clad in a reindeer hide suit suitably padded with moss for a napkin. We sit on reindeer hides on the floor and drink mugs of tea. Our expedition leader is our interpreter.

​The herders are nomadic.  All their tents and possessions are moved on sledges pulled by reindeer.

Since the collapse of the Soviet Union the Chukchi now own some reindeer. Previously they were all owned by the state.

The next morning we notice a strange brown cloud moving on the horizon. It’s the herd! They are bringing them in, slowly grazing them in our direction; thousands of reindeer with the herders walking quietly amongst them.

It’s a treasured memory on a hot summer’s night. Now it’s only in spirit that I traverse the marshy tundra on top of the world, beneath the golden light of the midnight sun."


Bev Morton
February 2021

​"Dear Scotland,

After many years, I have fallen in love with you.

Our first visit was nothing spectacular.  We went to some of the traditional tourist spots, staying in a different place many nights.  We visited Edinburgh for a couple of nights and we visited Inverness.  We had a couple of days on Skye.  After leaving Skye, we headed south, visiting Hadrian’s Wall.  I cannot remember much of that visit.  After leaving you, we visited Ireland, where we were stuck for a few days as a result of the Icelandic volcano stopping all air traffic.  This is what I possibly remember most of that holiday touring Italy, the UK and Ireland.

It was our 2018 visit that focussed on Scotland before heading to Nova Scotia (New Scotland) in Canada.  That is when I fell in love with you.  We stayed for 3-7 days in most places.  We saw and learnt so much, I cannot identify a single highlight.

Our first stop was Perth.  Although we needed to fight jetlag a little, we managed to see quite a lot of great places around the region.  After the first night’s sleep we visited Scone Palace, The Black Watch Museum and Castle, and then Perth itself.  We did get lost but we eventually found our way back to the car.  An interesting visit was to Innerpeffray Library established in the 17th century.  This was a great collection, and we were even allowed to touch most of the books.

Our next stop was Inverness.  We had been there eight years earlier, but only had an overnight stop.  This time we were able to explore a little more of the region.  One stop when in Inverness is of course Culloden.  This time we were able to explore the field (it had been wet and miserable the previous visit).  I even found the marker for the Stewart clan, my forebears.  A standout find in Inverness itself was a bookshop – new and old books and ranging over several levels.  We could have spent days wandering and browsing.

It was as we left Inverness and headed further into the highlands that I really started to fall in love with you.  I can still picture driving up the west and north coast.  We did stay in a couple of places for only one night each, but this was part of the plan for seeing the west and north coasts on our way to catch the ferry to Orkney.

We spent five days exploring Orkney Islands.  Our base was in Kirkwall on the east of the main island.  Here we explored ruins, cathedrals and even managed a craft drive over the few days we stayed.  Our location was perfect, right on the edge of the town.  The unit we rented was a little inconvenient as it was upstairs, with the bedroom up a further flight of stairs.  Still, with such a perfect location we did not complain too much.  We even found a pub where there was a music session every night for Tim to participate in.

From Orkney Islands, we caught another ferry.  This time we headed to the Shetland Islands.  More ruins, cathedrals and craft to explore.  Our unit on the main island of Shetland was not located as close to the main town of Lerwick but was more comfortable.  One exploration was to the island of Unst, the most northerly permanently occupied island and found the most northerly home.  And we found our way south as well.  Some of the smaller islands got missed due to timing.  Highlights for me included the Shetland Textile museum and Jamiesons Wool Shop.

We finally left Shetland for a couple of days in Glasgow before leaving you for Canada.

You are my overseas love and I look forward to seeing you again at some stage in the future."


Joy Shirley
February 2021

'Annamult, in County Kilkenny, Ireland, is a rural area of rich farmland and villages.  Annamult, which means the ford of the wethers, has been recorded since earliest times, with Christian sites, Norman castles and monastic  activity all leaving their mark. '
 
Dear Annamult,
 
I first laid eyes on you in February 1971 when I arrived in Ireland accompanied by my husband Brian and one year old daughter. We had travelled from Melbourne to catch up with my parents and some of my brothers whilst Brian was employed as a teacher in a nearby county.
 
