A Seaside Holiday

With autumn imminent, the number one pick for our next free weekend was the seaside.
There's a sense of urgency to see as much sun and and outdoors as you can before you grab a crate of Tim Tams and a big doona and hibernate for the winter.
We picked Weymouth in Dorset for several reasons. One- we'd never been there, two- it's two whole counties away giving us some new places to see along the way and three- it's not too far from one of our favourite spots from our holiday five years ago, Lulworth Cove.
I've noticed In England I have a pessimistic/optimistic attitude to packing- you pack the stuff you hope you'll get to use (in this case swimwear), and also the stuff you will probably have to use (rain gear). Invariably the weather is somewhere in between and I will have nothing to wear.
We pack up Minty the wonder car and head off down south, with, it would appear, half of England. It's a slow drive but we're heading off on a beach holiday, and so who cares.
We chose a B & B as we often do. It's something I don't think I've ever done in Australia but I love using them here. 90% of the places we've stayed were great. There was that place where we realised upon retiring for the night, that our hosts have given up their own beds...
Usually it's good however. I love coming down to a little pine dining room in the morning the air smelling of cooked breakfast. You sit there at your little table, scooping marmalade out of those tiny glass pots and smile to yourself listening to other folk around you with various accents, plan their days adventures.If you are lucky your hosts are chatty and helpful and full of wonderful local facts and information. Other times they might hide and you can't really blame them.

Our hosts are in the lovely category this time and direct us to some likely places to get a good supper and the most pleasant route there. It probably wasn't the most wonderful route, but bless them they tried.                                
Weymouth is big old town. It sits on a wide bay facing south, with powdery sand at one end and pebbles at the other.It's full of hotels and amusement arcades and like many seaside places looks a little worn in a loved-to-death way. But the beach is pristine and raked daily and the water is great for families being shallow for quite a way out.
There are Punch and Judy shows, donkeys rides, trampolines, merry-go-rounds and ice-cream aplenty. We had fish and chips for dinner and Fil stated it was the best he's had in England- pretty hefty compliment. We strolled along the waterfront, illuminated with all the restaurants and clubs and then back over the swan dotted river to our beds.
The next morning, forecast good,  we head to the the beach early and for a while have it mostly to ourselves. The very brave menfolk hit the water, albeit very carefully, and I sat on the beach admiring their tenacity and being relieved I had none myself.
 An ice cream or two, and several hours later we drive to Lulworth Cove to visit the Durdle Door, part of the very long Jurassic Coast- loads of chalky fossil encrusted cliffs and beautiful beaches.

We came prepared with a camp stove this time and some sausages and had a lovely sausage sandwich lunch. Always hits the spot.

The kids tried to bury each other with tiny pebbles and I admired the scenery feeling very lucky to have gotten the chance to revisit such a beautiful place. The views from any spot, high or low are gorgeous. There was a kite flying above the cliff (the birdie kind) and I couldn't believe how it just sat on the air in exactly the same spot a few metres above the grass, waiting for a careless rodent.

Our last day arrives too quickly and this time it's raining. We don appropriate alter outfits, say goodbye to our lovely hosts and head to Kingston Lacy, a National Trust property halfway back to Winchester. Because we are members of the Trust, whenever we go away now, we look to see what property is in the area and go see it. Always great value.

Kingston Lacy is a jaw-droppingly stunning manor house on manicured acreage. The house is lovely from the outside but inside- ooh la la! The National Trust is doing a lot towards making properties interactive and child-friendly, but this place is still in the midst of child-frowning and really I can't blame them- it's like a palace inside. It's the sort of place you need to spend all day in to utter the appropriate amount of oohs and ahhs. We got at least an hour until enquires from the kids about leaving began, and then a good half hour after that.

