OK, so 'excitement' and 'Burgess Hill' are not words that normally go together in the same sentence. We thought that the flooding of the street in the previous week was probably the highlight of our time in Burgess Hill. But we were wrong.
We returned to Tim's place, to spend one more night, mow the lawn one more time and help ourselves to anything else that Tim owned. He had cleverly hidden his stock of expensive alcohol above head height, so we missed that. The folks next door were having a few drinks on a Saturday night and playing some music. Ellie was catching up on a fortnight's worth of blogging, Facebooking, twittering, messaging and whatever else it is that teenagers do on the Internet. I was flopped in front of the TV. This was already pretty exiciting for me as it was the episode of 'Bones' in which an earthquake causes a water main to rupture and the subway is flooded. When Ellie and I were at Universal Studios in Los Angeles on the backlot tour, they had taken us to the underground set where this particular episode was filmed. They triggered the 'earthquake' and then the whole tunnel filled with water - it was very exciting. It almost didn't look as spectacular on the TV as it was in 'real simulation'.
Anyway, at about 9:30pm there was a massive banging on the front door. Loud. Aggressive. Prolonged. I leapt up, muted the TV and asked who was there, but the banging just got louder and more violent. I then wondered whether someone might be in some trouble and couldn't communicate. Having watched 'Bones' I was thinking of icepicks through the eye, Indian tomahawk through the skull, fossilised spearfish skeleton through the thorax, but the reality was not nearly as interesting. I cracked the door open a few centimetres and wedged my foot behind it, in case it was flung open by a tribe of tomohawk-wielding Indians, but what faced me was a very angry, and very rapidly embarrassed, woman. She had been trying to kick the door in but it was the wrong door! It turns out that she lived in the house that overlooked the backyard of the partying neighbours and had called the police and the Environmental Agency about the noise, to no avail. She was now determined to confront the party-goers in person, but in coming around to Tim's street, had mistaken the offending house. Now as Ellie pointed out, perhaps the fact that there was no noise whatsoever eminating from Tim's house might in fact have been a giveaway, but she was apparently too angry to notice.
She then proceeded to rant and rave to me about how noisy the people next door were, not realising the irony that in fact she was far louder than anything that I could hear from next door. She then stormed off to the neighbours house and proceeded to do it all again. Violent banging on the door, and when they answered, a string of expletive-laden abuse. The bemused neighbours said that they would turn their music down and she left.
Ellie and I couldn't stand the excitement of Burgess Hill any longer, so the next day we caught a train (well, several trains, it is England after all - if you're not going to London then you have to change trains on your journey). We went to Cheltenham in the Cotswolds. And here we are!
Monday, August 16, 2010
Durham
My trip to Durham involved a couple of changes of train. Generally not a problem in Britain. However on Thursday 14th August a 'trespass incident' occurred on the line from King's Cross Station, which was then described over the tannoy as a 'police incident' and finally a 'fatality'. BBC reported the event here. All trains into and out of King's Cross station were cancelled or indefinitely delayed. There were, in my estimation, about 2,000 passengers stranded at King's Cross Station. What interested me was the very orderly way in which everyone behaved. Because there were now so many people milling around the area before the platforms, with everyone trying to see if any trains were going, the station staff decided to put everyone in neat lines, even though they didn't know which platform they should be queuing for. I then noticed that there were differently coloured tiles on the floor, that formed very long lines that looped around the edge of the waiting area and up the connecting corridors to the tube station. High on the walls were marked the letters 'A', 'B' and so on. Passengers for the north (like me) were told to form a queue behind the letter 'A', and so on. Evidently, they had done all this before. The surprising thing to me, having spent a week in New York and being pushed and shoved by everyone who thought they had a greater right to space than me, was how polite and orderly it all was. Everyone lined up. No-one grumbled. People let other people move through. How civilised the British are. And how flexible, I thought. A group of about half a dozen young men, with haricuts that implied that they were in the Army, came into the waiting area and, seeing the massive crowd and all the trains delayed or cancelled, asked me what was going on. I told them that someone had been killed by being hit by a train and that we didn't know if or when the trains would run from King's Cross. The lads had a quick conference, talked about when they were expected back, did some sums, and unanimously voted to go to the pub instead. If Durham wasn't so important to me, I would have joined them!
