It's a Small World After All...

Today we re-visited Seaworld to enable the girls to have their frolic with the dolphins that they missed out on Friday, thanks largely to my inability to read instructions properly.

I'm glad we did. Not just because because the girls loved it, but, because while we were there, we miraculously bumped into fellow Rhylbillies, the Hassett family.

Sean Snr. and I have played rugby together in the past and it was amazing to meet and chat to them. They moved out here, to Coffs Harbour, Northern NSW, in May this year and were on a day trip to Seaworld today, when our paths crossed.

It was Robyn and Sean's daughter who recognised each other and they came over to chat. I was mooching around a nearby food outlet at this stage and as I returned to join the family I spotted Sean.

Anyway, we had a good old chin-wag and exchanged phone numbers. We're passing through Coffs on our journey south so we're going to stop off and visit them.

It's a big old haystack, Australia, and meeting someone you know so far away from home is almost beyond belief.

Life Begins At Forty

We all enjoyed Seaworld on Friday. I didn't think it would be my bag but I had a thoroughly good time.

It's owned and run by the same mob that have the one in Orlando, Florida. But, whereas the Orlando theme parks are all hustle and bustle, full to the brim, pay-through-the-nose affairs, the Aussie equivalent is typical of the country - big, spacious, laid back and relaxed.

We're going back on Monday as I misread the instructions for the girls' swimming with dolphins experience and we turned up late. The girls were well miffed and I was mad with myself for fluffing it up, but the lovely people at Seaworld have arranged for us to return to the park tomorrow, free of charge, so the girls can have their swim after all.

In fact, the Australian people have been great with us so far, with only a couple of exceptions - most notably, the rather rude chap who hammered on the toilet door and shouted "HURRY UP!' whilst I was enjoying a download in Surfers Paradise. Cheeky monkey.

Yesterday was Hed's 40th birthday and we had a busy day celebrating. It started with go-karting at 7.30am and then we had an all-day barbie down at the communal barbie-pit down by the lake in Pacific Pines.

This was my first chance to see the Aussie at play and I was eager to learn as much as I could. They were a pretty tame bunch compared to what I'm used to, with only one casualty - a skinny, young bird that got stretchered off at tea-time. Not surprising really, she had consumed more than her own body weight in wine.

The emphasis is definitely on the kids here, with all-day boozing just a sideline as oppose to being the main event, like back home.

Ah well, you can't have everything.

In The Deep Mid-Winter

Today we're going to Seaworld.

The girls are mucho excited as they'll be swimming with dolphins.

Yesterday, while Hed and I went golfing, Annabel took wifey and the girls to see some kangaroos. They saw loads including some 'joeys' and they loved it.

The weather here is beautiful, even though it's the height of winter. It's been in the twenties every day since we arrived, without so much as a drop of rain. Which, having left the wettest place on earth, makes a welcome change. Hed took the cover off the swimming pool yesterday and we had a dip, but it was freezing so we ended up pool-side on the sun loungers.

I still haven't shaken off the jet-lag, although this morning I had a 'lie-in' until five a.m. It also seems to be affecting the girls - they can't keep their eyes open at tea-time but are awake dead early. They keep me company, at least.

In other news, our long-lost shoe bag finally arrived - it had been left behind in Manchester.

We have our shoes back, we are complete.

Shoeless in Surfers

We arrived in Brisbane at eight o'clock local time. Hed and Annabel were at the gate to meet us with little pressies for the kids. Which was nice.

It was great to see them and they both look tanned and well.

They live about an hour from the airport in a place called Pacific Pines, near Surfers Paradise. Their house is immense, a massive four-bedder with a pool. Its the type of house that dreams are made of.

We've had a couple of mishaps already - I managed to leave my mobile phone in the bog on the plane from Singapore to Brisbane and someone had it away. And Singapore Airlines have mis-laid one of our bags. The big black one with everyone's shoes in it.

It's half four in the morning here now and everyone apart from me is fast asleep. I woke up half an hour ago with jet-lag and I'm wide awake. I think I'll take a look at whats on offer in Hed's fridge.