                               
The grounds are nice to walk around as well though I was really annoyed to leave the little shepherds hut behind. Some consolation was found in the very nice cream tea that ended our visit. Unfortunately the wasps were just as enamoured with the strawberry jam as I was. Being chased by wasps was an unexpected and  rather exciting end to our holiday weekend.
                                               

 

A Visit to Avebury

“Are you coming with us to Avebury?”

“What’s there?”

“These amazing stone circles put there by people 4500 years ago. It’s the biggest Neolithic circle in Europe.”

“Nah. Well, it’s not really that exciting is it?”

“Well you can’t bungee jump off them or anything.”

“Yeah no, I’ll just say home then.” 

And so, leaving the unimpressed teen behind for this one, us other three excitables head off early one drizzly morning to Avebury, in order to beat the crowds. It’s a technique that never fails to unimpress the kids, but with  Britain's population about three times of Australia’s but 31 times smaller, popular places can get really busy. Fortunately getting up early is mostly left to the tourists and never fails to work.

I had picked Avebury because I have never seen any of the henges and I wanted to see them close up. As it turned Avebury is looked after by the National Trust of which we are members, and so our parking and entry was free (don’t worry, we made up for it by buying plenty in the visitor shop). As early as we arrived there were already the large empty shells of several coaches.

Sensible people that we are we decided that while the busloads were off henging, we would grab a cream tea while there were scones left (Devonshire Tea in Australia).

Avebury is a sweet little village in its own right- thatch and stone buildings and beautiful gardens. We’re truly impressed because of the amount of people that must come through here and it appears the opposite of well trodden- it’s even peaceful.

 

This area of Wiltshire is green hilly farmland, and to actually walk among the stones is to dance around the sheep shit. The sheep watch you completely unimpressed.

 More pagan* eejits, you can hear them think.

 

I don’t feel anything much about the stones, though typically me I want to. Like anyone I would love to know exactly what they were first placed here for. Divided up as they are by farmland, I think I’d have to be hovering above in my Druid robe to really appreciate them in their intended layout. I do press my hand to them which is understandable and like most idiots check for any palpable humming. Nup.

 I am charmed however by a lovely little stand of young oaks atop a small hill. All the lowest branches are tied with coloured ribbons. I’m guessing some sort of wish fulfilment but can’t be sure, but it has a touch of faerie about it. Or that could just be in my head. It’s a nice place in there.Thank you for visiting.

 Our walk around the circle is lovely, drizzle aside, and we stop to watch a group of tourists led through a wheat field that has had some sort of pattern stamped into it. Or words perhaps- "Farmer Dave has lost his tractor key somewhere here."
 

Back in the village we decide to visit Avebury Manor and we’re pleased we do because it’s gorgeous. The house is about 500 years old and after a string of owners; the National Trust bought it and finally gave a green light to a BBC show who renovated the interiors and gardens for a show, but certainly not a song. Bah boom tish. Ahem...

 Each room of the house has been done up in the style of a different era. It’s fascinating. Even Flynn is really intrigued. We all have our favourite rooms, mine possibly the Tudor one with the rush flooring and newly carved oak furniture. And what’s more you are encouraged to interact with everything. You can play billiards, lie on the amazing beds, sit on the seats. You know- touch stuff!

 We are so impressed, we bought the video as they say, so we could see how they transformed it. The gardens around the house are wonderful and make me miss growing veges very much. although they are doing a somewhat better job.

 

We have a very tasty lunch at a pub haunted by the ghost of a woman murdered and tossed down a well. I am a bit lost for words (I know!) when I realise the round dining table in the corner is the well itself, with a Perspex top and seating added round the edges. Um, okay...

Apparently the well once stood outside and the original pub was built over the top of it.

The ghost is probably just trying to tell them what a tasteless piece of planning that was!

 

 On our way home we pass Silbury Hill - an amazing sight - a 4800 year old man-made chalk hill- original purposes once again guessed at, but in any case impressive.

