An Athens Adventure

Over three years ago, I travelled to the city of Rome for a city-break holiday and enjoyed some time to soak up some culture, history and one considerable pile of pasta - all documented in Rob's Rome Ramble. At the end of that trip, we considered and suggested Athens as our next holiday destination. The reason for both trips stems from my time in college, where for two years I studied "Classical Civilisation", a history module focusing on Ancient Rome and Ancient Greece, in the form of literature and sculptures. At the age of seventeen/eighteen, I read the Iliad and the Aeneid. I studied classic satire from Horace and letters from Pliny. And I studied the Parthenon, the Acropolis, over twenty different sculptures ("statues" to those of us not writing an essay) and a veritable array of pots and ceramics. I loved this class, I loved the culture and I loved all the stories. With Rome ticked off the list, Athens had to come next. It took another three years to get from the Colosseum to the Parthenon, but we got there.

Wednesday, 28 September 2016

First though came the downside to all holidays: the travelling. In the taxi ride to Heathrow I played Pokemon Go (in vain) and listened to the female taxi driver's stories of city dwellers who'd never seen sheep before. On my travels I like to note down odd and (what I feel to be) amusing little things, so "discussions of a sheep exodus" is Thing One in my journal. 
Notes for plane journey start with X-Men: Apocalypse on mute because my British Airways-provided earphones weren't working. Lunch came in the form of a snack-box, with a sandwich, cheese & crackers and two mini deserts all of which, I will admit, were quite enjoyable. I also ventured off down-plane for a loo trip at one point. I don't recall walking on either of the Rome flights so my experience in doing so was rather lax and unfortunately we hit a smidge of turbulence midway through my little wander. I didn't fall over, thankfully, but the general feeling was not unlike being drunk.

The flight was delayed by half an hour and due to a two hour difference in the Greek's favour, we reached Grecian skies just as the evening was drawing in, leading to an excellent (and obligatory) plane photo.

Whenever I'm flying over and/or landing in a new country for a holiday, I like to note the difference in agriculture and landscape. Greece was a lot less green than our own, soggy isles. The sun had scorched the earth into browns and deep reds. The land exchanged grass for fine dust and experimented with shrubbery as the main foliage. It's also incredibly mountainous, there was a substantial one to our left, hiding the city of Athens. But this is not the first sign of life I saw upon landing, oh no. We travelled for three and a half hours, into new and strange lands just waiting to be explored and the first thing I saw as our tyres (heavily) touched down was...an IKEA. Fortunately this post-modern view didn't last long, at the end of the runway the plane made a U-turn so the mountain was on our right instead, with a low sun just waiting to hide behind it.

Baggage claim? Not for us. That particular nightmare of boredom mixed with frequent stress does not apply when you have carry-on. Sure your suitcase is mini and you're limited on shampoo, but we were going for three nights and I'm not exactly excessive when it comes to packing. One pair of jeans and a few t-shirts is about my main concern, that and a pair of good walking boots which I already had on me, prepared for the next few days.

Travel was not yet over though, we had a transfer booked between the airport and hotel. I can still recall, with accent-perfect clarity, our driver telling us "we are just going over that mountain" indicating the one mentioned earlier. This turned out to be a little bit of a lie, we actually went around it and were given a perfect representation of Grecian driving. In six words: they just don't give a damn. Motorbike-users in particular, if there is a space they will have it, even if it requires them bypassing a gap just large enough for their vehicle and their knees. Rather unfortunately, when the time came to be driven around it was already dark. We saw many rolling hills covered in city lights - still picturesque but not exactly unique. Those views came when we were deep in the centre of Athens, along with one of its traffic jams. As we were heading down one road or another, the taxi driver directed our attention to the right. I was in the left side of the car so had to lean over and nearly craned my neck doing so, but through gaps in the trees we could see the Parthenon, lit up, on the Acropolis far above us. We made the usual noises of awe but had to settle back when it disappeared from view. Several minutes later we pulled up outside Hotel Herodion which, amongst other things, included excellent free WiFi! There came the typical hotel routine: check in, gauging the room, trying the bed and, in a word, faffing. Much like Rome, I was already itching to go out, as according to Mum (the person who chose and booked the chosen establishment) Herodion had a rooftop view of the Parthenon.

It did not disappoint. The Acropolis is the highest point in Athens and can be seen from virtually anywhere in the city. Our hotel was only a few roads back from the base of the hill and we were close enough to count the columns. Suffice to say I had eyes mostly for the Parthenon (I didn't fully realise until the last night what the rooftop bar/restaurant actually looked like.) It was lit up against the night sky and without a doubt the best view I've ever enjoyed with a meal before. Many photos were taken, by us and the other diners. My phone didn't really do it justice, you'll just have to go there! 
What came as an additional surprise was the hotel food, which was utterly delicious. Mum and I had the same thing; lamb kebabs and chips, with a cocktail each. I opted for 'Ambrosia' as my chosen drink, seeing as how ambrosia is supposedly the food of the gods, and Mum opted for 'God's Theory'. She enjoyed it so much she had a second the night after. We were also brought bread and olive oil for a starter, both sourced locally and highly enjoyable, as well as olive ice cream. It looked like an olive, was edible like sorbet and was......salty unique, for one thing. I don't think it'll take off over here, though we're getting our own versions of weird hybrid foods, such as crisps tasting like bacon sandwiches.

It is at this point Mum and I realised, to our immense shame, we had failed to learn any Greek. And I don't just mean the useful stuff, we didn't know a thing. We had to ask the waitress to teach us "Thank you" and promptly forgot it moments later. A rather large tick in the "Thoughtless Tourists" box, there. 
The Parthenon beside us, the Acropolis Museum behind us, and an entire city to explore over the next two days. Our first night certainly ended on a high note, as high as the temple above us.

Thursday, 29 September 2016

I learnt my lesson from our Rome trip, this time I would not be kept up at night by the hum of air conditioning, this time I came equipped with ear plugs. The fact that we chose to turn it off that night is completely beside the point. 
Because tradition is infinite and so is cheap catering, our breakfast that morning was a hotel provided buffet. I wasn't too fussed in honesty. I don't mean this in any way against Greeks in particular. I've found on all of my various holidays, hotels in general don't quite get how breakfast works. For instance, they still haven't quite got cereal right, their vats of milk are always warm and I don't know exactly what they do to their fruit but taste and texture died off a long time ago. Fruit juices on offer were okay, but tomato juice? No, ta! They did do a mean hot chocolate though. And cinnamon rice pudding, of all things, plus cakes and sweets. They may have gotten breakfast mixed up with desert, but I still partook in a lot of sugar. I needed the energy.

To further my shame, I decided to forgo my usual morning shower to get outdoors that bit faster. All I had done the day before was taxi-airport-plane-taxi, all round an awful lot of sitting. In a poor defence, I didn't exactly whiff. 

So, fed, watered and (relatively) fresh we finally set off into the streets of Athens. I learnt very quickly they liked their hills, even before embarking towards the Acropolis. It took a lot of leaning forwards to get up the first street onto the Promenade: a long, cobble-stoned road which runs through central Athens and around the Acropolis. Essentially, if you visit Athens, you will likely find yourself on the Promenade at some point, it's a fantastic reference point. Though not, admittedly, as fantastic as the Acropolis. With it looming over us, we kept it on our right as we traversed the Promenade towards the bottom of the hill. 

Traveller's Hint: We purchased an "Access-All-Areas" ticket at the Parthenon ticket office. This allowed us entrance into most (but not all) locations due to be mentioned in this post, across the two days. Annoyingly our guide book had advised it was €12 each which lasted for three days and it turned out to be €30 each, lasting for five. Bear in mind though, a ticket for the Acropolis on its own was €20. Depends on how much you desire to see. We wanted to see it all, so came away €60 lighter. (I think children got in free. How I miss those days.)

Tickets bought, we trekked onward and upwards. The initial stage of climbing involved a series of marble steps which were incredibly beautiful and incredibly slippery. Mum tottered around like a novice ice-skater, whereas the boots I was wearing were squeaking on every step. We were both glad to reach harder ground where progress became better, as long as you avoided sporadic patches of more slippery rocks. In the rain I believe it'd be nothing short of dangerous.

It was mid-morning at the time, 10am estimated. Temperatures were ideal and there was even a cooling breeze. Crowds weren't great exactly but god knows how much worse they'd have been in the height of the summer holidays. Mum informed me we had arrived in "Shoulder Season", the name for the time periods before and after summer holidays. I asked from where she got the term and she said it was the Telegraph. I couldn't help but laugh.

It only took a few minutes to get most of the way up, with the views around us getting better and better as we climbed. Athens stretched around us in all directions, like the Acropolis was an island in a sea of city, which did then end on the horizon into the real sea. It wasn't hard to see why the Ancient Greeks chose it as a sanctuary site; beautiful, centralised, easy to defend and apparently the location of a natural spring - a key element when choosing a sacred site. 

