Fishy tales

With the aftershock total now 8175, any small bit of cheer is welcome from Christchurch, so it was heartening yesterday to hear a good news story for once, about the two goldfish Shaggy and Daphne discovered still alive in their tank in an office in the Red Zone, 134 days after the building was evacuated following the February quake. There was some dark muttering about their having lived off the corpses of their disappeared companions, but informed opinion has it that they have simply been in shut-down mode because of low temperatures (and snow is just the latest environmental insult that Cantabrians have had to cope with), the missing fish probably having been swept over the top in a post-quake mini tsunami.

From one extreme to another, my Ningaloo Reef whale shark story is recently out too, on the cover of the Herald's travel section, which was rather exciting - especially as my Leavenworth one was inside too. And then this week it was Reunion Island's turn. As ever, feast or famine - which is how it must be feeling for Shaggy and Daphne now.

Till next time

It was a perfect day to leave England: fixed in the memory on a warm summer's day, driving across the Cotswolds where the rolling fields of corn are golden and ready for harvesting, the trees are green and stately, and the butter-yellow stone of the houses in the villages was set off by the sweet peas, hollyhocks and lavender growing in the borders and flower-boxes.

We've been away for about four weeks. It seems ages, looking back over where we've been, the things we've done and seen, the people we've caught up with. Paris, London, rural England, Oxford, Stratford, Wales, Ireland... Punting, a West End show, a jaunting car, a progressive supper, a game fair, palaces and cathedrals, pubs and restaurants, gardens and galleries. Horses, dogs, goats, cattle, camels, donkeys and ducks. Pork pies, cider, Eccles cakes and cream teas. Boats, buses, cars, carts, trains and planes.

It's been fun. But it will be good to get home. (Especially on Air NZ business, thanks to airpoints and an upgrade, yay.)

UPDATE: Air NZ Business? Bit of a disappointment: looked good with the pods and all, and the service as always was excellent, but when it came to bedtime, instead of the seats reclining all the way back, what happens is that you stand up to allow the back-rest to fold forward to join up with the foot-stool. The resultant bed is perfectly flat, but the padding is minimal and it's like sleeping on an ironing board. It's a clever idea that doesn't work.

Slainte!

Couldn't leave Bunratty this morning without a too-quick look at the Folk Park: one of those outdoor museums where buildings have been relocated or reconstructed to make an old-time village. This one works particularly well, the trees and gardens looking really well-established and natural, and the buildings so pretty. And then of course there are people around like Mike here, in the school room, cane at the ready and full of chat about how back in 1847 ("Black '47") the children were so weak and tired from lack of food that it was no problem for a single teacher to be in charge of 130 of them. There were six books to teach from and "only one answer to a question" which were all learned by rote. Mike remembered having to kneel on prickly sticks for being late to school and threatened with expulsion if he looked at a girl, even his own sister - and he was born in 1952! (I speak as a Coronation baby myself.)

The main focus today was the Ring of Kerry, a 100-mile drive around the Iveagh Peninsula which promised great scenic spectacles that didn't initially deliver - I have a high standard for coastal drives, I am a New Zealander after all - but in the end all was well. Beetling great bare mountains, rocky coast, clear blue water, distant clusters of white-painted crofts, trails of stone walls down the slopes... No complaints. It felt appropriate, too, to find ourselves in Kenmare afterwards, driving slowly along the main street behind a man standing in a horse-drawn gig.

And finally there was dinner in a pub in central Killarney, with a glass of cider beside me, a beef and Guinness pie inside me, a duo belting out 'Black Velvet Band' and other old favourites right in front of me, and my last day in Ireland ahead of me.

Horses - four courses

Busy, busy day - proof again that there's more to see and do in even a small corner of Ireland than you can ever hope to squeeze into a laughable 5 days. First there was Waterford's Treasures: rooms full of silver and gold and crystal chandeliers with more than 200 prisms sparkling - and also more pleasingly ordinary stuff, like a tin clockwork toy Miss Busy-Bee the Typist and posters of Ireland's first pop superstars The Royal performing their smash hit The Huckleback in 1964.

Then a quick look at Waterford Crystal over the road where a grizzly bear 50cm high would set you back 30,000 euros, or an American football helmet - should you have a use for a glass one - a mere 17,500; and where Noel the duster claimed to have "nerves of steel" but that when accidents happen "it pays to run fast."

At Cashel Rock, that scourge of the tourist - scaffolding - was all over one side of the castle/cathedral like a rash, but down at Bru Boru, a cultural project, we were delighted by a mini-show of singing, dancing and music of such a high standard, we wished could see the proper evening show. Mind, it's hard work tapping along to that infectious music, so my ankles would be weak after that.

The horses came at Coolmore Stud, where a dozen or so stallions live in enviable elegance: lawns, gardens, trees, their loose boxes like pretty little houses, and endlessly pampered - though having five men watching narrowly when you have your end away, filming every moment, must take the edge off the luxury.

