Author: Irish Granny On The Run


(Photo:  Cascais Beach) 

When people explained to me at the beginning of this journey, that travelling changes the very essence of one’s soul and one’s being, I could never have truly understood fully what it meant, that was, until I had reached the end of it. My original plan was to travel for two years and then return to Ireland, to my career and my family home. But two years on, having had the most wonderful life-changing experiences, we made a firm decision that we would not return to Ireland but instead search for a place to live, with a warm climate, in a country that wasn’t costing us every penny of our earnings and our every waking moment to have a basic quality of life. And so, we returned to a little town just outside Lisbon for the second time. Cascais, just 30 minutes by train outside Lisbon in Portugal, is a town steeped in history. During the invasion of Portugal by Napoleonic troops in 1807, the citadel of Cascais was occupied by the French, and as you stroll around Cascais there is indeed a very French feeling about it, right down to the fantastic architecture of the buildings scattered along the coastline. Art galleries and Museums are plentiful and it is one of the most picturesque and attractive towns I have ever had the good fortune to visit, and now to call home. It’s a seaside town where the Portuguese Royal Family and members of Government have chosen to make their home and indeed our own President Michael D. Higgins frequents. At one time, Madonna lived nearby and still owns an old castle style home near the beautiful nearby village of Sintra. Cascais is basically the Riviera of Portugal and is ranked highly for its quality of life, and doesn’t cost a fortune to enjoy. Its name means “seashells” and it is situated on the mouth of the Tagus River estuary with miles and miles of soft white sandy beaches where the river meets the Atlantic Ocean, it is drenched in continuous fabulous warm sunshine and clear blue skies. Good for the soul! The choice was an easy one to make in terms of a new place to call our home. It’s a stones’ throw from Ireland, making it totally accessible for travelling back and forth to visit friends and family and it didn’t cost us an arm and a leg to do so. Within a matter of weeks we found a beautiful unfurnished apartment, with a swimming pool and beautiful gardens to laze around in during our free time. To have this quality of life here costs half of what it cost us back home! I kid you not!

Adding to the excitement of arriving in Cascais on 1st May 2019 was the arrival of my children, my son-in-law, my sons beautiful girlfriend and of course, the most adorable little three-year old grandson any grandmother could wish for to welcome us when we landed. Having spent the time in Serres in Greece, it was the icing on the cake to end our journey. The next couple of weeks were spent relaxing, eating fabulous meals together, spending time on the beaches and familiarising ourselves with our new surroundings. The time was spent with our family, full of love and laughter and catching up with all our news and checking out our new home. I was almost afraid to go to sleep in case I woke up and it was all just a dream. As the weeks flew by, we busied ourselves with settling into our apartment, with constant trips to the nearby store of IKEA for furniture and household items, which Colm spent hours putting together and to my amazement (for one who hates this sort of thing), a job he really enjoyed! For him, it was like figuring out complex wooden puzzles and before we knew it our apartment was fully furnished and cosy. With balconies to the front and rear we could sit out on summers evenings, overlooking the pool and garden with a glass of good Portuguese wine and take it all in with an air of disbelief that this was our life now. Thinking back to when we made the decision, almost two years ago, on a rainy cold evening in the midlands in Ireland, to begin our travels, not knowing where it would take us, and to finally have reached a point in our lives where we could feel like we were truly living life to the full. There are no words to explain the joy and contentment that we felt and still feel every morning we wake up in this fabulous part of the world.

(Photo:  The view from our balcony)

Of course, to continue living here we needed to source work, and thankfully very soon after our arrival we both secured jobs, mine being the job that I’d been doing as we travelled and absolutely loved; teaching English and Colm in the IT Sector in the city of Lisbon. Teaching English at a top class English Language School in the centre of Cascais is more than I could have ever hoped for, and to say it’s been one of the most rewarding and satisfying jobs of my entire career is an understatement. The saying “find a job that you love and you’ll never have to work another day in your life” rings true for me each day as I teach English to students ranging in age from very young teenagers to adults. A whole new world has opened up for us here, and I can honestly say that the only downside so far is the fact that we have to climb so many hills walking around due to the geography of this part of Portugal. A small price to pay indeed  The language barrier is also something that we are trying to overcome, but I’ve no doubt that in time we will be speaking the local lingo fluently. I have had a couple of embarrassing moments where I thought I was saying that I liked particular foods in Portuguese, when in fact I was saying I enjoyed something a little bit more saucy and vulgar and so my reputation has gone before me already and I’m only here 8 months  Portuguese is a difficult language to learn, but hey, we’ve the rest of our lives to tackle it.

“Are you homesick?” is a question we are frequently asked. The answer? Not in the slightest! We have had our friends and family visit from Ireland. The journey takes less than three hours with daily low-cost flights, and we can pop back to Ireland whenever the mood takes us. And we did, in September, for my son Cathal’s birthday. Having completed all the birthday celebrations, we wandered around our hood and actually stayed with our great friends and neighbours beside our old home. While we had an absolutely memorable and amazing time, it reaffirmed our decision to stay in Portugal. We do miss our friends back home, but many of them are making plans to come out to join us here in Portugal for a little break of their own. And what a great excuse to get away to the sun now that we’re here. We have made fabulous friends along the way too and we’re surrounded by the most fantastic ex-pat community here, work colleagues, as well as Portuguese. Up to recently we have spent our weekends sitting on the beach, enjoying great company and eating amazing food such as the Portuguese sardines, a whole variety of seafood, downing dozens of the famous pasta de natas, and enjoying inexpensive yet top quality Portuguese wine and sangria. My walk to work is 20 minutes along the beach, and Colm’s a bit longer of a journey back and forward to Lisbon with a cheap and regular train service on our doorstep.

Lisbon is becoming one of the most renowned cities in Europe now for its’ food and wine, and it is also gaining recognition as being the new IT Hub of Europe. It is such a unique city. There are no high-rise office blocks, but colourful quaint old buildings with balconies and satin shutters at every turn. There are craft fairs and markets everywhere, stomach-rumbling smells drifting from the many bakeries and restaurants dotted around the city. There are beaches everywhere along the trainline and street performers pop out of no-where and are a constant source of entertainment. I recently took a stroll up a cobbled side street and came upon a group of musicians performing on the balcony of their apartments with a singer belting out the tunes of Amy Winehouse and the like. More talented musicians you would find hard to come by anywhere in the world. I sat on the sidewalk with lots of other gob-smacked people in the sunshine, listening to their fabulous performance. There are a multitude of little cafes to sit and enjoy a coffee and a pastry and bask in the warm sunshine of the afternoon. The sunshine, however, has disappeared for a couple of weeks as it’s now almost Christmas day and the weather has taken a change for the worst. Living by the coast brings with it strong winds and heavy rain. But it will last for about another week and then we’ll be back to blue skies and sunshine according to the locals.

For us, this Christmas begins with us travelling to Chicago tomorrow morning to spend Christmas with family in sub-zero temperatures. I’m beside myself with excitement at the prospect of seeing them all for Christmas. And so, this will be our life. Travelling, (as indeed all of my children do on a regular basis), back and forward from Ireland, Spain and from Chicago to here and back and elsewhere around the world. As a family, travel has always been an important part of our lives, and rearing children with the familiarity of travelling around the world as part of their life experience has been an integral and important part of my parenting role as a mother. It is a trait that I learned from my own mother and father, who spent time (and indeed hard earned money) taking us abroad as children and travelling to many countries around the world. In fact, my Mum travelled all over the world right up to the moment she became too ill, just before she passed. I have the most fantastic memories of when she arrived home from visiting different countries and recounting hilarious stories (in her best Dublin accent) of her travels on camels backs, boating along the River Nile in Egypt, visiting the Pyramids, to name but a few. She would share the most amazing and fantastic stories with us about her travel experiences and was constantly badgering us to book flights to here and there. One of the first countries my Mum and Dad took me to as a very small child was Portugal, and so I have fantastic memories having holidayed here back in the late 1970’s. Raising children to encounter other cultures and nationalities is, in my opinion, one of the most vital forms of education we can pass on to the next generation. It opens their hearts and minds to people of all races and religions and teaches tolerance for one another more than any book or teacher ever will. I’ve no doubt that I will visit many more countries for brief periods in the future, as will my children and grandchildren. The Irish gypsy gene is very much in my blood and how lucky am I? Without it I certainly would not be here today. Nor without the total support and love of my children and of course the dedication and love of my husband Colm who has stood by my side through the ups and downs of the last two years and made the final landing here soft and smooth for us. Oh! what a journey it has been!

Finally, a little piece of advice! If you have a longing to try something new, no matter how old you are. Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it! Without hesitation! No choice or decision is permanent. With proper planning, you can change your life, or your mind if that’s the outcome, and return to where you were to begin with if you discover it’s not for you. At least you will be happier knowing that you tried to reach your goal, tried to follow your dream, to live every moment of your life to the fullest and even if you do change your mind about it, you’ve tasted it! Find out what it is you really want to do, and make it happen. Money is no excuse for not trying …. there are jobs out there that you can do to earn a living as you travel, or whatever it is you want to do. There is no obstacle that cannot be removed with creative thinking and determination!