It just sits out there like a toy left under a big green rug. The view from the top must be spectacular but it’s on private land and I am not sure you can climb it. That’s what I say out loud, but really after a day of meandering, I haven’t the energy unless there were a guaranteed four-poster waiting at the top for me.

 I spot a picture perfect pub on the way back and jump out onto the road like a crow after road pizza to take a photo, but I just can’t visit them all damn it!

All in all it's an excellent and well spent day out- even without a henge bungee jump.

 

*Whilst I did make a little fun of the druid/pagan focus on Avebury and indeed probably all the henge's, I do actually like the nature focus aspect of paganism and have often thought Fil would make a fine druid in a parallel universe.
I know, thanks for sharing that Natalie.
 

 

Local Ambles

The next two weeks are spent exploring and inserting ourselves into life here.

Fil has begun work and at least three weeks stretch before me with the kids before they begin school. It’s a bit scary as it’s almost a month since we left Sydney and probably high time the boys were hanging around people their own age.

 I decide to haul them away from their electrical distractions and drag them by foot around Winchester .

We walk Alex’s route to college. It’s quite long at about 35 minutes, although pleasant enough. I research bus routes and safe cycle routes as well as we promised everyone a bike. I am a bit alarmed to see no one wears a helmet here and many of the roads are busy and/or narrow.

Everything is more or less downhill from our house which is charming to start out on a walk and a bit of a bloody trial on the return. Suffice to say none of us are really used to hours of walking and could be termed unfit (except Alex who was born fit). Perhaps one day I shall jog home whilst whistling Running Up That Hill by Kate Bush, but that time is not now.

I love the varied architecture of Winchester and am constantly pointing things out in excitement. Flynn I’m sure has Gazers Whiplash and Alexander can walk while typing on an ipad, but I’m hoping somehow some of it’s sinking in with them. I find a lot of pubs I shall try to visit at some time or another. I appreciate my constant excitement over pubs paints me as an alcoholic but in truth I just adore the ambiance of the pubs and the old buildings. Sure you do girlie.

On one day we climb St Giles hill which nearly kills me after nearly two hours of walking. The steps are printed with a chocolate-square type of pattern and I struggle up the steps lying to myself with promises of the candy mountain surely at the top. There is no candy, but there is a fine distracting view over Winchester’s high street and beyond. The hill we have climbed once held a medieval* trade market with sellers coming from all over Europe. I survey the sunny hill, imagining the stalls and wares and tents. I imagine it must have looked amazing, though I am a little surprised to see Aslan.  The boys and I eat a picnic lunch here before the long walk home which is aided by ice-creams from the icecream man. And thus pain fades.

 Other days we head in different directions. There are always quaint cottages, flowers gardens, hidden shops or ancient churches. I have a lot of favourite spots already, many along parts of the river, but a favourite for us all is St Catherine’s Hill.

 This was once the location of an iron age fort and has a copse of beech trees like a crown at it’s summit. I find the tiny wood spooky and had a bit of a scare when Flynn disappeared Picnic-at-Hanging-Rock style on one of our visits, but he had just popped out the far side and become disorientated. I threw a wobbly that should have been visible for miles. Perhaps is on Google maps.

 But the hill is absolutely covered in wildflowers and has a really grand view. Sitting on the grass looking out is amazing- "Yes, what is it now, Minion??"

 "Pass the salt Mum."

There is a Miz-maze, of which I am no expert but it’s a very low living maze-like thing, constructed originally they guess as some sort of penitential device to crawl through. Those wacky monks.

 Sadly its sort of disappearing as they have trouble getting people to take care of it. I told Fil I had put his name down for a shift. It was really fun for the few seconds he believed me.

 On the south side of the hill is a grassy valley called the Plague Pits where an awful lot of bodies were laid during the times of the Black Plague. Facinating but sad. Probably safe from ever being a housing estate at least.

 I will regale you with fascinating place names some other time perhaps.