History Lesson! Ancient Greeks were very culture-based, highly focused on their identity, religion and language, historically considering anything non-Greek as barbarian. Religion and worship played a key part in their culture and it was important to set aside locations for practices, so holy sites - "sanctuaries" - like the Acropolis and Delphi would be bordered on the outside with a main entrance way known as the "propylon" thus defining the transition from secular to sacred. These are the kinds of things I taught Mum as we wandered around the Acropolis, regaling in the history of it all and enjoying some truly spectacular views:

I took some time to label the key points of a temple, such as (working downwards) the pediment, triglyphs, metopes, frieze, capital, column, base, stylobate and stereobate. I would love to lie and say I remembered all of this from my A-Level Classics days but in truth I gave myself a crash course in it all, the night before we left. In the journal pages before my holiday notes, you will find all of this. 
For another example, temples typically follow the formula 2W + 1 = L for column number. The Parthenon does conform to this: it is eight columns wide and therefore seventeen columns long.

It is a truly spectacular location and a wonderful insight into the Ancient Greek's idea of worship. It is also, understandably, highly moderated and protected. Take just a small bag with you, anything too large will be held back. Do not stand on any of the original work as you will have a whistle blown at you and a Greek security guard (or art enthusiast, it's tricky to tell) reprimand you. We saw this happen to the same Chinese tourist, twice, whom apparently just had to get the right camera shot. There was also an American woman who was quite surprised to be told "Oh don't touch the marble?" Come on tourists, really! You give yourselves a bad name.

This is a topic I'm very passionate on, as you may have deduced, so I'll push on before any ramblings commence. Having had our fill of the Parthenon (although I'd still be there now if I could) we headed downwards to visit other aspects of the Acropolis. Such as the Temple to Asclepius, the God of Healing, whose symbol of two snakes coiled around a staff still exists to this day. We also saw the Theatre of Dionysus and - cue an excited me - were actually allowed to sit in the audience. It is mostly in ruins of course, but I did my best to recapture the magic and described to Mum your usual Ancient Greek play: men in masks, no women, everyone in platform shoes so they moved slowly and all drama occurs offstage, so onstage are just discussions of it. We've come a long way to reach Shrek: The Musical, I think we'd agree.

During our time in the Acropolis, we happened upon someone who can only be described as a hero of the holiday: Hercules the tortoise! We were inspecting an exhibition of restored marble when I noticed a small part of the ground was a different colour and moving. I for one love tortoises, I find them very sweet and endearing, so had to get a picture or five. (Caution: Hercules is prone to messing himself when surprised. Yes I speak from experience, fortunately my shoes don't.)

Some time later, having survived our descent down the slippery marble and back on the Promenade, we followed it around to the Aeropagus Hill. This in essence was another large rock, though far-far-FAR smaller than the Acropolis, made of the same slippery rock type and covered in tourists doing their best mountain goat impersonations. This was followed by the Ancient Agora, within which was a large (and confusing) layout of ruins; once proud temples, monuments, shrines and theatres all making up the Ancient Greek equivalent of "downtown." Some remains were enough to guess at the building's original layout and design, others were just empty patches of land with a sign next to it. As historical documentation goes, a bit optimistic!

I had seen the Temple of Hephaestus from the top of the Acropolis. Seeing it between the bushes (see photo) was almost exactly like an image from one of my old Classics workbooks, so I recognised it immediately! The image had stayed tucked away at the back of my mind for years and now it was brought to life. 

It was on the farthest side of the Agora, coming away from the Acropolis, so we crossed the Agora in its entirety to reach it, not sure if we were walking on the correct or incorrect side of the dividing ropes. 

The temple itself had been very well preserved, far better than the Parthenon though that wasn't exactly the fault of the Greeks. We circled it, taking less time than the Parthenon given its smaller size, and stopped off in the shade for a rest. It has been a long time walking and a small amount of mountaineering. We were finally hungry and ready for lunch. Having left the Agora on the north side, due to heat, tiredness and thirst we broke the "don't visit the first place you see" rule. There was one directly in front of the Agora exit. Thus a few moments later we were guided to a table outside the restaurant, by a (rather handsome) Greek waiter. We went for very traditional and very delicious food. Mum chose and enjoyed a Greek salad and I went for halloumi, a recent and highly regarded addition to my favorite foods. This was preceded by garlic bread for starters, plus cake and a small bottle of fortified wine for desert - both of which were complimentary. This being my second Greek meal so far, I jumped to the conclusion that Greeks like to bring you things!

Rejuvenated and re-hydrated, we set off for Hadrian's Library and the Roman Agora, both included by our Access-All-Area tickets. Though before we could get there, I got my first invite into the Athens-versioned world of street vendors. I'd learnt my lesson from Rome, and actually by comparison there weren't as many in Greece, but still I was doing well with averting my gaze or just walking faster. This time though I was full of cheese and wine, my attention span was waning. A tall Jamaican man offered me to fist-bump with him and I took up his offer, smiling as I did so. A moment later I'm getting a Jamaican flag style bracelet attached to my wrist, as is Mum, for the small price of "whatever you wish to give" and were offered much "peace and love and family and happiness and love and don't worry be happy" in return. Not having wanted a bracelet in the first place, Mum paid one euro and hurried us away. I felt a little bad about this, until later on we saw their true business-like nature when they noticed they'd already done us. "PEACE AND LO-oh you've already got one." I still have the bracelet, attached to my satchel. Only cost fifty cents.

After this brief excursion, and a stop off for frozen yogurt rather than ice-cream - a rather post-modern holiday approach, you may agree - we finally made it to Hadrian's Library and the Roman Agora. Both were fairly small areas of ruins, still interesting and beautiful to see, plus like most of Athens' locations it included another great view of the Acropolis above. In the Roman Agora, while Mum busied herself with inspecting the Tower of the Four Winds, I was scrutinising the Romans' take on columns. They seemed to have used elements from both the Doric and Ionic orders, to create a sort of "Best Of" column remake.

It had been a long time walking. Even with my sensible walking shoes boots, my feet were starting to hurt. The heat wasn't improving either, so we decided to head back to the hotel for a little R & R. 

This also happened to be a great chance for me and the hotel WiFi to play Pokemon Go. It was interesting to see how different it is in another country. A lot of Pokemon which I considered rare kept coming up and I got five new ones during our holiday! This also brought up mental images of a Grecian player somewhere crying out to catch a Drowzee whereas over here they're as common as anything.

I've just realised the above paragraph means nothing to non Pokemon Go players. For those of you still here, have a photo! This time of me wandering around the Roman Agora, with the Tower of the Four Winds in the background:

After our little pit stop we headed more-or-less next door (Herodion Hotel is very well placed) to the Acropolis Museum. There we saw original sculptures, rescued as best they could or often redone with fresh marble, plus pots, vases, spearheads and tools, all found within the Acropolis. Mum and I wandered around in silence, which was punctured occasionally by security guards reminding other tourists "no photos." I pointed out to Mum the sculptures I had actually studied - more than I was expecting! - as well as told her some of the stories around the artwork. On the top floor we watched a short film on how the Parthenon came to be, then stopped being, then came back again, several times over. An argument could be made that the Parthenon is part-Timelord, it has regenerated so often. The video also made an excellent job of proving allllllllll of my Greek pronunciations utterly wrong.

There was even a LEGO model of the Acropolis! I was immensely pleased and equally as impressed.

We enjoyed a quick drink on the museum terrace, also in view of the Parthenon and, as a result, of our hotel as well. Dinner was provided by the hotel again. Great food, great view, no need to play the Find a Good Restaurant lottery. We shared a small moussaka for starters and then both had our own carbonara - alongside which Mum had her second God's Theory and I immensely enjoyed a banana-based cocktail entitled "Act two: Comedy." I had forced the Greek word for "Thank you" into my brain (ευχαριστώ, efcharistó = ef-hah-east-toe) but when the time came to write up my notes for the evening, half an hour later, it had gone again. I'm sorry to admit the above entry was Googled: "Greek for thank you."

My feet hurt, my legs ached and my arms were starting to look sun burnt. There were 128 new photos on my phone. I call that a success.

Friday, 30 September 2016

A new day dawned. Although we were sleepy - I think it took a full hour for me to properly wake up - and we left later in the morning, it was still an action packed day. For the most part we had left the hotel and turned right, to the Acropolis, so this time we went left towards the main road, on the other side of which was Hadrian's Arch and the Temple of Zeus. First, we had to cross one of Athens' busiest roads, chock full with cars and motorbikes streaming between them, dozens of taxis and the occasional tram. There are, of course, pedestrian crossings which unlike ours have the novel idea of including a countdown. I pressed the button and opposite us the number fifteen counted down to zero. At zero, the lights turned red, all traffic stopped. Neat idea. Until you realise it has another countdown for you to cross the road before changing back to green, and this is also fifteen seconds. Now I consider myself a fast walker, but this was a wide road (my memory says six lanes but I'll say four, at least) and the timer was halfway before we were. This led to that rather ungainly cross-the-road shuffle. Not quite a walk, not quite a run, but enough to suggest to motorists you are at least trying to get out of the way. (I was rather pleased later on that day to note it's not just we Brits who do it!)

