Dubrovnik

Our ferry from Hvar to Dubrovnik didn’t leave until late afternoon, so b/f and I breakfasted in Stari Grad at a café we’d found the day before. Yesterday’s breakfast had been awesome, but this time the tomato was a little off and poor Jess turned green and felt awful. However, I managed not to spew (it would have been better if I had), and b/f and I made our way slowly to the bus.

The trip from Stari Grad to Hvar Town was short but lovely, particularly when we were spat out at the other end into the flashiness of Hvar Town. I resented the huge cruise liners in the harbour on account of what they were doing to the marine environment, though I daresay I am as much to blame as they are for travelling at all.

I still felt crook so had to sit as still as possible for hours until we could finally board the ferry, which was late in getting in to Dubrovnik. I was anxious about our accommodation person waiting up so late for us, though I texted her several updates. When we finally arrived, caught a cab and walked up the steps to our apartment, she was waiting for us. She spoke largely to b/f, assuming he was the one who knew what was going on, which was probably just as well as I was too tired to lipread.

Dubrovnik was very hot and I still didn’t feel 100%, but there were things to distract me. When b/f and I set out the next morning, we discovered a mortar shell sitting in the alcove outside our door. We bought Dubrovnik cards, which gave us entry to places like the Franciscan monastery which had an ancient pharmacy and the most gorgeous atrium full of plants. I was also impressed with the exhibits in the Natural History Museum – little shells encased in glass baubles.

We ventured up onto the city walls, which were splendid. I don’t get vertigo, nor any kind of dizziness because meningitis did something to my inner ear, but even so I was anxious about getting too close to the edge. From the walls we looked out to the ocean, and down onto terracotta rooves. We bought some overpriced sorbet which melted into a sticky pool within minutes, and tried to count all the stray cats we could see. B/f was delighted to find a sticker on the wall which said ‘Where the hell is Burgunperry?’ After stepping down off the wall, we had drinks in a square, listening to performers and singers.

When we got back to our attic apartment, a cat followed us inside. B/f picked him up to take him out, and was bitten. There were fireworks in the city, which we watched from the window above the toilet. Very glamorous.

The next day we thought about visiting a nearby island but we were pretty much broke by then, and too wrung out. Dubronik was very expensive – we had stupidly (at my insistence), eaten breakfast within the city walls, and two croissants, one egg and four coffees had come to 60AUD. So we lay in the airconditioning and read, which was also luxurious, and had dinner in a lovely restaurant with bougainvillea. The next day we had separate flights, but met again in Singapore airport and headed home. After two months of travelling and a glorious holiday I was sad to start work again, but, as usual, soon I had no time to think of anything except the next deadline.

Jess at the end of her hols.

Stari Grad

On the ferry to Stari Grad I finally finished my bloody book and packed my laptop away. When we pulled into the harbor, b/f & I decided to walk into town rather than catching the bus, which was heaving with backpackers. En route, some young men opened their packs in the grass on the side of the track and changed their clothes.

‘What are they doing?’ I asked b/f.

‘I don’t know.’

‘What language are they speaking?’

‘French.’

‘Perhaps they just got off the plane and they’re too hot.’

I had booked the AirBnB in Stari Grad somewhat in error, not realising how far away Hvar, the main town, was. As it turned out, it was a blessing, as Stari Grad was far and away my favourite place on the trip. We located the house in which we were staying, and were greeted by our host’s Mum, who was looking out for us as we walked up. She took us to the house and showed us the air conditioning. I logged into the wifi & sent off my book to my agent.

B/f and I wandered into town, which was calm and quiet, with clean, paved streets. We had a drink to celebrate my newfound liberation from my literary albatross, then went back to the house for a siesta. That evening we ventured out again through the cobbled streets and I snapped a shot of a family in the square, the little girl dancing with abandon.

We found ourselves outside an interesting looking restaurant, and decided to venture in. Well, it was just gorgeous, with mismatched furniture, a visitation from a cat, good wine and that excellent Pag cheese. Although b/f is immune to romance, I was charmed and very happy.

The next day we wanted to explore, so b/f and I hired bicycles from a fellow with a stand near our accommodation. We went east first, and the path soon disappeared. I wrestled with my giant bike, until a strapping Mediterranean man, walking behind us with his girlfriend, lifted it up for me over the rocks. B/f walked on, oblivious; one of his habits. Eventually we could go no further and decided to swim in a cove. Except it was, we discovered, a nudist cove.