And on that note….Irish Granny on the Run, is now Irish Granny in the Sun!  Thank you all for following my blog over the last two years. It’s been a joy to write about our adventures knowing how many of you have been following it and reading.  Wishing you all a wonderful Christmas and as you ring in the New Year, may you make a resolution to do something outside of your comfort zone that will make bring joy and happiness into your life in 2020, and as you do, I’ll leave you with this little poem…

THE CLIMB – Celia Szelwach

The challenge of the climb, demands their return,
A journey of endurance, they hope to now learn,
Though their bodies weaken, their hearts never tire,
As the goal that they seek, stretches farther and higher,
At times they may struggle, will their climb be in vain?
When they reach the summit, will it be worth the pain?
The doubts churn and linger, while their legs drag like lead,
But their faith in themselves, forces them on ahead,
With chests and eyes burning, the climb seems too great,
If they only knew what lies ahead in their fate,
And just as they seem, about to turn back,
The pull from within, springs a mighty attack,
Fear and pain succumb, To the spirit that drives,
The free heart forward, through the hope that survives,
Upward they surge, their courage full beam,
A mountain they conquer,
In life as in dreams!


(Photo: A Yazidi girl paints the inside wall of an LHI tent at Serres in Greece)

At the outset of my two-year world trip I knew that volunteer work was something I really wanted to undertake and felt the need to reach out and offer what little support I could to people who were a damn sight less fortunate than I was. At the early stages of my journey I had linked up with another instagram blogger from Australia, who was travelling the world with her family. She had mentioned in one of her posts that she had done some volunteer work in Greece with a wonderful organisation called Lifting Hands International. I immediately contacted her to find out more and to learn about the work being carried out by the organisation itself. I was moved beyond words when I learned about the fantastic work that LHI was doing in Serres in Greece at a refugee camp where members of the Yazidi Community had fled for safety from genocide and attacks by ISIL in their home country of Iraq.

In all of my previous blogs I have written about my journey and experiences, both good and bad, throughout all of the different countries that I have visited over the last eighteen months. In this blog, while I will be writing about my own journey and experiences, I will be focusing more on the plight of the beautiful Yazidi people and the insurmountable challenges that Lifting Hands International faces each and every day to bring aid, normality and joy to these refugees.

I am ashamed to admit that before contacting Lifting Hands International (LHI) to enquire about whether myself and Colm would be suitable to work with their organisation in Greece, I had absolutely no knowledge of the Yazidi people or of the years of torment and torture they had endured at the hands of ISIL. Yes, I probably had seen news reports flashing across my TV screen, but like everyone, it was something that didn’t really affect my life and therefore I gave it a moment’s shock reaction and continued on with what I now know is a very privileged lifestyle, not giving it another thought as I went about my daily business. I think we all develop a certain sense of ‘immunity’ to these news headlines that pop up on our tv screens momentarily, and disappear once we click the remote to move on to more positive news. And that is the privilege…that we can!

We applied to LHI initially by email and soon after were interviewed for volunteer positions. Having received word that we were accepted, we were excited but also somewhat apprehensive about whether we would be a good ‘fit’ for the team and whether we would be able to cope with facing into the unknown of dealing with refugees. We were committed to learning as much as we could about the Yazidi people before arriving in Greece. We learned that historically, the Yazidis practiced one of the world’s oldest monotheistic religions, mainly in Northern Syria and Iraq. It is an ancient faith, and unique in that it is one of the few non-Muslim religions practiced in predominantly Muslim regions. They are extremely proud of their religion and practice it with reverence and respect, but only within their own community. To preserve their religion they marry only within their own community. Their belief system is peaceful, pure and affects every part of their daily lives. Many foods are forbidden, as is blue clothing. Because of their beliefs, they have been persecuted for years, most recently by ISIL.

(Photo: Yazidi’s in Serres pleading for the return of the victims of ISIL)

The Yazidi people have been victims of genocide and ongoing attacks from ISIL since August 2014. Today, as I begin this blog (3rd August 2019), the Yazidi community throughout the world are marking the fifth anniversary of the most heinous attacks by ISIL on their people who, up until August 2014, resided just outside the Sinjar region in Iraq. Their grief is still clearly evident today as I follow their stories on social media, having had the privilege of spending three months living and working with them. These wonderful people shared their lives, their gut wrenching stories, their inconsolable grief, and also their wonderful and joyous moments with us between January and May 2019. It is the part of my journey that I can say has changed me to the very core of my being.

Before our arrival, LHI provided us with a copy of the United Nations (UN) report 2016. The UN acknowledged that the attacks by ISIL on the Yazidi Community which led to the expulsion and flight of these people from their ancestral lands in Sinjar in Northern Iraq and Northern Syria were acts of persecution and genocide. This document gave me the first real insight into the atrocities that had been inflicted on these innocent and vulnerable ethnic minority people by ISIL before I arrived in Greece.

I think it’s important to give readers an insight into the background that led the Yazidi people to flee from Sinjar to seek refuge in Serres, and other parts of the world. Many travelled by boat, others by foot on a harrowing journey from Sinjar across thousands of kilometers to mainland Greece and the islands surrounding it. A word of forewarning however, this is not for the faint hearted and even reading the UN report left me shaken and horrified. I write merely to enlighten people about the plight of this vulnerable community and what they are faced with continuously in trying to raise international awareness about their desperate need for help and protection.

A report from the world’s Human Rights Council/UN reads:

ISIS has sought to destroy the Yazidis through killings, sexual slavery, enslavement, torture and inhuman and degrading treatment and forcible transfer causing serious bodily and mental harm; the infliction of conditions of life that bring about a slow death; the imposition of measures to prevent Yazidi children from being born, including forced conversion of adults, the separation of Yazidi men and women, and mental trauma; and the transfer of Yazidi children from their own families and placing them with ISIS fighters, thereby cutting them off from beliefs and practices of their own religious community, and erasing their identity as Yazidis. The public statements and conduct of ISIS and its fighters clearly demonstrate that ISIS intended to destroy the Yazidis of Sinjar, composing the majority of the world’s Yazidi population, in whole or in part”

Before the attacks on the Yazidis in Iraq, it is estimated that they numbered less than 1.5 million, scattered throughout Iraq, Syria, Turkey and Armenia. The largest numbers, (approximately 400,000) the most vulnerable and impoverished resided in the area of Mount Sinjar in Northern Iraq. On 3rd August 2014, ISIL launched co-ordinated attacks on their towns and villages near Mount Sinjar forcing them to flee to safety onto the Sinjar mountain. ISIL soldiers encircled the mountain, trapping thousands of Yazidis, leaving them without food and water in scorching temperatures. Hundreds perished on the mountain, the majority of them women, children and the elderly, despite the intervention of the USA and other governments from around the world who flew in to airdrop food and water and medical supplies. Eventually, a safe corridor was opened up by the Kurdish forces, allowing them to flee through Syria and onwards to safety to countries further afield such as Turkey and Greece. For the thousands of people who remained in the surrounding villages, the majority were kidnapped, males and females were separated, and young boys who had reached the age of puberty were forcibly transferred to join the ISIL armies. Men and young boys who refused to convert to Islam were executed by ISIL soldiers, having their throats slit in public, or with a single gunshot to the head, with ISIL forcing other captives to witness the killings. The roads of Sinjar were soon littered with corpses. Those who did convert out of fear were persecuted and tortured and eventually killed.

The reports on the capturing of almost 7,000 Yazidi women and children tormented me. Women were sorted into different groups at ISIL “holding” points. Married and unmarried women were separated, and only children under the age of 8/9 years old were allowed to remain with their mothers. During their first hours of captivity, the women and children were filled with fear, forced to witness the killings of their fathers, husbands and sons. Thereafter, women were chosen to become “sex-slaves” to the ISIL soldiers, who basically bought and sold them between each other at “slave-markets”. Once bought, they were imprisoned, beaten and raped in front of their young children with a level of sexual violence too graphic for this blog. Girls as young as 9 years old were held in captivity and raped continuously. The women were sold in “sex-slave markets” for anything between USD200 and USD1,500, depending on their marital status. They were nothing less than “cattle markets” by all accounts. Many women who tried to escape had their children killed as punishment. Many were beaten to death. Today, over 3,000 women are still unaccounted for as their families wait each day, hoping against hope that they will hear that they have survived, even after years in captivity.

(Photo: Nadia Murad, UN Goodwill Ambassador and Human Rights Activist and representative of Yazidi’s. Nobel Peace Prize Winner 2018)

One such Yazidi woman who was held in captivity as a sex-slave but managed to escape, was a beautiful young girl who people may be familiar with, Nadia Murad, the UN goodwill ambassador and human rights activist for the Yazidi people and a Nobel Peace Prize winner in 2018. She has dedicated her life to raising global awareness of the crimes that have been committed against her people. Attorney Amal Clooney has joined forces with Nadia in an attempt to take legal action against the perpetrators of the crimes against the Yazidis. As far as I’m aware, to date, there have been no prosecutions. Nadia has spoken eloquently and passionately internationally in an effort to help the Yazidis who are still held in captivity by ISIL, the Yazidi refugees still displaced in refugee camps and to raise awareness amongst governments worldwide to assist her people in facing their uncertain future. For me, this woman is truly an inspiration and I would highly recommend that if you can find the time to read her life story in her recent autobiography “The Last Girl”, it will be worth the read. Recently, a documentary film has also been produced called “On Her Shoulders” which tells about Murad’s life and her human rights work. While I had read the UN report on the Yazidi people, nothing moved me more than watching this documentary when I arrived in Greece. It is overwhelmingly moving and an education in itself.