Tomorrow, after sorting out banking, tax and medicare, we're heading down to Surfers to check out the beach. It's mid-winter here so I don't know what it'll be like. It was warm enough to sit out til half ten last night and have a few beers though, but I don't know what's forecast today.

Some fun, I hope.

Crying Eyes

We're at Changi Airport, Singapore. Making the most of the excellent facilities including free internet access.

Its six a.m. local time and eleven at night in the good old U.K. We've got three hours here before our connecting flight to Brisbane.

So far so good. Singapore Airlines are very good. The entertainment system in the headrest in front has eighty movies, hundreds of quality telly programs, more cd's than you can shake a stick at and hundreds of arcade games to play. I've never known twelve waking hours pass so quickly.

Our leaving do was a good night. Loads of people turned up and we got a stack of cards, pressies, dosh and, most importantly, free booze. It got a bit emotional at the end but that was nothing compared to saying goodbye to everyone in the cold light of the following day.

I've been very naive, thinking I would breeze through these farewells with a smile on my face. I'd read and heard of other peoples experiences but completely underestimated the strength of feeling I felt on Sunday.

I woke up feeling sick, not with nausea but with dread. I simply didn't want to leave. It's as if it wasn't real before, but now, all of a sudden, it was very real - we were leaving our hometown, family and life-long friends behind for who knows how long.

Saying goodbye to our parents was bad enough but the mass farewell we had outside our local, the Esplanade Club, was very heavy.

I bawled like a girl half-way to Manchester Airport.

Work Hard, Party Harder!

Two hours before our leaving do.

It's been an absolutely manic week and we've worked our socks off.

It's all done now, the house is an empty shell. The lads from John Mason International, our movers, were absolutely brilliant. I don't know what kind of dough they're on but they earn every penny.

All we've got to do now is go out and get well and truly spannered. Now that we can do. With bells on.

The kids have got their party clothes on, the wife has loaded up with fake tan and I've treated myself to a shower. We're ready.

Tonight, we're having it large.

Week of Weeks

The worst appears to be over. Physically speaking that is.

The movers arrived this morning and, after a quick brew, got stuck straight into it. It's three o'clock now and they reckon they'll work until seven this evening and come back and load the container at nine tomorrow morning. We should be done by lunch-time.

It's been a roller coaster of a week for me personally speaking. The wife has been her usual rock-solid, unflappable, industrious self and the kids are getting more excited by the day - but me, my mood has been changing like the weather and, as any resident of this island would surely concur, the weather has been unbelievable in its variety of late.

However, as the end of this week nears and, finally, there appears to be a light at the end of the tunnel, I'm beginning to feel more like I would have expected to feel.

The car has been sold today and there's a chap called Steve winging his way north from Plymouth as I type to collect it. Good timing, we leave on Sunday.

So, tomorrow lunch-time, the house should be empty, the movers should be gone, as should the car and we should be considerably richer than we are today. Lovely jubbly.

All that remains then are a few points of admin, some last-minute cleaning/painting and, to round the week off, our leaving bash on Saturday night.

Should be a good night. Some of our oldest friends are coming from various parts of the UK and, of course, all the local friends and family. I'm looking forward to it, but in a strange way.

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

Thatcher's Millions

Finished work on Friday. So did the wife. Both went on our respective leaving do's.

Wifey went on the beer around Liverpool with her crew while I had a box-standard night out in Sunny Rhyl.

We both had a good time.

We also did really well on the leaving present front amassing some $550 of the Aussie variety. I was also given a boomerang which I managed to lose after an experimental 'throw' down Rhyl High Street. I think it's on the roof of 'Listers' but I can't be sure. It just seemed to vanish mid-flight.

So now, for the first time in our lives, we're both unemployed. Unfortunately though, we can't afford to do any lazing around as we've got an absolute sh1t-load of 'stuff' to do before we jet-off next week. The excitement of going has been well and truly neutralized by the sheer work-load in front of us, coupled with the sadness of saying goodbye to so many people.