During our travels we find places that appeal to each of us. For me, finding the art store, book stores and 2^nd hand stores gives a kind of happy familiarity mixed with exciting and new. I love the charity shops because they are full of Englishy things no-one really seems to want- from crockery to prints to furniture. Some of these things come to live at our house which is taking on a feeling of being home. I am getting used to mail delivered through my door, recycling glass at the supermarket, carrying an umbrella most days and extra long phone numbers and post codes.

I still get excited about everything. Even the lawn weeds are lovely and I am frustrated that I can only name buttercups and dandelion. I ask a bemused neighbour what some are called. She tells me they’re weeds. Eventually I buy a little book on wildflowers and bore everyone with my newfound flower names. Many have medicinal uses which I also find exciting.

To balance out my nature discovery mania, I find local places that the kids might make friends- a local drop in centre, a gym, the library. Of course when school begins everything will be different again and I am surprised to find that is coming up much sooner than I thought.

 

*Note: It may not have been medieval, I may have made that up, but I'm confidant it wasn't last week. Nevertheless if you are going on Who wants to Be a Millionaire, probably best not quote me.

Ola' from Portugal

With Fil's work looming on the horizon, we knew it was time to travel further afield while we had the opportunity. The votes were for somewhere hot (I was predictably outvoted ) and European. Of course you can purchase everything on the internet these days, but with only days to organise it, we took our appeal to a travel agent .
Two days later we stepped off a plane in the sunny south of Portugal, known as Algarve. I had never heard of the region but every UK person has and they've been holidaying here for years.
We opted for no car. With all the stresses of late, we didn't want to add 'driving on the wrong side of the road'. I spent the plane trip trying to memorise a few Portugese phases. The boys couldn't care less- probably confident the grown ups will make asses of themselves on their behalves. Obrigado boys.
Like so many of our adventures, this one also begins withheart-stopping transport. Our transfer man was an excellent driver. I knew this because he could read brochures, text and talk on the phone whilst driving.
 Fil got the front seat and I can see his hand twitching toward the steering wheel. Driving on the other side of the road is unsettling at first too. At the hotel we tip the driver in a universal celebration of still being alive. He seemed pleased too.
The hotel is a collection of rooms and villas whose address is Praia da Luz (Luz beach) but in fact isn't at this location at all. We are closer to Burgau, described on a t-shirt Fil buys as 'a drinking village with a fishing problem.' Hmmm.
If you have to be a little isolated it nice to do it from a traditional style villa complete with curvey walls and nooks and bang-yourself-unconscious low ceilings. And three pools. And a little bar to drink the popular 'green' wine, comparable I think to 'early harvest' as we call it in Australia.
The region, at this time of year at any rate is bone dry and smells sweetly of oleander. The grass is crunchy underfoot . It's hot but it's breezy, and so bearable. No flies.
We do the walk in Luz along the clifftop, me freaking out if the kids get too close to the edge (10 metres away). The sandstone is a pale gold turning the sea a lovely turquoise. The trip is at least a few kilometres of low scrub and rock and inexplicably, wild grapes.
It is beautiful in a wild way and reminds me of a sort of mediteranean cousin of South Australia. It's not part of the mediterranean, and the best way to tell is to dive into the ocean, which Fil did, and come up spluttering to restart your heart. The Atlantic here is about 14 degrees. It just doesn't look it, which is why so many people just go in up to their knees and play some sort of ball sport. Or pick amongst the rocks with a net. Or get a wetsuit.
Luz itself is like an overgrown village with its original core of whitewashed buildings and bouganvillia and a lovely curved beach full of people. Spiralling out from that are hundreds of new villas, probably all owned by tourists, and some very grand indeed, but all with the 'half pipe' terracotta roofs and chess piece style chimneys .
 A glimpse of green lawn catches our attention at a place called The Fort (because it was once?) with wonderful views and lovely gardens. We book a table for the Sunday afternoon Jazz Lunch.