We arrived into the freezing temperatures of Thessaloniki, a city in mainland Greece, on 31st January 2019 and travelled for an hour’s journey to the smaller city of Serres, where we reached our accommodation, an apartment in an old building on the outskirts of the city. We were to share this apartment with 8 other volunteers. To say the accommodation was basic is an understatement. Fold up beds with sleeping bags and/or UN blankets protected us from the freezing temperatures of the typical harsh winters of that part of the world. We shared bedrooms with our fellow volunteers. One wood burner provided minimum heating for the entire accommodation. A tiny kitchen and two basic bathrooms with old rattling pipes provided all that was needed to eat and wash each day for all of the volunteers. LHI provide this basic accommodation at a very low cost for volunteers, but understandably, every penny they collect goes towards helping with feeding, clothing, educating and providing for the refugees at the camp rather than making our lives easy – and rightly so. Knowing this inspired me with confidence that the organisation was entirely focused on helping the vulnerable people at the camp. It made it easier to tolerate the living conditions we faced into. The dedication of the volunteers we met on arrival to our apartment was mind blowing. Many of the volunteers were literally dedicating their entire lives to working with the Yazidis at the camp, others offered whatever time they could and stayed for shorter periods. The refugee camp in Serres was built initially for 500 refugees. When we arrived there they numbered over 700 (and that number was growing by the day) crammed into portable truck-container type accommodation on a site beside the LHI base. Many families shared these containers, and when I first caught a glimpse of the conditions they were living in, our apartment seemed almost luxurious by comparison.

Support from the Greek government to such a huge number of refugees is stretched beyond limits at this point and therefore the work of organisations such as LHI is absolutely essential. After our first day settling into our apartment we were taken to a field beside the refugee camp where three large wooden buildings (tents) were erected. My job was to teach English and life skills to Yazidi women and men who were residents at the camp. Colm initially taught English and then worked on erecting more wooden buildings on the site, creating safe recreational places for the men, women and children. The “Education Tent” became my home over the next few months. It is situated next to a “Female-Friendly Tent” and a “Child-Friendly Tent” where men are forbidden to enter. The “Female-Friendly Tent” is managed by the most devoted and loving female volunteers who organize recreational activities for the women from the camp. It is a “safe place” for the Yazidi women to come together to knit, cook, and basically share their lives in supporting each other in a way that has to be seen to be believed. The coping skills that these women displayed during my time at the camp left me humbled and in awe of their ability to overcome the horrors of what they had endured not only in Iraq, but to actually make the arduous journey to Greece from Iraq. The “Child-Friendly Tent” was filled with beautiful young happy laughing Yazidi children, entertained each day by dedicated volunteers, who taught them games and skills and basically brought sheer joy and happiness into their lives, something many of them very much needed after what they had endured on their journey here.

In the Education Tent where I spent most of my time, I taught three classes each day under the guidance of two inspiring education co-ordinators. A class of female students, a mixed class of young adults and an older mixed class of adults. I can safely say, those people who started out as my students very quickly became dear friends. As a relatively new teacher of the English Language, I was unsure what to expect in the classroom, or how I would even begin to teach people who only knew a language that was unwritten (Kurmanji). Many of my students had never learned to read or write before landing in Serres. I quickly learned that their will to learn was greater than my uncertainty. They arrived into class every day in freezing cold and often wet conditions where we all huddled around a gas heater to keep warm, to learn how to speak and read and write English. Their enthusiasm humbled me beyond belief and I’ve no doubt brought the best out in me as a teacher! Their commitment to learning made me prepare classes with a devotion I didn’t realise I possessed. I felt so honored and lucky to have an opportunity to teach in such a positive environment. It filled me with a whole different approach to lesson preparation, constantly thinking about how to teach them new life skills by incorporating those skills into their language lessons. I wanted to make sure that every time a student left my class that they took with them some new skill, no matter how small, that might improve their lives in the future. Other volunteers, just as devoted to the students, helped me with my young adult class with this task. Many of my young students were oblivious to the existence of other countries around the world. For me, this was a priority in teaching them about what was beyond the boundaries of their country. They naturally couldn’t physically travel to these countries as refugees, but to me, for now, they could travel in their imagination. Maybe some day in their future they will. Who knows? We organized for a “guest speaker” volunteer to arrive into class at the end of each week to speak to the students about the country where they were born, and to do a fun presentation for the students on the volunteers homeland. The students themselves had to research the country in advance and bombard the volunteer with questions during the presentation. Colm of course did the “Irish” class, and spoke to them about our own traditions and culture. Hilariously, the only question that they wanted to discuss was whether Irish people truly had red hair! We managed to just about cover most countries in Europe, America and Canada, with all of the volunteers eagerly participating. In time, the students not only knew about many different countries, cultures and traditions around the world, but also stood in front of an audience of volunteers on my last day of teaching and did a whole presentation on the uniqueness and beauty of their own Yazidi traditions and culture, and all in English! They were fantastic, and I couldn’t have been more proud of them, and moreso, they of themselves! It was a truly moving and memorable class and one that I will carry with me as an English Language teacher forevermore.

(Photo: Me with one of my beautiful Yazidi students – dressed in the Yazidi traditional costume)

Spending time surrounded by the Yazidi people and indeed my fellow LHI family, was one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. The Yazidis shared stories with me both good and bad about their lives in Iraq. I am not at liberty, nor would I wish to share individual stories of their horrific experiences fleeing to the safety of Greece before I had the privilege of meeting them.

(Photo: The Yazidi Flag)

However, there is one event that happened during my time with them that will remain with me that I would like to share. An event that gave me some level of understanding of what these people have to deal with on an ongoing basis. I wrote earlier of over 3,000 Yazidi women who are still held as sex slaves by ISIL and are unaccounted for to this day. I arrived into class one morning, forewarned by the amazingly dedicated co-ordinators within LHI that horrific news was filtering through both the media and onwards to the refugee camp. On that Thursday morning, the heads of 50 Yazidi women held in captivity had been found, dumped in bins in Syria by ISIL in retaliation for attacks on them by US and British forces in an attempt to exterminate them and rescue their captives . For the first time my students could not bring themselves to participate in a language class. They came to school nonetheless, inconsolable at hearing such devastating news. We talked and cried, it was all we could do. To my astonishment, there was only minimum media coverage of the atrocity. I couldn’t help but think, if these were the heads of western women there would be international public outcry. But only a minority of western newspapers carried the story, which shocked me and gave me some insight into how the genocide of the Yazidi people remains as a “background story” on the world stage! If these women were your daughters, or mine, the international community would leave no stone unturned to bring those responsible to justice. I however, remained hopeful, that their stories would be heard in time. Until recently!

(Photo: Me with some of my beautiful students at Serres, Greece)

Nadia Murad was recently received as a guest by Donald Trump at his office at The White House in Washington. As she spoke to him and pleaded with him for help, he sat, stoney faced, with his back to her as she poured her heart out about the fate of the Yazidis and of her family members who were murdered by ISIL. He insensitively and disgustingly responsed “so where are they now?” It left me reeling with anger! Nadia was dignified and courteous even in the face of such a painful encounter. His flippant comment that followed “oh…you were the one who one the Nobel Peace Prize” even moreso. This man, in my humble opinion, is not fit to wipe this woman’s feet. And the result…huge media coverage! But not about Nadia and the Yazidis, but about Trump and his insensitive responses!

The refugees residing in Serres are happy and safe now, but still have a long way to go. They still have nowhere to call “home”. They cannot choose to leave the camp unless they are repatriated to Germany by the government after years of living in refugee camps; They cannot afford to leave! Much of their basic necessities are provided for by LHI and other charitable organisations, with food and clothes/shoe distributions. The refugees have very little and yet almost every day they would bring food and gifts of handmade scarves, hats and hair bands to me and to the other volunteers. They had little, but shared everything.

Recent reports “allege” that ISIL is gone. I have my doubts! However, the Yazidi peoples suffering remains. They still search and pray in the hope that someone from the international powers-that-be will help them find their mothers, their daughters, their sisters, their fathers, sons and brothers! The world promised that there would never be another “Auschwitz” after the atrocities of the Second World War! Let there be no doubt, this is EXACTLY, most definitely comparable to the horrors that the Jewish people faced during and after the Second World War! The Yazidis are also displaced with nowhere now to call “home”!

