I feel I must say at this point, lest you think, dear reader, that we had a terrible time travelling and all the people we met were horrible, that actually most of the people we met while travelling were delightful and very much an enhancement of our own enjoyment.

For us, a lot of the adventure is having the freedom to explore on our own.
Our travel agent back in Australia, a pure gem, had found us places which were either off the beaten track or right in the centre of things, depending on the attractions of a place. As a result, each place was an adventure in itself, the people there being part of the experience.

We had chosen Sarlat-la-Canéda almost arbitrarily at the last minute, still in our search for medieval villages and castles. There’s a throwaway reference in Michael Crichton’s novel Timeline which is set in the area. For one night only, this stopover was between our exploration of Guédelon Castle (the modern reconstruction of a 13^th Century castle, see my blog on it) and our friends near Bordeaux. I’d worked hard with our travel agent to find a place to stay that was close enough to the centre of the old part of the town. It wasn’t easy — no big hotels. She found somewhere small, more a B&B than a hotel. It suited us.

The night before, we received an email from our travel agent. It was forwarded from our host in Sarlat, the landlord wanted to give us detailed instructions on how to find the place. We could stop the car nearby (address given) to unload but would need to park away from the appartement. We duly programmed the drop-off location into the GPS plus I’d taken a screen shot of the email so I could make extra sure that we did not go off-piste, as it were.

We had a long drive, in hot weather. The change in the scenery was exciting as we got closer, with high clifftops surmounted with medieval castles in various stages of decay. If only we’d taken a week to do this leg! But it simply hadn’t been possible.

As we came into Sarlat, we almost missed the landmark street name. But as we drove into the street we quickly realised our mistake — this was not where we should turn, it was where we should stop and unload. We had driven into a pedestrian-only area. However, even though we quickly realised our mistake, we saw another car even further in and wondered if it was actually okay for us to unload in that area as the other vehicle clearly was.

Jeff let me out of the car to find the appartement on foot while he began to turn the car around, preparatory to taking it back to park on the main road. It was tight, but I had every confidence in him.

I found the place very quickly. It was small and the inn-keeper was behind the desk. When he came out with me to get the bags he expressed horror at where we’d got to with the car. ‘I sent you email last night — you ignored my email!’

I replied that no, we had not ignored his email but in the confusion of managing the unfamiliar road and having programmed the street corner into our GPS as instructed, the GPS had us turning into that street and not stopping on the corner.

‘It’s not the GPS. It is YOU!’ the landlord continued. ‘Why did I bother sending you email if you deliberately ignore it?’ He loudly continued on this theme out into the street and while he insisted on unloading our bags. Jeff paused in his three-point-turn and also caught the diatribe, as did every passer-by in the entire block.

Our landlord’s voice raised another few decibels when he discovered that our luggage consisted of two cabin bags and two larger bags. While we only needed the two cabin bags, there was no way we were leaving our two slightly larger hold bags in the back of a car that would be parked on a busy main road overnight. But the landlord was by now almost apoplectic with rage. ‘Quatre valises? QUATRE valises? Pour un nuit?’ [Four bags for one night?] ‘Pourquoi?’ [Why?] I almost answered, ‘We’re Kardashians.’

I heard the outraged litany all the way up the spiral stairs to the attic, where we were put for the night. The landlord refused all help with bags, and even my suggestion that perhaps a locked room downstairs could take our larger bags did nothing to placate him. ‘C’est un appartement, ce n’est pas un hôtel!’ [It’s an apartment, it’s not a hotel!]. My brain snapped to classic British comedy and I was by now thinking we were dealing with a French Basil Fawlty.

As the rant faded up to the rafters, the landlord’s wife was still staffing the counter. She looked profusely apologetic and shrugged as only the French can. I was half-expecting her to say, ‘He’s from Barcelona…’. She explained about breakfast, was again apologetic as she asked us to confirm whether or not we would be breakfasting in the appartement’s dining room for only 18 Euros a head extra. I said I’d talk to Jeff when he got back from parking the car. At this point the landlord had returned and heard me mention the car. The rant began again, this time fully in French. While I am not fluent I understood enough of his diatribe to realise it was very uncomplimentary. The landlord continued muttering as he showed me to our attic room. He repeated, ‘You must understand, this is an appartement, not a hotel. This level of service is not usual.’ But despite this, he offered, with eyes rolling at the rafters, to bring our bags down the next morning. ‘But only if it is before 8.30 am. I have an appointment at 9 am that I must not miss.’

When Jeff finally arrived I met him downstairs at the counter and showed him to the narrow spiral staircase that led to our attic room. It was a pleasant room as such places go, and as we were only there for one night we didn’t plan to linger when we could be out exploring. While Jeff unpacked our toothbrushes I checked through the information folder. I found a very interesting sentence. ‘Our staff will transfer your luggage to your room on arrival, and downstairs on your departure.’ So much for the complaints about carrying our bags.