It is fortunate that the hotel owners are nice enough to have upgraded us to our villa as we are able to cook our own food sometimes. Breakfast is at the hotel breakfast area with a wonderful assortment of English and continental food with fresh-from- the oven portugese tarts and champagne on weekends.

We walk to Burgau which has a lovely beach too and is much quieter. Unfortunately you have to walk along a road to get there which I found a bit scary, though not as scary as the coast way back which Fil insisted we do after dinner one night. I had consumed lets say, several wines, it was growing dark, and there we are, sprinting in the end, along pathways in the dark while I am repeating to myself hazily- "I will laugh about this tomorrow, but right now I am NOT having fun." Lets say that Fil was not commended on his choice of return route.

One hot day Fil took the boys to an amazing waterslide park which also included a birdshow they were impressed with. There were a few zoos around but we imagined in the heat the animals would be hiding, so instead we booked to go see the 'grottos'- caves and arches etched into the sandstone coast. This trip left from Lagos a little way to the east and for which we took a taxi, which I must say are very reasonably priced.
You can see the grottos via all sorts of boats but we chose a small sailing boat which takes just a few dozen people. It was  beautiful day with the sea glassy and the sky clear. When we got to a certain spot, the boat anchored and everyone was divided into three groups to be taken out in the dinghy. We were group three so we had a cold drink and Fil and Alex took up the invite to dive overboard. I thought they were very brave knowing full well how cold it would be.

Finally our time arrived for the tour and our tour guide took us around all the 'rooms' named by fisherman that the grottos have; basically the rooms of a house- including the loo. The water below was so clear and beautiful you just wanted to jump overboard and snorkel. Sadly its so populated by tours, its just not possible.I guess the octopus are happy at least about the lack of underwater intrusion.
 Our Jazz lunch the next day was wonderful with an amazing smorgasboard of fish and meat and beautiful views past the geraniums of the coast. All to the happy soundtrack of live Jazz.

Like many holidays, we'd just got into the swing of things when it was time to go home. The wind dropping, the heat cranking and mosquitos arriving softened the blow, and I must say, when I did back to England, my eyes sucked in all that green with a very 'happy to be home' sigh. Its nice to have the best of both worlds.

Some Good News

In London we get excellent news. Fil has been offered not one, but both jobs. Though obviously ecstatic he feels terrible having to turn one offer down. Fortunate to be in an uncomfortable situation you could say. The one close to Winchester has to win out. Ten minutes to and from work is a dream come true.

We also hear from the real estate about the vacant house. The landlord  would be very pleased to have us (probably would be pleased with anyone but vagrants or squirrels), we just need to do the paperwork and pay the rent. Having rented in Sydney I know that the rules in the UK differ somewhat. Because Fil has yet to begin work and indeed hasn't signed a contract, no one is interested in anything but rent in advance- a minimum of 6 months. We agreed to this.Murphys law stated that we meet people soon after who told us we could have offered only three and they probably would have taken it. We also learnt that rent prices are negotiable. What can I say- we were ignorant and desperate to get in a place, and they saw us coming.

But still, it's good news sorely needed- it appeared we will have a house and a job.

After a few days at my brother’s , we head over to Fil’s sisters place near Reading to spend a few nights there. The plan is that we hire a people-mover to drive down south because we have four very large and heavy suitcases plus an assortment of smaller bags.  But,  for the life of us we cannot hire a large car. Either there are none available or they want us to have a UK address.

 We had  no problems with the London car mob, but here it seems an insurmountable problem. This is because we aren't tourists - we have no return tickets to Australia and we aren't residents as we have nothing yet with a UK address- this apparently equals high risk suspect .

 Even a passport, driver’s license (which we can get a job, rent a house and open a bank account with) and vouch from a UK citizen are no good.

In the end Fil’s sister and her husband very generously  offer to drive the suitcases down once we were moved in. This means we can go with a car company who does not want to hassle us but has only small cars. 