‘I think we’re overdressed,’ b/f mused. ‘Shall we put on our birthday suits?’

‘No! Well, you can, but I’m not going to.’

We watched a German woman fastidiously apply sunscreen to every inch of her skin, and those of her two boys. I snorkelled, but there was nothing to see except the algae. It made me sad; the ecosystems must have been disrupted by all the boats shunting into the harbour. The top half of a pineapple had lodged itself among the rocks and I figured the rubbish wasn’t helping either.

Stari Grad UNESCO plains

We then set off east to visit the UNESCO paddocks, which had been farmed for some 2000 years. Weirdly, this info wasn’t in the Lonely Planet; I’d found it by poking around online. B/f was anxious about making sure I didn’t get hit by a car that I couldn’t hear and I was a bit stressed too, so we pulled off down a track and discovered old structures made of stones, set among cypress trees, with some cool plants in flower. After cycling for a bit longer, we headed into Vbroska, which was such a pretty place I wish we could have stayed there. We made our way along the bay until we reached a resort, and yours truly started getting pretty shirty on account of the heat. I wanted to swim, but b/f wanted to push on through the resort. I spat the dummy and we turned back and parked our bikes, then stepped over the rocks into the water, which was gorgeous

Harmony restored, we climbed back on the bikes and b/f found a way through the paddocks that was much quieter. I was still hot, but distracted by the amazing vegetation around me.

Plant & drystone wall.

That evening there was a full moon and b/f and I ate olives and cheese and drank red wine on the verandah of our AirBnB, which was screened by a grape vine. I was marvellously happy.

Split

After the quietness of Veli Losinj, Split was a shock. There were plenty more tourists and shops selling plastic wares for them, and the heat and dusty road near the bus stop was oppressive. We walked through the Riva, a baking marble plaza fronting the water, found our accommodation and switched on the air conditioning. 

However, Split was full of history, we found the next morning, walking past the fish markets and into the warren that led to the Roman ruins of Diocletian’s Palace. After watching some Roman-clad actors doing a bit of bad theatre in the centre, then a male choir singing traditional Dalmatian songs (lovely!), we attached ourselves to a tour group and walked through the cobbled streets in the heavy sun. The ruins were spectacular, rearing against the blue sky. They dated from the 4th century, when Diocletian built the palace for his retirement home. I couldn’t hear much of what the guide said as I was too hot to concentrate, but b/f repeated some of it for me. I tend to retain information more easily by reading, anyway. One part of the area was where Cersei did her walk of shame in Game of Thrones, and the underground dungeons were where Daenerys kept her dragons. It was cooler there, at least, and I felt for the menopausal women flapping brochures and fans.

A gorgeous, golden European evening.

That evening I wanted to get away from the tourists for dinner, so we followed some steps away from the centre and up into Marjan Forest Park. The views of the city were beautiful, but even better was the soft golden dusk, falling into the cypress trees. B/f mused how he had once thought the Victorian masters had fudged this effect in their paintings, but when he came to Europe he realised that this was how it actually was. A big change from Australia’s bold sunsets. There were charming Medieval grottos fitted into the rockfaces, too.

We didn’t find any dinner on the hill and by the time we got down, b/f often pulling me out of the way of cyclists whizzing dangerously past (I couldn’t hear them coming), I was hangry. We found a good place near our accommodation, and breakfasted there the next morning as well. Over our coffees we watched the ticket inspectors booking local cars, then we set off for the ferry for Hvar Island. While waiting in the holding pen, having a cool drink outside another cafe, b/f pointed out a young man with a cochlear implant. I was so impressed that he was travelling around by himself, although I shouldn’t have been, as I was intrepid when I was younger too. I watched him talk to some nearby women, his mobile in hand. They shook their heads & I realised he wanted the wi-fi password. I explained this to b/f and asked if he would take it over to him (it was printed on the café docket), and b/f obliged, as I was too shy. The man with the cochlear nodded when b/f showed him the code, then settled down with his phone.

Split by night.

Finally we boarded the ferry for Stari Grad, and I pulled out my laptop and furiously set to finishing my book.

On Holidays! Veli Losinj

The next morning we packed up, left our friend’s father’s apartment and traipsed back to the bus station. B/f held my hand as we crossed the road because of the unpredictable traffic, even at crossings. Our friend’s father had told us to be careful of the cars because Croatians had only recently acquired cars en masse and they were poor drivers. 

At a café outside the bus station, b/f ordered a coffee.

‘Would you like one too?’ he asked me.