There was exploration waiting for us outside and we only had half a day to check it out. On the way past we looked into the dining room. Very ordinary, a minimal menu for 18 Euros. We decided that in the morning we’d get on the road quickly and maybe buy breakfast at a village on the way. At the desk we informed our very pleasant landlady that we would not be in for breakfast, and we would be leaving well before 8.30 am.

Sarlat-la-Canéda is a gorgeous medieval town, surviving the dangers of renovation and renewal that have infected parts of France that are much more on the beaten track. We had a delightful few hours, culminating in dinner in the town square. Every person we met was generous and welcoming. Our landlord experience was very much out of character. As we strolled back to the ‘appartement, not a hotel’ in the evening we decided to chalk it up to adventure.

Next morning we got our own bags downstairs. The landlord was outraged. ‘That is my job!’ he announced. Then he frowned. ‘You’re not planning to bring your voiture into the pedestrian areas again, are you?’

We assured him that we were happy to manage our own bags, and we would only bring the car into an approved area. We cheerfully waved goodbye and, I suspect, the landlord was also happy to see the back of us.

Outside it was raining, but after the heat of the previous days it was refreshing. While Jeff went to fetch the car, I walked the bags down a ramp to a row of shops where, we’d been told, cars were permitted for a few hours in the mornings. While I sheltered in a café doorway from the rain, the aroma of fresh-baked croissants was tantalising. There was a half hour parking spot just nearby and when Jeff arrived with the car, he parked there and loaded our bags. Then we went into the café and ordered hot coffee, fresh croissants, a warm crusty baguette and sliced ham. Fresh, local and delicious! Once loaded with fresh food we climbed into the car and hit the road. About half an hour later the sun came out and on the side of the road, in sight of a castle on the clifftop, we put together our fresh picnic breakfast. We also had a pot of local mustard which was a perfect condiment. Our petit dejeuner had cost a quarter of what the ‘appartement, not a hotel’ breakfast would have cost, while the scenery and the company was far more pleasant.

Next stop — Toulenne!

We were travelling by train from Stuttgart in Germany to Zurich in Switzerland. Our carriage was mostly empty. Across the aisle a middle-aged woman was settling herself in.  A few rows down on the other side an American couple were talking loudly and exclaiming over the scenery. Once we were settled in our assigned seats Jeff went to the dining car for coffee. The train was hurtling through the Swiss countryside and, as one tree now looked like another, I had my laptop plugged in to the carriage’s power supply, my little voice recorder in my pocket as always, and was settled for a few hours’ productive writing.

Behind her, Ellen could hear the panting breath of the wolves. They were gaining…

‘Do you mind not typing so loud?’

The world of my imagination evaporated like mist. The woman from across the aisle had tapped me on the shoulder and broken my train of thought. Her face swam into my view, showing a blend of apologetic contrition and determination. ‘Your computer. The sound of your typing is too loud. Could you turn it down?’

I double-checked settings. Volume was at zero. But there was a faint click every time my finger hit a key. It’s the same with all keyboards, a purely mechanical effect.

The trees were just ahead, if only Ellen could reach them…

 ‘I can still hear it,’ she complained. ‘Surely there is a setting you can adjust? Most new computers can adjust the volume. What are you using?’

I instinctively covered my screen. I’m protective of my writing with total strangers, especially ones that want to tinker with my computer settings uninvited. ‘I’m writing a book,’ I explained. ‘I really need to work right now.’

She was oblivious. ‘It’s really easy, there should be a setting on your computer to mute the sounds,’ explained the woman. ‘Unless your computer is old. Or faulty.’

How could she hear anything over the sound of the train? Two seats down, the American couple were now loudly discussing world politics. It didn’t seem to bother her.

I studied the woman’s features. Maybe she could fit into my story. Spiky salt-and-pepper hair. Narrow lips. Piggy eyes.

‘I don’t want to be a nuisance…’ she simpered. ‘It’s just that the noise is grating on me, like a dripping tap. It’s a long journey, this train, and noises bother me. I’m very sensitive.’

I tutted with a sympathy I didn’t feel. ‘Do you have far to go?’ I asked hopefully. Maybe she would be getting off soon.

‘I’ve got to change trains in Zurich,’ she told me.

Damn! We were stuck with her. I assured her I would type as quietly as possible and she settled back in her seat opposite.

I returned to the forest…

The wolves were circling now, their yellow eyes narrowed to slits. Ellen’s chest burned with the effort…

‘Nobody else is as sensitive as I am, my mother always used to say it was my gypsy grandmother,’ said the woman. ‘My boyfriend says I’m too sensitive.’

My face must have registered an interest I was not feeling.

‘He said I’m useless with money. He’s the most annoying person in the world.’

‘Surely not,’ I replied. She completely missed my sarcasm.