My parents had bought a rundown classical Georgian house at Annamult i n  1964/5.  The house, originally built in the 1700s and updated in 1825, was situated at the junction of your two rivers, the Nore and the King. Surrounded by 26 acres, it was an ideal family house for six of my brothers.
 
Upriver from our house on the King river were the remains of your once famous Merino Mills. Set up in the eighteenth century, they fell into disuse in the 1940s. These ruins could be accessed via a woodland path, although the location of the mill was just outside the boundary of the house grounds.
 
We were lucky enough to spend all of 1971 and half of 1972 at  Annamult, so it was more a case of a developing love affair than "love at first sight".  Living in Annamult and getting to know the locals was a voyage of discovery. Whilst my husband worked, I learned the secrets to baking Irish soda bread listening to a neighbour with a beautiful Irish accent who took us under her wing.  We collected our milk from another neighbour, whilst our eggs were collected from a neighbour known as 'Mrs. Egg McGrath' to distinguish her from other members of her family.
 
In February 1972, our second daughter was born in the nearby city of Kilkenny,  thus strengthening our bond with you.
 
I have made several trips back to Ireland in the intervening years, sometimes alone, sometimes with Brian and once with our four children. I always spent the greater portion of my time in the area.  Regardless of the changes to the Irish economy due to entry into the European Economic Community,  you have managed to retain the peace and serenity I always associate with you.
 
In July 2004, my father passed away and I returned to spend time with my mother.  This was to be my last stay as the house was sold shortly after. I have made a few trips ·since then, always managing to find my way back to see you, even if for only a fleeting visit.
 
The house was destroyed by fire in 2009.  The new owners were required to rebuild it, so the house I knew and loved is no longer there. However, I still visit and admire its location.
 
Annamult, my last visit to see you was in 2018.  I had hoped to visit again in 2020, but COVID intervened. Who knows if I’ll return?  If I can’t, you will always  remain in my memory.
 
I do hope your people and the area are remaining safe,coping with lock-down and surviving the pandemic.
 
Best wishes,
 
 
Margaret McCrohan

​In May 1999 we visited our daughter in California. Helen had left Australia to work as an occupational therapist in the United States for one year, but had stayed five years.  We had just sold our farm and decided to take the opportunity to see what was so wonderful about the USA that had kept her there. We soon found out!

A highlight of our trip was a drive up the west coast from Los Angeles to San Francisco and on to Yosemite National Park. Helen decided to take time off and drive us. The west coast was beautiful, similar to our Great Ocean Road, and San Francisco was eye opening, especially the Golden Gate Bridge and nearby Muir Wood, but nothing prepared us for the beauty of Yosemite National Park.

Our first glimpse was of a waterfall in the distance, looking back through a steep valley in the mountains. Yosemite is part of the Sierra Nevada Range—varying from 2000ft to 13000 ft above sea level.  The park includes alpine wilderness, groves of giant sequoia (red woods), and a long valley caused by thousands of years of weathering and erosion due to glacial action. Rugged peaks and huge round granite domes were formed , and waterfalls and lakes, amid wide meadows and pine forests.

My dearest Trim,
​
You are never far from my thoughts. It is six years since I last visited you. I had planned to see you in 2020 but the nasty Covid-19 virus sweeping the world, prevented me from travelling. My fondest wish is see you one more time before I leave this earthly world.
 
My father’s family lived and worked within your ancient boundaries. He was born in your bosom and died there too. He always wanted to take his last breath in the place where he was born. He was granted that wish, which would have made him happy. Although born in Trim, he was wrenched from his home before he reached the tender age of five due to the death of his parents. It was another deadly virus that took his mother from him in 1918-the Spanish ‘flu’.
 