It's a weird sensation this 'leaving' business. One that I'd struggle to explain. It's akin to attending your own wake, all these people saying nice things about you, the realisation that you're going to be missed. Quite often in the least expected quarters.

Ah well, life goes on.

Smell Ya Later!

T minus 17 days. And counting...

Today I said my first goodbyes. Not your normal 'see you later/tomorrow' goodbyes, but the abnormal 'have a nice life/nice knowing you' goodbyes.

A couple of people at work are leaving for annual holidays and won't return until we've set off for Australia, so today was, very likely, the last time I'll ever see these people again.

Just another surreal experience to go with all the others I'm having lately.

Cruel Summer

Today was our youngest daughter, Lowri's, sports day.

It should have been yesterday, but, typically, it was postponed because of the rain.

And although the rain held off, the weather was absolute pony. I turned up in short sleeve order and after five minutes of dithering and watching Lowri, also in short sleeves, dither - I decided to nip home and get our cold weather kit. In my absence of fifteen minutes or so, I missed her first two races. She proudly showed me her two 'silver' medals for her second-place finishes as I gave her coat. She was shivering and grateful that I'd skipped across the track with it.

As the afternoon wore on more and more parents, realising their kids were in danger of going down with hypothermia, did the same thing.

As us parents and grandparents sat there freezing our collective knackers and knockers off, the kids performed admirably and Lowri won two 'golds' in the relay. Go Lowsta!!

Back to the weather. If ever I felt vindicated in making our decision to move to Australia then this afternoon was that moment. Earlier this year, as the meteorological experts predicated a baking hot summer, I predicated a summer of self-doubt, soul-searching and personal anguish over our decision to emigrate.

As it happens, things haven't turned out like that; we had a decent start to the summer with some hot days and balmy nights but for the last three weeks it's been dreadful. Rain has lashed this island in monsoon-like volume, causing flooding and misery to many. But for me, whilst I feel for the victims, the weather has helped me, easing the anguish of taking the kids away from their family and friends, justifying our hair-brained notion to move to the other side of the globe.

I'd estimate that the Australian climate compared to Britain's and the lifestyle that climate encourages is the biggest single factor by a long way in us making this move.

Today the weather sucked. Today was a good day.

For Queen and Country

Saturday was one of the proudest days of my life.

We went to London to watch our son take part in the Trooping of the Colour, the Queens Official birthday parade.

He's a member of 3 Company, 1st Battalion Welsh Guards, currently based in London.

It was the Colour of the Coldstream Guards that was being 'trooped' but the majority of the soldiers, NCO's and officers on parade were from the Welsh Guards, with the battalion providing almost four hundred men.

I've watched the event since my youth in the seventies, but to actually be there and with Cory taking part, was a truly unforgettable experience.

He's only eighteen, our boy. Yet, already, he's been in the regular army for almost two and a half years, he's been on an operational tour to Bosnia, has done umpteen Royal guards at Windsor and in London, he's passed his driving test, boxed, skied and has made his mum and dad very proud.

We had great seats for the parade, the weather held(just!) and, whilst Cory's little sisters have become a tad blase about seeing him in his tunic and bearskin in the presence of Her Majesty, we thoroughly enjoyed the event.

He's a modest young chap too - while his mates hung around in their uniforms and medals to pose for photos, Cory was out of his as soon as he could, preferring to get into his comfy civvies and have a pint rather than be the centre of attention.

And what does a young guardsman do of an evening after his first 'Troop'?

Our boy took his little sisters to the pictures.

Wet Wet Wet

Despite the weather my golfing renaissance continued this week.

I've been playing the game sporadically, without success, for the best part of twenty years.

However, a couple of years back, following my rugby retirement, I decided it was time I made a concerted effort to become a competent player. I didn't want to join the PGA Tour or anything serious like that, I just wanted to be able to smack one off the first tee without being embarrassed because the divot went further than the ball.