I spent just two nights in Durham, and they were brilliant. I arrived on a Thursday afternoon (later than planned) and checked into Hatfield College, one of the older colleges in Britain's third-oldest university. It had carved gargoyles and stone footpaths, as well as leadlight in the chapel, but curiously it had no wi-fi. That will probably be installed next century. I was advised to try the local pub, which advertised free wi-fi, so off I trotted. I ordered a pint of beer and a beef-and-ale pie, then spent a fruitless half hour trying to persuade the laptop that I wanted to connect to the Internet. When my pie was eventually brought over I queried the lass who had suggested that I sit in a certain spot because it had the best wi-fi reception. She replied that it hardly ever worked, but if it HAD been working, I would have been sitting in the best spot for it. Sigh. It was a great pie and a decent beer. I then headed off again, wandering the 10th-century streets of Durham looking for a 21st-century Internet connection. The college porter had suggested the pub, the pub had suggested the library, the library had suggested another pub (which I couldn't actually find) and so it went on. As I was wandering down the cobblestones, enjoying the architecture and history, if not the modernity of Durham, I saw a man standing in the middle of the steet (I kid you not) holding a laptop with one hand and typing with the other. I reasoned that he must have found a wi-fi hot spot. Since the cobble-stoned street was very steep and quite slippery, my first thought was simply to push him very hard so that he would roll down the hill and into the River Wear, and I could then stand in his spot. But then I thought he might not roll all the way down the hill and might get back up and belt me, so perhaps there was another way. Maybe the one place in all of Durham that has a working wi-fi actually broadcasts to places other than the middle of the street. So then I read all the tiny signs on all the little cafes around, and sure enough, there was one with 'free wi-fi'. I bought a coffee, logged on and found that a meeting that I had hoped for, was indeed going to happen in Durham the next day. It was worth the effort to connect!
On Friday 13th August I spent most of the morning in the breathtaking Durham Cathedral. Photos are not permitted so you will have to make do with looking at the website. I was unaware that this was the burial place of the Venerable Bede (at the western end) and St Cuthbert (at the eastern end). The cathedral is a wonderful structure and for £5 you are permitted to climb the 325 steps to the top of the tower. This was quite fun for the first 100 steps, then fairly tiring for the next 100 steps, then painful for the next 100 steps, with the final 25 steps being done one-at-a-time, in agony. My legs were like jelly after climbing up and down the tower. No other tourist did it - I thought that they didn't want to spend the £5. I now realise that they were smarter than me.
The view from the top was brilliant. I will post photos as soon as I am able. The tower has four sides and when standing on the side facing the wind, it was strong enough to push me backwards. Although I was probably fairly safe from actually falling, it was not a good feeling to be pushed around when I was 66m above the ground and probably 100m above the river!
I later visited a little museum, in which I learnt more about Durham's long history, then in the afternoon I went to the Department of Anthropology at Durham University, a visit to which I had been looking forward. I met one of the examiners of my thesis and he gave me some excellent advice about my future. I plan to apply for a teaching position at Durham University and whether or not I am successful with that, I hope to cooperate with my former examiner in publishing a journal article and in applying for research grants. So I hope to be spending some time with Durham University, in one capacity or another. One can but hope.
After such a succcessful meeting I decided to head back to the little cafe with the wi-fi, since I had noticed on leaving the night before that they actually served wine and food. I asked what sort of wine they had. The reply was 'red, white or water', the latter being an alternative I have never heard. I selected the red, which turned out to be Australian, and relaxed.
On Saturday 14th August I visited Durham Castle, which also does not allow photography inside the building. I will post photos of the outside shortly. Then in the afternoon I started the long train journey south, arriving at Gatwick Airport in time to collect my beloved youngest daughter from her adventures in Spain.