Our time with these wonderful people came to an end all too soon in May 2019. While I should have been overwhelmed with excitement at the prospect of beginning our new life in Portugal, a sadness came over me that I couldn’t quite shake off on the day we left. I can only describe it as a feeling of utter guilt that we could walk away to travel wherever we so wished. That we could earn a living in any country we chose, and continue with what I realized more than ever in my lifetime, was a privileged existence by comparison to these people that I was heartbreakingly waving goodbye to from the edge of the field where they were gathered as I dragged my suitcase along the road to the train station nearby. It also made me reflect on the fact that it is a mere lottery as to where each and every one of us is born. A geographical lottery that meant I (and all of the rest of us westerners) was born into a comfortable society, a privileged existence by comparison to a child who was born at the same time as me in Northern Iraq or Syria and who became a victim of ISIL. A woman who is now seeing out the rest of her days in a refugee camp, just because fate dealt her a different hand to me. That same child (now a grown woman like me) has not and is not receiving the same care, the same opportunities, the same comfort of living in a safe place, the same protection from world governments as I, and other western women enjoy. A Yazidi woman will witness her children and her grandchildren growing up in poverty in a refugee camp, while I watch mine, blossoming and growing with all of life’s basic necessities and privileges, as every child should have, regardless of where they are born. An idealistic philosophy, I know, in a world that is imbalanced with such a divide between the rich and the poor.

This time, when I see reports about displaced people of the world, in particular the Yazidis, I won’t be picking up my remote control and switching channels. This time, or some time in the near future, I dearly hope that an opportunity will arise where I can meet my beautiful friends again. When they will have a place to call home, jobs, education, safety, surrounded by their loved ones, with a bright and promising future ahead of them! In the meantime, I will carry a piece of each and every one of them in my heart!

Mam Noon my dear Yazidi friends, until we meet again!

Note: Should you wish to volunteer to work with LHI, please click on the link below:


Photo: A January morning at Kylemore Abbey, Connemara, Co. Galway.

After almost a full year away from home we decided, at the last minute, that we needed to come back to Ireland to celebrate Christmas with our friends and family. Initially, we had considered flying family members out to Indonesia to spend Christmas in the sun, but serious earthquakes and tsunamis were expected, and happened before Christmas, which made us change our plans. We were missing home and our loved ones and to spend Christmas away from them was not an option. And so we booked our flights, and planned the next six weeks of travel around Ireland over Christmas and the New Year, before heading to Greece to work with Lifting Hands International at the Yazidi Refugee Camp in Serres.

When I thought about writing this particular blog about our trip back home, I remembered all of the previous blogs I had written about other countries I had visited. Countries where I detailed both the “roses and the thorns” of what I had experienced during my time there. To approach this blog any differently would be disingenuous and so the “roses and thorns” approach therefore is the only approach I believe I can take when writing about my own beautiful homeland of Ireland.

If you ever travel to Ireland, one of the first things you will notice, aside from the most spectacular scenery, is the huge number of “Cead Mile Failte” signs everywhere. The phrase “Cead Mile Failte” (meaning, one hundred thousand welcomes) is there for very good reason. You will never feel more welcomed anywhere in the world, than when you land on Irish soil. People will trip over themselves to help you and to ensure you have the best experience you can have while here. Although, on the flip side of this; if you’re looking for a holiday where you can be left in peace and quiet, Ireland is not really the place to venture. When we meet strangers along the road, we chatter, and chatter and chatter and then some more; about the weather mainly, politics, about religion and every other subject under the sun. It’s our national pastime. We can basically “chat the hind legs off an ass”. Despite this, many celebrities choose Ireland as a holiday destination because they can go about their daily business with a reasonable amount of anonymity. You see the Irish don’t go in for the whole hysteria around meeting celebrities or about people being hugely successful. The majority couldn’t be arsed to get ruffled about people having celebrity status or about anyone who climbs the ladder of success. There is a ‘who does your man/woman think he/she is’ sort of begrudgery which is, I believe, the hangover from the famine years where the wealthy landlords were foreigners. Good old Irish begrudgery is a unique trait that we have and are well known for internationally. There is a famous saying about this and it goes something like…If an American passes his neighbour’s mansion on top of a hill, he will point to it and say…”some day I’m gonna be like that guy”! The Irish guy passing the same house will say “some day I’m gonna get that b**tard!” 😂. And woe betide anyone who thinks he’s “a cut above the rest”. Many a man/woman has been “taken down a peg or two” to make sure they “don’t forget where they came from” when displaying any semblance of arrogance about how well they’d done in the world. Being humble and unassuming, no matter how successful, is the key to getting along with the Irish people. I have always wondered why this way of thinking is not evident in other countries around the world. I suspect both the colonization of Ireland by another country, and the Catholic Church teachings about modesty and humility being a huge part of becoming a “good Irish Catholic” could go some way towards explaining this national psyche. In certain parts of Ireland begrudgery is almost a sport! 😂😂😂

However, I hasten to add, it is only one of very few negative traits we Irish have. Irish people, in the main, are laid back, easy-going characters who take life as it comes. I am proud to say we are a warm and wonderfully funny group of people who are known all over the world for our wicked sense of humor, our friendliness and of course our ability to party. I hadn’t realized the full extent of our reputation on the world stage until I undertook this journey. I am happy and proud to say that our reputation internationally as a people, is exemplary! When we passed through security at every airport we visited (and it numbered over 40), on almost every occasion, once we produced our Irish passports, we were waved through, with warm smiles and a quick discussion about being from Ireland. It was like they were implying “sure ye’re Irish, ye’re harmless. Go on through”! I couldn’t believe it! Almost everyone we met claimed they had Irish blood in them (even in Cambodia!). Once people heard we were from Ireland they couldn’t do enough for us. My thoughts on this whole experience is how grateful I am to all of the Irish people who travelled the world before us, including all of the Irish football and rugby fans, for leaving such a positive lasting impression in every corner of the world. It really has to be seen to be believed and I am very proud to have been on the receiving end of so many wonderful, warm receptions in every country we visited because of this.

Photo: Doolough Valley, Co. Mayo. (Near Leenane, where the movie “The Field” was filmed)

Before undertaking this journey, I had a very limited vision of my country on the world stage. I believed, and still do, that we have one of the highest standards of living in the world. And trust me on this one! Having travelled to some of the most poverty stricken parts of our planet…we do! There is no such terminology as “keeping up with the Jones” in most parts of Asia for example. They simply don’t have, or value, material things enough to compete with their neighbour. Our education system is most definitely up there as being one of the best in the world. Our food and health and safety standards are rarely seen anywhere else. Our music, our art, our tradition and culture are world renowned, and it is absolutely mind blowing to see peoples reactions when we recited poems or sang songs in the Irish language and witnessing the appreciation that others have for our traditions. On a different note, And this is the “thorn” amongst the “roses”. Our health system, unfortunately, leaves a lot to be desired. No shocks there I guess! Even in China, (with population of 1.4 billion), where I had been quite ill for a number of days, I was referred to a doctor, then to the hospital, assessed, diagnosed and treated within 2 hours! That would be unheard of in Ireland. Entering an Accident and Emergency Unit in any of our cities major hospitals, unless you are literally on death’s door, will result in a waiting time of anything up to 24-48 hours before being fully diagnosed. It is every Government’s nightmare as they take up office, to try to “fix” our health system. Separately, the homelessness situation is also an absolute atrocity. The global banking crash of 2008 which resulted in the bottom falling out of the Irish economy has left thousands and thousands of families homeless. Prior to the crash, banks were lending money by the lorry load to all and sundry. Huge mortgages were dished out to anyone and everyone, whether people could afford to repay those loans in the longer term or not. There was no proper stress testing done at that time to establish whether the impact of rising interest rates would result in homeowners struggling to repay the monies owed to those same banks. It was a nightmare waiting to happen, and in 2008, it did. The economy came crashing down! And then, just when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, the nightmare continued. The government decided to “bail out” those same banks who had irresponsibly handed out money at high interest rates to the Irish people. And yes, individuals also had a level of responsibility to ensure that they didn’t borrow money above and beyond their means. But the banks were basically “pushing” money on almost every Irish citizen, and many took the bait, thinking this was manna from heaven. Since that time, promises were made by successive Governments never to allow property prices and interest rates to rise in the same fashion again. However, in 2019, yet again, we are seeing property prices soaring and banks lending money for those same properties. I have no doubt that if this trend is allowed to continue again, we will have another “crash” where people will be in negative equity with properties worth only half of what they borrowed for them today. It’s a vicious circle and one that our Governments don’t seem to have learned from!

Ireland is referred to as a tax haven because of the country’s taxation and economic policies. Legislation heavily favors the establishment and operation of corporations, and the economic environment is very hospitable for all major corporations. Before deductions, the United States has a corporate tax rate of 35%. Ireland’s taxation rate for corporations is 12.5%. In addition, Ireland only charges a corporate tax rate of 6.25% for revenue tied to a company’s patent or intellectual property. So with a shoddy health system and thousands of homeless people on our streets, one would wonder why the Government waves the 12.5% corporate tax haven flag at multinational companies to over 70 countries. Yes, to attract foreign investment, I get it. But at what price?