I shook my head. ‘My tummy’s upset.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m anxious.’

‘What about?’

‘Missing the bus.’

‘We’re forty minutes early!’

‘I’m still anxious.’

B/f was unable to comprehend. I settled for a lemonade.

After half an hour we queued for our bus and found our seat, but there was a lengthy delay. From what we could gather, the bus was overbooked and the woman who couldn’t find her seat set up an almighty noise. The harried bus driver called the company on his phone. Eventually it turned out the woman was on the wrong bus. The passengers sighed and smirked as she bustled off.

Outside the city, there were yet more delays, and the traffic slowed to a crawl. We looked down at a car below us and saw the driver watching a video on his phone as he drove. We wondered aloud if there was an accident or if the traffic was bad because of school holidays. A woman overhead us and said there had been an accident. Then the bus stopped altogether and a man dashed off onto the grassy verge, took a lengthy leak, then bolted back into the bus. The woman who could speak English was becoming visibly agitated and harangued the bus driver. I watched the rocky landscape out the window and charted where we were going via Googlemaps. When we reached the car ferry, the passengers cheered. We loaded, climbed out and went onto the deck. The water was incredible. I noticed that the agitated woman had found a friend, and realised she had been wanting to meet her friend on the ferry and this was why she’d harassed the driver

View from the ferry.

B/f cracked open a beer and appeared to be enjoying himself and the scenery. I sat on a bench nearby & laughed everytime the nearby door to the cabin opened & fell off its hinges.

Finally we reached Veli Losinj, which my parents had recommended to us. We were very late and our AirBnB host was concerned, but I managed to text and find him. The AirBnB place was gorgeous; a little nook overlooking the square and the harbour. B/f & I had a lovely dinner by the water but belatedly realised we had been fleeced with tourist prices. Oh well, it was a gorgeous view and the harbour was so tranquil.

I was still working on my bloody book; I wanted to send it off so I could have a holiday. During my breaks, b/f and I swam and snorkeled (nothing to see but algae and a handful of silvery fish; the water was too degraded), sunbaked on the cement like the locals, drank coffee and wrote on postcards, bought wine and cheese from the supermarket and partook of it. Then we discovered that we needed to stay an extra day (such hard luck!) as the ferry didn’t run until the following day, so we moved into a hotel around the corner. B/f then lost the key while we were swimming. I was furious but diverted myself with my pal Inga Simpson’s new memoir, Understorey, a good read.

 As we were negotiating to pay for a replacement key, the owner brought in the one we’d lost – some kind person had found it & placed it on the bar while we were out. My equilibrium was restored.

The next morning we caught a taxi to Mali Losinj and sat in another café watching the water, the lorries going up and down the harbor and sunburnt Europeans with big bellies on their yachts.

‘I don’t feel well,’ I said to b/f.

‘Why not?’

‘I’m anxious.’

‘We’re an hour early. We couldn’t have got here any earlier, unless we camped.’

I laughed, and my nerves subsided.

Notes from the Field (xv)

From Zadar we caught the bus to Zagreb. The University of Zadar scholars were running another tour an agricultural area that day, but I was anxious to get to Zagreb and work out the layout of the city before the environmental history conference started.

I always enjoy travelling on public transport because I can read, or look out the window. As we bussed out of the city and started climbing into the mountains, the landscape changed. The karst limestone gave way to tall pines which, with the elevation, made the environment seem more European than Mediterranean. The bus trip was only about four hours, and when we arrived we caught a tram west (a friendly local explained how the tickets worked) and then walked up a steep hill to reach the apartment in which we were staying. It belonged to a writing friend’s father, and I bowled over by his generosity in hosting us.

St Mark’s Church

Once we downed our bags, we found lunch a German beer garden then we walked up to Markova Square in Upper Town. The cobbled square houses the Croatian parliament and St Mark’s church, which has an amazing tiled roof with the Mediaeval coat of arms of Croatia, Dalmatia and Slavonia on the left side and the emblem of Zagreb on the right. We were there, however, to see the Museum of Broken Relationships, housed in a former baroque palace. Small objects lined the walls, each with a story of heartbreak. Some of them were funny (‘His dog left more traces than he did’), and some were dreadfully sad (a child never had the chance to say goodbye to their parent). As with most of my museum-going, I became saturated pretty quickly, but b/f looked at each exhibit in turn. I assumed that he found it moving because, unusually, he took my hand and held it for a while as we walked back to the apartment. 