I recall being on holiday with the family in Florida - we rented a villa on this lush golf complex just outside of Orlando. I watched the golfers going round every day, chatting, joking and playing. I thought 'I fancy some of this'. The course was a beaut, just like something off the telly. Immaculately presented and painstakingly-well maintained with the greenest grass, the whitest of sand with shimmering water features (I was later to learn these are actually called 'hazards'.)

A couple of days into the holiday I timidly approached the resplendent clubhouse, just to have a mooch round to see what I could learn about this game and its culture. To a working-class lad like me, the game, its players and their facilities, were held in Freemason-like esteem. I'm not sure esteem is the right word actually, nor Freemason for that matter, but it certainly had a foreboding effect on me and those like me. Like we were on the outside and they were on the in. Hence my trepidation as I walked through the doors and exited the brilliant Florida sunshine. To my surprise nobody pounced on me questioning the legitimacy of my presence or, in fact, raised so much as an eyebrow as I approached the bar. On the contrary, I was made to feel most welcome. Perhaps I look like a golfer, I thought to myself. Anyway golfer or not, I spent the best part of an enjoyable afternoon there, just watching the comings and goings, ear-wigging and drinking. I returned the next day with my Dad, I felt quite the local as a few of the people I was spying on the day before extended rather pleasing 'nods' in my direction. Theme parks beckoned though and I was forced to miss the next couple of afternoons.

Whilst the wife,kids and my mum, understandably, revelled in the 'magic' of Disney, to me and, to some extent, my dad, the golf clubhouse had become the focal point of our holiday. We returned as often as possible for our afternoon bevvy and towards the end of our fortnight I had plucked up the courage to have a go on the driving range. A day later, the posh old Scouser in the villa next door beckoned me over to his poolside from ours.

'Saw you and your dad coming out of the golf club yesterday. I'm dying for a game, do you play?' he asked.

'Er, yes' I spluttered out, a lie fuelled by the King of Beers. Even I knew that playing once or twice a summer on pitch and putt did not make me a 'player'.

'Oh great' said Posh Scouse, 'we'll have a round tomorrow then.'

For a moment I thought about accepting, then I had a vision of me spinning around and landing on my arse on the first tee in front of all my new golf friends looking on from the clubhouse. Like the good book says, 'better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt'.

'I can't, er, I think we're off to the Florida Mall, shopping.'

'What about the day after?' Scouse persisted.

'We're doing Epcot' I fired back. The King of Beers was now assisting me to get out of the tangle that it had assisted me to get into in the first place.

'Never mind then,' he said, his disappointment clear. 'We're going home after that.'

'Yeah, I would've loved to have played on a course like this.' I said glancing over my shoulder at the fairway behind me. This time I wasn't lying.

Later that day I decided that on our return home I would fill my sporting void by joining Rhyl Golf Club and perhaps, one day, return to this course and, not only look the part but play the part too.

That was two years ago. I did join Rhyl Golf Club when we got home and I played all summer long. It was hard at first and it didn't get any easier. I already had some friends that were members and I made a few new ones along the way, all of them offering advice, tips and guidance. But, whilst gratefully received, it was to no avail - I was actually getting worse. Not just making little or no progress but actually going backwards. I damaged two passing cars on two separate occasions with slices that defied the laws of physics. I toughed out the year of membership and when it lapsed I didn't renew. Using the 'we're waiting for our visa, it could come at anytime' line when asked by my long-suffering golf buddies why I hadn't re-joined. I think some of them were quite relieved. Local motorists certainly were.

So, that was that. Golf wasn't for me. I wasn't too upset , after all it wasn't like I hadn't tried. The clubs were banished to the shed, fortunately I hadn't invested too heavily on equipment - I got the lot for £60 second-hand, and I thought I might dust the old rugby boots off again. And that's what I did, played another season for the seconds and felt like I'd been involved in an RTA all week following a game.