The multinational company ‘Apple’ , for example, decided to set up branches in Ireland in 1991. In an unprecedented move, the Irish Government decided to reduce the corporate tax rate even further for Apple, and offered them instead a 2% tax rate when setting up in Ireland! This, according to the European Commission, is illegal, and according to the Commission, Apple should have been paying the 12.5% rate and owed, therefore, huge revenue to the Irish government retrospectively. It has stated that Apple now owes the Irish Government a whopping €14 BILLION in unpaid taxes, and a further €6 BILLION in interest on that tax! Now wait for it! The Irish Government has voted not to impose these costs on Apple, despite the ruling of the Commission, and have refused to accept the monies offered by Apple, instead lodging these billions of euros into a “holding account”. The Government has since appealed the judgement of the European Commission and want Apple to be declared exempt from paying this retrospective tax! I kid you not! At a time when the health system is in tatters, and thousands of homeless people line our streets, the Irish Government is refusing to accept the original judgement of the European Commission and in turn is refusing to accept the almost €20 BILLION payment being offered by Apple to resolve their tax debt! This money would provide homes for every single homeless person in Ireland and would also go a huge way towards providing a proper healthcare system for the Irish citizens. And yet, the multinational corporate bodies are given priority! As a result, there is a huge amount of unrest and anger within Irish society against its Government right now. There is an increased perception amongst the citizens of Ireland that the divide between the rich and the poor is growing at an alarming rate, and naturally with the Government refusing the retrospective tax owed by Apple, it is certainly not helping the situation at home.

I digress, yet again! 😂. It was also an education in itself to land in places all around the world, only to discover that the population of the towns and cities, (not the country) could be in excess of five or six times that of Ireland’s population. I had never really thought about this in the context of the size of our country! It is merely a “dot” on the planet by comparison to other European countries, America, Canada, China, Japan, South East Asia, Australia and other islands we visited. For the first time, I think I truly began to understand why we say that “Irish mothers rear their children to emigrate”. This is true. And while I used to think this was dreadful, particularly for the mothers who remained at home, I now realize that it is not necessarily a bad thing for the children of Ireland to spread their wings and experience what it’s like to live and work outside of Ireland and explore and educate themselves about other cultures and traditions throughout the world. When I looked at Ireland on the map so many many times, and from so very far away, I realized that it is so important for people to leave, even if only for a short while, to see what lies beyond our beautiful Emerald Isle.

I met people in the far reaches of China and South East Asia who had never heard of Ireland. I eventually carried a photo of the map of the world on my phone and when asked where I was from, produced it and explained in great detail where Ireland sat in the context of the world map. Most people who had “vaguely” heard of Ireland, knew only about people with “red hair” and asked if it was true that people in Ireland truly had this hair. 😂 Thankfully, my aunt sent me photos of her grandchildren who have heads of the most beautiful vibrant red hair, and these were also displayed along with the map of the world when asked where I hailed from. Gasps of disbelief were commonplace when I produced the photos of the red-haired children. It was hilarious!

I travelled home to Ireland from Barcelona on a cold December morning with a whole new perspective and appreciation of the country I call home. I saw everything through a whole new set of lenses. From the taste of a roast chicken, stuffing and gravy dinner at my aunt’s house on arrival, to the vision and taste of an Irish breakfast, with real Superquinn sausages greeting me on a cold wet Irish morning. The absolute love, happiness, warmth and welcome from family and friends on our return home was immeasurable. There were tears, and hugs and of course a few dinner parties and drinks each and every single day. After a brief stop off in Dublin, we travelled to Colm’s hometown of Our Lady’s Island, Wexford on the south-eastern coast of Ireland. We booked a quaint cottage- style house just outside Wexford town to spend Christmas with members of both families, including Colm’s elderly father who we regularly visited at the Nursing Home nearby. Christmas Day dinner was spent squashed around a small table in our little cottage with family reciting poetry and stories. Colm’s mum recites poetry with such passion that it never fails to leave my jaw hanging. I spend my time pleading with her to recite a particular poem she recited when I first met her called “In a little pub in London”. A bottle of ginger flavored gin, a gift from Colm’s sister Mairead, helped with the recitals 😁 My son Cathal is a student of theatre and drama, and so he shared the same enthusiasm for Colm’s Mum’s poetry and also shared some Shakespeare moments with us. Everyone eventually chipped in with poems and songs that resulted in one of the most memorable and beautiful family Christmases I could wish for. The absence of other family members at the dinner table was difficult. I know it’s the time of year that every family feels the absence of loved ones and reflects on the memories of Christmas past, and move on from it to create new memories . I was no different. Remembering the wonderful Christmases I had as a Mum rearing my children in Tullamore. The excitement on Christmas Eve, when my late Mum would come to stay and we would go to the evening Mass and return home to help “Santa” set up the toys under the tree and prepare the dinner for the next day. Since Mum’s passing and the children growing up, I found it challenging to create new “Christmas memories”. But this Christmas certainly was as close as I could get to that. The availability of social media meant that we could contact those loved ones who were abroad, and the day didn’t pass without us talking to family members abroad and my beautiful grandson in Chicago about Santa, and the excitement of what he had brought for him for being such a good boy 🎅. We cooked (I absolutely love cooking Christmas dinner and badly wanted to cook some “Irish” food – and so it was). In the annex of the building next to ours, a voice coach and pianist played Christmas carols on her piano for her guests; their singing permeating through the walls like angels from heaven. It was as near to a perfect Christmas as we could wish for!

A big highlight of the trip to Wexford for me was when I received a message from a woman who I had accepted as a friend on Facebook prior to our arrival home. She had the same surname as me, and lived in Wexford where my grandparents had lived at the early stages of their lives. I guessed we might be related and so we excitedly arranged to meet up. It turns out she is my first cousin, once removed! I’d never known of her existence or her of mine (long story with family history) until just before I arrived back to Ireland. And when I met her at a hotel in Enniscorthy in Wexford on Stephen’s Day, it was like we knew each other all our lives. She looked so like my other family members on my fathers side, and so we were both flabbergasted and delighted to have at last found each other. We had another family member to add to our Christmas list from here on in 😁. It was like an unexpected Christmas gift meeting her and we have both kept in touch with each other since. How wonderful!

Photo: My newly discovered cousin, Catherine Whelan – our very first meeting in Enniscorty, Co. Wexford.

Next on our itinerary was a trip to Westport to take Colm’s Mum to visit Colm’s Dad’s only brother Nicky Lambert and his wife Maureen. With Colm’s mum Anne and her best friend Peg in tow (a friendship of almost 70 years), we made the long 12 hour journey (with stops at some of the most beautiful scenic places in Connemara) from Wexford to Westport, Mayo. It was Colm’s Mum’s 80th birthday during the time we were there and we had secretly planned a surprise gathering at our accommodation so she could celebrate with all of the Lambert family. Late on a January evening we booked into our lovely Airbnb house in Westport. Having showed Anne and Peg to their respective rooms, we went about unpacking and getting ready for bed. Just as we were locking up the house for bedtime, I heard screaming and screeches from the ladies’ bedrooms. We both bolted up the stairs to see what was happening, only to find them both in the middle of a pillow fight on the double bed in Anne’s room. Now when I talk about “first time experiences” on this journey…trying to separate two 80 year old women from a pillow fight is definitely up there. 😂😂😂. Despite their age, when they get together, they revert to being children. It was the most wonderful sight to see and proof that age is most certainly all in the head. We spent the next few days taking the ladies around Mayo, visiting the Knock Shrine where apparently Our Lady had appeared, flanked by Angels, at a church in the village back in 1879. It has since become a Roman Catholic Pilgrimage site and National Shrine, attracting thousands of excited visitors every year. Anne and Peg were no exception. The sheets of rain and howling wind didn’t prevent them from paying their respects at the Shrine. Their faith is something that has sustained them and given them both great joy and strength in life; something I have learned to respect despite my own views.

Photo: Anne (Colm’s Mum) and her lifelong friend Peg outside the shrine at Knock – a friendship that has lasted 70 years)

Nicky, Colm’s uncle, had recently taken seriously ill and so was confined to bed when we arrived. We spent some time with him at his home before the night that the 80th birthday celebrations got underway. He was his usual smiling, jovial self that he always was when he met with us on our previous visits to Westport. Sitting up in the bed chatting away and joking with us, he seemed so comfortable and content. Little did we know how precious this visit would be. It would be the last time we would get to be with him before he passed away shortly after we left Ireland for Greece. He is a huge loss to his family and to the wider Westport Community. The whole town of Westport closed down for his funeral, with hundreds and hundreds of mourners lining the streets to pay their respects to him, his wife Maureen and his family. And that’s something that is unmatched anywhere in the world. An Irish funeral is something to be experienced. While mourners grieve, there is also a huge celebration of the person’s life and a huge wake always gets underway following the burial of a loved one. A funeral will often be a bigger event than any wedding ceremony in Ireland. Nicky’s was no exception. It was a noble, legendary send off by all accounts.

Our visit to the west of Ireland came to an end all too soon, and it was time to head back to Wexford, via the Wild Atlantic Way, one of the most beautiful coastal drives you will ever experience in this world. The scenery along the drive of the great Atlantic Ocean, through the wilds of Mayo and Connemara is breathtaking. It was chosen as the location for famous movies like “The Quiet Man”, and more recently the movie “The Field” where the late Richard Harris played the old “Bull” McCabe spending his life tending to rented fields on the west coast of Ireland, when the woman who owned the land decided to sell them off. It’s a must see, and both movies would entice the devil himself to visit this part of Ireland. It’s mystical beyond words and there is nowhere in the world that I’ve seen yet to compare to it.

Photo: Peg at “The Quiet Man” cottage, Maam, Connemara, Co. Galway.