I spent just two nights in Durham, and they were brilliant. I arrived on a Thursday afternoon (later than planned) and checked into Hatfield College, one of the older colleges in Britain's third-oldest university. It had carved gargoyles and stone footpaths, as well as leadlight in the chapel, but curiously it had no wi-fi. That will probably be installed next century. I was advised to try the local pub, which advertised free wi-fi, so off I trotted. I ordered a pint of beer and a beef-and-ale pie, then spent a fruitless half hour trying to persuade the laptop that I wanted to connect to the Internet. When my pie was eventually brought over I queried the lass who had suggested that I sit in a certain spot because it had the best wi-fi reception. She replied that it hardly ever worked, but if it HAD been working, I would have been sitting in the best spot for it. Sigh. It was a great pie and a decent beer. I then headed off again, wandering the 10th-century streets of Durham looking for a 21st-century Internet connection. The college porter had suggested the pub, the pub had suggested the library, the library had suggested another pub (which I couldn't actually find) and so it went on. As I was wandering down the cobblestones, enjoying the architecture and history, if not the modernity of Durham, I saw a man standing in the middle of the steet (I kid you not) holding a laptop with one hand and typing with the other. I reasoned that he must have found a wi-fi hot spot. Since the cobble-stoned street was very steep and quite slippery, my first thought was simply to push him very hard so that he would roll down the hill and into the River Wear, and I could then stand in his spot. But then I thought he might not roll all the way down the hill and might get back up and belt me, so perhaps there was another way. Maybe the one place in all of Durham that has a working wi-fi actually broadcasts to places other than the middle of the street. So then I read all the tiny signs on all the little cafes around, and sure enough, there was one with 'free wi-fi'. I bought a coffee, logged on and found that a meeting that I had hoped for, was indeed going to happen in Durham the next day. It was worth the effort to connect!
On Friday 13th August I spent most of the morning in the breathtaking Durham Cathedral. Photos are not permitted so you will have to make do with looking at the website. I was unaware that this was the burial place of the Venerable Bede (at the western end) and St Cuthbert (at the eastern end). The cathedral is a wonderful structure and for £5 you are permitted to climb the 325 steps to the top of the tower. This was quite fun for the first 100 steps, then fairly tiring for the next 100 steps, then painful for the next 100 steps, with the final 25 steps being done one-at-a-time, in agony. My legs were like jelly after climbing up and down the tower. No other tourist did it - I thought that they didn't want to spend the £5. I now realise that they were smarter than me.
The view from the top was brilliant. I will post photos as soon as I am able. The tower has four sides and when standing on the side facing the wind, it was strong enough to push me backwards. Although I was probably fairly safe from actually falling, it was not a good feeling to be pushed around when I was 66m above the ground and probably 100m above the river!
I later visited a little museum, in which I learnt more about Durham's long history, then in the afternoon I went to the Department of Anthropology at Durham University, a visit to which I had been looking forward. I met one of the examiners of my thesis and he gave me some excellent advice about my future. I plan to apply for a teaching position at Durham University and whether or not I am successful with that, I hope to cooperate with my former examiner in publishing a journal article and in applying for research grants. So I hope to be spending some time with Durham University, in one capacity or another. One can but hope.
After such a succcessful meeting I decided to head back to the little cafe with the wi-fi, since I had noticed on leaving the night before that they actually served wine and food. I asked what sort of wine they had. The reply was 'red, white or water', the latter being an alternative I have never heard. I selected the red, which turned out to be Australian, and relaxed.
On Saturday 14th August I visited Durham Castle, which also does not allow photography inside the building. I will post photos of the outside shortly. Then in the afternoon I started the long train journey south, arriving at Gatwick Airport in time to collect my beloved youngest daughter from her adventures in Spain.
Frome, Somerset
I spent a glorious week in Frome, Somerset in the delightful home of Richard and Hilary. This is a really mind-bending place. It was originally three cottages which were built about 1653 then knocked together. It's then been added to at the front, rear and all around. There are masses of stairs, all at crazy angles and in unexpected places. There are little windows poking out of every conceivable corner. When you go to the bathroom you open the door outwards and are then confronted with three more stairs. When you climb them you realise that the door handle is now down near your ankles, making closing the door quite fun!
The space between what was formerly two separate cottages is covered with a huge skylight, which spreads light throughout the groud floor. On one entire wall a view of the Himalayas is painted, and that is over-hung by a grotto of rough rocks. There are plants growing indoors and outdoors. It is a odd house with no straight lines, and I loved it!
I was shown around Frome by several enthusiastic local historians and genealogists. I found the home where my ancestor, Emma Charlotte Whitaker, lived and worked as a cook immediately before marrying a boy from her home village and emigrating to Australia in 1871. I worshipped in the church that Emma attended, and had a marvellous time going through all the ancient record books, lovingly and carefully tended by Richard, the church archivist.