Dolac Market

The following morning was free, as the conference didn’t begin until that afternoon. We moseyed along the streets to Dolac Market, a sea of red umbrellas shading piles of fruit and vegetables and bottles of olive oil. We snapped pics of the Cathedral of the Blessed Virgin Mary (currently undergoing renos) in Kaptol Square, then wandered down to the University of Zagreb. I left b/f to his own devices, registered at the conference and went to two sessions, then met him again for the keynote, which was on climate change and migration. Unfortunately my Roger microphone, which I use for listening, doesn’t work at long distances so I couldn’t hear anything of it, and instead studied the marvellous chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. B/f said the keynote wasn’t that great anyway.

A bunch of very cool pitcher plants.

Although I love conferences because I learn so much in a short space of time, I find them massively stressful. Listening for several hours at a time is exhausting, especially if I’m in another country and the speakers have accents. I also have to ask to complete strangers if it’s okay to put the Roger microphone on the lectern, or to wear it, and because they’ve never usually encountered a deaf person before they look at me weirdly. When, before one session, I tried to explain to the chairperson what it was, and asked if it was okay to place it on the lectern, he barked ‘What? What?’ until one of the presenters, a young English fellow, intervened and said he was fine with using it. When I complained to b/f afterward about how affronted I was, b/f pointed out that the chair wouldn’t have been communicating in his first language so he was probably finding it hard too.

This was the first time I’d been to a history conference and I confess to finding it less interesting than a literature conference (although this was definitely not the case in the recent Australian Historical Association conference in Canberra, which was amazing). I kept waiting for people to talk about language and style, and when there was nothing of that I felt a bit starved. The theme of the conference was ‘Natures In-Between’, reflecting Croatia’s role as a meeting place in Europe, and the range was enormous. I enjoyed the Australian contingent’s papers (one was on Antarctica, another on the mosquito as a non-human agent), and others on managing water in the Netherlands, or the daily weather reflections of Gilbert White, an 18th C parson who is regarded by many as England’s first ecologist. My paper, on ecotones in south-west WA, was more of a literature paper than a history paper & that didn’t go down altogether well with some listeners, but I took their comments on board and found them constructive.

Gleditsia macracantha Desf. Not your friend on a dark night.

On our final day in Zagreb it was raining, and b/f took me to the Botanical Gardens, thinking that I’d like it. I certainly did, especially as I was a bit rattled after giving my paper. I was very pleased to have him there in general as I felt so out of place, and I was exhausted from trying to listen all day. After examining lily pads and a horrifically spiky tree that you wouldn’t want to run into on a dark night (Gleditsia macracantha Desf.), we wandered through the grand part of town, with tall European buildings lining the roads. Some markets were on in Parc Zrinjevac, but they weren’t really humming because of the rain. I’ll have to go back there, because when Parental Unit visited it was spring and the air, they said, smelled of strawberries.

Lilypads after rain.

Notes from the Field (xiv)

To get from Edinburgh in Zadar in Croatia, it seemed the only way I could fly (at least according to the fellow at the uni travel office booking my flights) was via Ireland, arriving in Zadar very late at night. It made for an annoyingly long trip when all I wanted was to see my b/f again, having been apart from him for 6 weeks. So at Dublin I checked in again, and the flight attendant helping me said, ‘There are a lot of youth on this plane. There’s a festival in Zadar.’ I wasn’t sure what she meant, or if I’d heard her properly, until I got to the departure lounge and found myself surrounded by fifteen year olds. As I stood behind them in the boarding queue, feeling conspicuously old, I wondered how on earth their parents could let them go to a foreign country when they were so young, unless it was like sending them from NSW to Queensland, given that the borders in Europe are so fluid.

And lo and behold, on the plane the young ‘uns became very lively indeed, and towards the end of the flight they were shouting, singing and harassing the male flight attendant. As the plane dipped into Zadar and the lights went out, they switched on the torches on their phones to make strobe lighting and continue their discotheque. I was able to turn off my hearing aid and keep reading, but the poor bloke beside me was not so lucky. The flight attendants were pretty tight-lipped as we filed out.