 We take a day out before we're due to leave to visit Legoland. Fil and I  presumed there would be a lot of Lego exhibits (which the boys love) and a few rides, but it is really the other way around. To be honest it really is for younger children on the whole (under 8 great) but we have fun and there are some great Lego exhibits. It’s almost worth the entry just to see the absolutely enormous area of Lilliputian sized Lego cities.

With about four days until we can move into our new house we head down to Southampton where our late booking and school hols land us a nice ground floor room with views of a roof , police headquarters and absolutely no air-conditioning -which on 30 degree days is a good way of losing kilos in the night- which is probably helpful.

Whinge aside we get plenty achieved during our stay-  furniture from Ikea (4 people with 6 laden trolleys is NO fun no matter how tasty the Swedish meatballs) and from a second-hand charity in Winchester. Some but not all will arrive in time for moving in. We also touch base with the Winchester bank who have forgotten to order our pin numbers (do NOT get me started on bank problems we have had- nightmare).

We also visit my grandmother whose health is rapidly deteriorating. It's really hard to talk about anything but the illness. To be positive in such obviously diffucult circumstances. My grandmother is loosing a lot of weight and before we leave she points out her thin legs and say- "The next time you see me I'll have disappeared altogether." This comment rings over and over in my mind.

We decide to have a day at a nice beach with the weather being so warm and us needing a bit of stress respite. So one hot hazy morning we head off to the Isle of Wight. Well, not straight away as we get on the wrong ferry and visit lovely Hythe first. Then we do take the right ferry and arrive at Cowes on the north of the Isle.

 A series of buses takes us overland to the south-eastern town of Sandown. All of the buses are  exciting because riding a double decker at speed up and down one lane roads is a commute and amusement park ride rolled in one.

 Though an island, the Isle of Wight is absolutely enormous. It looks quite modest on a map- a tiny chip off the old block- but travelling over it are hours and miles of beautiful farmland and villages, smelling deliciously of fresh cut grass.

Now, I cannot judge a typical English seaside town as yet, but if I had to guess, I’d say Sandown looks very much like one. It has a long sweep of beach- this one sand- with a pier pointing out to sea in the middle, complete with carnival amusements. Chalky cliffs stand tall and hazy to the north. Houses and hotels about the place have a feeling as being rather pleased with their location. The shops sell buckets and spades and ice-cream and postcards, and on the beach you can hire deck chairs, which we do.

The English Channel is cold in summer- we guess about 17 degrees, but even so Fil, Flynn and Alexander get a tick in the box for going in for a swim. I get to safely record this from the safe warm shore. We’re keeping a record of all the seas, rivers, oceans and lakes swum in whilst we are over here. I don't know why, but it's working fine for me.

The Isle of Wight is a lovely day out, happily spent.

Tired and sunburnt back at the hotel, we find Fil has missed an email which reads-

We forgot to ask what language Flynn would like to learn in regards to offering him a place at the school.

“Wow, that’s great!” I say to Fil- “Is that the school near the house?”

No,  it's the first school.

A Bad Start

It began with Fil’s job interview.

 This would be the first of two for which he had passed initial processing back in Australia.

After some frustrated study (swatting two 5000 pages tomes over a few hours) he suited up and was ready to go, having arranged to drop  Flynn and I at our own appointment along the way. This was to a school we had  applied to from Australia. We were aware it was extremely full and had hurriedly sent off our application when told there was only one spot left. Today we would tour the school and having heard nothing to the contrary, I was anxious to get some information of what we needed in order to begin there.

As is so often the case, despite a GPS we managed to get a little lost via a temporary road closure  so Flynn and I hurried out at the school while Fil drove off with some mild concerns of being late.

In the very smart foyer, Flynn and I were smilingly ushered to seats where the lady we had been in correspondence with, would meet us briefly, before heading off on a tour lead by the head boy and a prefect.