Safely on the other side we took some photos with Hadrian's Arch. If I am allowed one poor quality observation, or "dad-joke", in this entire post, I would like to ask which contractors Hadrian used who decided his Arch and Wall should be in different countries.
My apologies.

Around the corner from the Arch we found the entrance way to the Temple of Zeus, once again using the Access-All-Areas tickets. The temple is a sight to see, no doubt about it, somehow simultaneously more and less amazing than the Parthenon. More, in the original intended size, decor and style; less so in that only 10% of it still remains. Only a few columns are still standing, bar one which was blown over by a gale in the 1800s. It happens to have two intact columns either side of it, neatly resembling two friends getting their incapacitated friend home from the pub. Consider as well the Parthenon took nine years to build (447-438 BC) whereas Zeus' temple took 700 years. That is some procrastination.

One advantage the site has is some exceptional photo opportunities, with the Temple of Zeus in the foreground, Hadrian's Arch midway and the Acropolis (like with so many other photos I took) in the background:

Still, it's not very often you can take a photo with three historical landmarks in view. And that gorgeous Grecian sky! I don't think I saw a cloud in the day time, not once.

My final notes on the Temple of Zeus are in regards to Henri, the second hero of the holiday, who was a cat encountered near the temple.

I liked Henri. He was dignified, quiet and uninterested in me or the history around him. Basically, a cat.

After that we rejoined and ran parallel to the main road, heading north past the Zappieo Palace and Gardens - both exceedingly pretty - and went on past them to reach the Panathenaic Stadium: birthplace of the first modern Olympic Games. Our Access-All-Area tickets sadly did not access this area, but we were content to stand outside, look about, take some snaps. The usual.

We backtracked through the gardens again, past the lovely views of a long drive with fountain, and carried on north with the main road towards the Parliament building and Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

Now. Given that Greece isn't in the stablest of environments at the moment, socially and economically speaking, we had heard mentions that the Parliament building should be avoided in the case of a demonstration. Mum still wanted to go and see the Grecian guards, with the mutual agreement that if things looked a little tense we would turn and go. I of course tagged along, albeit a bit nervously seeing as I didn't know what, if anything, to expect. This mood was not helped when, a few yards from the Parliament building, our path was blocked by a small troop of soldiers, all kitted out and all of them armed. I mean properly armed, rifle on shoulder, bayonet attached. Never before have I tried so hard to meld into the scenery behind me, but fortunately they walked on and boarded some nearby buses. I released a long held breath and we carried on, to see the Parliament square was busy but only because of the tourists. Mum milled about taking pictures of the guards, resplendent in their associated uniform. Uninterested, I took in my surroundings which was primarily tourists, though there was a one-man so-called "attraction" who got some pigeons to land on people. I don't know their proper title. "Nuisance" comes to mind.

We were both unwilling to wait around for the changing of the guard, so instead headed back the way we came. This time however we took an early right to visit the Lysikrates Monument - thus ticking off number ten of eleven sights to see on my hotel-provided map. Nearby was our randomly chosen venue for lunch where, amidst irksome flies, Mum enjoyed another traditional Greek salad while I had a decidedly nontraditional spaghetti bolognese. Wrong country, I know, but I fancied pasta. While we ate I couldn't help but notice our waiter looked like an extra in a Bond film - almost resembling the baddie in Quantum of Solace - and a nearby table of Spanish girls were getting very friendly with him.

For a while after that, with a little spending money to hand we drifted in and our of various tourist-based shops, all of which sold basically the same thing but for varying prices. Memorable items include carved statues of the twelve Olympian Gods, some truly exquisite chessboards and god-themed pieces, and a 'Greek Lovers' calendar - all images taken from classic pot designs and essentially twelve months of pornography. The human desire for filth hasn't abated in time, simply changed medias.

Anyway!

To my delight, I happened upon a pottery shop which had recreated one I studied in college, depicting a scene of Achilles and Ajax playing checkers. Mum suggested I try and purchase a smaller one, but didn't want to risk it breaking. Then in another shop down the street, I purchased a small Ionic column with 'Greece' on it (tacky and cliche, I know). And, thanks to a very persuasive chat with the lovely lady running the shop floor, came away with a t-shirt print of the Achilles/Ajax scene instead. Admittedly it set me back €20 and doesn't have quite the classic finesse feel of a pot, but whichever way you approach it, it is far easier to get a t-shirt into a carry-on suitcase than a 12-foot vase. Mum meanwhile purchased a new scarf in one store and a new bag in another, the latter depicting little associations with Greece like the Parthenon, the islands etc. 

Ders ers Sper-terr

In her third and final chosen shop, as she purchased a magnetic mini-calendar to hang on the fridge (though not the 'Greek Lovers' one) I found, laughed at and had to photograph some Spartans which hadn't been painted all too well. Let's just say, over-acting aside, as least Gerard Butler didn't look as dim-witted in 300.

During this little escapade, Mum suggested we visit the Keramikos: effectively an ancient Athenian cemetery. To get there was just a simple matter of following the promenade, around the Acropolis to the north west. The shade wasn't brilliant as we went along, but time passed and there were a lot of street-side stalls to see and (unsurprisingly) another great view of the Acropolis on our right. 

One long, hot walk later, having used our Access-All-Areas tickets again, we spent a short time in the Keramikos museum, wherein I taught Mum all I could remember on Ancient Greek pottery from my college days. As it turned out, not much! Equally, our visit to the cemetery didn't last very long either. There wasn't a great deal to see, plus after 48 hours of looking at ruins, sculptures, pottery, ceramics and so on, I was bit "history-ed out" and wasn't as interested in ruins which didn't have a Parthenon adjacent. 

Eternal child that I am, though, I found three more heroes of the holiday; Achilles, Odysseus and Ajax, all tortoises and all of which got their own photo opportunity. (Except Ajax, who was sheltering under a bridge.) So far I'd seen Greece had wild dogs, wild cats and wild tortoises. What do we Brits get? Swans and geese, I suppose. Wonderful.

On our journey back to the hotel, we stopped off for waffles and ice-cream which was a sugar influx and a half, once again with an excellent view of the Parthenon on high. Mum read her guide book while I updated my notes. We both decided between the pair of us that, in terms of Athens at least, we had visited, seen and photographed the majority (if not all) of what was available. This is not a complaint, however, not by any means. We had seen several thousand years' worth of history in just two days. Now try and tell me that isn't time travel!

Saturday, 1 October 2016

When you have visited and seen all which is available to (and desired by) you, the chance of a repeat becomes inevitable. The evening before, Mum having done some rough accountancy and come to a fairly steady conclusion as to how much money we had left, we decided we should visit the Parthenon one last time before we left. It was the main reason for our visit, after all, and I definitely wanted a chance to see it again before leaving and in case there came a possibility I'd never see it again.

Saturday we woke at 8am and got up immediately, planning to get there before the crowds. We must have moved damn quickly, I don't actually remember breakfast that morning. Mission accomplished though, we left for the Acropolis at dead on 9am and - we discovered later - got there before a ferry-load of tourists rocked up. Our Access-All-Area tickets now accessed no areas so we had to pay again, but personally I think another €20 each to see it again was no real problem. 

We took fewer photos this time, partly because we already had loads (my phone was low on space by this point) but also because I was trying to commit it to memory. I heard somewhere (the opening line to all great rumours) that you remember something better if you don't take photos. That could be the whole "live in the moment" deal, or it may be because when you have a photo the demand on your mind to remember it isn't there, your camera lens lets your memory have a day off. I didn't want this to be the case; I loved the Parthenon and wanted to recall all of it: the sights, the sounds, the immense beauty of the entire place, the heat on my skin and the rough ground under my boots. Admittedly I cheated a bit, hacked my associations, so to speak. I walked around with On Melancholy Hill playing in one ear, my logic being I may as well link my favourite song to my new favourite place. If this logic holds up, every time I hear it I will be whisked back to a time I stood above all of Athens and looked up at a home fit for the goddess Athena.

Then again, I wanted to visit the Parthenon for so long, ever since those lessons in the cramped Freeman building of Peter Symond's College. I wanted it more than anything and loved every moment - all the songs and all the photos in the world wouldn't be necessary. Until I am old and grey, still with a few loose marbles knocking against each other, I will remember the time I spent with the Parthenon, on Acropolis Hill.

~ * ~

As always, there remains little to say. Anyone interested in learning about Athens can skip on down to Further Reading. 
Holidays can only end the same way they start: with an excessive amount of waiting before, during and after you've crossed the sky. I spent a few hours on the hotel roof again, updating my notes and enjoying the best possible view for the final time.

I did experience the funniest moment of the holiday, one which I haven't shared yet. While Mum was off buying lunch, I was using the WiFi to access YouTube. What I hadn't been ready for, however, was the pre-video advert coming up Greek. I quickly thought about it; makes sense, I was on a localised network which bases it on your location, etc. I'd never seen a Greek advert before and thought I could play the "guess the product before the end" game with the additional challenge of an insurmountable language barrier. It started with two young lads playing a PS4 game so my initial thoughts were "it's a game advert, or for an internet provider." At the back of my mind I thought of all those stereotypical comedy moments, used by satirical shows like The Simpsons and Family Guy where the family will be watching an advert in another culture and it will suddenly do something incredibly random - usually in these situations, it's a mock of the Japanese culture.