Onwards from Wexford we travelled to our hometown of Tullamore, where we spent the rest of our time meeting with family and friends. Every day and night was spent surrounded by all of those people we missed so much along our journey and would no doubt again as we headed away to Greece. We stayed in the beautiful surroundings of the Tullamore Court Hotel, where they looked after us like royalty. One important thing to note about the Irish is their generosity to those most in need. Given that we were travelling out to do volunteer work at a refugee camp in Serres in Greece, we had asked people to donate clothes etc. so we could take much needed goods out with us. I can’t begin to explain the generosity of people, donating money so we could buy warm scarves, clothes, underwear etc. and bags of clothes were delivered to the hotel every day. To that end, one of the most touching moments of generosity that I encountered was a young barman who was working at the Tullamore Court Hotel. He had learned about our upcoming journey to Greece during our stay. We were heading to our room on the last evening, when he came up to our table and opened his hand. He placed a donation of money on the table in front of us, and said, “these are my tips for the last few days, and I’d like you to have them to buy something to bring with you to Greece. I’d like to be able to donate more, but this is all the extra money I have right now”. I was moved beyond belief at the kindness and generosity of this young man. It was one of those moments when I’d love to ring his Mammy to tell her what a great kid she had reared 😂 Unfortunately I didn’t get his name, but I heard that he had been awarded “Barman of the Year” at the hotel just after Christmas and it brought a smile to my face to think that he had been given recognition he deserved for his work there. We need more of him in this world for sure!

Photo: Colm, me and Cathal waiting excitedly for Christmas to arrive in Wexford.

At the end of January, we left Ireland, knowing that we would never return to live here again permanently. We boarded a flight that would take us to the city of Thessaloniki in Greece, travelling onwards by bus to the city of Serres where we would begin working with an organisation called Lifting Hands International. It is an understatement to say that this organisation has been nothing short of a life line to the beautiful Yazidi Community housed in a refugee camp there. Victims of ISIS and absolute genocide; meeting and working with these people would have a greater impact on us than we could have ever, in our wildest dreams, imagined!

More to follow on our time at the refugee camp in Greece soon! (Click here to hear the poem “In a little pub in London” recited regularly by Colm’s Mum).


(Photo: Yellow Tram, Lisbon)

At the point of leaving Australia and returning to Europe to get home to Ireland in time for Christmas, there were a few important developments happening along our journey that I feel are worth mentioning.

Firstly, at this point we were mid-way through our trip and I found myself thinking more and more about where this journey was taking me in the context of my career and about the prospects of returning to my work back home. In a nutshell, I needed to start thinking about the future and making decisions about where we would end up when this wonderful adventure was over. As I mentioned earlier, I had taken a two year career break from my work and was in the very lucky position that I could go back to that career, back to where we had come from before we embarked on our journey. The second development was that we had both firmly agreed that we wanted to undertake some worthwhile voluntary work before the end of our travels and needed to factor that into our travel plans. And finally, we had both reached a decision that we wanted to find somewhere to live, not necessarily in Ireland, but somewhere that we would have a good quality of life and call home at the end of our trip.

Of course, the luxury of being able to have an outdoor life where the weather was warm and dry was appealing.. We had been spoiled along the way with having little or no daily rainfalls, warm climates in the main, which offered a healthier way of life from our perspective. We had talked about various options, and along with other countries we had visited, Lisbon in Portugal and Barcelona in Catalonia were two that were high up on our list of possibilities, given their proximity to home and easy access in terms of flights etc.

On the job front, I was giving serious thought to the issue of returning to my career that I had pursued for over 30 years as a Civil Servant. I was conflicted in that I wanted to try something new. To give up a great career at home, with a good salary and working conditions that many strive for in their professional life was a decision that I could not make lightly. Travel changes a person, and I was no exception to this. Having taught English in China, I had caught not only the travel bug, but also a passion for teaching that I never realized I possessed. I hadn’t felt that same motivation or passion about my career back home for quite some time. I guess it was like having a 32 year old relationship which had gone a little stale, and embarking on a new one which seemed more exciting and absolutely so rewarding. Albeit, it didn’t have the same stability or income, and my job as an English Language teacher is only in its infancy ; however another new door had opened for me and the path was extremely inviting. It meant I would have flexibility in my life and could continue travelling and educating myself about other countries and cultures around the world. I couldn’t look back. The path in front of me was risky, but so much more enticing. And so, after much discussion between myself and Colm, and with his total support, I went with my gut and contacted my employer back home to advise them that I would not be returning to my position. I believe that my future career prospects will present themselves in other forms; at this point in my life I need to be true to myself. While it was certainly another quantum leap along our journey, it is one leap I truly wanted to take.

Separately, on our desire to do voluntary work, I had been communicating, via Instagram, with a lady from Australia who was also travelling the world with her husband and young children. Social media is amazing for connecting people and so as we travelled, we shared our experiences, pitfalls included. She and her family had reached Greece and were doing voluntary work with an organisation called Lifting Hands International who have volunteers working throughout the world, providing assistance to those most in need. Having reached out to her about her experience, she had nothing but amazingly positive stories about the work that this organisation was doing at their centre in Serres in Greece. The centre focuses on helping refugees from the Yazidi community who were forced to flee their homes in Iraq and Syria following attacks by ISIS. Having done some research, we decided, this was exactly the type of work we wanted to do. We contacted the organisation immediately to make some initial enquiries, applied for voluntary positions, did some interviews and were thrilled to be advised that we had been accepted to join their volunteer team. I would be doing what I loved best, teaching English with a focus on helping those living at the refugee camp to integrate into western society. Colm’s work would be a mixture of teaching and helping to build safe and recreational areas for them . We immediately factored a three month stay in Serres in Greece into our travel plans from January 2019 onwards.

Our flight from Australia landed in Lisbon late on 5th December, and like two newly weds coming back from honeymoon, we excitedly made our way to our Airbnb in the centre of Lisbon on a mission to find out if this was the place where we could eventually settle down and call home. My experience of Portugal was an extremely nostalgic one, and extremely positive. Back in the late 1970’s, when Portugal was just bursting onto the tourism stage, my parents took me and my brother on our first ever family foreign holiday abroad. I have the most vivid and wonderful memories of that holiday; of arriving at a charming resort in the Algarve, (which at that time was totally unspoiled), to the balmy feeling and smells of summer heat hitting my nostrils. As we made our way up the pathway to our accommodation, the vision of a luxurious blue outdoor swimming pool glistening with the effects of the underwater lighting was jaw-dropping. As a young child, I thought, “this is what they mean when they talk about Heaven at Mass!”. We spent glorious sunny days on the beach, by the pool, eating in beautiful restaurants with my father squealing with delight that an otherwise expensive brandy and ginger ale cost only 50p here!😂. On our very first day, we pleaded with my parents to buy us lilo beds for the pool. Having given in to our pleas, they bought the beds and we spent whole days with them in the pool, splashing around with other children from around the world. Growing up in a working class area on the outskirts of Dublin city in the 1970’s didn’t present any real opportunities for meeting with other nationalities and so it was fascinating for me as a child, meeting people who didn’t speak English! Imagine! We got to hang out with kids from Germany, Spain, France…. It was like a whole new world! The words “sunscreen”, “global warming” “ozone layer” and “climate change” were as foreign to us as the English language was to our new friends, and nights in the apartment were spent with me screeching as my Mother applied calamine lotion to my patchy red sunburn after a day spent on the lilos in the pool. I distinctly remember swooning over the accordion player who entertained us in the Portuguese restaurant each night. How sad! 😂 He was at least three times my age! In hindsight, I think it was the whole “he’s a celebrity” delusional view that I had of him that caused my palpitations every time I saw him . It obviously wasn’t that big a crush though, as I can’t even remember the guy’s name now !… and I certainly doubt he would remember mine (if he’s even still alive) 😂😂😂. Oh the innocence! 😂. I do recall however, the warmth and friendliness of the Portuguese people during our time there, and my parents continuously commenting on how “like the Irish” they were. It’s so amusing that, even to this day, when we associate people as “like the Irish”, that what it translates to is that “ya can’t get much better than that” …and I totally agree! 🍀😁

(Photo: The resort where I spent my childhood holiday in Portugal – Club Praia da Oura)

Again, I digress! Colm and I made our way to our accommodation, a tiled, quaint Portuguese style building in the old quarters of Lisbon. The narrow cobbled streets were lit up with gas-lamps. Old yellow trams passed us by and it felt like we were walking through a film set from the early 1900’s . These old trams have been kept in circulation as a public transport option due to the fact the modern transport is totally unsuitable and much too wide to tackle the narrow cobbled streets of Lisbon. The trams are a huge tourist attraction and while travelling on them isn’t the most comfortable experience I’ve ever had as public transport goes, it is an experience to be had! If you still have all your teeth in your head by the end of the journey you’re on the up and up!

(Photo: City centre, Lisbon)

Venturing out the following morning brought smells of freshly baked bread wafting from the many bakeries along the streets. Exquisite visions of colourful macaroons displayed in shop windows, along with the famous custard pastries that Portugal is renowned for and that we ate by the dozen during our stay. We bought a travel ticket at the train station and hopped on and off the old trams, not knowing or caring where they would take us, lapping up the stunning views of Lisbon city. It’s an old city, steeped in history, with more character than any city I had ever seen before. The distinctly unique architecture and vibrant colours of the buildings, with patterned tiled facades, quaint wooden shutters on windows and doors, encircled by wrought iron balconies, gives a wonderful romantic air to the city. Although struggling in the heat (yes, even in December) climbing the hilly streets of the city, I was falling in love with it more and more with every passing day.