And that was that until a month ago when I was invited for a game. At the time I was feeling particularly stressed about our upcoming move and felt that it might take my mind off things by playing. And play I did, relatively speaking anyway. Only played the best round of my life! Thinking it was a fluke I returned a week later. Same again, played really well by my standards, albeit low standards.

I played again last night and although I didn't play as well as the previous two rounds, I still enjoyed it and played some good shots, especially off the tee. The weather was absolute pony. It waited until we got as far away from the clubhouse as possible then lashed it down big-time. We played out the nine as it was on the way back but survival became more important than good golf as the monsoon raged. The four of us were like drowned rats on our return. I didn't get that wet the last time I went swimming.

Its going to rain all week they reckon, so the golf will have to wait. I'm eager to see if my form continues or whether I've lost my golf mojo once again. The weather sucks but my golf doesn't, for a change. Funny old game innit?

The Longest Day

Seven weeks to go.

Tomorrow is our wedding anniversary. Nine years ago on June 6th we got hitched. Despite the weather (it lashed down all day), we had a ball.

As any military historian will tell you we share our anniversary with that of Operation Overlord.

Our celebrations this year will take the form of a visit to the wife's favourite eatery, Subway, for a tasty sandwich, followed by a trip to my favourite drinkery, The Swan, for a refreshing beverage or two. We may even take in the England/Estonia game while we're at it.

Sounds idyllic doesn't it?

Fortune Favours the Brave

The countdown continues - exactly nine weeks today we land in Australia. Scary eh? I wouldn't go as far as to say I was bricking it but I'm certainly feeling more uneasy as the big day approaches.

I was on the phone to my mate Tim in New Zealand at the weekend. Although he's enjoying life over there, he kept re-ititerating how it hasn't been easy and he still misses home. Hed and Annabel have said the same thing, they live on the Gold Coast. Ste and Jen, our other friends, have just been the ultimate source of positivity about the whole thing, saying it's the best thing they have done. They've settled in Adelaide and are loving it.

I think we've been guilty of thinking that we were moving to some kind of Utopia and our lives would be perfect. But as the days before our departure get fewer I've started thinking how unnatural it is to up-sticks and move to the other side of the planet, to a region you've never even visited before. I mean, it's not like we're living in the Third World or under an oppressive dictatorial regime. Weather aside, life's sweet here. I was always a fan of the saying 'if it ain't broke, don't try and fix it' - then again, 'fortune favours the brave' is another of my favourites.

Anyhoo, we're shipping out and that's the end of it.

We've sorted out our movers, we're going with John Mason. They were the cheapest and also seemed the most professional.

And it looks like we'll be keeping the house over here and renting it out. We've got a letting agent coming to see us on Friday.

Struggling to find a karoake host/DJ for our leaving do, I'll have to widen the search methinks.

We've got a stack of stuff to do and that gets me down. So tomorrow, by way of pick-me-up, I'm leaving work at midday and going golfing with my good pals Clifford and Hank. Following that I'm going to The Jolly Sailor in Prestatyn with Deaf Dave and Comedy Dave to watch the European Cup Final and have a few scoops. I do hope AC Milan win, can't be doing with the Red Sh*te spawning it again. At least I'll be free from all that in Oz.

The Summer Seemed to Last Forever...

100 days until we leave for Australia.

On occasion I feel trepidation, more so as the big day approaches. More often though I feel excitement and happiness inside. However, this internal happiness is bordering on smugness, an attitude which I loathe in others, so I'm constantly trying to suppress it.

The weather is improving in the UK by the day and, by all accounts, we're in for a scorcher this summer. I was feeling particularly smug the other day when I was thinking about the year ahead. With any luck by the time we leave, on 23rd July, we'll have enjoyed a nice summer here and with only a month or so to 'tough out' before the Aussie summer begins, we face almost a complete year in the full glare of the sun.

A year of summer! That'll do me nicely.

In other news we've had two sets of 'movers' round. Brittania Cestrian came first and have quoted us £3850 (approx. A$9625) for a twenty foot container from Rhyl to Albury. We were very impressed with their representative but think the price is a bit steep.