Well, move over Japan. I watched for a few seconds, with no idea what they were on about, until one of the two men jumps up, runs to a cupboard, digs around for a few moments and brings out what appears to be a small, pink club - cartoon caveman style - around which he then wraps a condom. 

I missed the rest of the advert entirely, through laughter and general bewilderment, except the end so I could commit it to memory: DuoGreece.

Further study upon getting home suggests it's a condom company trying to promote safe sex, all very respectable and commendable. Just how the pink club fits into it all...which sounds wrong...I'll never know. It just so happened to be my first ever Greek advert, as well as hilarious.

And finally, to literally bring this post home, the last part of our holiday was still rather special. The late flight provided some excellent views of night-time London:

And now, in the words of Homer, author of the Odyssey and the Iliad:

There is a time for many words, and there is also a time for sleep.

=]

~ * ~

Further Reading

(Just in case, like me, you'd like to learn more)

• Doric and Ionic orders, as well as parts of a temple

(Disclaimer: the "For Dummies" site is definitely not a statement on the intelligence of my readership. In actual fact, I personally quite liked reading it!)

• History of the Parthenon

• How to cook halloumi

(You may laugh but wait until you try it. I can, have and likely will again have a plate of just halloumi for dinner. 100% cheese, 100% satisfaction. I also recommend grilling it, rather than having it fried. Both good, but grilled is less fatty. Admittedly this doesn't make an awful lot of difference when you are literally eating cheese on its own.)

No Man's Sky

--- Spoiler Warning ---


In a limitless universe there's no such things as an ending.

This afternoon, not a few hours ago, I reached the centre of the Euclid Galaxy in No Man's Sky. It took over 200,000 light years, 446 systems, 97 planets and more antimatter than I care to mention. Upon so doing, I entered an unmissable cut-scene. Instead of moving forwards like with all previous system jumps, space fell backwards and I with it, making brief glimpses at systems shooting away from me. Some of them must have been ones I have visited and named during my journey. I travelled further and further back until there were no stars to see and darkness reigned; until the featureless void before me split down the middle in a horizon of white light. This flared past the limits of my vision, rendering me senseless, until I awoke upon a new planet in much the same way I had at the very beginning of my journey. My ship was in dire need of repair, I had new ground below and a new sky above. I stood on a rolling hill at the sunset-lit valley before me, another planet close by hanging in the sky behind the evening clouds. A few moments later I would converse with Atlas and, this time, accept the guidance of its path. My adventure is far, far from over.

Before these humbling events and while working to this goal I began to hear rumours, due to my liking of Screenjunkies' Honest Trailers and a comment from my brother in law, thus leading to my research into several critique websites. It came to my attention that the mainstream opinion of No Man's Sky is the ending is anticlimactic, disappointing or simply downright rubbish. 
If I may speak honestly myself, I find this opinion to be anticlimactic, disappointing and downright rubbish.

In this writer's opinion, these critics have missed the point of No Man's Sky. It, unlike any other game in existence, is overwhelming in size and scope. It allows the naming and designation of new worlds and species of animals, never before seen but since immortalised by my hand. There is a finite number of planets to explore but at 18 quintillion our own galaxy will come to end before we can walk on all of them. It is a game like none other seen before it.
It is a perfect, realistic representation of what would happen were humans ever inclined to move on from our world; they would have an endless universe surrounding them, a chance to explore and categorise it all by their own choices, and most importantly they never, ever finish. 

People have critiqued the game for having no story line, my counterpoint to which is: "So?" Space exploration, adventurism at is purest, even life itself, doesn't have a plot or story unless you create one. We are our masters of equilibrium and disruptions to it, but have gotten used to playing part to somebody else's. We are too used to titles being so rich in narrative, we rebel when games allow us to "self serve" and use that underestimated and often forgotten human power known as imagination. I for one congratulate HelloGames for the invitation into their world and a glimpse into 'procedurally generating' technologies which I hope to usher in a new age of big, beautiful and infinite video games.

(And, on a personal note, I would always prefer no story to a poor one.)

This is not a review of the game itself; this is a review of the reviews. To anyone disheartened or 'let down' by reaching the centre, I ask what you were really expecting? Some lush and heaven-like utopia? A peek behind the red pulse known as Atlas? Perhaps an answer to that baffling and infuriating question simply known as "Why?"
As a race we are destined to never know these things but spend our lives yearning to find out. No Man's Sky portrayed that beautifully and poignantly. Yes, there were hardships. Yes, there was frustration. Yet I continued on through the cosmos, determined and in search of truth, in so similar a way that we all do in "real life." I didn't find it today. I'll still be looking tomorrow.

I expected what lay at the centre of the galaxy, before watching online videos and reading reviews, because what else could it have possibly been? The underlying truth to all things is never easily within our grasp, and crossing one galaxy is not nearly enough to achieve it.

And when your task is to seek the centre of all creation, you must not be surprised if you end up right back where you started.

Where Memories Go To Die

The road behind you crumbles, more the further back you go,
The road ahead is unfinished, built on all that you know.

Your memory is incomplete. That's just one of the limitless, unfortunate Facts of Life. After your name is a number we invented that decides how long you lasted between you first opening your eyes and closing them for the last time. Your lifetime of events happens between the two points. Our minds are far too small and too busy to hold every single one of them.

Somewhere, left on the road behind you are first words, learning your five senses, the knowledge of just how imperceptibly small we really are. There are lost birthday parties, first words, conversations, purchases, journeys. Things you know you have done, but to actually see them again - it's easier to look for a blue sky in a thunder storm.

These memories must go somewhere. They hold too much of our lives, too much of our energies to simply stop - a heart beating slowly is still a heartbeat, is still a life. Though we cannot see them, we feel their weight and feel their pain. Memories are living entities but cannot die within us, or else we could still see them. No. Unwanted memories flee as we breathe in sleep, as we sigh in sunlight, as we watch and observe and live and replace them. They are not needed, to us, so find use among themselves.

So exists this idea of the Past. It's where your long lost memories have hidden, behind that word because we easily give it so much freedom. "What's passed is past." Anything could hide there, if it wanted. We'd be too preoccupied looking at the future. The road ahead.

So exists this Past, this plain of history, of decayed time, of the forgotten all mixed into one. Of course we don't know what they look like - we don't remember. They're now blank pages in books, songs turned silent, canvases wiped clean.

All of them are managed by one being. It moves among our memories like Death among its passengers - respectful, watching but never moving out of turn. It turns them a blind eye, in forms greyed and near forgotten, needed only when we so choose.
This being is called Recollection. On the off chance a memory needs to be resurrected. To be returned. Recollection tends to the job and sends back one of its infinite children and the Past, just for a moment, becomes Present.

But that memory will come back. Eventually, they all do. Pushed out and defeated by whatever new comes from the road ahead. They wait patiently, though. The process repeats, again and again. New descending upon the Old. 
Just wait. For the time, when every last of our memories have fled and Recollection quietly becomes one with them. When they are everything we have left.

When we meet what's at the end of the road.

Your Digital Variety

(Before we start, my apologies for the previous post. Whenever drunk and requested to write, I am only too happy to oblige - regardless of any necessary sense, reason or structure)
Anyway.

A few years ago, a good friend at university introduced me to a chat site called Omegle. For any among you not aware, this site allows you to chat with complete strangers, remaining anonymous yourself, as well. How much, or how little, you reveal and/or lie is entirely up to you. 

At first, I kept it on 'Shuffle', essentially. Chatted with a girl about Gorillaz one time, discussed American food versus English in another, had an in-depth analysis of 2K's Bioshock (THAT was an excellent one)

This occurred only a few times, scattered throughout university when I was bored/on my laptop anyway/practising my writing skills by being different characters = always fun. But only in more recent times, within the last year or so, I started to use it to chat with people with similar tastes. To put a much finer point on it, people of the same sexuality as myself. To put a lethally fine point on it, other gay guys. The site allows you to do that, by typing in key words before starting a chat. I used to put "video games", "music", "science fiction", etc. Only by putting 'gay' in that little box did the conversations become a little more...erm...eventful.

But in so doing, I also enter what I always call "The Dark Side of the Internet." For those brave or stupid enough to dig down, past the shopping, social media and cat videos, where you will find a civilisation that lays buried for a reason. (Though sometimes, you don't have to dig for very long...) Here you find the sex-talkers, the picture-swappers, the stalkers - I know there are much murkier, much more dangerous levels below these and never venture there. Omegle can be more than enough. It has the type of online person that we're always warned to avoid, but sometimes you just have to find out for yourself. And brother, I have learnt much.

A great number of Omegle users like to use it to swap profiles on social media apps like Kik, Snapchat or Skype. In fact if I had a pound for every new chat that starts with the other person asking "Kik?", I'd had enough to buy a new laptop. If I then got another pound for when they leave after saying "No" I'd have enough to buy a better internet connection.