As I was arriving at 11pm in a foreign place, I had prebooked a taxi, and was relieved that the driver was a woman. She had short blonde hair and chatted on two mobile phones as she drove, switching between them. When she pulled up outside the city wall, I didn’t have far to walk to reach the AirBnB, but I was still anxious because it was so late. I had told b/f, who had arrived that morning from Germany, that I was concerned, but when I found the square in which the apartment block stood and texted him, there was no response. My fond feelings for him dissipated. I called, but he didn’t pick up, & I started to get angry. I sat down for a bit, waiting, & wondered if I would have to be there all night, & if it was safe. It didn’t feel safe, but this was beyond b/f’s conception as he wasn’t a woman & didn’t have to worry about being raped. Eventually I tried phoning again and to my immense relief he picked up. ‘It’s your girlfriend. I’m downstairs,’ I said tersely. Apparently he hadn’t slept on the bus from Munich & had been asleep since he checked in. I still couldn’t believe that he hadn’t stayed awake when I’d told him how worried I was, but I was too tired to argue & passed out. The next morning I was so pleased to see him & to be in a new city that I got over it.

Roman Ruins

We were in Zadar for a field trip of Kornati National Park organised by the University of Zadar, in association with the European Society of Environmental History conference in Zagreb. The field trip was on the Monday, so during the weekend b/f  & I wandered the cobbled streets of Zadar and made much of the local red wine and Pag cheese in the restaurant next door, though we were drenched at one point by an unexpected downpour (not so different to a Queensland storm). I loved the city; it was small, clean and compact, its people unhurried. We found the Sea Organ, which makes sounds when waves rush in and out of it, investigated the Roman ruins, drank lemonade by the sea, slept in the heat, then bought beer and cider from the supermarket next door and drank it on the balcony of our AirBnB.

Walking to the jetty in Zadar.

On Monday we made our way to the boat ramp for the tour of Kornati National Park, & I was very pleased to meet some Australian academics in the group. When we set off, the tour operators gave us a nip of something that tasted like pretty rough grappa. It went down with a burn, but I liked the novelty of it: shots for morning tea!

The Kornati archipelago is made up of 89 islands and was declared a national park in 1980. No one lives on the islands now, but during the war, the guide told us, children were sent there because it was safer than in the cities. There’s very little water and vegetation, due to deforestation. The rocks were of karst limestone, which settled in striking curved ridges upon the water. They were stark white against the astonishingly blue water.

I had asked b/f to bring my snorkel & mask over from Australia, but in the bay in which we swam, there was disappointingly little to see, aside from some sea slugs and a few schools of fish. There was plenty of algae, so the ecosystem was obviously unhappy. Beyond a chain slung across the bay were yachts; evidently an attempt to try to rehabilitate the bay by keeping them out. As we headed back to a café to rehydrate, b/f mentioned that we had disturbed a nudist when the group of us walked onto the rocky shore, & that she hadn’t look too impressed about having her morning disrupted. I hadn’t noticed any nudists, being too excited about getting into the water for my first swim since summer. We sailed on to Nature Park Telašćica where we watched some archaeologists from the university carrying out a dig. We climbed a rocky hill and explored a church, and admired the long stone fences that curved over the hills like a spine.

After the tour, as the sun went down, b/f & I returned to the Sea Organ to check out the nearby Greeting to the Sun, a large flat disc that lit up with neon colours. The place was crammed with families and was very cool. We walked back through the markets and the air was still mild. I’ve always loved those European summer nights.

Notes from the Field (xiii)

The last leg of my research trip was to the National Library of Scotland in Edinburgh, which held more letters from Jane Loudon, and a brief note from Mangles. Loudon, as I mentioned in an earlier post, wrote manuals that made botany accessible to women and children.

In Mangles’ letterbooks in the Battye Library in Perth, there are a few letters from Loudon. On 22nd October 1840, she wrote ‘I am going to begin a Lady’s Magazine of Gardening and Botany the 1st of January, with coloured plates and I shall be very much obliged to you, if you will give me a few hints and point out new flowers, etc etc.’ A few days later she followed this up with, ‘I have received a note from Mr John Murray, agreeing to take my instruction, in producing Botany for Ladies; — and I write to tell you, because I know you take an interest in all my numerous publications — I am quite delighted to begin this work, because I am sure something of the kind is wanted — I never could bear the Linnean System, it is so dry! but the Natural System is very interesting, when stripped of its formal language — I mean to render Botany entertaining and if I can do this, I think I shall deserve the thanks of every lover of flowers’. The aim of every science communicator ever!