‘Do you write much?’ she asked.

‘Not at the moment,’ I said darkly. ‘Look, the train’s mostly empty. Why don’t you move to those seats over there where it’s quieter?’

‘Oh, no — the sun is coming in that window through the trees. That flicker in the corner of my eye…’

She began to explain at length. I closed my computer. Ellen’s rescue from the wolves would have to wait until the next rare opportunity.

I was being regaled with another diatribe on what the boyfriend said about her sensitivity, and how he didn’t want to lend her any more money. Time was passing, like my life flashing before my eyes. I’d hoped to finish this scene on the train trip and make a good start on the next. No hope now. My well of inspiration had now run dry in the face of interminable interruption and distraction.

Just then, Jeff returned with coffee. I accepted it gratefully.

‘I love good coffee,’ the spiky-haired woman told us, eyeing Jeff’s plastic cup.

‘The dining care is open,’ he told her. ‘Not too many people.’

‘No, I’m not good with crowds. I find it too difficult being around a lot of people, I feel too nervous. I’m so sensitive, you see. It’s all that psychic energy.’ She was now batting her eyelids at my husband. It’s a good thing I know he’s bulletproof. He wasn’t even aware of her flirting. With the woman distracted (I hoped) I got back to my writing.

Ellen felt the rough bark of the tree at her back. The lead wolf growled and crouched, ready to spring…

‘I can still hear it. Can’t you fix it? Nobody ever understands how really sensitive I am to vibrations. I have to take medication for my nerves.’

Medication for something, I thought darkly.

‘What’s the problem?’ Jeff asked.

The woman explained to him about my loud typing. His sidelong raised eyebrow at me spoke volumes. I’m surprised she couldn’t hear him thinking. The sound of tapping keys is purely mechanical, there’s no way to completely silence it.

In pretending to examine my laptop, Jeff had made the mistake of turning his back to the woman, so she grabbed his arm to get his attention. ‘Too much noise makes me physically ill, I get terrible headaches too.’

‘Have you tried wearing ear plugs?’ he suggested. ‘We have some here…’ he began to rummage.

‘Oh, no, they make my head feel like I’ve got corks in there and the pressure builds up in my head like a bottle of champagne that’s been shaken.’ She smiled at her own imagery. ‘See? I could be a writer too.’

‘I’ll try and type more quietly,’ I promised. But it was too late. Damage done, I could not concentrate on the scene while also worrying about making too much noise with my fingers on the keys. Besides, even though I couldn’t even hear it myself over the rattle of the train, the faintest sound of my fingers on the keys was too loud for her.

Jeff, sensitive to my own vibrations I suspect, did his best to run interference for me. As the woman monopolised the conversation I could see his eyes begin to glaze over. However, despite his attention, every time I started to type she would stop me, one way or another. Clearly, I was not to be allowed to deviate my attention one iota from her.

I finished my coffee and headed for the train toilet. Not that there was a need, other than to get some privacy and a break from interminable complaints about noise, vibrations and the trials of being born so sensitive…

I still had my small recording device in my pocket. In the loo, masked by the rattle of train wheels on tracks, I vented to myself. ‘That BLOODY woman! All she wants is attention, all I want to do is get some work done! She just wants me to stop typing so she’s got someone paying attention to her! Well, I won’t have it!’ But I knew that I had lost. The woman would keep interrupting, would keep competing against my typing until I gave up. I did some slow breathing, splashed water on my face, counted to ten and returned to my seat.

The woman was gone.

‘Where did she go?’ I asked.

‘She finally stopped eyeing off my coffee and went to get her own from the dining car. I reckon you’ve got about ten minutes.’

I smiled at him and opened the laptop. Back to the forest…

The wolves were now so close Ellen could smell the carrion on their breath. Suddenly she saw a flash of spiky salt-and-pepper hair as the woman ran past. The lead wolf leapt in pursuit. Ellen watched in immense satisfaction as the pack fell on the tourist and tore her to pieces.

I always say that writers can get the best revenge.

I know I’ve been writing about writing while travelling in Europe, but there are always quick trips close to home.

Where we live is like an island, surrounded by sea on two sides and a national park on the other two sides. It’s a long drive to ‘the mainland’. Sometimes the shorter north road floods and we have to take the longer, windier south road. It’s all beautiful, even in the rain, but at times treacherous.

I should be concentrating on the drive. So why is it that my mind starts to weave story ideas when I have to keep my hands on the wheel?

If the detour is unexpected, I’m probably running late. But last week I had the delight of a reconnaissance trip to assess the flood for a later trip. I had the luxury of Time. And, because the north road was flooded, I had an empty road. So when I felt the urge to pull off the road to jot down some notes and take photos, it was easy. I was able to take photographs of spring wildflowers in places that are usually inaccessible. And in our area, while some of the wildflowers are small, secretive and delicate, others are grand, glorious, vibrant pieces with multiple flower heads half a metre across and on stalks as thick as your wrist, four to five metres high. They scream, ‘Here I am! Look at me!’ Like some sort of triffids, these Gymea Lilies march through the bushland, stalking their pollinators and tempting them with an abundance of nectar.

