Full and filthy

I am so full. You know the kind of full where you stuff yourself beyond your stomach's capacity? Where you can feel the food backlogged all the way up to your chest, almost right up to your neck, so that you feel if the food doesn't manage to find a way into your stomach somehow then at any moment - any moment now - all that food might be gurged back up again? I feel, in essence, like a foie gras duck.

It was the breakfast that did it.

For about a week (more?) now, I've been living off bread rolls (with various, unexciting fillings) and fruit for breakfast, lunch and dinner (the bread and cheese for lunch and dinner stolen from the hostel breakfast buffet). So imagine the state of delirious, wide-eyed excitement I was in when I went down to breakfast this morning to find a veritable feast of culinary delights laid out on a long table before me. Oh, I wasn't dreaming, nor hallucinating under the duress of hunger. This food was real: grilled and seasoned aubergine and capsicum; scrambled eggs; three kinds of cheese; a variety of rye breads and cereals; grapes and apples; orange juice; a variety of hot drinks, cookies and cakes...

It was all I could do to stop myself from impatiently shoving everyone aside and piling as much food onto my plate as possible. Exercising all the self-restraint I could muster, I gradually filled my plate (only a close observer would have noticed my slightly shaking hands, the maniacal glint in my eyes...) - not conspicuously so - and walked over to an empty table at an almost leisurely pace, before devouring what was on my plate. It was then, I am sad to say, that the cords of my self-restraint snapped and I went back for seconds, thirds, fourths - even fifths!- before I had even finished what was on my plate. I was afraid, you see, that some of the food would run out before I had a chance to nab some! As it turned out, my fears were unfounded, as the moment a dish ran out it was promptly topped back up again by an angel from the kitchen. Oh, blessed heaven above - an overflowing, infinite cornucopia of food, food, food!

It was clearly more than I could handle.

So now I sit and wait for the food to digest beofe I'm physically able to go out and wander through the red-roofed Old Town of seaside Piran (Slovenia). I was hoping to go for a swim today, but the weather isn't the best and I'd be sure to vomit anyway.

Back in Budapest I swam - or bathed, rather - at one of the many thermal bath complexes in the city. This one - from both the outside and the inner courtyard - looked more like a Baroque (Rennaissance? I can never tell the difference) royal residency than a public bath. Highlight of the day (not breasts, I'm afraid. There were none to be seen except those of the male variety and I did see some whoppers, which to be fair, were highly fascinating in and of themselves): one of the outdoor baths was a bath within a bath within a bath (hello Baudrillard). The most inner bath was a small spa with a variety of massage jets. The most outer bath was obviously the largest, more pool-like, but with random powerful jets that shot straight up from the floor of the bath so you could lean all your weight right into it as though you were sitting in a (vibrating) chair. the most exciting bath, however, was the middle one. From afar it looked perfectly ordinary - merely a ring of calm blue water separating the inner and outermost baths. Try to traverse between the two however, and you get sucked into the middle bath and carried all the way around and around and around by what I can only guess are super-powerful jets! You could just sit there, legs afloat, and be sped around the whirlpool. Such fun! Until too many people get in and some of the weightier bathers aren't carried around as quickly as the others and you smack into them, full-bodied (there's no way of stopping!) and a pile-up inevitably ensues. Such fun.

The water in all the baths are supplied by the hot springs that occur naturally in Budapest and the minerals in the water are supposed to help cure various aches and ailments (although they do nothing for period pain, as I unfortunately discovered...). I did feel good afterwards. Clean. No need for a shower (interesting how one's personal hygiene drops a level or five whilst backpacking...).

Budapest in general: I love the bigness and the unkemptness of it (and the fact that the sun was shining when I was there). I was disappointed that it wasn't as 'exotic' (or cheap!) as I was led to believe it was (two and a half years and still these naive notions!!!).

Zagreb, Croatia was my next stop. Small for a capital city. Lovely Old Town with some funky pedestrian streets and cafes (an observation: the Croats are way funkier than the Hungarians. Generally speaking). If Zagreb was small, then Ljubljana was miniature. The capital of Slovenia has nonetheless, I thought, an even lovelier Old Town than Zagreb.

I headed north-west to Bled next, a town situated on the idyllic Lake Bled, with water more blue than Budapest's thermal baths. Indeed this water proved too tempting to resist. Halfway through my lap around the lake I found a secluded spot on the grounds of a private villa. Largely obscured by a sloping bank and a thicket of trees, I stripped off and went for a quick dip. La-la-lovely.

After two days in Bled I now find myself in Piran (belly settled, though still quite full). The sun seems to be making intermittent appearances through the clouds and it's deceptively warm. I might be optimistic and grab a towel and my bathers on the way out (no private spot for a secret nudie swim here).