A number of Loudon’s letters in the National Library in Edinburgh are to her publisher, John Murray. This publishing house also produced books by Jane Austen, Charles Darwin, Arthur Conan Doyle and Lord Byron. In a letter of 19th April, 1843, she proposed to the current John Murray (there were seven of them between 1768 and 2002) to write a three-book series on Zoology for Ladies. It would, she suggested, ‘be on a regularly scientific plan, following the modern improvements of the system of Cuvier. At the same time my object would be to make it an entertaining book fit to be read in schools or to a family circle’. Once again, Loudon’s aspiration to make science available to children is clear.

Back in Australia, Georgiana benefitted from Jane Loudon’s publications, but in terms of gardening. In an extract of a long letter written in 1840, she thanked Mangles profusely for ‘Mrs Loudon’s “Flower Garden”’ which she described as ‘beauteous & elegant beyond description I feel highly indebted not only to you but to that superior gifted Lady for the exertions made to strike off an immediate copy’. This was likely The Ladies’ Flower Garden of Ornamental Annuals, published in 1840. In another letter dated a year later, Georgiana referred to Loudon’s description of Ipomoea, and thanked Mangles again for the work, commenting ‘How singular you should have even thought of thus gratifying my ardent wish to see this work’.

Jane Loudon’s husband died from lung cancer in 1843, leaving behind large debts. Jane’s letters, now bordered in black dwell upon means of making money such as raising subscriptions. Despite her ambition, intelligence and hard work, Loudon died penniless in 1858 at the age of 51, leaving ingenuity a daughter, Agnes. It seems a sad end for such a clever and innovative woman.

While I was in Edinburgh I also took the opportunity to update my author photo – a must if a writer wants to age gracefully! My photographer was my friend Ian, who was in our Australian/English bookclub when I lived in London, The Book Rangers. He hails from Cootamundra and is also a brilliant hairdresser. When I got home I revamped my website with one of his pics. You can see more of his work on his website, and also follow him on Facebook.

Another of Ian's headshots (with help from the Edinburgh wind).

Notes from the Field (xii)

Back in Carlisle, I walled myself up in the Carlisle Archive Centre, taking photos of Georgiana’s letters, which were kept by her family, so that my research assistant could transcribe them when I got home. Because paper was in such short supply in the colony, and because the recipient of the letter paid for the cost of postage, Georgiana crossed her letters. This means that she wrote in one direction, turned the page at a right angle and wrote over her words. Trying to decipher these letters is enough to send anyone batty (including my poor research assistants!), but when I spoke to a colleague who has done some research into the psychology of reading, she said people of the time were able to read these letters with ease. I guess it’s akin to someone in the nineteenth century trying to read today’s text messages.

Carlisle was a pretty unprepossessing place despite its rich history (it began as a Roman settlement then sprouted a castle in 1093) and elegant buildings. Keats, on his walking tour of 1818, described the city thus: 'The Cathedral does not appear very fine — the Castle is very ancient, and of brick. The City is very various — old white-washed narrow streets — broad red-brick ones more modern — I will tell you anon whether the inside of the Cathedral is worth looking at. It is built of sandy red stone or Brick. We have now walked 114 miles, and are merely a little tired in the thighs, and a little blistered.'

On a not unrelated note I was totally chuffed to pass a Walkabout pub when I was having a look around. These pubs were a dime a dozen when I lived in London a decade ago, but they went into administration in 2009, perhaps because of the GFC.

On the way back from the Archive Centre, the cabbie struck up a conversation about Brexit. I didn’t venture my opinions as I didn’t know what side of politics he was on (and have had my share of conservative cabbies), but it transpired he was against it. His daughter had a part-time job in a store and had no hope of ever getting ahead or owning a home, he said, and Brexit wasn’t going to help. That made me sad, and I was very conscious of how lucky I was to be able to travel and do my research.

I also got in touch with the owners of Crosby Lodge, the house in which Georgiana grew up until her father died just before her 15th birthday. The place had formerly been a bed-and-breakfast and the current owners were knee-deep in renovations – it was a mammoth task! They very kindly took me around, pointing out the part of the house that was original and that which was added on, the walled garden, which was just gorgeous, and the nearby woods, with tall trees and dappled light. There was a big ditch between the wood and the road which might have been a fortification akin to a vallum built by the Romans. This startled me, until I remembered that Aborigines in Australia have sites even older than Roman fortifications. History!

A Carlisle summer.

The owners left me to wander around and take pics. I was keen to get a sense of the countryside, and although it was another startling blue day, I remembered the last time I was there with my friends, and how overcast and grim it seemed. Although I guess for someone raised in that environment that kind of weather would have been normal. The house and grounds conveyed a sense of calm, stateliness and privilege, particularly in the walled garden, which was where Georgiana began her first lessons in gardening. It was a stark contrast to Georgiana’s life in Australia that was marked by giving birth to her first child on a hard board in a tent while a storm raged outside.