Today I’m on the road again. Heading south, through the Australian countryside, towards Canberra. I have some writing to do before I leave (not just this blog!) but if I allow plenty of time, I’ll be able to pull off the road along the way and make notes. The road to Canberra is dotted with small rest stops, each named after an Australian military hero, a winner of the Victoria Cross. We already have our favourite stops, the ones that tend to fit our travel schedule. They have a toilet block of sorts (a ‘long drop’, not sewered — put the lid down when you’re done, folks, or the smell will be a rude shock to the next visitor), a picnic area and, hopefully, some water. However, the drought is now very bad and the last time we visited, there was no water for hand washing, let alone drinking. Reminder — pack some hand sanitiser… and extra bottles of drinking water.

There is a brownness to the Australian landscape, especially during drought. Perhaps for those used to the intense greens of Europe Australia seems stark and barren. But this is my land, my ‘sunburnt country’, and I can see the life within. In spring it is even more joyous.

I have visited those rest stops through the seasons. With intense autumn colour in the southern highlands, the dry dust and locusts of a scorching summer, and the misty film of green of new pasture on Lake George against the backdrop of white windmills on the far hills. It’s been a long time since I could see water in Lake George; farmers pasture their sheep on it when there is no feed anywhere else. Kangaroos, as opportunistic as ever, move in to take advantage of any easy pickings. And the last time I took the south road I saw a lyrebird scratching in the leaf litter in the thicker part of the forest. A flash of wonder, then I had gone past it and there was nowhere to turn around to go have another look.

I don’t know what I will see on the drive; each time is different depending on the season and how dry it is. Last week’s rain may not have reached far enough to break the drought in the areas I will drive through. But maybe… and when we get to Canberra, we’ll go to Floriade, a celebration of spring by the edge of Lake Burley-Griffin. A festive profusion of tulips carpeting the area. It’s glorious. I’m looking forward to seeing it, I love flowers of any kind.

But for me today, the journey will be the adventure. My water bottles are filled and ready to load. My bag is packed. I have an extra warm jacket in the car for the cold Canberra nights. There was snow in the southern highlands last week —I have seen snow maybe a dozen times in my life. There won’t be any today.

And on the drive, at least the early part, will be my sassy Gymea Lilies, standing impossibly tall and bold with their intense green stems and bright red flowers.

I’m allowing time. Packing the camera. The notebook is to hand.

Allons y!

When travelling to different places it’s important as a writer to watch and listen. It also helps to get to know people, to find out about their understanding of the place. Maybe they live there; maybe they’re new to the place too. It’s all useful. Even time spent waiting can be put to good use. Writers should never pass up the opportunity to investigate a new character.

We had met fellow travellers on arrival at the airport in Rome. We sat with our bags, each with the distinctive red tag of the tour company identifying us as members of the same group. One man was travelling with his teenage grandson and we chatted to them both while we waited for our transfer.

At our hotel we met our first interesting Roman character — the tour company representative. Glamorous in a Zsa Zsa Gabor way, she called us all ‘darlink’ and had a very picturesque way of talking. She explained the benefits of being part of an official tour group. ‘My darlinks, in Rome on tours we have ze happy line and ze sad line. You will see zat ze sad line is very long, you wait in ze sun for hours. But you, my dears — you vill be on ze happy line!’ And she clapped her hands in delight.

And so it was. Organised tours would be allowed to arrive before the official opening times and be ushered to a special gate while individual tourists waited in the heat and glared at us.

Our tour guide in Rome was delightful and informative. Dapper and chill in a white linen suit and sunglasses, he showed us the safest way to cross the road in Rome. Of course, use a pedestrian crossing, but don’t assume the cars will stop. ‘You step out,’ he said, ‘and glare at the cars. Hold up your hand to indicate “stop”. Then you sneer, maintain eye contact, and walk across the road boldly, with confidence. That is how we do it in Rome.’

On tour we got thrown together with other members of our party. Besides the grandfather and teenage grandson who sat with us at Rome airport, slowly the group assembled. Later on the coach we chatted across the aisles in the stop-start heavy traffic.

One woman on our tour was memorable. Before taking a selfie in front of yet another Roman monument she would use her phone as a mirror, adjusting her hair, the angle of her sunglasses and touching up her lipstick. Then she would take time to carefully position herself and suddenly paste on a happy smile. Click! Maybe again. Then she would stand a little longer in front of the monument in question while she checked that she had caught precisely the look she was after. Only when satisfied to her exacting standards would she move out of the way and let the rest of us in to take the snaps we wanted of the monument.