Before I do, let me relate two curious and not entirely dissimilar incidents that have occurred of late:

1. Budapest. I was standing on the Elizabeth Bridge pulling my camera out of my bag to take a pic of the Danube, when a middle-aged man, evidently a tourist from somewhere else in Eastern Europe, approached me and started gesturing to me emphatically. Confused, I stepped back. He continued gesturing and moving closer. I thought perhaps he was offering to take a photo of me with my camera. When I indicated, no, I didn't want a photo of myself, he only came closer, put his arm around my shoulders and pointed to a woman standing in front of us - presumably his partner - wielding a camera. More confusion. He wants a photo with me? Evidently. He stood there, arm around my shoulders, grinning broadly at the camera which his partner willingly snapped away at, while I stood eyebrows furrowed, utterly confused, looking from the man to the woman to the camera she pointed at me, my own camera held limply in one of my hands at chest height. I'm sure it made for a peculiar shot.... Picture taken, they backed away. "Thank you, thank you!" the man said in heavily accented, struggling English. "You look very nice!" Okay...

2. Ljubljana. Sitting on the steps of a church, upon which the sun was shining, reading my book (Lolita). I had just finished my lunch (a roll with cheese - stolen from that morning's breakfast - and avocado, washed down with tap water acquired from the hostel showers. A plague on hostels with no kitchen!). A Slovenian man appoaches me and asks if he can take a photo of me! Confusion, suspicion. "Why?" I ask. "I'm a photographer," he explains timidly. After pressing him for what he planned to do with the photo, I let him take it. What do I care what he does with it, after all? He showed me the picture - very National Geographic.

It occurred to me that maybe these people think I'm some sort of gypsy-type character: a dark-skinned girl in Eastern Europe whose clothes look a little worse for wear, not to mention her hair and general levels of cleanliness and personal hygiene (which tend to deteriorate to even worse levels than mentioned above when you're travelling alone...).

And Rae - on both occasions I was wearing The Earrings...

Suddenly Budapest

It feels as though lots of time and many places have passed since I last posted. This sense may be heightened by the fact that I've just flown right across the continent from Dublin to Budapest (I flew with the very tantalisingly named Irish airline, Aerlingus...). I've just spent the whole day travelling and arrived in Budapest this evening, so I haven't actually seen any of the city yet. So I'll talk about what I've been up to between Inverness (where I last left you) and now...

I embarked on a very scenic train journey across Scotland from Inverness to the Isle of Skye. I based myself in the tiny coastal town of Kyleakin and explored the island by bus from there. It was on this island (not to mention during the journeys to and from the island) that I experienced the beautiful highland wilderness that Scotland is renowned for: hills reflected in astounding mirror-images in the ever-so-still lochs below; dramatic rocky coastlines and rock formations; and a pervasive sense of remoteness. Certainly very dramatic scenery, but somehow also slightly depressing. This may possibly have had something to do with the constant greyness overhead. To be fair though, the sun did (rather miraculously) break through the clouds a couple of times and cheer the landscape (and me) up a little.

After a couple of days and a couple of hikes in Skye, I caught a bus down to Erin's hood - Glasgow - and spent a lovely and rather luxurious couple of nights in her plush abode. Staying outside of the city centre meant that I was fortunate enough to encounter some regular Glaswegian Joes, including:
1. a girl on a bus who so uncannily resembled Vicky what's-her-name from Little Britain (in both appearance and behaviour, but slightly more aggressive and obnoxious, if you can believe it) that Erin and I weren't sure whether to laugh or cry. We did move to the front of the bus to get as far away from her as possible, though.
2. chatty taxi driver with an indecipherably thick Glaswegian accent. I was glad it was Erin who was sitting in the front seat, obligated to chit chat and answer his questions because I could barely understand a word. Round of applause to Erin who very impressively managed an entire conversation with the man!

I farewelled sweet Erin after a couple of days and spent my last night in Glasgow in The Worst Hostel Ever before getting up early the next morning to catch a flight to Belfast. My two days there were less eventful than I'd hoped, especially when I decided to do a political tour to learn more about the Catholic/Protestant conflict and the tour guide failed to turn up. I walked along the alleged former "war-zone" myself, saw the murals and memorials dedicated to the so-called freedom fighters (strange) and became increasingly annoyed at the guide for not having shown up. Never mind. It was off to the Antrim Coast with me to chill out for a few days.

I stayed in tiny Bushmills (the entire town consisted of one road and had not a single public internet terminal anywhere), famous for its Irish Whiskey distillery - the oldest licensed distillery in the world. I took a tour of the (smelly) distillery on my first day in town and was one of four people to volunteer for a whiskey tasting session afterwards. I was fed four shots of Bushmills Irish Whiskey, one shot of scotch and one shot of bourbon. In the space of ten minutes. Needless to say, I was a happy lass. Especially after I was awarded a shiny gold tube containing a certificate which merited me as being an "official Irish Whiskey taster"! That's going on the CV. After the tasting session I staggered to the nearest fish 'n' chip shop (chipper!) and got some greasy, vinegar-soaked chips into my empty belly to suck up all that alcohol.