Notes from the Field (xi)

From Newcastle I took the train to Carlisle to look at Georigana’s letters, which are held in the Carlisle Archive Centre. I needed to get to Helensburgh by the weekend, so I could only spend a day here, before returning the following week. I’ll write about Carlisle in the next post.

When Georgiana’s mother and sister became intolerable, she stayed with her friends the Dunlops at Keppoch House, and later with Helen Storey, who married the minister at Roseneath. I needed to get a sense of the environment through she moved, so as to compare it to her experiences in Australia. I also wanted to look at Keppoch House.

I’d only been to Scotland once before, when H & I went to Edinburgh to see his pal Guy Hollingworth perform at the Fringe Festival. So I was delighted when we crossed the border and the train driver, in his Scottish accent, called over the P.A. ‘Welcome to Scotland!’ and he told us he’d grown up in a town nearby. I had to change very quickly at Glasgow, without having a clear idea of where I was going, but still took two seconds in the square to listen to a man playing bagpipes.

From Glasgow the second train travelled west through the suburbs, then parallel to the River Clyde until it reached Helensburgh. I dragged my suitcase up to the AirBnB place where I was staying. The town was very quiet, with streets sloping down to the sea, and the sky was so close it seemed I could touch it.

In the afternoon I walked along the water to look at Roseneath Bay, on which a number of boats bobbed. When Georgiana lived there, boats were the main way of getting about as the roads were pretty rudimentary.

Rosneath Bay

I’d arranged to have a look around Keppoch House, and after some discussion with the bus driver we worked out where I was to get off. The owner of the house was a smart and jovial man who had worked as a commodities trader, and he offered me coffee in his kitchen. Outside, the sunshine was brilliant and very warm. ‘This weather,’ he pronounced, ‘is a lie.’ After our chat, I walked through the trees surrounding the house, which had views sloping down to the water, and saw a fox slipping into the greenery. I also wandered through the walled garden, but I wasn’t one hundred percent sure if it was the same garden as when Georgiana had stayed there. I had met the gatekeeper’s wife as I walked up the drive and I thought she said it had been in a different place, but being deaf I wasn’t entirely sure. If I get back to Scotland I'll try to see if there are any plans in the archives.

View from the trees at Keppoch House.

What struck me most was the proximity of the water and the size of the house. Georgiana wrote in her diary about being very cold in winter, and I wondered if the house was hard to heat (I had turned the heaters on in my accommodation in the summer evenings! But I am a thin-skinned Queenslander). And the water was everywhere – to me it suggested promise and a sense of possibility, for Georgiana would eventually sail on that sea to Australia, where her life changed dramatically.

The next day I caught a bus to Kilcreggran, passing Rosneath, where Georgiana had stayed with her friend Helen Story, who had married the minister there (alas the original church had been replaced). From Kilcreggan I caught a ferry to Greenoch. The sunlight was absolutely dazzling and the vistas were incredible, at least for someone who had grown up in inland Australia. The space between sea and sky seemed very small, the land rising abruptly from the ocean.

I got talking to a young fellow on the boat. Perhaps he heard my accent when I spoke to the man selling tickets, or perhaps he was just friendly, and he asked, ‘Where are you from?’

‘Australia.’

‘Australia! What are you doing here?’

‘I’m researching a woman who used to live here.’ I explained about her life, but he was incredulous that I’d given up the weather in Australia to come to Scotland. When we got off the boat he pointed me in the direction of the main street, which was helpful as it wasn’t immediately apparent to me where I should go.

On the boat from Kilcreggan to Gourock.

I had a coffee in a café and read a newspaper, watching a film crew busying themselves across the road, then wandered along West Bay. Here, the afternoon sunlight was absolutely dazzling, and I wished I could have stayed there for longer but I was getting pretty tired. Being deaf means I have to be very alert in new places to take in information, & I had to strain to hear the Scottish accents, so I was a bit worn out. After a wander I caught the ferry back. It was about 5pm and people were finishing up work, and I wondered about their lives, if they were happy in a small place, boating back and forth the way Alexander Dunlop had nearly two hundred years before.