Thanks to Richard, I also managed to make a quick visit to Stourton, the village that was the subject of my PhD thesis, and the original home of Emma Whitaker. I was due to have 'supper' (as they call it England) with Henry Hoare, to whom I am endebted for assistance during my research. As I had several hours to myself before supper I spent them wandering about the magnificent Stourhead Gardens, a National Trust property. I had the place effectively to myself and alternately scrambled about the rough parts and lay under ancient trees in landscaped parts to read. It was a wonderful afternoon. Henry and his wife Caromy were fabulous hosts and I thoroughly enjoyed my evening in Stourton too.
On Tuesday 10th August I was the featured speaker at a special meeting of the Somerset & Dorset Family History Society in Frome. I spoke on geographic mobility, cousin marriage and illegitimacy in southwest England. The talk was fun to give and was apparently well-received. I wanted to give the presentation, and indeed to visit Frome, in order to thank in person as many people as possible who contributed to my PhD in one way or another. A key factor in the success of my thesis, which set it apart from projects completed many decades ago, was that I was given literally hundreds of parish register transcriptions in electronic form, amounting to millions of entries of baptism, marriage and burial. Most of these transcriptions were done by people associated with Frome and I wanted to thank them myself. And I did! :-)
On Thursday 12th August, Richard put me on a train at Bath Spa and I headed off to Durham, some 250 miles north. But why?
The space between what was formerly two separate cottages is covered with a huge skylight, which spreads light throughout the groud floor. On one entire wall a view of the Himalayas is painted, and that is over-hung by a grotto of rough rocks. There are plants growing indoors and outdoors. It is a odd house with no straight lines, and I loved it!
I was shown around Frome by several enthusiastic local historians and genealogists. I found the home where my ancestor, Emma Charlotte Whitaker, lived and worked as a cook immediately before marrying a boy from her home village and emigrating to Australia in 1871. I worshipped in the church that Emma attended, and had a marvellous time going through all the ancient record books, lovingly and carefully tended by Richard, the church archivist.
Thanks to Richard, I also managed to make a quick visit to Stourton, the village that was the subject of my PhD thesis, and the original home of Emma Whitaker. I was due to have 'supper' (as they call it England) with Henry Hoare, to whom I am endebted for assistance during my research. As I had several hours to myself before supper I spent them wandering about the magnificent Stourhead Gardens, a National Trust property. I had the place effectively to myself and alternately scrambled about the rough parts and lay under ancient trees in landscaped parts to read. It was a wonderful afternoon. Henry and his wife Caromy were fabulous hosts and I thoroughly enjoyed my evening in Stourton too.
On Tuesday 10th August I was the featured speaker at a special meeting of the Somerset & Dorset Family History Society in Frome. I spoke on geographic mobility, cousin marriage and illegitimacy in southwest England. The talk was fun to give and was apparently well-received. I wanted to give the presentation, and indeed to visit Frome, in order to thank in person as many people as possible who contributed to my PhD in one way or another. A key factor in the success of my thesis, which set it apart from projects completed many decades ago, was that I was given literally hundreds of parish register transcriptions in electronic form, amounting to millions of entries of baptism, marriage and burial. Most of these transcriptions were done by people associated with Frome and I wanted to thank them myself. And I did! :-)
On Thursday 12th August, Richard put me on a train at Bath Spa and I headed off to Durham, some 250 miles north. But why?
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Brighton and Burgess Hill, then a plane to Spain
We arrived in Burgess Hill, not far from Brighton on the English south coast, and quickly settled into the home of my friend Tim. It was wonderful having a house to ourselves. Tim is away working so in exchange for eating all his food and drinking all his wine, I mowed the lawn once. It seemed like a good deal to me. :-)
Ellie and I went to the Brighton Pier for an English seaside experience. We certainly had that. We got to look at the pebbles on the beach and feel the English rain in our faces. :-) We had a great time on the Pier. It's a tacky amusement park that is full of wonderful ways to suck the money out of your pocket. We went on a bunch of rides which scared me silly, but Ellie loved them, so that's the important part.
Then on Sunday 1st August I put Ellie on a plane to Spain. She is attending a two-week Spanish school at Malaga on the Spanish south coast. She says it's a bit different from the English south coast. It has sand and hot weather, but there are about the same number of English people on the beach. :-) The school is run by an organisation called Don Quijote. I hope that doesn't mean that they think it's a forlorn hope to teach Spanish to Australian teenagers. For Ellie's description of her time in Spain, see her blog.