I grew to really hate selfies. At Trevi Fountain there were so many people doing the same thing that you couldn’t get near it. All the people standing beside the fountain had their backs to this marvellous work of art and were smiling idiotically into their phones.

We had been warned of the crowds when we went to the Vatican. Zsa Zsa had organised ‘ze happy line’ for us but even that snaked around several corners. There were thousands of people there already, many more in ‘ze sad line’ which did not open until an hour after our special early entry. During the day there would be tens of thousands more, all queuing in the intense summer heat. Offer your suffering up to God, my children …

Once we got in, the magnificence took our collective breath away. The coolness from the thick stone walls was also welcome. The guide explained that the Pope was away on tour, and our selfie queen lost it. She thought ALL tours included an audience with the Pope. I have since checked the website (easy to do — why hadn’t she done it?) and found that if you want to see the Pope (even from a distance) you can either attend Angelus at midday on Sunday, or come to St Peter’s Square in the Vatican at 10 am on a Wednesday. Tickets are free but need to be booked months in advance. Security is tight, you arrive two hours before the Pope arrives and he is there (as are you) for about ninety minutes. The advice is to find an observation point where you can see a big screen, because the Wednesday audiences in St Peter’s Square can have up to 300,000 people. A chance to press the Papal flesh is most unlikely.

Our entire tour of the Vatican was ninety minutes. It was nearly much shorter, as our selfie queen became increasingly shrill and demanding. She MUST meet the Pope! Some purple-and-orange-clad Swiss Guards moved in and suggested that if the selfie queen could not behave with decorum, she would have to leave. She tried to explain that she had travelled from America to Rome, on a sort of personal pilgrimage, having told her friends and family of her intention to meet the Pope who, she was sure, would undoubtedly recognise and value her piety and humility. The Swiss Guards were unimpressed, they had seen it all before.

Later that day our selfie queen was back in control of herself. During a quiet moment on the bus, she told us of her uncle who was a bishop, and how she attended church every Sunday and was a good Catholic. The tour guide walked past doing the bus head count and the selfie queen broke off from talking to us mid-sentence, to impress her self-importance on our preoccupied guide.

We were glad to leave Rome (and the selfie queen) behind. She was taking the leg of the tour going to Florence, while we continued on to Venice with Grandpa and Grandson. We spent a happy time with our new friends on the train and once again were sharing a hotel, a lovely converted Benedictine abbey near the Grand Canal. We spent an enjoyable three days but on our last evening we returned to see the next tour group arriving. And there in the group in the hotel foyer which we had to walk through, was the selfie queen. We pulled our hat brims down, muttering, ‘grazie,’ as the crowd let us through. We did not want to attract her attention and hear again about her uncle the bishop.

Next morning at breakfast I was horrified to see Selfie Queen sitting at the next table, an elbow jog away. We determined to eat quickly and go, we had a train to catch and didn’t want to get buttonholed into a long conversation about personal holiness. Towards the end of our meal I went into cold sweat mode when she leaned across to me.

‘Can you pass the salt?’ she asked.
‘Certainly, here you are.’ I handed it over.
There was not a flicker of recognition.
It figures. She only ever saw herself.

They say travel broadens the mind. It also shrinks the wallet. They also say a fool and his money are soon parted.

The same goes for tourists.

We met a lot of beggars in our travels. Many of them were strategically placed to maximum impact in the most touristy places. The most photogenic and/or the best performers were in places like the entrance gates to the Vatican, or outside the main cathedral of a city. Prime position. We watched two beggars arrive at the Vatican. We had arrived early, part of an organised tour that was beating the queue. These two walked in, clearly friends. One was a double amputee and was wearing curious round leather slippers over his stumps. The other had some very picturesque lumps on his head. When we next saw them, as our queue to get past the queue (Rome is a funny place) snaked past these guys, they had transformed themselves into exhausted, starving, desperate individuals. The amputee was sitting, crouched prostrate across his stumps, his slippers hidden underneath him. He lay there sobbing, moaning and begging for coins. The cap in  front of him was filling. The man with the lumps on his head was similarly distraught on the cobbled courtyard, wailing and sobbing. Our tour guide said to us in disgust, ‘He tells people those lumps are cancerous tumours and he has only a few months left to live. He’s been saying that for the last five years. And those lumps change position.’

That night I did an online search for ‘Vatican beggar amputee lump’ and got hits mentioning both these men, including claims that they were often seen arriving in taxis.

In various European countries it is actually illegal to buy anything from street pedlars, just as it is illegal for them to be begging or selling items on the street. In hot weather, bottles of water are often offered for sale, at two Euros each. But it pays to check — when you buy a bottle of water, especially at such prices, it should be properly sealed. These gypsies will pick empty bottles out of the bins and refill them from the many free water sources for which Rome is famous. So for your own safety, check that the bottle is sealed. And best of all, buy from a shop and not a street pedlar.