Despite growing into adulthood in a different locality, his heart was always with you. All through my childhood he took me to visit you several times each year. We would go to the ruins of your historic castle on the banks of the Boyne River. He would tell me some of its history, informing me it was the largest Norman castle in Ireland and was built in 1172. We would eat the lunch we had taken with us, within its thick stone walls, feeling as though we were dining at a banquet of the former owners, the de Lacy’s, de Geneville’s or the Mortimers.
 
Next we wandered round the Yellow Steeple that had been part of an Abbey founded in the sixth century. The steeple was a refuge for your people from the Vikings. Because the Boyne is navigable from the coast to Trim, it was easy for those invaders to arrive at your beautiful setting to loot and plunder.
 
Then my father would take me to the cemetery searching for his parent’s graves, lifting fallen headstones, trying to decipher the faded and eroded text. We never did find my grandparents final resting place during those forays.
 
Next we went to see the Duke of Wellington monument. My father’s family home and business was close by. The monument was part of his early childhood. Unfortunately the buildings that belonged to his parents have now been demolished to make way for a car park. That makes me sad.
 
Arthur Wellesley, whom the monument honours, is your most famous son. He was born in Dublin but his family lived in Dangan Castle, close to you and he was educated in one of your schools. He twice represented you, Trim, as a Member of Parliament in Westminster. Defeating Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo on Sunday, 18 June 1815, was his greatest achievement.
 
In 1699 Dean Jonathan Swift became vicar of Laracor on the outskirts of your township.  He lived in the Glebe house there. Years later, when he was living in London he longed for his garden at Laracor and ‘the beauties of the locality’. You have a way of holding on to the heartstrings of those who love you.
 
Our last destination for the day was the establishment that his parents had once owned--a Public House and grocery shop. I would sit in the ‘snug’ with a glass of orangeade while Dad would have a couple of pints at the bar and chat to some of the old-timers who may have known his parents. Afterwards we would get on our bicycles and begin the long journey home.
 
I too, was born in your hospital and baptized in St Patrick’s Church, but regretfully, I never lived in your historic town. I have always felt I belonged to you and I love to go to see you whenever I can.

​♥ Elizabeth Kearns.

​​Many moons ago I was working and managing a home and three children and hubby. In conjunction with work I was doing a course on cardiac technology and the mid term exam was coming up. I needed to do some cramming. I was the oldest in the class and wanted to do well. I discussed a destination with the travel agent I had dashed in to in my lunch hour.  I asked her to find a place where it was warmer (It was mid June), not too far away, where I could be on my own, but not necessarily lonely. The agent came up with Bali.  Bali!!  I said to myself. “Who wants to go to Bali?” I had heard it was not safe to drink the water, but she had filled my brief, so I signed up.

​On arrival in Bali the airport terminus was not much more than a farm shed. As I walked across the tarmac a small bright green snake crossed in front of me. “Welcome to Bali”. I thought…….I hate snakes! On arrival it was hot and humid and at the accommodation while we were waiting for room allocation we were offered an enticing looking tropical drink. My brain said yes, but I had been told to not even clean your teeth in the tap water, so reluctantly declined. I knew from a previous trip to Asia that wine was not readily available so had taken a cellar pack with me. They had not long been available at home. I looked around for a fridge to cool it in, but none was available. There was an air-con on the wall above the wardrobe, so that was where I positioned the cask.

Next morning I went to breakfast and was feeling down, wondering what the heck I was doing there on my own. Sitting alone I gave myself a good talking too and decided to venture out. I cashed a traveller’s cheque to the local Rupiah and stepped outside to do some exploring.

​As I stood there, a long line of mostly women Balinese in local costume walked past in a single line toward the beach. On their heads they bore a tray on which an elaborate decoration of fruits, coloured rice cakes in the shape of a cone was balanced.. A splayed cooked chicken artistically trimmed with bamboo shoots was the centrepiece.  I fell in behind and followed them to the beach where they all sat on the sand. A woman dressed in white chanted, tinkled a tiny brass bell and sprinkled water about. I was fascinated, and wanted to take a photo. I knew from reading about their customs that one should not have your head higher than that of the head man of the village. As the Balinese are not a tall race I moved about on my knees. I later discovered that I had just attended a funeral!!