I did actually get Kik a little while later, and already had Snapchat, to swap details and keep the conversation going. Out of curiosity, or genuine naivety.  But so, so, SO often, I'd be left bitterly disappointed. What started out as a decent chat that could've led to a possible new friendship, turned to their one-sided hormone-driven plea to see what lurks between my legs. I watch, and always decline, as these people beg, grovel or in some cases demand these pictures, videos, poses and action from you. A sense of entitlement, perhaps? Or pure, deep desperation?  
I can only feel sorry for them. Whatever they are - desperate, lonely, sick, twisted - I just pity them. I have been single for a fair few years now, and I know that the resolution sure as hell doesn't lie between a camera lens, a ;) face and the contents of your underpants.
Of this experience, two stand out. One was a guy, who'll remain unnamed, who for a while was actually okay. We'd chat about books, work and general life at our age. Occasionally he'd mention swapping pictures - mentions which became more and more frequent as time went on, until I blocked him two weeks after adding him.
Another was on Kik. We transferred from Omegle to there and his first response was a picture of his nether regions. My first response was the 'Delete Chat' button.

This sort of behaviour led to some rather blunt replies of my own. Now, whenever someone on Omegle asks if I want to add them on an app, I normally ask if they're a pic-swapper, or just sometimes "Sexchat or Regular?" Their answer shapes my own.

That's one experience. Another I've had ,at the other end of the homosexual-rainbow-spectrum, is a type that causes pity in a heartfelt way, not a "Christ, why is he telling me how many guys he'd slept with?" kind of pity. I've had multiple chats along these lines:

Me: Hey
Them: Hi there. Are you gay?
Me: Yeah, why?
Them: I am too. Do you know how I cure myself of being gay?

It's the sort of question that drops a dead weight through your heart and into your stomach. You may or may not be surprised to know that a lot of these come from guys in America. I do hope that the recent marriage legalisation has improved things.
I always do what I can; explain that it's natural, it's nothing to hide and the blame lies with parents/society etc. I played the part which I came to call "Gay Guru" so often. I can't say for sure if I ever helped them. But I tried, and I think that even for a short while, they felt happier, more accepted. I take comfort in that. It's far, far better than nothing. 
(And far, far better than some Indian guy asking what you'd like to do to him *shudders*)

A further, third experience, known as the Deserters. These are actually slightly worse than the sex-driven lunatics. Because these ones actually are good conversations, you're not turned away at the first hurdle. You'll have similarities, understandings, dare I say, a good laugh. Then you'll exchange app details - usually Kik, again - and the chat will go on. It can start to fade at this point, varying between slightly or a lot, but at least they're not showing you their other end. Rather, you may exchange a perfectly natural, innocent, face picture. And then, very often, the conversation at their end dies, no different than if they were chatting with you and then fell down a pit. No matter how enjoyable your chat was, or how your personality came across. If you don't look good on camera, you aren't worth it, apparently. Which, I have to say, is a fantastically powerful kick in the confidence. At least it makes things agonisingly simple - you know that they're not interested and you know that they're not the right prick person for you.

And then, the fourth and final kind that I've come across. The Good Kind. A good chat in an ocean of idiots, a chat you nearly gave up on finding. You'll connect, something about it just clicks, even after the face-pic-swap (and you breath a sigh of relief that you managed to look halfway decent, at the exact point you switched to front-camera.) It doesn't necessarily result in a relationship and to be honest nothing about the whole thing says it even has to. But when you've gone from troll to sex-chat, disappointment to repulsion to reach this new person, the main thing is, you've made it.
A welcoming island in that ocean of insanity. A brand new friendship where there wasn't one beforehand. I've only found one of the Good Kind, so far.

This one's for him =]

-Robert

Wisdom (and Wilson)

(Title courtesy of auto correct. A recurring theme/annoyance of tonight)

You asked for wisdom. I can only hope to deliver; with my mind currently running on several glasses of wine, Pringles and some chicken nuggets which I swear weren't cooked through.

So what would you like to know? My in-depth knowledge of BioShock? My recipe for a Robster (not tricky anyway)?  My deepest secrets?

HAH. Thought you had me there? Ooh, "Uptown Funk" just came on.

(Woo!) 

Because yes, I'm distracted. Because yes, I'm drunk. 6th glass of wine now. Fruity. Flat. Powerful. Typically, completely, essentially, quintessentially wine. These people who have adjectives for booze. It'll get you drunk. Priorities. Focus not on the "imperial implications of a modern vintage" and just decide you suddenly want to DANCE. I always dance when drunk. Me, a bottle of rum and Come and Get Your Love are the best embarrassment mix up since dads learnt how to dance at weddings.

Better than drama at a young primary school age. Ooh, I'm a shepherd in the nativity. Because I know how to wear a headscarf? Out ducking standing.

(I've decided not to swear for the previous 10 seconds)

Fuck.

Moving on.

Hey, you know what would be fun? If I came up with something creative. My writing recently has gone quiet. My reading, however, has been spectacular. "Here", "The Wrong Place" and "The Art of Guardians of the Galaxy." (Did you really think I changed that much?) 

So imagine, if you will, two people of extraordinary omnipresence. They not only see everything, they have already seen it. One wears a long coat and a top hat: the other has 8 mechanical arms. In between them stands me. They go out and live their lives, and I tell their stories because they cannot. I create their lives because they do not exist without me.

So here is my wisdom, Landmine. As requested. (No benefit leaflet. NO BISCUITS)

I am the father of these two men. They live and love only through me. Which is why we need more authors in the world. When the world goes mad and people don't make sense, we make our own. We make our own roles models. Our reasons for living, and for other people to keep carrying on.

We make heroes. People to look up to.   

And some people, like me, need them.

"I have two alter egos, both of which are cooler than me." (Facebook, 1 of 7 facts, 2015.) and they are one of the main reasons I like trekking on (besides the long-coat-striding everywhere). Because their stories just aren't done yet.

SERIOUS BIT OVER

Why is modern music so shit? Discuss.

In the words of animated head of Al Gore:

"PEACE OUT, Y'ALL"

R.

=]
(Can I please have a few point of success for posting this ramble using my iPhone, alone)

Newquay, 2015

Starring:
1. Myself
2. Dan (driver, host of this event)
3. Dan's friend, "Chapman" (first name Tom, often mistakenly referred to by me as 'Ty' because I'm stupid)
4. Dan's other friend, Ty (also invited, but declined)

Saturday 25th April
When it comes to starting a holiday, there's hardly ever a lot of choice. You get up stupidly early, or you don't. That's it. We left, by choice of Dan, at 6:30am. Give him his credit, we didn't hit any traffic during our 3 and a half hour drive. But when your alarm clock has '6' in it, you know it's going to be rough.

Saying that, on the way down, Chapman was the one to fall asleep. Which was impressive, given at that moment, Dan and I had decided to enter a two-man karaoke production of Gorillaz Clint Eastwood. That was one of many recurring themes of our holiday - in the car, I was provider of music. God help us all, I know.

Anyway, during the journey, I phoned ahead to our hotel to find our check in time was 1pm. We arrived in Newquay around 10am and we spent our first bit of time there like men. We bought alcohol, and we gambled. Dan managed to win £5 on a slot machine. As did I, but I then hit 'transfer' instead of 'collect' and lost it all again. Genuis. And there were 2p machines. They are hilariously pointless. You know you're not going to carry around a handful of 2ps for the rest of the day, you know it, the guy running the place knows it, it's all going to go back into the machine it came out. (With one exception, coming up later but this narrative shall be linear). I did win a Despicable Me keying. If I'd won 7 more, I could have traded in for a stuffed minion toy, but...just no.

So between the time of arriving and checking in, we milled around Newquay for a bit, taking in the shops and various restaurants. Of course, we stopped for our first pasty from a place called 'Rowes' and I just had to text my Cornish friend Megan about it. It wasn't particularly hot, but it was good. But we still had time to kill and Dan wanted his own nostalgia moment, so we got back in the car and headed for Hollywell Bay, a small amusement park a little way outside Newquay. It is fairly young-age-based (hence the nostalgia part for Dan), but did include a decent game of mini golf, and some go-karting. Now that was fun. Leaving aside the moment where I looked monumentally stupid because I put my seatbelt on incorrectly, we had so much fun out on the track, we paid to do it twice. It also helped that it started raining. Yes, we got soaked, but as Dan kept mentioning, 'we were happy with the drifting'.

Now looking like drowned rats, we decided it was the perfect time to check into the hotel. Dan drove us back and on arrival we were given our keys, for rooms 27, 28 and 30. At random, I took 30 and brother I picked the longest straw. We all went to do the typical 'room-sweep' in our separate mini abodes, but upon entering my room I was presented by this quite startling view.


Now THAT^, for the attention of all hotels
everywhere, is a "sea view".