Godiva Enterprises came next but seem a lot less professional and organised but are a grand cheaper.

You get what you pay for I suppose, so it could be a case of seeing what we can afford. We'll get a couple more quotes and take it from there. If any of you out there in Blogland have got any advice or recommendations on movers then I'd appreciate any feedback.

Three Out of Three Ain't Bad!

Souths won again! Go those Bunnies!

Money for Nothing...

The 2007 NRL season is underway.

As a rugby league fan I've always kept my eye on results down under, but this year, as we'll be there for the seasons climax, I'm following the action very closely.

My team, the South Sydney Rabbitohs, have made a good start with solid wins over arch-rivals the Roosters and Parramatta Eels. Russell Crowe and his mate with the gay name have really turned things around down at Redfern. Wooden spooners since their return to the big league, this year promises much more.

Rusty's got them new players, a new coach, new backroom staff and, more importantly, Armani suits. They may not be the best team in the NRL just yet, but they're the best dressed.

And, who knows, come our arrival in August, Souths could be right up there vying for a spot in the play-offs.

In other news, we're selling everything that isn't nailed-down, on e-bay. It's great, we've pocketed a couple of hundred quid already, on gear that we would have normally given to the dog shop. Old toys that the kids have grown out of, old clothes that I have grown out of, the wife's old hair accessories, even old footy boots. People will buy almost anything.

If you list it, they will come...

Bella Braga - Obrigato!

As far as jolly boys outings go our trip to Portugal was right up there with the best of them.

It didn't get off to the best start though, with us being behind schedule from the word go. We arrived at the check-in desk right on the bell with 45 minutes remaining before we were due to fly. The three orange-faced scouse girls manning the desk looked at us with disdain and continued talking amongst themselves. After a couple of minutes one of them turned to us and said,

"You do realise check-in closed two minutes ago."

We'd been standing there for almost five waiting for them to finish gassing about whatever orange-faced scousers gas about. Fake tan, no doubt.

"Yeah, sorry love" said Cliff, our team leader, showing uncharacteristic restraint.

"You should have left earlier" whined a different orange face, pre-empting a possible traffic defence.

"Er, yeah sorry love," repeated Clifford, "we had to go back for my mobile phone see." Clearly hoping to strike a chord with these phone-dependant oikes.

"Hmmm, you'll have to take your bags to 'Oversize Luggage' to get them on the plane but we can't be certain they'll be put on the flight. It's your own faults." said orange face number three unsympathetically.

And so we were allowed to check in, safe in the knowledge that we may be wearing the same trolleys for the next three days. Lovely.

Things continued in the same vane at security where I had my swiss card confiscated, although I was allowed to post it back to my home address.

The lads jogged ahead while I filled in the necessary paperwork. This further delay prompted the airport tannoy to request my presence at the gate immediately. I was forced to break into a run, not exactly my idea of having a good time.

We all caught the flight and so did our luggage, which was nice. We picked up the hire car with minimum fuss and hit the road.

It took a little while for the lads to relax, as I drove around the first roundabout we encountered, the wrong way. No harm done though as the roads of northern Spain carry much less traffic than the U.K.

The rest of the journey was unremarkable, the boys played golf in the back on their mobiles while the team leader got some much needed beauty sleep in the front.

We crossed the border into Portugal and the already excellent highways improved further and the already quiet roads virtually became our own. I was able to pick my 'racing line' as we roared along. Bliss.

Our first objective on our arrival in Braga was to book ourselves into some digs before we could begin our pre-match preparations in earnest. We asked a lovely policewoman for directions to the Ibis Hotel, which we had previously seen signs for. Her helpful and concise directions led us in completely the wrong direction and we ended up at the Hotel Estacao in the city's north. It was cheap at fifty euros per twin room and it was fine. Right up our street to be exact.

Upon unpacking our gear we discovered that we'd forgotten to bring any charcoal or crayons for our planned day of brass-rubbing in Braga's many cathedrals. Undeterred we hit the streets in search of an art suppliers outlet.