When the ceremony had finished I headed off to find the bus to take me to the capital Denpasar. The main road through Kuta beach that parallels the beach was also the bus route. The problem was I did not know whether to take the bus that went right or the bus that went left.  I noticed the police station nearby, so went in to ask directions. The officers found it strange that I was a woman with a family and was there on my own. They wanted to see photos of the children and generally were on for a chat. Eventually they told me which way to go. The bus that pulled up was about the size of a VW combie with a row of seats each side of a centre aisle. The seats were occupied and all were locals. Some held wicker cages containing live poultry. They kindly shuffled along to make room for me to sit. I tried to say my rear end was too large, but gave up as they insisted I sit.  I did so, precariously balancing on the edge, knee to knee with the person opposite.

I wandered around Denpasar exploring. Every where I went the Balinese said a cheery "Hello" and were friendly. It was pretty grotty though, with mangy dogs, chooks and the occasional pig roaming around. I was feeling a bit jaded and thought I would make my way to the Bali Beach Hilton Hotel, which at the time was the only hotel on the island and was right on the waterfront.. While eating lunch an Aussie couple who had been on the same flight at me the day before came over to chat. They told me that they had walked from Kuta, so I decided that I would walk back to the Beach Club where I was staying,

I gathered my things and headed off along the beach. I walked for about half an hour and came to a small creek which emanated from a group of mangroves. I hitched my dress above the water. line and waded across. I could hear the thonk, thonk from my thongs as they moved in the mud. The thought went through my mind, “I hope they do not have crocodiles in Bali”. Continuing on for a short while, it finally dawned on me that I had not seen anyone for some time and that following along the beach was a no go. What to do now?  The penny dropped that the Aussies at the hotel had not walked there along the beach, I had just presumed that was the case!

I thought I would just have to retrace my steps, but in the meanwhile would sit and have a cigarette. As I was enjoying my nicotine fix, I watched an out rigger canoe and was musing how quaint it was, till it started to head straight for me. That set me wondering again, this time do they have pirates in Bali?? Two men got out of the canoe and came up to me. I could see a palm fringed small island with huts not far off and seeing it was the nearest thing to civilisation I had seen for a while I asked them to take me there. They agreed. I sat in the middle of the canoe with a Balinese in front and one in the rear. It was narrow and near the water line, so I dangled a foot over each side and ducked each time they tacked to miss the oscillating boom as it moved across. The Balinese thought that was a great joke and eventually so did I.

We had arrived at a small island village where they hunted turtles for a living. It was known as Serengan or “Turtle Island”. A group of youngsters, many of whom spoke English, took me to the village to show me the turtles. There was a fairly large muddy pool seething with fairly large turtles. A tiny boy waded in, stood behind a large turtle and grabbed the front of the turtle’s shell, which he pulled upward. The poor thing was belly up with legs flailing. They were trying to encourage me to hold it while they took a photo, but I gently declined while I took a photo of them. 

The children showed me their tiny school hut and generally were happy and delightful. They showed me how they killed the turtles which I wished I had never seen. They placed the turtles on their backs on a large stump of wood. They then slashed their throats and let them bleed to death. Made me feel really sad for the turtle.

I began to realise I needed to make it back to the mainland, but how? I asked the children to find me someone who could take me there. After a short while they came back with two girls and one boy who were willing make the trip after asking “How much you pay”? I said, “You take me, then I show how much I pay”? Thankfully they agreed and off we went.  As we made it to the beach it was amid a mangrove swamp and the wind had dropped. The children then punted me the rest of the way along the inlet till we came to a dead end. I alighted and gave the kids enough money to satisfy them and off they went. ​