At the Kilcreggan jetty where the boat docked, the boat master’s dog was sitting on a post. He was so pretty I patted him as I went past, & wished I could have a dog like him. And then it was back to my accommodation on the bus, passing the Garelochhead Military Training Camp and the Faslane Peace Camp which protests against nuclear weapons. The lady at the AirBnB told me that the lochs were so deep that submarines docked in them, which to me – again used to the arid inland – was incredible.

I regretted that I didn’t have the time or energy to see the lochs. I was still working on the latest iteration of my memoir and that took up my spare time. But I’m pretty sure another visit will be on the cards at some stage, as the scenery was just stunning, and it would be good to see what it’s like when the sun isn’t shining as strongly, as Georgiana’s experience of the weather influenced her moods, and vice versa. It would be impossible for it not to, given its grandeur and presence.

Notes from the Field (x)

I was last in Newcastle in 2014, ushering in the New Year and then my birthday with some very good friends, one of whom had been in my London book club of expats (with a few English folk tossed in), the Book Rangers. I blogged about that trip here, but I didn’t mention the mead we drank on NYE as we watched the fireworks and the drive to Solway Firth (which was freezing but gorgeous – the morning light was silver), then up to Hadrian’s Wall (the temperature was 2 degrees celsius!) thence to the famous Barter Books bookstore (housed in a restored train station), where I bought a copy of Praed’s Political Poems by Winthrop Mackworth Praed. We then headed down to a beach with a view to a ruined castle. It was almost pitch black and the wind cut my skin, but it was exhilarating to be beside a castle and the sea in air which, but for the moon, was thick with night.

This trip was more scholarly, though it was great to see my friends again and to meet their new addition, a charming son. Before I left for the UK, I contacted the Hancock Museum to see if I could find out any more about Mangles’ correspondents, author Jane Loudon (Mangles sent a copy of Loudon’s Ladies Flower Garden to Georgiana) and horticulturalist George Hailes (who grew some of Georgiana’s seeds). My query was passed on to Les Jessop, honorary librarian of the Natural History Society of Northumbria. There was no George Hailes, he wrote, but there was a George Wailes, founder of the Natural History Society.

I went back to Mangles’ letters and checked the writing; that lovely, scrolling ‘H’ was indeed a ‘W’. This was a revelation for both of us. Les had known Wailes mostly as an entomologist, but now realised that he’d had extensive involvement in plants. As for me, it meant I could check Kew Gardens’ and Chatsworth House’s archives for other letters by Wailes (I found one in which Wailes got a bit shirty with William Hooker over an exchange of plants, which amused me).

Saltwell Towers

George Wailes had a brother, William Wailes, who set up a successful stained glass manufacturing business, and his windows feature in dozens of churches. In 1860 William bought Saltwell Park, built a mansion and set about improving the grounds. He later ran into debt and sold the house and grounds to the Gateshead Corporation. It’s now a gorgeous park, so I took myself off to look at it on an unseasonably warm day (summer in England continues to surprise me). The house, known as Saltwell Towers, is still there, and I thought it was lovely.

Saltwell Park

I also took myself to Newcastle University’s archives to look at some letters between Jane Loudon and Pauline Trevelyan. Jane Loudon is a fascinating woman. I knew of her from Ann Shteir’s wonderful Cultivating Women, Cultivating Science, for she was a pioneer in making botany and gardening accessible to women by writing entry-level manuals (those that existed were for people, largely men, who knew quite a bit about these fields). I also knew her husband had died prematurely, leaving her high and dry, so she had turned to writing to support herself.

As I read more about Loudon in preparation for this trip, I found that history had repeated itself. Jane’s father had died when she was 17, so she published a novel she’d written, The Mummy, in 1827 to raise some some funds for herself. So Jane Loudon was one of the world’s first science fiction writers! Wonderful stuff. Also amazing was that John Loudon, editor of a magazine, reviewed the book and asked to meet the author. He assumed the person who turned up would be male, but then he discovered it was Jane, and married her a year later.

Laura Trevelyan, to whom Jane wrote the letters housed at Newcastle University, was a lightening rod for Victorian culture. She met her husband, a geologist, at a conference for the British Association for the Advancement of Science (which I think is a great story). She was an artist, and made her house in Northumberland, Wallington Hall, a place where she gathered friends such as John Ruskin, the Brownings (Robert and Elizabeth Barrett), the Rossettis, John Everett Millais, Thomas Carlyle and Swinburne beneath its roof.

Alas there was no mention of Mangles in the letters (it was a rather long bow to pull, to be honest, but I had to check). Still, I was so pleased that I’d grown to know more of these two remarkable women.