With the trees and endless sea, it was almost like being somewhere abroad. In fact it was so good, when Dan came in to visit we sat down to partake in the very grown up, very British past time of just...sitting. And looking at the scenery. (Thus, my room became our central base whenever it was time to pre-drink/drink in general)
After that, we sampled what Trebarwith hotel had to offer. While Chapman had another nap, Dan and I gave the indoor pool a go, then the sauna - new and interesting experience for me - then tidied ourselves up and had a game of snooker and ping pong. (Wiff waff, to avid QI fans like Dan)

Before the evening could begin, I had to find myself a bottle opener. So while Chapman and Dan enjoyed some snooker, I wandered off into town to get some money out and a new utensil. Ended up having to buy a can opener. Living the dream, I was.
(I've also just looked around my room, no idea where that utensil went when I got home and unpacked. Somewhere, in my bedroom, is a can opener. God I love living bizarre.)

We'd decided to start the evening at "Senor Dick's", a Mexican restaurant offering dreams for we lovers of delicacies like burritos and fajitas. (or, as the menu put it, FAH-HEE-TAS). I enjoyed some excellent chicken FAH-HEE-TAS, the filling for which was delivered in a sizzling black dish. As we ate, the restaurant's name did lead to A LOT of jokes, on the night and throughout the holiday. Mostly centred around "eating some dick", "some tasty dicks right there" and so forth. They did some mighty fine cocktails as well (har har) which is where the night out started. We opted for a pub crawl, so after that it was a Wetherspoons (adventurous, I know), then a club called 'Walkabout' which was far too noisy. (For old men like Dan and myself) Then another, equally loud Wetherspoons. And then a pub called 'Sailors' which funnily enough, both Dan and myself had been individually recommended - in my case, by my sister and brother-in-law who live in Plymouth.
Without any doubt, Sailors became not just my favourite bar in Newquay, but ever. Good drinks, great atmosphere, my kind of music - I kid you not, they played the Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack. The first time Come and Get Your Love comes on, my tune, and I can't dance to it 'cos I'm with the wrong company! Ah well. No offence, you two, if you ending up reading this!
Sailors also led to another, rather unfortunate, running joke. For you see, working in the gent's toilets that night was a very friendly black gentlemen. He gave out hand soap, hand towels and, depending on how well you tipped, gum, cologne and, once in my case, a rap song. All three of us liked him immensely, so much so that it led to the birth of a new metaphor "going to pay the black man" to mean going to the toilet. I liked him so much I went to the loo even when I didn't need to. Gave him £2, got some very nice cologne (and the rap) out of it. 

Besides that, in my drunken state I ended up quoting Pulp Fiction (which became a personal recurring theme for the holiday) and learnt that Chapman doesn't like small talk. I also decided to throw a glass bottle over the side of some nice decking they had outside because, and I quote, "I'd finished with it." We rounded off the night with some more cocktails and headed back to the hotel. Along the way, we encountered a very nice busker with a guitar who played a rather charming number called 'The Wank Song'. He told us stories of all the inappropriate places he'd "relieved" himself (by verse three I'd creased up laughing) and we gave him all the change we hadn't given to the bathroom attendant at Sailors. Didn't come to much!

Trebarwith Hotel's night porter was very charming when we arrived back, at 1am-ish. Opened the door with no fuss or comment. Let us right on in, where we went to bed and ended our first day on holiday.

Sunday 26th April
Ohh, the morning after. The Mexican food and alcohol in our bellies had stirred up something fierce within. It certainly didn't help in my case. My room had an amazing sea view, but incredibly small toilet-slash-cupboard, effectively. Couldn't sit on the toilet without burning your leg on the heated towel rack. Yes, I have the scar to prove it.
In short, we were rather looking forward to our inclusive breakfast. I had bacon, beans, fried mushrooms, tomato, sausage and about three cups of tea. There's no 100% hangover cure, but it doesn't get much better than that.

And what did we decide would be best for our day after the night before? Why visit a cider farm, of course!
No, to be fair, it was an excellent suggestion on Dan's part. It's easily one of the best places I've been and I plan to go again one day. Healey's Cyder Farm. Yes, that's how they spell it. But it's a rustic old farm out in the country, really good surroundings and BEST OF ALL, the free samples. Oh, the free samples. There is a room filled with bottles to buy and along the back wall, a very long bench lined with various ciders to try. We were served by a friendly chap who gave us a mini tankard each and talked us through the various types and flavours. Dan, bless him, the designated driver, couldn't have quite as many. Chapman and I had everything. Apple cider, berry cider, elderflower cider, cider infused with rum, cider infused with whisky, Rattler, Scrumpy, Healey Gold, mixed berry wine and strawberry wine (BY FAR my favourite). Once you've tried them all, the full sized bottles are in the room, waiting to be bought. I came away with a beautiful bottle of strawberry wine and some winter spiced cider, a glass of which I'm enjoying right now.
Delicious.
I honestly urge to give Healey's a go if you get the chance.  http://thecornishcyderfarm.co.uk/
It was so brilliant, I honestly have a new dream of travelling the country to taste all the various ciders and keep a journal of some kind. But, that's a new post for a later time.

After our light marinating in Cornwall's best alcohols, we decided to look into doing some archery at Hendra Holiday Park. (We'd raided the leaflet section in the hotel earlier in the day, you see.) As it turned out, we could only book it for the next day, but we stuck around to play some bowling. Not proper bowling, but on miniature lanes, with pins on strings and bowling balls that you cupped in your hand, rather than with the finger holes. I think Dan won that one - I was more pre-occupied with the sound effects it made if you missed a shot. Sounded like a drunk leprechaun laughing at you.

Seeing as we were coming back, we didn't stick around so instead returned to the hotel and went to explore the Trebarwith hotel's adjoining beach. Earlier in the day, Chapman and Dan had bought some flip-flops in town. At the beach, they quickly worked towards losing them in the waves. In my typical odd/alternative style, I'd opted for holidaying in my caterpillar boots, which actually were a dream when I realised they were more or less waterproof. And they came in handy when I participated in one classic, favourite past time of mine - rock climbing. No harnesses, no safety ropes. Just a massive block of land in the middle of the beach, of which I needed to reach the top. There is something about rock climbing that I find simply brilliant. Perhaps the danger to it, or the rather primal act. Either way, it certainly wasn't the last time I did it on our holiday.

After that, like the right 'hilarious and original' guys we are, we just had to draw a giant cock and balls in the sand. I got us ready as a team; Dan did the head, Chapman the shaft and myself, the balls. And of course as soon as I said '"Go", I promptly forgot what role I was playing and ended up doing the head' at the other end, which had to be transformed into another ball when I suddenly realised what Dan was doing. So a rather deformed phallus stayed on the beach, at least until the tide returned. Dan said he later saw some people on a cliff above, pointing and laughing at our work. Personally, I felt like a small, sad homage to the Top Gear trio.
Turns out we couldn't see it from our hotel rooms anyway!

After Dan and I took another trip to the pool and sauna, and Chapman had another nap, it was time for dinner. We'd found an American-style steakhouse called The Bullpitt earlier in the day and so opted for that. In four words, it was "very meaty and delicious". Also gave me a chance to try two new, and exquisite, ciders. The menu offered the chance to try 'brisket', the only thing I knew about it was The Big Bang Theory's mentions of it. What it is, is beef cooked so tender it literally falls apart if your fork so much as looks at it. For a set price you get a choice of two meats and two sides, so I opted for a steak, brisket, corn on the cob and chips. Dan fell in love with brisket, there's no other way to put it, so I gifted him some of mine. I can't deny, it and the sauce it came with was divine. But we'd had a starter, and I had to finish my steak. Might be a personal guy thing. But if I'm given a steak, I must finish it. He also gave me some of his chicken in return, which was damn good.
And in a joke not quite as good as Senor Dick's, each time Dan mentioned The Bullpitt after our visit, I always heard 'the ball pit' and wondered what the good glorious hell he was on about.

As we'd had such a good night in Sailors, we opted for a quieter night, drinking in the hotel. There I enjoyed yet more cider, and tried to keep awake as we three sank slowly deeper and deeper into the lounge sofas. We went to bed soon after, though not before some shuffling through the Urban Dictionary. We had been discussing some rather odd/disturbing sexual phrases, but my random non-sex-related favourite?
Busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.
Ah, how we laughed.

Monday 27th April
In another of Dan's requests for nostalgia, we spent most of the day in Perranporth; another costal town not far from Newquay, where Dan had stayed before at a younger age. The beaches and cliff faces it offered weren't just good, they were exceptional.

In the middle of what you could call 'the main beach bit' (effectively the bit you're on as soon as you touch sand, any further out and you have to walk a fair way) there was a small rock island (above) with a Cornish flag on top, which we had to reach. There were also a few jellyfish dotted around, one of which Chapman did poke. Didn't sting him, though, I believe. We looked around a few shops, including a cool African-style shop, full of wood carvings like masks and such, which reminded me of Aku Aku from Crash Bandicoot. Dan did consider get a wooden-carved cock-shaped bottle-holder for his parents, or another with a bottle opener on it, but decided against it.
The rest of our time there involved a long beach walk, and climbing some very heavy-going sand dunes. Hard to get anywhere where each footstep sinks a few inches into very soft, very steep, sand.