 The lady in question arrived and after a few pleasantries announced- “Yes, unfortunately we have to refuse Flynn a position here as there are no places available.”

 Pardon me?

Yes, there had been a place but there was no longer one, and, what we needed to do was apply to other schools in the area then if there was nothing there, apply to the Hampshire County Council who would try and find Flynn some sort of place, possibly out of area. What?!!!
 All our house searching had been in the catchment area for this school. No one had said we hadn’t got in. I was completely dumbfounded. No spots here, nor possibly anywhere in Winchester. WT...? We began our now seemingly pointless tour, my brain rather numb and Flynn rather quiet. The school looked great but what good was that? I  thought to ask at least the boys  thought of other schools in the area. They gave their candid opinions.

 What were we going to do?

Fil meanwhile hurried off , given confidence by his GPS that he still had time, suspected nothing might be amiss until he was instructed to head down a very dodgy looking one lane road between two farms. Unhappy but with no spare time to argue, he set off through the rain, unable to see any oncoming cars with the hedgerows and turns and all too aware that if he didn’t actually run headfirst into anyone, he certainly had no room to let them by. What might that mean? Reversing the way he’s come? He didn’t want to think about it.

 Thankfully he finally popped out the far side into a village and would have experienced great relief had his GPS not then announced with confidence- “You have reached your destination!”

He had not.

 Panicked and now going to be late, Fil tried to use his phone to ring the company “Your credit has expired…”
 There was no time to top it up. Fil screeched the car to a halt at a mad angle outside a pub, dashed in, grabbed the nearest drinker by the elbow, gabbling out his dilemma. Though clearly shocked by the mad Australian with the tie over one shoulder, the good man gave clear instructions as to where to find the company but warned it was tricky to find. Dear God.

 As Fil drove off at speed to find the place his phone went. It was the job angency enquiring to his whereabouts since the company had rung them when he hadn't shown. Fil begged them ring on his behalf and tell them he would be there in five.
 Finally he got through the security gates and given directions. Fil in quite a state by now and dying for a loo went quite the wrong way which meant a rather painful sprint back across the grounds.
Inside at last, sweating and breathless he was given a welcome... and directed to go and sit an exam.

Meanwhile, back at the school we had finished our tour, Flynn refusing to be drawn into any conversation, mostly because they were enquiries about cricket about which he knew nothing. Back in the office I asked for my next procedure to be repeated as I had been unable to take it all in. A different lady helped me this time and she was most illuminating. I enquired to her about whether she knew of private schools having the same processing and explaining our position.  She told me she didn’t think there were any positions available in all Winchester for year 8, however if I was keen (obviously) there were means and ways: dress nicely (I looked down in dismay at my smart casual), cry, make a display of wealth and/or power (hire a jag and pearls?) etc. This woman was genuinely nice and not at all condescending and opened my eyes properly to what we might be dealing with. It was something I’d never really experienced before. I almost had to laugh because otherwise I would have been furious. It was true places were almost non-existent but a few golden tickets must still exist for the right candidates, of which we clearly were not one.

Fil picked us up and told us he thought he’d gone badly. In the state he was in at the exam he’d drawn a blank on things he should know. The verbal interview he thought went okay but he felt the test had really failed him. I couldn’t bring myself to stress him out further as I knew he had another interview next day, so I just told him about the tour and the school looked good.

We viewed more houses, most unsuitable for various reasons. Only one place was available and it was a little further out and we were worried as to why it was vacant.

The next day Fil had a better interview though a negative had been the unexpectedly long distance to reach the company- 40 minutes drive each way- something he’d done on a longer scale in Sydney and something he was keen not to repeat if at all possible. But things had gone well enough for me to break the news about the schools. Since Fil was still suited up, he offered to go by himself and visit the other schools. I went off and looked at a few houses.

