The written thoughts of a traveller.
Touring with Rock ‘n’ Roll bands; exploring Europe and the world; flirting in bars… and some naughtiness.
Oh, and all with a trombone. Enjoy..
Let me introduce my neighbours: Tom and Dot. Dot is indispensable. She moves my post from the front door while I’m away, and she used to feed the cat before the Old Boiler stepped in. Dot is now down to light duties, and is rewarded accordingly. She still waters the outdoor plants but, vertically challenged,
Exhausted, I can do little more than dribble in front of Facebook this morning. Yet it seems to be in Swedish, or possibly Finnish. Staring at the screen, utterly fogged, I’m on the verge of despair. Help! As if by magic, a British Airways stewardess rings me. A honeyed word, and she has fixed it.
I took a few pictures of the AC/DC show in Amsterdam from “front of house” last night. The best “seat” in the Ajax stadium was a basket suspended from the rafters – rather like one of those window-cleaning cradles that dangle from skyscrapers. Clad in a full-body harness (nothing like a corset), I pranced gaily along
Wow, the Pet Shop Boys are still performing; the Pandemonium tour is in full swing. With just one truck, Neil and Chris have got the equipment down to nine tons – ‘We’ll have to lose some of the crew; you’re a heavy lot,’ they say. This I glean from the tour programme. What I admire
“Wrecker” Jon has very kindly offered to write a guest blog – to cover the travel day from Gothenburg to Amsterdam, a day on which there is little to report. The handwritten note, featured below, was left for me as we shared a cabin from Finland to Sweden the other night. It will be a
Remember Swedish Anna and Carl? All you need to know is that they have a summerhouse on the west coast of Sweden. They are in it, and I am passing. Today’s events, then, take place at a delightful wooden getaway near Halmstad, meaning “straw town”. Like most of southern Sweden, Carl tells me, it used
I was all set to do a piece on Gothenburg’s archipelago today. But Dutch Marco photographs me, chats a bit, and sets me thinking along other lines. ‘I saw a security girl in a deckchair,’ he says. ‘But I didn’t see the chair any more.’ Obesity, it seems, has even reached Sweden. So, I’m abandoning
‘I’ve never been to Finland,’ says Wrecker Jon. Now that’s a funny thing to say, because the last time he was here was with me. We fooled about, eight years ago now, atop a beached submarine on an island somewhere. It’s odd how he remembers me arm-wrestling a Mafia boss in Russia, yet I remember
Oh dear, Holger is wearing socks and sandals again. ‘It is German stylish,’ he says. The socks are dark socks, however, which he has equated to being more British. ‘I am even drinking tea now,’ he boasts. Ah, a veritable step in the right direction. Sidling up to me on the ferry to Finland, he
“Barnaby’s thoughtful musings on his voyage through life. You are not alone as you travel that valley my son.”
Father Pius Smith, Hastings.