After that, we had to head off as it was time for archery! Back to Hendra, and another quick game of mini-bowling as we arrived a little early. Not to brag, but I thrashed the pair of them this time. My 155 to their 42 and 68. (I know, it's not like me to victory-gloat. But when do I win at bowling?!)
Now, archery was a lot of fun. I was, well, not terrible. I'll cling to my bowling victory earlier in the day, though, put it that way. I was more pre-occupied with getting the Skyrim reference in. You know, "I used to be an adventurer like you, then I took an arrow in the knee." Tricky, when a white/black/blue/red/yellow target doesn't have knees. However! We had paid a little extra to have some shots on what we were told would be "3D targets." Earlier in the day, Dan and I had suggested scarecrows and stuff like that, whereas Chapman randomly suggested a dinosaur and how we laughed. How we laughed a lot more, when our archery instructor then did bring out a foam dinosaur to shoot at! There was also a dice, a zombie's head and torso, three small pumpkin heads and some straw bags. Our instructor gave us a scoring system, something like 800 if you hit the dinosaur in the eye, etc.

"I used to be a dinosaur like you,
then I took an arrow in the knee."

Me, I was focused on the knee, wouldn't shut up about getting it in the knee. (So much so I think I 'weirded' out our instructor. Which would be a shame, he was nice, I liked him.) He did end up saying "Alright, we'll let Rob have his...shot at the knee..."
5 arrows. 5 chances.
And I got him, right on the last one.1000points to me, easy (in my mind). Chapman also got a cracking shot on the zombie, directly through the tip of the nose.
We came away happy, elated, having had a damn good time. (Although not 100%, in my case. I didn't admit this to other two, in fact I'm surprised I managed to keep it quiet, it hurt so much. TWICE, upon releasing the arrow and by some means I don't know how, the string pinged back and caught me on the nipple. TWICE. The same nipple, too)

We returned to Newquay and spent some more time in town after that. There was a superb Ben and Jerry's ice-cream shop, where you could either buy the ice-cream or have it turned into a milkshake, Shakeaway style. I combined 'Baked Alaska' and...something with strawberries, it was very good. What made the trip there, though, was the shop attendant kept accidentally swearing. We didn't mind, and we were the only ones in there, so there were no worries of offending anyone. But she'd swear, get really apologetic and we just laughed, enjoying some damn fine milkshakes.
After that, we found another casino/arcade place up by Sailors. But this one was different and by far my favourite of the trip, because it had...wait for it...a classic Pac-Man machine, 20p a go. I spent A LOT of time at that while Chapman and Dan got on with their own thing. I kept thinking I'd get Repetitive Strain Injury from playing, I've no idea just how much time passed with me standing there, but when we came to leave, it turned out to be quite a while. But before that, I must discuss Dan's big win. He'd found another, different Pac-Man related machine, a 2p one that mixed slots with a digital game as well. Finer details aside, he won a considerable plastic-pot-full of 2ps and so went to get them exchanged. Then the arcade owner led us to the back room. Chapman made jokes about Dan getting his legs broken, while I fought back the urge to laugh. Turned out he'd won about £5.40 - which he was dead chuffed with, no doubt about it - but the way we'd been led away from everything, it was like he'd have to accept a cheque or something.

Still, fun over, we returned to the hotel for a while. We sat outside, overlooking the adjoining beach (the sand-cock washed away, by now). I broke into my bottle of strawberry wine and ended up drinking the whole thing because it was GOOD. Also led to a rather funny side story. But first, a different one.
I like to think we gained a bit of a reputation at the hotel in our short stay, we were around quite a lot, having fun, I think the staff recognised us. We also seemed to be some of the youngest people there, excluding kids there with parents. Anyway, around about 5pm, a...what would we call him? Attendant? Porter?...well, a member of staff came to see us while we were drinking outside. As he approached, I think we three shared the same thought: "Ah, damn, it's about the alcohol isn't it?" But no. The guy came up to us and asked if Dan or I planned to use the sauna at all later on - as we had requested to use it twice already during our stay - but we said we probably wouldn't. When we asked why, he said he just thought he'd warn us, as apparently a 60yr old German woman had been in there the day before, from about 6pm onwards, and hadn't been wearing an awful lot. "Just thought I'd warn you." We thought it was just fantastic, thanked him a lot, had a good laugh about it. Funnily enough, I'd brought my notebook - which I'm referring to right now - outside with me to document the day. As the hotel guy walked off, Dan said something to me like "that's got to go in your book!"

My other funny story, only minutes later, regarding the (now empty) bottle of strawberry wine. Dan and Chapman went back to their rooms, while I snuck out into town, with the intention of getting another bottle. Probably didn't help I'd drunk the whole thing, but my mind was going "I must get another one! I text Mum I'd bring a bottle back, I must have one!" At the cider farm, I'd bought it because I thought I'd never see it again, turns out there were bottles in EVERY tourist-based shop in town. However, by this point in the day, they were all shut. "You can get another bottle tomorrow, it'll be fine, NO I CAN'T! IT'S THE LAST BOTTLE EVER, I MUST GET ONE!" Seriously, you want to see determination, get me hammered. I eventually found a liquor shop and from outside I could see a bottle on a shelf, through the open doorway. I kid you not, my arm had raised to pick it up before I had even entered the shop. The till worker probably thought I was...well, drunk. Probably seen it all before, and worse. I'd just looked like I'd failed at using the Force to move it.

Embarrassing story aside! We went for Greek cuisine that night. I wasn't massively blown away by it, each night of dinner had gone in descending order of preference (Senor Dick's was excellent, and to be fair, BullPitt was a very close second). One thing I did learn: Halloumi. Is. AMAZING. If it's that good in a Greek restaurant in England, I want the real thing in Greece. It's like when Mum and I had proper bruschetta in a restaurant in Rome, you cannot beat food in its country of conception.

Then that night in the hotel bar, I tried and loved some excellent strawberry Pimms, while Dan and I returned to our college-favourite card game "Slam". We only played one game, which I won. GOD my hand hurt. I've obviously lost my touch.

Tuesday 28th April
So came another excellent breakfast, so came another day in Perrenporth. Now, I can't say for certain why we decided to go back, but can say for certain, I'm glad we did. The tide had gone out, so we went for a long walk down the beach and started exploring in caves. Hardly any actually went anywhere, one small cave lead to a collection of ropes at the far end. Another, and this will always remain with me, contained a smashed boat, complete with decaying fishing gear and crates. All three of us stood there, taking pictures (quite badly, in the dark, it must be said) quietly taking it in. I loved that moment in particular, it was like a proper boys-only adventure. I honestly felt like 10yrs old again. It was, quite simply, fantastic.
One other cave that will stick with me, was where Dan tried his hand at being Spiderman. From the cave entrance, it split into two directions, one dry, one wet. I first went left, dry way, and couldn't find anything, so we decided to go right. It was quite narrow, but me in my boots just walked through the water, no problems at all, and Chapman took his shoes off. Dan, however, was wearing Converse and would neither get them wet, nor remove them. So he stuck his arms and legs out, pushed against each wall, and edged along. All the while egged on with me singing Spiderman, Spiderman, does whatever... etc. When we did get past the wet bit, into the cave, there wasn't much to see. It was a decent size and merited the use of my iPhone light. That made me laugh; exploring by the light of a mobile phone. Kids of the modern age, eh?

What came next, I won't bore you with. It transpired that a spring on Dan's car had come loose - we did notice a rattling noise every so often as we were going around Cornwall. Rather than attempt the 3 and a half hour journey back the next day, with 1 of 4 wheels looking iffy, Dan drove to a garage to have it fixed. While that was being done, we walked into the nearby town of Redruth. Which was memorable for being utterly not memorable at all. Apart from one street I happened to spot which was LINED with 'Vote Labour' signs. On this side of the election, that worked out well, huh?

Anyway. That little tangent over, we returned to town in Newquay. I bought Stephen King's new book Mr Mercedes for the ride home (which I have since finished, excellent, as ever) and then we visited the Pac-Man arcade again. While the other two gambled, I returned to the classic Pac-Man arcade game. Where, after many, many, many 20ps and the occasional quid, I got the new highest score of 152,170. Oh yeah. Can't say I'm not an achiever! Might well have been beaten already by now, but I did it, and I know I did. It's good enough for me!

As we'd had such a good time there on the first night, we rounded off the Tuesday, and the holiday really, with Senor Dick's again - cue Dan sending his mother some rather iffy "eating dicks again" texts - and then another trip to Sailors. We enjoyed some rather excellent cocktails, Chapman especially. We shared a few sips of each other's drinks, and I'll be honest I'm a tad jealous of what he had in our final round.
There was no toilet attendant this time, which was a bit of a shame. We still used that metaphor though, as we had done throughout the holiday. Seeing as all we ordered were complicated cocktails, we did give the barmaid serving us a pretty good tip as well. Got to be gentlemen sometimes, eh? Even if you're drinking a "Pornstar Martini".......

That's more or less it for my notes on the holiday. I had brought my PS Vita with me, so ended up packing my stuff away with Futurama episode "A Tale of Two Santas" playing from the Vita.

The final note in my book?