I went back to Burgess Hill for another week and continued to drink Tim's wine while maximising his broadband quota. One day there was a massive downpour and the street flooded. I was very excited watching the water level rise rapidly. Then I suddenly realised that I was going to have to save Tim's goods and chattels on the ground floor if it came in his front door. Luckily, his wine was safely above water level. After faffing about a bit and trying to work out what I could move and where to, the water stopped rising and receded rapidly, having never quite reached the front door. Still, it was an interesting experience for an Australian to see so much water running down the street.
On Friday 6th August I helped myself to some of Tim's possessions and caught a train to Frome in Somerset. More of that later.
Ellie and I went to the Brighton Pier for an English seaside experience. We certainly had that. We got to look at the pebbles on the beach and feel the English rain in our faces. :-) We had a great time on the Pier. It's a tacky amusement park that is full of wonderful ways to suck the money out of your pocket. We went on a bunch of rides which scared me silly, but Ellie loved them, so that's the important part.
Then on Sunday 1st August I put Ellie on a plane to Spain. She is attending a two-week Spanish school at Malaga on the Spanish south coast. She says it's a bit different from the English south coast. It has sand and hot weather, but there are about the same number of English people on the beach. :-) The school is run by an organisation called Don Quijote. I hope that doesn't mean that they think it's a forlorn hope to teach Spanish to Australian teenagers. For Ellie's description of her time in Spain, see her blog.
I went back to Burgess Hill for another week and continued to drink Tim's wine while maximising his broadband quota. One day there was a massive downpour and the street flooded. I was very excited watching the water level rise rapidly. Then I suddenly realised that I was going to have to save Tim's goods and chattels on the ground floor if it came in his front door. Luckily, his wine was safely above water level. After faffing about a bit and trying to work out what I could move and where to, the water stopped rising and receded rapidly, having never quite reached the front door. Still, it was an interesting experience for an Australian to see so much water running down the street.
On Friday 6th August I helped myself to some of Tim's possessions and caught a train to Frome in Somerset. More of that later.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
London, Briefly
After arriving in London in the evening of 26th July, we went straight to our hotel called the Wembley Plaza. It's right next to Wembley stadium and is designed for people attending events there, but on off-nights the prices are a quarter of the usual rate. So for once we were able to stay in a 4-star hotel at backpacker prices. Very sweet.
We stayed four nights in London. Ellie mostly caught up on sleep and homework, although she did venure out on two occasions. We visited Covent Garden and Ellie got herself a henna tatto that says 'Nick Jonas' all the way down her forearm. For a photo of the tattoo, see her blog. Apart from body art, we enjoyed all the street entertainment. We saw (and heard) some string quartets (picure above) and also men in tutus throwing knives at each other (picture right). There was also a man who wrapped himself entirely in cling film and them clawed his way out of it in under a minute, which was really just silly, so no pictures of him. And of course, it being London, there were loads of 'living statues'. In New York if you are an unemployed actor you become a waiter; in London you become a 'living statue'.
Not wanting to become a living statue, I went into the office of Pure Solutions, for whom I will be working at the Greenbelt Festival in a few weeks. I found out a bit more about the job that I'll be doing, the pay from which will fund the next leg of this oddysey. I'll be controlling access to the site in the weeks before and after the festival, from a delightful building known as Madonna's Bra. I'm expecting lots of clever questions like 'how do I get into Madonna's Bra?'.
I also visited Westminster Abbey, which Ellie declined. Despite having lived in England before, and visited on many other occasions, I had never been inside the Abbey, so I thought I'd better tick that one off the tourist list. I was actually surprised at how small it was inside. Very rich and very interesting, but I guess that I was expecting something a bit more like Salisbury Cathedral or Winchester Cathedral. I found Charles Darwin's grave, which was one of my objects, and was pleased about that. He was a fierce atheist and would have been horrified to be buried in Westminster Abbey I would imagine. I found a chapel for private prayer, which I used. It was small and very quiet, with a big, heavy door. In most English cathedrals, the private prayer chapels are just part of the main body of the building, with a little sign saying 'private prayer only - no photos' or something like that. When one sits or kneels to pray, tourists ignore the signs and just wander in babbling away and snapping pictures. It was nice to find a little haven of peace in Westminster Abbey, because the rest of it was just heaving with people. Near the tomb of Elizabeth I and Mary I, an old New Yorker was loudly reading out inscriptions wherever his eyes fell, much to the annoyance of the afore-mentioned throngs of tourists. He was 'shushed' by his wife and by other tourists, but this elicited a louder tone and greater indignation. He refused to be 'shushed' and was saying things like 'I can talk if I damn well want to' and 'let's get the hell outta here', then he was told not to swear. This brought on further paroxysms of indignation with him announcing that he could do what he wanted, when he wanted, until he was finally dragged away by his long-suffering wife. And they wonder why American tourists get such a bad name abroad?