(Photo: Macaroons in the shop windows, Lisbon)

We had done our homework on towns near Lisbon that might be potential runners in the context of finding our new home. Our itinerary was to visit those towns during our stay. The route we opted for was slightly west of Lisbon, where a regular train service ran from the city centre along the stunning coastline to a town called Cascais. This particular coastline has so many fabulous beaches, and each town is situated no more than a ten minute walk to a beach. By the end of our stay, and after numerous trips, the picturesque town of Cascais, (less than 40 minutes of a train ride from Lisbon) definitely held the X factor and ticked all of our boxes. We met with an auctioneer to scope out accommodation options and spent days sitting on the beach in the middle of December in the glorious sunshine with temperatures reaching 22 degrees. Adding to the attractiveness of this location for us was the availability of work. With Brexit very much on the European agenda, Lisbon is becoming a rapidly growing IT hub for large international companies seeking an alternative base to the UK. With Colm being in the business of IT, it was a very real option for us. Portugal is also a place where English language teachers are in great demand! The cost of living is so much cheaper than Ireland, and there is the added advantage of having year round sunshine. The stars were aligning! But we had yet to visit Barcelona and so, we kept an open mind until such time as we had this stage of our journey under our belts.

(Photo: Early morning on the beach at Cascais, Portugal)

Travelling onwards to Barcelona we did our best to travel with as enthusiastic an approach to it as we did to Lisbon. We stayed in the city centre and ventured out again each day to get a feel for it as a potential place to live. While it is a beautiful city, we both knew within a couple of days that it was no match for Lisbon. We visited all of the tourist attractions while we were there including a visit to the local theatre to get a taste of the traditional Catalonia dancing. We visited the uniquely designed buildings and museums of the famous Catalan architect Antoni Gaudi and his world renowned, unfinished La Sagrada Familia Gothic Basilica. The building of the famous Basilica began in 1882. Construction is still going on to this day and is not due to be completed until 2026 at the earliest. It stands tall and domineering with an “otherworldly” level of grandeur. With entrance fees averaging around €30 per person, and up to 5 million visitors each year, the income from having this as a tourist attraction is just as “otherworldly”. It costs in the region of €28 million each year for construction work to continue. Who manages the funding for the project and the income from the tourists is unclear. There is a non-profit “La Sagrada Familia Foundation” listed. It is true to say that this Basilica is as important to Barcelona as the Eiffel Tower is to Paris, however, I was not impressed at all by it. My initial impression of it? Yes, it is breathtaking (but not in a “beautiful” sense) and a truly amazing piece of architecture. As it comes into view as you round the corner on its approach, the enormity of it smacks you in the chest and it most certainly has the “Wow” factor. However, its exterior is not unlike a gigantic candle with wax melting down it’s sides. The Basilica is designed on the theme of biblical characters. It is highly ornate on its exterior, and less so on its interior. Despite construction beginning over 137 years ago, the Basilica has been under construction illegally, that is, the Catholic Church never received Planning permission to build it! The reason? The papers were lost in the labyrinth of government bureaucracy apparently! Neverrrr! However, as recently as last Friday 7th June 2019, they finally received the building permit along with a hefty fine. Gaudi, who died in 1926 after being struck by a tram in a freak accident, is buried in the church crypt. When it is totally completed it will have 18 towers including a 172.5 meter central spire, making it the tallest religious building on this side of the world. Worthy of its UNESCO World Heritage title for sure!

(Photo: Sagrada Familia Basilica – Gaudi – Barcelona)

Having completed the tour, something just wasn’t sitting right with me. I felt as touched by the experience as going to a circus. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first, but then as the day went on I realized why. I had just recently travelled around Cambodia, witnessed poverty the extent of which I never realized existed in our world. Children living in third world conditions with no running water or electricity, food or clothes, with only corrugated iron shacks for homes. On seeing the absolute grandeur of the Sagrada Familia, I believe it is hypocritical of any religion, aware of such poverty existing to continue investing on the level of investment going into this Basilica. While I acknowledge that these are two separate issues, for me, at that moment in time (and maybe because the Cambodian trip was so recent), I just couldn’t separate them. I was thinking “what would €28m per year buy for the people of Cambodia or Vietnam or for victims of poverty anywhere else in the world for that matter?” Another issue that was foremost in my mind was … “how big and grand a building does one need to worship a God”? My thinking is that whatever “God” exists, he or she certainly would not condone the spending of such huge money on the building of a place of worship rather than helping those most in need in the world??!!! I acknowledge that the same could be said for any overly indulgent spending by anyone and any organisation, but for a religious organisation to do so doesn’t sit easily with me. We can admire and design pieces of art for a lot less than what it’s costing to complete this Basilica, which for me (and this is only my opinion I might add – what do I know about architecture in fairness?) is an absolute “monstrosity”.

(Photo: Casa-Batllo – Gaudi, Barcelona)

Notwithstanding this, Barcelona is a beautiful city with fantastic architecture and a lot to offer, however, it was off our agenda as a place for us to live within a few days of us being there. We enjoyed it, were very happy to have had the opportunity of seeing it in all its glory and left excitedly early one morning to rejoin our family and friends in Ireland for a brief visit for Christmas and New Year before heading off again to Serres in Greece to begin work with Lifting Hands International.

Our decision was made in the context of finding a new home…. Lisbon 10 – Barcelona 2 !

Christmas and New Year in Ireland next …. Oh boy!


Our final destination on the Australian leg of our journey was one that I was feeling quite emotional about. This part of the trip was more about meeting up with my late father’s only brother Paul, who had emigrated from Ireland to Australia in the 1970’s, almost 50 years ago. On hearing that I was travelling to Australia, one of Paul’s daughters (my cousin Sinead) contacted me and invited us to stay at my uncle Paul’s house in Sydney. My father had passed away tragically at 57 years of age in 2000 and to say I was distraught after he died is an understatement. It was many years before my Dad’s passing that I last met my uncle Paul in Ireland. My memories of him and his family were vague. While I had recently connected with Paul’s children on Facebook, I had yet to meet them as adults in real life. The strongest memory I had of my uncle Paul as a young man was a wonderful moment when he had returned to Ireland for a visit to my paternal grandmother’s house, unbeknownst to her. I remember the excitement of him arriving and secretly being let in through the front door where he made his way upstairs to hide until the right moment arrived to surprise her. She was flustering around downstairs in her sitting room trying to tie a belt on her skirt. She had been told by my father and his sisters that she and my grandfather were being taken for dinner and at this point of the evening she was running late. She had no idea that Paul had returned home to Ireland for that dinner. As she scurried around trying desperately to fix the belt on her skirt, Paul casually opened the door of the sitting room, walked up to her and asked her if he could help her tie her belt. She didn’t even flinch! She casually explained the problem with the belt and began to show him how to go about it. As he started dragging at the belt to secure it, the light suddenly dawned on her that this was Paul, her youngest son whom she hadn’t seen for many years since he had gone to Australia. As a child, witnessing the realization dawning on the face of this beautiful woman who I adored was amazing. She shrieked with delight and began to weep with happiness. Hugging and kissing him, and still trying to rationalize the whole situation unraveling before her. It was a wonderful and special moment of the love between a mother and her son, and one of many beautiful memories I have of Paul being home on and off throughout the years.

My father and Paul had a typical Irish brotherly relationship. Growing up, I am told, they were like chalk and cheese. They both had a passion for music as teenagers back in the ‘60’s. My father was a big Roy Orbison fan and Paul a Del Shannon advocate. I would never put the two of them together as brothers if I didn’t know. While they both had a circle of mutual friends from their neighbourhood, by and large they lived very separate lives aside from this. They had two sisters (my aunts) who still live in Ireland, and all four siblings had a very close-knit bond, despite their very different personalities and the thousands of miles between them since Paul left for a new life in Australia with his wife Anne, (also from Finglas/Glasnevin) back in the 1970’s.

Paul and Anne reside on the outskirts of Sydney with their two daughters Sinead and Orlaith and one son Daire. They all live relatively near to one another. Sinead and Orlaith are both married with children of their own. Daire is due to be married in the coming days.

We arrived into Sydney airport late on Thursday evening, 29th November. The familiar image of the Sydney Opera House came into view as we buckled up on the aircraft for landing. My aunt Anne met us at the airport. Paul was waiting at the house for us, and on arrival, I didn’t know what to expect given the years that had passed. As we walked towards the house, this tall, thin, gentle, white-haired man with the kindest set of blue eyes greeted us. Reaching out to hug him tightly, I realized that in that moment it was like I knew him all my life. I guess that’s the wonder of “family”. It doesn’t matter about years that pass, when you’re family, you’re family; and that bond is there despite the distance of both time and place. My first impression of him was that I could see both my grandmother and my father in his twinkling blue eyes. While he wasn’t “the image” of my father, there was a very close resemblance and as older men they both grew to resemble each other closer than I would ever have imagined. I also wondered that if my father had lived into his 70’s would he have looked like Paul?