"bit drunk atm, tbh"

Says it all for a lad's holidays, doesn't it?

Peace out =]

The Evil Within

The Evil Within
Developers: Tango Gameworks
Director: Shinji Mikami - developer of Resident Evil games and regarded as a king of gaming horror
Publishers: Bethesda Softworks
Known as in Japan: Psycho Break
Platform I played it on: PlayStation 4

“What do you fear, little one?”

Dr Jonathan Crane, meet Elizabeth DeWitt. Heart-pounding tension across multiple dimensions. That’s The Evil Within in a nutshell. If you can keep your sanity and bravery in check for long enough, across the ever shifting planes of twisted realities, you might just be able to understand the storyline and plot. No doubt you’ll die trying.

Booker? Booker DeWitt, is that you?

It begins, as every horror story should, in the rain. Detective Sebastian Casteanos – not Spanish but sure sounds like it – is looking into a series of brutal murders occurring in Crimson City’s mental hospital. Good start. Five, certainly not ten, minutes into the game and you’re met by the main antagonising antagonist. You won’t know his name for some time, you’ll only think he looks like a zombie in Assassin’s Creed clothing. But this zombie is fast. Sebastian watches on the CCTV as Enzio-Zombie kills four policemen in quick succession, looks up at the camera and is suddenly behind him. Then let the horror begin.

By Enzio-Zombie’s power, you are cordially invited into his own personal nightmare. Across fifteen in-game chapters, you will come to know his rage, his fear, his passion, his back stories and his absolutely INFURIATING one-hit move of killing you simply by touch. It’s quite a thing to see, resembling an ultimate-fail high-five. His arm goes up and your legs come off. Everything fades to black, my apologies, red. Because you're in his barb-wired-brain, he rules everything and changes everything. A hospital can turn into an asylum, a church can turn into an underground labyrinth and, for some reason, two crushing walls of giant mannequin heads can end at a cornfield. I don’t know. I’m not mad.

Okay, that mad.



Ruvik. Or as I christened him, 'Stitches'

Fortunately, Enzio-Zombie – from now referred to by his real name Ruvik – doesn’t appear all the time. He leaves the job of killing you horrifically to his inner-demon-minions, known as the Haunted. I can’t fully tell what they are to Ruvik. A cutscene at the start of the game suggests they’re just your usual average Joes and Josephines that have been clawed into Ruvik’s world of sheer dominating thought. The general concept of The Evil Within involves combining the minds of others into one collective mind. As you'd expect, it doesn't quite work out. People don't like to share thoughts and memories, it's understandable that they want to fight back when it feels their brain has fallen into a needle pit. Like all horror genres, the main character is somehow excluded. Something about Sebastian keeps him sane, keeps him away from the glowing eyes, horrendous skin conditions and that general “I wonder how your intestines taste” sort of look. His job is to survive and escape them, or simply kill them. And not just kill them, slaughter them and burn them with his dwindling supply of matches or else they get. Right. Back. Up. Or they lie in waiting for you to walk over them and suddenly you’re without a left shin.

You can also use headshots or explosives to do the job. Tricky to get up when your head and feet are occupying the exact same space.

That’s just the little monsters, the used-to-be-normals. In Ruvik-land, there’s a whole load more nightmares. I’m unsure on names, so I personally fought “the girl from The Ring crossed with Dead Space aliens”, the “Fishermen”, the “Mutant Wolf” (two varieties), “Safehead” and “fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-GET IT AWAY FROM ME!” The latter actually adapted as a name for most in-game enemies. Especially the invisible ones.

You read that correctly. Invisible. For about 90% of the time. They're quite generous, they do become visible just when they're inches from grabbing you. So keep an eye out for moving bottles and doors, or else you'll end up with a lot of tentacles very suddenly in your face.

But all the hell-bent horrors, all the masked, armoured, armed, fat, full of nails, debris, glass and furiously angry, are what contribute so well to the in-game tension. Never in my life have I gripped a PlayStation controller so tightly in such an everlasting state of terror. It's always there, gently chewing on the undersides of my brain and letting your spine go ever so slightly colder. A few chapters in and experience made, your own manic preconceptions are so well integrated that even walking around is scary. You start to mistrust things like...corridors, doorways, floors, the ceiling, basically everything you'd think would be a constant. There's a sneak mode and trust me, you'll use it. The slightest noise, a twitch in shadows and *thwpp*, knees bent, crouched and progressing at a speed that although doesn't get you there fast, it might just get you there alive.

Fortunately, the tension calms (to a point) for the storyline transitions and save points. Leading on from the mentioned shifting realities, behind every cracked mirror is 'The Asylum' which, like it or not, is your save haven. It allows you to exchange green gel collected in game for upgrades, as well as the bitchiest receptionist you'll ever run into. Feel free to make quips every time she asks "whatever is the matter?" (She even asks 'A careful one, aren't you?' if you visit in quick succession) You just fought two mutant dogs that outweigh Cereberus, you don't need that kind blasé crap from anyone. Also enjoy how your save haven starts to turn on you over the course of progression. The Asylum you start in is never The Asylum you leave. It certainly taught me one thing: always listen out for Claire de la Lune. It plays softly behind every splintered cracked mirror and each eerie, yet somewhat soothing, note basically translates as "get in! We've got some down time!" 

You'll also get a chance for a breather with the narrative based cut scenes. Sure, scary stuff can still happen but at least you know there's bugger all you can do to stop it. You'll make the run for your life - the only thing you have left - and then walk calmly into another room to chat with your fellow detectives (who funnily enough drop in and out as frequently as Infinite's Lutece twins), Ruvik's old partner, or Leslie. (For spoiler reasons, you can find out for yourself exactly what Leslie is. All I'll say is, have fun chasing him!) 
It's something that threw me, or made me laugh, every single time. Sebastian will crawl his way out of multiple nightmares, literally claw away from demons and ass-tightening boss battles, and never ever act like it. There's a couple of "what?" or "oh shit" (rather more justified), but for the most part Sebastian plays the calmest horror genre protagonist I've ever seen/played.

(With the exception of Jack from BioShock. But Atlas never said 'Would you kindly speak?' so what're you gonna do?")

I guess it can only be a good thing, we've all seen horror films and games where 80% of the dialogue is screaming and hated it. But I'd have liked a little something, just a smidge more emotion. Especially when he saw the final boss - play it and see.

The Keeper. Agreeable looking chap, isn't he?

At least the weapons show emotion, even if the ammunition is less than limited. There's a pistol, for desperate measures, a shotgun, for head-explodey measures, a sniper, ditto, and the Agony Crossbow. With a name like that, you know it means business. Its ammo is derived from scrounging for tool kits or disarming bombs. They supply you with gear pieces, to create ammo. There's a good eight variations of bolts, but I can guarantee the one you'll return to the most is the Explosive head. Clears a crowd, shortens a boss battle - though if the times comes when you've unloaded three into The Keeper's side and he's still standing, you will swear. Believe me. There's also a basic spear, fun for head shots, and an incendiary bolt. The latter costs a lot of gear pieces, but spouts three plumes of flame for a short time. Loosely translated, get one into the middle of a crowd and brother, you're laughing. Your enemies sure won't be.

As I've mentioned it, be sure to scrounge. Scrounge, scrounge, scrounge like a thief. Not just from an advantage point of view, you will need to. The ammo you require is hidden in cabinets, in forgotten old rooms. Pick up axes, kill with torches, ALWAYS MAKE SURE YOU'VE GOT MEDICINE. etc etc etc.

And while I have this chance? Sebastian, baby...you can't sprint for shit.

Anyway! Now that I've survived it, after 15hrs 25mins and 38secs, and a grand total of 34 deaths, I have this chance to reflect on what it is easily the scariest game I've ever played. And one thought that's been playing on me all throughout: is it scary? Or is it just hard? Does the tension of avoiding enemies actually translate as a desire to miss them and survive? Because every time you die horribly, yes it's not a sight you want to see, but what else does it mean? I means you have to do it all over again. There's a scene around the middle chapters when Ruvik is chasing you, all with his one-hit-kill move. I failed a few times, exploding into death and such. Each attempt following was tense, sure, but was I tense because of the demonic assassin teleporting (yes, teleporting) after me, or simply tense because I couldn't be bothered with a second attempt?

I'm not sure myself. Certainly parts of the game disturbed me and that isn't linked to anger or frustration. I had to perform three different brain experiments on subjects that were still alive. I sure as hell wasn't furious. In fact I was rather British in apologising every time the needle hit memory sections rather than emotions.

But I can say quite definitely that I enjoyed playing The Evil Within, and if that makes me worthy of being admitted into Crimson City's mental hospital well...just loan me a shotgun first. It's been quite a while since I've played something so immersive, so mesmerizingly and hauntingly addictive and, something that's missing from a lot of modern games, so challenging.

Maybe that's my Evil Within. Always a desire to play again.

I'll admit that since buying my PS4 I've yet to find a game that has truly justified my purchase. My fingers are crossed for Arkham Knight. For now, The Evil Within gave it a damn good go.

See the trailer here, you know you want to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nxlo67zhOWc