Many years ago a friend of ours who worked with street people in Sydney warned us, ‘Never give them money. It’s often not what they need anyway. Give them food, buy them a coffee, but don’t ever hand over cash.’ So we’ve followed that principle even in our travels.

In Paris the street pedlars were everywhere. They had their wares spread on blankets on the ground, various cheap trinkets, models of the Eiffel Tower that flashed multi colours. The blankets had discreet handles on the side so if the tourism police came by, the pedlar could sweep everything into his blanket, grab the handles, and run.

Tourists are prime targets. We’re suckers for souvenirs, we don’t necessarily know the local laws, we’re generally feeling right with the world and approaching our novel experience in a generous spirit. So it was no surprise to me on an early morning bus tour of Paris, to see the pop-up street vendors set up shop so promptly on our arrival. Our bus arrived at Napoleon’s Tomb at 8.30 am, with deserted streets. Within minutes of us getting out to take photos, several hawkers were set up and selling flashy Eiffel Towers and one pedlar had a neat stand-up portfolio of artwork for sale. Even our bus driver was tempted, calling over the art seller to haggle over a poster.
We drove off after fifteen minutes and a glance out the window showed the street pedlars efficiently grabbing their goods and moving on, texting on their phones. When we arrived at the Eiffel Tower fifteen minutes later, other pedlars arrived within seconds. I think they had been told of our next destination by their friends at Napoleon’s Tomb.

On another occasion we were walking by the Seine, just the two of us. The gravel path was wide and we saw an unusual woman approaching a gold ring on the ground. She had yellow hair, with distinctive close-set almond eyes. We saw her stoop and pick it up. ‘Oh, so lucky!’ she exclaimed. ‘Here — I give you this luck!’ She showed me the ring. It felt heavy and as I examined it closely, I could see a hallmark inside.

‘I give it to you!’ she said again.

‘I can’t take this, it looks like a man’s wedding ring,’ I replied. ‘It looks valuable.’

She continued to urge me to take the ring. ‘No, it good luck. Your good luck. Your lucky day!’

I said, ‘We should take it to the police, hand it in.’ Yes, I was by now very suspicious, but the ring did look valuable.

At the mention of police, she shrank back. ‘No, I no go police. No papers.’

So I said, ‘Fine, I will take it to the police myself.’

She nodded and smiled, then as we began to go, she said, ‘I am very hungry, I have no food for three days.’ Now, she looked very well nourished, absolutely no way was she starving. But she was increasingly demanding and standing in our path. She wanted a couple of Euros from us for food, she said. Normally I would carry an apple or bread roll from breakfast to give to a beggar who wanted money for food. This time I was caught short. It was also clear that if we left with the ring, it would go badly for us. She could accuse us of theft, she might have an accomplice tail us and get the ring back from us. Or worse. So I reached into my pocket (where I had put the ring) and took it out, palming it so she would think I was handing over money. I pushed the ring into her hand and folded her fingers over it. ‘Take this to a café,’ I said to her. ‘Give it to them. They will give you bread.’ Then we walked on, not daring to look back.

When we later looked up the scam, it came in a number of guises. If we had given her money, someone nearby would undoubtedly have been watching to see which pocket we kept our money in. The ring was likely to have been a crafted fake, made of brass and stamped with a fake hallmark. Other scam-busters have rubbed rings like this on a nearby rock to scratch it and identify the base metal. This also ruins the ring for repeat scams and incurs screaming rages from the scammer.

Later that night we were walking back to our hotel and heard someone following us in the dark. A nearby tourist stall was brightly lit and we stopped in the light, going in to look at the wares. As we entered I turned to see a couple of men, heads covered with hoodies, walk past. Then a minute later the same men walked back. We waited a few minutes then quickly moved on.

We had no pockets picked in our travels although we did get sort of scammed by a couple of children in Athens (‘pretty lady, you want flower?’ and then demanded money). It was early in our travels and I didn’t know any better. The kids had probably filched the flowers from a compost heap somewhere …

We saw few beggars in Greece but a lot of people trying to sell flowers, painted rocks or their dubious musical talents. One old man in Paros sang a song about someone called Maria. He would sing a few bars then play the clarinet for a few bars, then repeat ad infinitum until people paid him to go away.

On our last night in Paris, our tour group went to dinner for a French experience. As we arrived, we were serenaded by a piano accordionist with the same unusual yellow hair as our gypsy lady with the fake ring. The guy attached himself to me and, once he found out I was Australian, kept calling me Skippy. I thought he was employed by the café, but then he passed the hat around. We’d all been scammed, with the connivance of the café. With so many American tourists in our party, the guy made a lot of money from his informal gig. And no overheads!

One thing I’ll say for him — what he lacked in talent, he made up for in volume.

Travel tips for writers

Travelling and writing means having to deal with the conflict between, ‘There’s so much to see!’ and ‘I want to write, there’s so much to jot down!’