We thought we'd call into the nearest bar for some directions as the local police had proven to be enthusiastic but inept guides.

Unable to speak Portuguese we used the international sign for brass-rubbing and shouted "CHAR-COAL" really slowly at people in the bar. Unfortunately they could not help us in our quest for supplies but we ended up having a good old drink with them anyway.

It soon became apparent that the Portuguese are excellent and most welcoming hosts, not to mention master bakers. It also became apparent that we wouldn't be getting much brass-rubbing done today as the beer and boiled eggs began to flow.

We soon found ourselves in the town square with lots of other Spurs fans enjoying the rare opportunity to soak up a bit of March sunshine. Braga is a beautiful place, their beer is cheap and it's people are short on height but big on friendliness.

We spent the entire day in and around the square, eating, drinking and being merry.

After an hours worth of power-napping back at the hotel, we went to the game. The ground was twenty-odd minutes walk away but we caught a cab anyway.

The stadium is a very impressive place, built into a sheer-face rocky hillside, it must have been a hell of a construction job getting this bad boy built.

As for the game, I left at half-time as I was starting to feel the effects of alcohol withdrawal and was in serious danger of sobering up, so I headed for the nearest beer and boiled egg dispensary. I found one in no time and watched the second half in there along with a load of tight-fisted Braga fans.

I continued happily on my solo bar-crawl until the lads and I were reunited in the bar nearest to our hotel. They'd enjoyed a much livelier second half seeing Spurs win 3-2 after being held goalless in the first half. The only downside to their evening was being subjected, along with many other Spurs fans, to a little bit of riot police brutality at the end of the game. It was nothing too serious though and the three of them managed to evade the liberally swinging batons of the Portuguese equivalent of SA Stormtroopers, the notorious GNR.

We wiled away the rest of the evening eating boiled eggs, drinking beer and talking bollocks. Which was, pretty much, what we'd been doing all day anyway.

Day Two saw us all remarkably bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the breakfast table plotting our route north. We opted for the more scenic road running parallel to the motorway , or autovia, through lots of little towns and villages. When I say we, I actually mean Cliff, our illustrious leader.

After an hour of travelling we'd covered only about twenty kms and, by now, we had all seen enough Portuguese villages for a while, so we decided to try and rejoin the autovia. With ex-RAF bumboy Cliff on navigational duties, this turned out to have near disastrous consequences.

I will summarise, for the sake of my readers, what turned out to be a five hour journey into the Portuguese wilderness. A good deal of it off-road. And, believe me, off-road in a Seat Ibiza is neither fun nor a good idea. How we made it is beyond me. We crossed a complete National Park. A mountainside National Park. In a Seat Ibiza. A Seat Ibiza that I was responsible for.

To cut a long and uneventful story short we ended up in the sleepy northern Spanish town of Villagarcia de Arousa, about 70 miles from Braga. It took us the best part of six hours to get there.

To relieve the stress of the day we decided to partake of a beverage or six and we set about the task with a zest unrivalled by anything else I have ever witnessed. In the last twenty four hours anyway.

Villagarcia is a nice place and we had a good night there. One day I would like to return and have a proper look at it.

Next day we got up late, missed breakfast and raced to the airport. We arrived at check-in right on the bell.

This time the orange faces weren't as orange and were much nicer to us, even allowing us to check-in our bags without giving us any shit for turning up late and looking like we'd spent the last three days wearing the same trolleys.

How nice, I like it here.

When in Rome...

In seven hours, at 0400hrs GMT, I leave home on my last jolly boys outing.

Portugal is our destination. The city of Braga to be exact. We're going to watch Spurs play the away leg of their UEFA Cup tie against FC Braga.

I'm not really bothered about the footy, I'm not a Spurs fan. I'm only in it for the cultural experience of a trip to the continent with the boys.

And, as Braga is known as the Rome of Portugal, I'm sure they'll be plenty to keep a culture vulture like me occupied.