And tonight a four-course medieval banquet at Bunratty Castle, a tall and imposing 15th century castle, where Tom the Butler, some pink-cheeked wenches, an accomplished harpist and a lugubrious fiddler thoroughly entertained us while we ate a surprisingly tasty dinner. A long day, happily ended in the comfort of the Bunratty Castle Hotel's big, soft bed.

Street life

"Yur fookin' hoortin' may! Yur fookin' hoortin' may!" Moment of drama on the streets of Kilkenny as a man who stole a big bottle of vodka was forcibly detained by a couple of burly store detectives while the Garda came screeching to the rescue, siren and lights going.

It was pretty much all about the streets today: wandering Waterford's maze of lanes before being escorted on a guided tour by the famous Jack Burtchaell, who's been doing it up to six times a day for 21 years and so can be forgiven a certain lack of energy in his performance. Still interesting, though, covering 1000 years of history in an hour and a mile, with plenty of digs at the British, plus sex, violence and the drink. Waterford, a Viking city, is older than all the Scandinavian cities and is third in age only to London and Paris, so there's a lot to talk about; although some things can't be seen any more - the Waterford Crystal factory closed in 2009, alas, though there's still glass being blown here.

Then to Kilkenny through the green as countryside, where the sturdy castle - invaded today by hordes of Germans - is surrounded by a knot of little cobbled lanes lined mostly, it seemed, by pubs. It looked a lively place, colourful and pretty, and it was a shame we had so little time there.

Back in Waterford, we ate in the completely empty Munster bar before following our ears down to the riverside quay to watch a troupe of scout bagpipe band members practising: they were good, though it was odd to hear Scotland the Brave. It was windy and cold, so we had to go afterwards to the magnificent Granville Hotel for a warm-up: all shiny brass, stained glass, comfortable chairs and original caricatures of golfers and jockeys; and birthplace of Thomas Francis Meaguer, who did many things including designing the Irish flag, but for me was special because at one point he was sent to Van Diemen's Land - otherwise known as Tasmania, where I went in February. So that's today's connection.

Good Knight

How I do hate the word 'uncomfortable'. Mostly when it's used by a gynaecologist bearing down on me with a plastic speculum; but also when it's uttered by the captain of a ferry I'm trapped on for the next two hours. Crossing from the Welsh port of Fishguard to Rosslare in south-east Ireland, we were shunted about by 2-metre swells and it was no fun at all, even with a Scopaderm patch behind my ear: it's a long time to stare at the horizon and concentrate on not hearing all the honking up going on elsewhere in the cabin.

But eventually we got back onto terra firma and wound up at the world's "oldest intact still-working lighthouse," said William, choosing his description carefully to avoid any possibility of challenge. Hook Head in County Wexford has had a light since the 5th century, and an actual lighthouse for 800-odd years, so I reckon he's pretty safe. It was a fine and stirring place to be on a blustery day with dark cloud and bright sun and, ever a sucker for lighthouses, I would have been pleased to be there on those grounds alone - but one-third of the way up its 150 steps, we came across an amazing coincidence.

Regular readers (hollow laughter) will recall that earlier in this trip, we stayed at the Inner Temple in London - a privilege accorded to members only. Just metres from the door of Dr Johnson's Building was the Temple Church, built in the 12th century by the Knights Templar, they of the Crusades. We went in and looked at, amongst others, the effigy of William Marshal who made King John sign the Magna Carta in 1215 and thereby also made his own name, amongst the legal fraternity at least.

But something else he did was to found the town of New Ross in Wexford and, to encourage trade there, also built at the entrance to the river, Hook Head lighthouse, where there's a picture of his supine statue back in London. Connections, eh? Love 'em.

Horses and goats and dogs, oh yes!

And people, lots and lots of lovely, friendly, welcoming people, here in Herefordshire where we used to live. It's been such fun and a great pleasure to have conversations again about hunting and farming and horses, to hear so many names we'd almost forgotten and catch up on the news, almost all of it still completely local as so few of them have moved away (though some, inevitably, have now er, moved on).

Why would they want to go elsewhere? It's such a pretty part of the country, and there's always so much going on. Last night it was the Progressive Supper to raise funds for Lea Church, and about 40 of us moved from house to house - starter, main, pudding and coffee - eating really delicious food (summer pudding! heavenly) and mixing and mingling with a great assortment of people including the highly popular young vicar who has six churches on his patch but still has time to keep a horse for hunting.

Things don't stand still here, depite the traditions: yesterday we visited a goat farm to watch the milking of about 800 in a huge shed where 1200 of them live permanently indoors, entirely content on yellow straw with plenty of room and sun and air, and plastic barrels to play with. I thought I was against factory farming, but what I saw there was entirely unobjectionable. Travel: it does so broaden the mind.