To maximise your chances of packing in as much of both as possible, here are some tips.

Learn the language. I’ve already written about this. It enhances your experience and often it saves a lot of time and frustration. It shows respect. There is an added benefit in learning a little more of the stories around you, and the people you meet. Even a chance conversation can be an adventure.

Listen to the people around you. Some people are tourists, some are locals. Some speak English. Many don’t. Even if you don’t understand the language, listen to their tone. Watch their body language. Even the horrible people you encounter will add value to your writing. We were in a tiny hotel in New Caledonia and two young women were on duty on the desk that doubled as the servery for the restaurant. They were clearly in charge of the music for the restaurant and were thoroughly enjoying what I can only describe as French Country & Western. They were unable to disguise their joy in it as they jigged around behind the counter while watching to see if we needed anything. We were in beef cattle country on the island and they served the best steak, and the worst music, we’d had in a long time.

Pack layers — weather may vary considerably from what was expected. Several lightweight layers will not only provide a lot of warmth, you can shed one or more if it warms up. I found a thick shawl that also kept off a light rain. When not needed, lightweight layers can pack in tiny corners and be used to wrap delicate souvenirs.

Get a local SIM for your mobile phone. Check, before you leave home, that your phone will still function after you change SIMs. If it’s network-locked and shouldn’t be, sort it before you leave. If it can’t be sorted, borrow a phone that can take the local SIM. We used our phone for local calls, for SMS (to a phone using an Australian SIM on roaming, which can receive SMS but not respond to it).
If you try to use local data on your Australian roaming phone, be aware that if your phone gets thrown off the local network you’ve patched into, you might unknowingly activate your daily roaming. Even at only $10 a day, that can be expensive on a long journey.

Using local data, you should be able to access navigation on your phone. We also had a GPS with us which was a surprise on the high speed trains. We had intended to use it to see when we crossed borders, or to pinpoint our location. It was an unexpected giggle to be told that at 300 km/hr we were in excess of the speed limit for the freeway beside us.

Read the Terms and Conditions. The most commonly told lie in the world is, ‘Yes, I have read the terms and conditions.’ But when I checked the fine print in Hong Kong (we arrived the day before the first big demonstration) I realised that the level of surveillance was set to Extreme Mode. ‘We will monitor your Cookies and browser usage for your protection.’ Needless to say, I was very careful about anything I posted.

Plan your writing time for long train trips or plan trips. Any long waiting time. Don’t forget to look up occasionally and admire the scenery. Have your laptop, notepad or Dictaphone in easy reach and ready to put away fast. My laptop has its own shell that lives in the top of my cabin bag. When travelling, it’s the first thing I can reach when I unzip my bag — easy access at airport security. On a plane, there’s always the cabin bag. On a long train trip we’d have all our bags with us. Laptops would come out and I’d already have planned what I could do with the battery time available. On some trains in Europe as well as many planes, you can plug in to power, so a six-hour trip could be very productive.

Take a power board for your home plugs and then you only need one adaptor, not loads. Check voltages too — some countries have lower voltages so charge times may be longer. If you’re going to a country that has very low voltage compared to what you’re used to, you are likely to need a voltage converter as well, although most electronics these days will manage.

Explore unfettered. At the destination I would leave the laptop in the hotel room and go out to explore with just a small bag containing my phone, my camera and, nestled in my pocket, a small sound recording device. Take plenty of photos — not necessarily to show other people, but to remind yourself of the details later on. You’ll be able to walk further with less to carry.

Eat local. Be prepared to try the local food. It’s often cheaper, it’s likely to be fresher, and if it’s what the local people eat and they’re giving the restaurant repeat business, it must be acceptable. Over the road from our apartment in Chania in Crete was a small baker with the best bougatsa. That’s a delicate, flaky warm pastry filled with mizithra, a ricotta-like cheese made from goat’s and sheep’s milk. Sweetened, spiced with cinnamon and served warm with a strong Greek coffee or Nescaf frappé, it was a perfect breakfast.

Eating local can also let you down a bit, but it’s all experience. In New Zealand, I had a memorable lunch when I tried whitebait fritter sandwiches in a small railway café in Greymouth. I can’t blame the whitebait, but putting the poor things in a fritter and serving it between two slices of soft white bread was Stodge City. I can say I’ve tried it, I know to not repeat that experience.
Satay in Singapore was best at the Satay Club, a collection of street stallholders down near the harbour. It was by far our cheapest meal, and one of the most memorable, looking across to the Merlion, the symbol of Singapore, cooled by a breeze off the water and sipping fresh coconut water.

In London on a cold, rainy day, we warmed ourselves by the fire in an old English pub and ate beer-battered cod and chips while we shamelessly eavesdropped on conversations.

We’ll be dining out on our travels for a long time.