When he returned we compared notes. One of the schools had been helpful, though both had no places at present. Fil had noticed the vacant house we'd seen was close to the helpful school and mentioned the possibility of moving there to the school. They said though there were no guarantees it would help Flynn’s place on the waiting list. Based on this vague hope and the fact that the house was largish and had parking and in a nice spot, we ended up applying for it since my hunting had borne no good fruit. We left Winchester wistfully, hoping it would soon officially be home but feeling right now rather battered and overwhelmed.

We were going to stay at my brothers in London a few days to anxiously await news on jobs and houses and schools. Waiting right now was all we felt confident to do and that wasn't going to be much fun either....,

Meeting the Locals

It's perhaps not surprising that our first impressions of our new home town didn't quite match our mental cork  board.
The roads leading into Winchester were surprisingly narrow.( Driving a car through many English towns or villages is a bit like a stone birth, including the cries of distress). We made it finally to the safety of a park and pay 'island' in the town centre and set off to find the famous Winchester Cathedral.
 I say find, but really it's hard to miss and dominates a good chunk of the skyline. Hard, but not impossible, as Alexander proved when I asked him what he thought of the cathedral. 'What cathedral?' he said, standing in it's vast shadow, eyeing a small group of young female tourists. So, hard to miss but not impossible.
We sat politely on the steps of a statue (having been yelled at for more innocent acts in foreign countries)  munching on pasties and cloudy apple juice. The cathedral sits in a lovely green space of trees and grass behind the high street. It's an impressive, large, muscled building with attractive finishes. I won't say that if it were a dog it would be a great Dane, as that would be sacrilegious. But it's certainly impressive and handsome and I look forward to seeing inside it, but that will have to wait for another day.
We dawdled down the high street, partly closed off to all but pedestrians which is nice. I am excited to see the butter Cross, a tall stone statue perhaps halfway down the street where I believe local produce was once sold . The street itself is much bigger than we were expecting with lots of chain stores, some familiar, most not, but still managing a lovely amount of independent stores, from gift ware to pasties and chocolate. In the centre of the stone-paved street is a few stalls with baked goods or cheese- large mouth-watering wheels of the stuff. I know each month there is a large farmers market that I can't wait to visit with my quaint little basket and pretend I am Jane Austen, out taking a spot of air from my writing. Perhaps I will inspire a term for female foreign anglophilic wanker. We can only wait and hope.
The street is two story on either side with buildings from every era, the young and old holding each other up,  but I find the half-timbered buildings catch my eye and give an overall medieval feel to the street. From the helpful travel information place we get a listing of real estates and most are located on two streets. This is an English habit I really like. They put little groups of like-minded shops together, so that if you need something- say shoes, you are likely to find several in the same area- brilliant.
After touting our prospective tenant wares to more than a dozen real estates, we are disappointed to find only three places that meet our needs, but promptly book a viewing of each. We note that most seem available more than a month away,  but from Australia they would not let up lease anything. We were told that legally we must view in person. Things may be a little difficult. Fingers crossed it will all work out.
We stop for lunch a little pub on the high street. The kind that you walk in and all four people look at you as clearly not belonging, but in fact once everyone got over the shock, we had a pleasant lunch of breaded scampi (crumbed prawns) and chips and I enjoyed a lovely cold Aspell cider.
This meal gave us the stamina we would need to get thoroughly lost and late for an appointment for Alexander's prospective college. Luckily the staff were really nice and our contact running a little late herself, so everything worked out. The college is enormous- 3500 students or so and much more like a Tafe in style and running. We were all really impressed with what was on offer and really grateful they had already accepted him, pending a local address- something we were just as keen to rectify.

Lastly it was time to check into our B & B accommodation at the other end of town, a lovely area named St Cross after the hospital in the area, which wasn't really a hospital but I think originally built to provide basic sustenance to passing pilgrims and which I intended to visit as it is supposed to be lovely. So many things to explore on other, less busy days, but for now it was time to go meet our B & B host.