The highlight of London for us was going to see a West End show, and Ellie picked the musical Wicked. It was absolutely brilliant, with the most amazing sets that I have ever seen. There were great costumes, great dancing and great singing, but it was the set that really made it fantastic for me. Go see it if you can!
I continued my Vermeer quest and went to the National Gallery, which has two. Sadly, only one was on display, and it was one that I had seen before. The last time I had visited, 'A Lady Seated at the Virginal' had been loaned to Spain. Now it's apparently back in London, but not on display. Blast.
Finally, on 30th July, Ellie and I left London and headed south to Burgess Hill in West Sussex. More on that later.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Iceland
We arrived in Iceland at the height of summer - 15 degrees Celsius and raining! We then drove for an hour through nothing but barren lava plains before reaching civilisation in the form of Reykjavik. It's not the most inviting way to arrive in a country, but things improved. We stayed at the Rekjavik City Hostel. This was great. We had originally booked two beds in a 6-bed dorm, but they upgraded us to a private double room at no extra cost. We were very pleased. The hostel was next to the largest thermal pool in Reykjavik, Laugardalslaug, which was great fun. It is open 24 hours a day and has many 'hot pots'. These are circular pools of varying temperatures in which Icelanders sit around and solve all the problems of the world. Since neither Ellie nor I speak Icelandic, we mainly talked about the Jonas Brothers (in English). :-)
Ellie was horrified to see that it was compulsory to have a thorough, soapy shower before going into the thermal pools, and the helpful signs even highlighted the parts of the body that needed particular scrubbing (feet, hands, underarms and groin, in case you're wondering). The only problem was that people were required to have the shower completely naked and in a large communal shower. Now after many years in the Australian Army, playing various sports and sharing communal showers on Bougainville, I wasn't worried about being seen naked by a bunch of elderly Icelandic women. In fact, at 8am when we got there, the only other women in the communal shower were enormously overweight old ladies. By comparison, I started to feel less like a whale and more like a dolphin, so I sucked my stomach in and leapt into the shower. Ellie refused point blank. To the withering stares of the naked Icelandic whales, Ellie stood under the shower in her bathers, refusing to wash. Later, she enjoyed the thermal pools and 'hot pots' a lot. But she never went back to those showers again. :-)
The next day we did the classic Iceland tour, called the Golden Circle Tour. We visited the Gulfloss, or Golden Waterfalls (top photo), which were very impressive, then headed inland to see Geysir (photo at right), from which we derive the English word 'geyser'. We stopped briefly at an extinct volcano (photo below) and saw the site of the world's first parliament, which has been in use for a millennium and is spectacularly situated in the rift valley where the North American and European tectonic plates are slowly tearing Iceland apart. It was really interesting and Ellie and I sampled tradtional Icelandic meat soup. We tried to find whales and horses to eat, which Icelanders are supposed to enjoy, but failed, and had to settle for a sort of greasy lamb version. Very tasty!
On our last day in Iceland we went out into the harbour and watched the puffins which are nesting there. There were very cute. We then went back through the lava plains to the airport, where Ellie discovered that she'd left her Nintendo at the hostel. The wonderful staff there agreed to mail it to us in England, since our plane was about to board. Thanks Reykjavik City Hostel!
Finally, we flew to London in the afternoon. It was only when we were collecting our bags at Heathrow airport that we realised that we were on the same flight as Bjork. I was very excited, along with everyone else over the age of 25, but Ellie had never heard of her. Sigh. I decided not to try to photograph Bjork, since she has attacked people photographing her at airport arrival halls on more than one occasion. I wasn't going to risk it, although one other traveller did so from behind a screen. Brave man!
So there you have it - we've seen two rock stars in three weeks. I wonder who we'll see in England? :-)
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