If I’m travelling to a place, I will try to learn some of the language. You don’t have to become fluent, but there are some useful basics and it’s good PR to try. I always say, if you learn, ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘please’, ‘thank you’, and ‘where is the toilet?’ in the language of your destination, it will be very useful.

Of course, a little more than that is even better. Being able to order a meal in a restaurant, to check into a hotel, to catch public transport — there are so many situations where a little of the local lingo goes a long way.

I did study French and German at school, but for years it was so rusty as to be almost useless.

About ten years ago we had a two-week stay in New Caledonia — a French-speaking colony in the South Pacific. I had a free CD from a Sydney newspaper with a one-hour language lesson. In New Caledonia we quickly found that, once away from the main city (Noumea) people did not speak English. The one-hour lesson had included phrases to help you book a hotel or order in a restaurant. However, we found there were local differences. Rather than being daunted by these, we had to approach them from a sense of adventure. Want coffee with milk? The lesson said to ask for ‘café au lait’. But in New Caledonia, that got us black coffee. So we learned to ask for ‘café avec du lait’ specifying ‘avec’ = ‘with’. This meant that now half the time we got coffee with milk. An improvement. As it turned out, there is no fresh milk on New Caledonia, which is why they drink their coffee black. They only have powdered milk and condensed milk. The swankier hotels provide jugs of reconstituted powdered milk. All the cattle we saw, beautifully kept beasts, were for the beef industry there.

Most of the hotels had free wi-fi, but away from the hotel there was nothing. We had no functioning mobile phones. But we did have access to Google Translate so when communication needs became more technical in hotel check-out, we sat in the hotel lobby and typed in English and showed the French translation to the hotel staff member. She read it, nodded and smiled, then typed her response — in French. Google Translate gave us a close enough interpretation of her words so that we could understand.

That was us managing with a little bit of French. On our way back to Noumea, we stayed in a small hotel in a regional town. The hotel front desk was also the servery for meals in the restaurant. Next morning as we were checking out, we saw a New Zealand couple having breakfast at their table right next to the check-in counter. They were there to see the war museum. The old man was struggling with the language barrier. ‘Excuse me, love,’ he said to the receptionist. ‘Do you have any lait?’

The girl looked confused.

‘You know, lait for my coffee. Ya got any?’

We stepped in and translated. ‘Avez vous du lait pour cette homme?’ (Have you any milk for this man).

The girl smiled, nodded and disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a jug that we were certain had been made up from powdered milk.

‘Ah, lovely,’ the bloke said to the girl. Then he turned to us. ‘I knew if we insisted, we’d get some fresh milk at last!’

We didn’t tell him. It would have been like kicking a puppy.

When travelling, I planned ahead. Once we knew when we were leaving, I started studying. Our first trip in years — Greece, then working our way across Europe to a family wedding in England. So from the time we booked the trip, I started studying Greek. Not easy. It’s an old language, it’s had millennia to get complicated. Thanks to my science/maths background, I already knew the alphabet. Online lessons with DuoLingo are free and can be done in as little as five minutes. Whenever I felt disheartened by Greek, I brushed up my French and German.

When we arrived in Athens, everyone spoke English. But on the islands older generations struggle with English and our old friends spoke no English at all. Their children did, thankfully. But when we were without a translator, we relied on non-verbal communication plus the few words we had managed to learn. ‘Καφέ? Ναι, σας παρακαλώ.’ (Coffee? Yes, please.)

About a week before leaving Greece, I stopped my online Greek lessons and switched to Italian. Then, a few days before leaving Italy for Austria, I started studying German. Then in Switzerland, I made the change to French.

By the time we arrived in France, I thought I was ready. But as I opened my mouth to speak to the taxi driver at the train station, my brain froze as a jumble of Greek, Italian and German began competing with French for my head space. The taxi driver then abused me for not speaking French. ‘You tourists — why do you not try to learn a little of our language, eh?’ he spat. ‘You are in France — you must speak French!’

Cette chauffeur de taxi étais un cochon…

This year on a tour of Normandy, we also saw the Bayeux Tapestry. Our tour guide, who did her best to hammer some useful French words and phrases into our collective brains, explained, ‘it is the BAYEUX Tapestry, like “by-yer”, not the BAYOU Tapestry. It is not about a swamp.’

Despite this, all around me many of the other travellers were talking about the BAYOU Tapestry.

I quietly said to a fellow traveller on the tour, ‘I think I’ll draw our tour guide a picture of the BAYOU Tapestry.’

My friend said, ‘Oh, you’ve seen it before? You can draw it from memory? Wow!’

I replied, trying to hint broadly, ‘Once you’ve seen one swamp, they all look alike.’

On the bus I quickly sketched the cartoon on hotel notepaper. The tour guide chuckled quietly and tucked it into her notebook. At least her pronunciation lesson had reached one person.

I hope it made her day. We really were a very trying bunch of tourists.