The stadium itself is a sight to behold by all accounts. Built, seemingly, into a small valley with a steep rock face behind each goal, spectators only occupy two sides of the ground. A surreal viewing experience awaits us, I suspect.

Then again the surreal can become the norm on these trips, generally as a result of the strict alcohol consumption rules in place.

This is another 'last' for me. My life, at the moment, is full of these milestones. 'Last this, last that', 'this will be the last time I/we do this before we leave for Oz' and so on. Seems to happen almost daily.

Barring deportation, detention or death we return on Saturday morning. Whilst our outings usually last only two or three days they always manage to contain a whole heap of laughs, memories and never-to-be forgotten experiences. I hope and expect this one, as it will be my last, will be no different.

I'll let you know.

Friends Reunited

I haven't posted for a while. I could say things have been manic with our impending move to Australia but they haven't really. I mean, we been busy sorting 'stuff' out - ebaying and decorating mostly as well as 'researching' our move on the web, but everything is moving at a nice relaxed pace and seems to be falling into place nicely. Perhaps it's just that, with age, we've become better organisers and have increased tolerance to things that may have caused us to get stressed in the past. Perhaps we're too relaxed and should be doing more before it's too late, who knows?

In the last fortnight we've had numerous e-mails from our most helpful Settlement Officer in Albury, Johanna, regarding schooling for the kids, employment for us both and temporary accommodation. It looks like we're going to be staying in the Albury Motor Village. They've got a website, I'd put a link in if I had the technical know-how but I haven't. It looks nice enough, chalet/cabin style digs. I was a bit surprised at the price - $400 a week. I expected less to be honest but it still seems like the cheapest option for a short term stay.

This last fortnight has also seen me in contact with some 'old' friends. I say friends, one friend really, the other is my old platoon Sergeant from the depot.

He was a really good bloke and I remember him fondly. Old soldiers say that you never forget your platoon Sgt from basic training but most are remembered for being overtly sadistic and egotistical. Not Sgt. J. Lemmon. An absolute top bloke and soldier. Don't get me wrong he was no pushover, he could be as mean as the next man and was as hard as nails, but he had a fatherly, humorous way about him that endeared him to all us recruits.

I was pleased to read that things have gone well for him after leaving the army. It must be tough after twenty-two years as an infantry soldier and drill instructor to suddenly find yourself amongst the rank and file of Civvy Street with no recognised qualifications of any real worth. After a tough start he got himself into the health and safety racket and has never looked back, working all over the globe. He's retiring at 55, in a couple of years. Good on ya John, you got what you deserved.

I also contacted Jon Downie, one of my oldest and best chums. We went to school together, joined the army at the same time, albeit in different regiments, and have been friends forever. We always kept in touch with each other and teamed up whenever we could, which was tricky whilst being based in different garrisons/countries.

Jon left the mob after me and settled in Yorkshire. I visited him a few times there and he came 'home' to Rhyl regularly. On one of his trips home, about five years ago I reckon, we had a drunken fall-out. And, basically, that was it - we stopped contacting each other. Stopped being friends in essence.

I thought about him often but always put off getting in touch. Our row was relatively trivial in the grand scheme of things but still kept us apart. But, with us leaving for Oz in July, I thought I'd try a tentative text message to the mobile number I had for him. I say tentative not because I was nervous about getting in contact with him, on the contrary, I got myself quite excited about it, but because the phone number was from five or more years back. I haven't changed my number since then but almost everyone else has.

I sent the text. Within a minute my phone was ringing - it was JD. We chatted for fifteen or so minutes which is a long time for blokes. We both laughed about our hazy recollections of our drunken dispute.

It was as if we'd never lost touch. I guess that's the result of us having been such good mates. He's coming to Rhyl in a couple of weeks and we'll get together. It'll be just like the old days. He's coming to our leaving do as well.

I knew I could have called Jon at anytime if I needed his help, advice or whatever and vice-versa. It just took something like emigrating for one of us to make the first move. Blokes are stupid sometimes aren't they?