The next day I visited the sights along the coast: Giant's Causeway - hexagonal basalt columns which occurred naturally some however many years ago (a looooooooooong time ago *nods wisely and knowingly*), which are really quite amazing (obviously I'm in something of a lazy mood at the moment - I have been travelling all day - so rather than going into intricate description, I'm going to let those of you who are interested to just look it up online); Carrick-a-rede - a little town sitting just off a dramatic cliff coast. The main attraction here is the rickety bridge that connects a small island off the coast to the mainland. 'twas fun to cross - ocean roaring beneath, rain pouring from above, bridge a-wob-wob-wobbling. I felt like Indiana Jones.

Where did I move onto next...?...?.... Ah, yes - Dublin, where I hooked up with Rachel Bowen. I could hardly believe it was she in the flesh! I had to spend a few minutes pinching and poking her just to make sure (it'd been a while since we'd seen each other).... So nice to catch up with friends. Over a pint of Guinness. I think I quite like the stuff. I'm sure I like it more than regular beer.

The most exciting thing that Rae and I did in Dublin: we both mounted a reclining statue of Oscar Wilde perched on a slanted rock. Not simultaneously (although we thought about it). How could something so silly be so much fun?

Rae also happened to be staying at the same hostel as Andy and Pam (Andy's mum), who were also in town! So we all hung out and drank pints together (on Pam! Thanks again Pam! Thanks!)! Dublin was indeed the city of friendly encounters, as I also very randomly happened to run into Edo and Stefka (friends from Berlin, for those who don't know)!! Very random! I was standing on a street corner puzzling over a map when they suddenly appeared before me! So we all went out for pints too!! Actually, I believe Corona was the beer of the day. I'm getting a bit excited with the novelty of pints of Guinness. In Ireland. Yes, Dublin. Random. A whole bunch of friends in a random city. Again, random. But so delightful!

From Dublin, Rae and I bussed it across the country to Galway. This is where we heard about the very tragic and dramatic death of Steve Irwin. Rae happened to catch it on the TV in the hostel common room. It also made front page news (in tabloid newspapers) the following morning. I wont describe what mine and Rachel's initial reaction to the news was, as some may find it offensive. Suffice to say it was a good thing that we had each other there to lean on...

On our second day in Galway we caught a ferry across to the Aran Islands (both of us managing not to puke. The sea was rough. Congratulations us!), where we met all manner of delightful animals!
1. a very handsome cock whose bright colours were co-ordinated with those of the house he was sitting in front of.
2. the fattest slug in the world who, incidentally, owes his life to Rae and I, as we suspect he was going to be the cock's lunch before we distracted the bird, allowing the slug to make a slithery escape.
3. a wonderful brown horse (or was it a pony?) with nettles in his fringe. We shared our apples with him and ended up with horse-slobber all over our hands. Mmmm...horse slobber...
4. an amusing black dog who was looking very pleased with himself indeed, strutting up and down the seafront as though he had somewhere very important to go. He came over for a good scratch behind the ears and then tried to follow us into the B&B, where we shared a pot of tea and had a not so nice scone (microwaved) and piece of carrot cake (have I missed any animals, Rae? There was the cat and the lobsters, but we didn't actually meet them, as such...). Oh! The cow that we thought was dead because a whole bunch of crows were standing all over it pecking at it! It wasn't dead - it was just happy to have the birds eating its fleas.

The actual island we were on was the largest of the three - Inishmore (people speak Irish Gaelic here! We heard them!). The island is grey and bleak and feels very, very remote. So many gutted, abandoned, falling-down houses. Lots of low, grey, slate walls dividing property. Lots of grey slate in general. It may very well have been depressing were it not for all the animals and each other. We caught the ferry back at the end of the day and once again, succeeded in not puking. We parted ways the following morning, which was sad, as it was fun travelling together for that period, brief as it was.

Now I find myself in Budapest. I was met at the airport by a man holding a sign with my name on it, who drove me to my hostel. I couldn't speak to this man because we didn't share a common language. The driver's seat in the car he drove was on the left-hand side. He drove on the right-hand side of the road. I couldn't understand any of the signs on the street, nor the voices on the radio. And all this was strangely comforting. Things felt right again somehow.

I must say, I am ultimately glad to have left the UK and Ireland. It's nice to be in a place where the sun shines for more than a few minutes at a time. And I think Brits are a bit strange...even you, Dan, even you...;-)