(PHOTO: Uncle Paul feeding the Lorikeet birds in his garden)

Anne, getting right down to business, steered us excitedly towards the heart of their home (the kitchen) and opened the wine/champagne and all four of us gathered around to catch up on all of the years that had passed. This was their first time meeting my husband Colm, but within a matter of hours it was like we had all known each other forever. Stories about my father and Paul when they were younger were in abundance and I sat open mouthed listening to the wonderful memories that Paul shared with us about growing up in Finglas with Dad. Anne too shared her hilarious memories of being home in Ireland. Time became irrelevant and by the time we had shared as much as we could in one sitting, it was naturally a late bedtime. We fell into bed merry and content, with the wonderful anticipation of meeting up with my cousins, Sinead and Orlaith and their children the following morning. They arrived, as planned, with their youngest children in tow, bright and early and it was wonderful to at last meet with them, face to face. A trip to Santa’s grotto was on the agenda for their day and the children excitedly explained to us that the Christmas “elf” had arrived to their home and had settled in nicely, causing mayhem as he went. They told us that he was there for the sole purpose of checking to make sure they were being good and reporting back to Santa, and yet they were perplexed that the elf himself was upending everything he could back at their house, and didn’t have to abide by the same standards they did!?!?. Their innocence was heartwarming and of course playing along with it was quite a challenge, trying to ensure that our version of the elf’s existence was consistent with what they had been told. Over the coming days, we heard more stories of the elf’s antics in each of their houses, and what dawned on me was the huge effort being made by their parents to create this excitement for them. Every night, for weeks before Santa’s arrival, Sinead and her husband and Orlaith and hers had to wreck their brains and come up with a new antic for the elves. Hats off to them! And what fabulous memories the children will have when they look back on these years.

(Paul, Anne with my cousin Orlaith and her children)

Over the next few days, Sinead and Orlaith and Daire and their respective partners/husbands and children came and went. Paul and Anne prepared wonderful family BBQ’s and we all sat around in the garden getting to know one another and sharing our lives. When everyone left we would sit with Paul and Anne outside listening to Paul’s huge collection of music and relishing every moment. During the day, Paul and Anne took us walking to visit the spectacular beaches nearby. One of my favorite days was when Paul drove myself and Colm to Cronulla Beach. We strolled along the beachfront and then stopped for a bite to eat at a small restaurant by the sea. After our meal, I left Paul and Colm at the restaurant to venture for a swim. I had swam in many oceans and seas along our journey thus far, and wanted to add the South Pacific Ocean to my list. It was still only Spring and temperatures, while warm, were still not as high as those reached during the typical Australian Summers. The water was cold and I would be lying if I said I didn’t think of the possibility of sharks swimming around, (as we all do when we think of the seas around Australia). Regardless, in I went and am still alive to tell the tale 🥶Indian Ocean and South Pacific Ocean…tick. To dry off, Paul, Colm and I strolled further along the seafront and found a grassy green hill to sit on. As we sat and chatted with Paul, it almost felt like my father was with us. I’m not sure if it was the fact that Paul had very similar characteristics and ways about him that my father had; I’m not very religious, but there was an unmistakable presence of my father as we sat looking over the ocean that day which brought me more comfort than any other time since my father passed away. While Dad and Paul were never alike when they were younger, there was no doubt in my mind that they were in their kind and gentle personalities as they grew older. It was getting late and we headed for home a few hours later. Daire had arrived with his fiancée. Orlaith and Sinead were there with their children and after yet another family gathering with food and wine, the day, too soon, came to an end.

I mentioned earlier that Anne and Paul were hands-on grandparents. It is evident from the moment you meet them that their family is everything. They eat, sleep and breath for their children and their grandchildren. Every moment of their free time is about taking care of their every need. Paul is retired now and travels back and forward between Orlaith and Sinead’s homes doing his Grandpoppy duties. Anne, also spends every waking moment looking after them, and the children adore them both. They are busy busy grandparents and it was incredible to share their family moments with them while we were there.

(Photo: The beginnings of another family gathering. Paul and Anne surrounded by children, grandchildren and us)

Now when we arrived in Australia, we had planned our trip so that we could have a week in Perth, a week in Melbourne and a week in Sydney. We had arrived on the Thursday evening in Sydney and made plans for later in the week to get out and about and explore the sights around. On the following Monday (3rd December), Colm and I decided to head into the city to visit the Sydney Opera House, Sydney Harbour and on the recommendation of Anne and Paul, Taronga Zoo. We also made plans to take Paul and Anne out for dinner the following night and to have our final evening (Wednesday) with all of the family around before we left. We set off early that Monday morning and took a 40 minute train ride into the city and strolled around taking in the sights. To my delight, we came across a native Aborigine, sitting on a side street playing traditional Aboriginal music on a Didgeridoo. I stood for what felt like an hour listening to him play.

(Photo: Aborigine playing his Didgeridoo)

At around noon we made our way to the Harbour to catch a ferry across to the Zoo. Taronga Zoo is a ‘must see’ if you visit Sydney. From the moment we stepped on the ferry to cross Sydney Harbour in the warm afternoon sun, with close up views of the Sydney Opera house as we sailed past, we were loving every minute of the experience. While zoos are not something that I agree with in the context of animals being enclosed in an unnatural environment, Taronga has got it right on that score. The animals have acres of land as their habitat and each section of the Zoo is designed to the nth degree to reflect the natural habitat of each species.

(Photo: The highly venomous and dangerous red back spider at Taronga Zoo)

Having heard of the infamous “red back” spider, I had to gather all my courage to overcome my fear of spiders to enter the spider sanctuary if I was to get a close up look at this life-endangering species. With my imagination running wild on entering the sanctuary I visualized a huge hairy, multi-legged spider with fangs sprouting from its huge wide eyed head. Drama Queen being my middle name, I slowly walked towards the glass box which was my only guarantee of safety from a highly venomous attack. I closed my eyes as I got closer, and on opening them I had to squint to actually see this tiny black spider! Whaaaat? It was nothing like I imagined. Its body resembled nothing more than a beetle with threadlike legs and a tiny red dot barely visible on its back. How on earth something so small can cause such havoc is mind blowing! A little relieved, I ventured on through the room of glass enclosures to see the other spiders gently weaving their webs inside. Yes, some were large and frightening to look at, but here I was, standing only a few feet away, feeling pretty safe watching them in amazement. For a full five minutes only mind. The exit sign above the nearby door was never out of the line of my peripheral vision. We continued on to the Koala and Kangaroos and Emus and snakes and by 5.30 p.m. we had done the full tour and made our way back to the Harbour to catch the return ferry to Sydney.

With rumbling bellies we were famished and opted for an evening meal at one of the restaurants alongside the Harbour where we could dine outside in the evening sun. Over dinner we both began to chat about our plans for our remainder of our time in Sydney which we thought was only a couple of days and about our arrangements for the next destination, Lisbon in Portugal which was ever looming. It was 6.30 p.m. and so we decided to check the train times back to Paul and Anne’s, and at the same time our flight times for the following Thursday to Lisbon. We knew it would be a long-haul flight and we would need to be at Sydney airport well in advance of boarding time for an international flight. As Colm opened his phone to check the flight times, his face became distorted slightly and I’m sure I heard a whimper although I wasn’t sure if he had belly ache given he had eaten his food so fast. When he looked at me in total shock and said “Our flight to Lisbon is tonight! The flight leaves at 9.30 p.m”, I couldn’t register what he was saying and laughed gently thinking he was having me on. He repeated it, slower, and with more urgency “Our flight to Lisbon leaves TONIGHT! In THREE HOURS!”….Holy S**T…he was serious!!! The shock took a whole two minutes to hit me! All hell broke loose! We both jumped up leaving everything on the table behind, running frantically through the streets of Sydney towards the railway station. We quickly gave up and hailed a taxi to take us there as we were at least 20 minutes away from it and still had a 40 minute journey back to Paul and Anne’s house. When we eventually boarded the train I rang Paul’s mobile and left a message telling him of our c**kup! Anne, on returning my call, calmed me down on the other end of the phone saying we would try to get to the airport but that we may not get there on time, but we’d try. Paul assured us that he would meet us at the station and drive us back to the house where Anne was waiting to help us pack and most importantly, bring some level of calm to the whole situation, as she did.

By 7.45 p.m. we were buckled up in the car, luggage in tow with Anne giving it welly on the accelerator and Paul chatting us to keep our blood pressure intact. To miss this flight would result in us having to pay thousands for another one given it was Christmas time and most flights would be booked out. With a requirement to check in almost three hours before an International flight we were on the back foot for sure. Teeth and fists clenched, we pulled up at the airport departure hall at about 8.30 p.m. with sadly not enough time to say our proper goodbyes to Paul and Anne or the rest of the family for that matter. Hugs and kisses and goodbyes were done in the car. We were devastated, but thought, we’ll just have to go back and stay longer next time in Sydney, which we most certainly will do! We had only touched the surface of experiencing the beautiful sights of Sydney and more importantly spending quality time with family. We made it to the departure gate within an inch of our lives, boarded the plane and then the questions started. How on earth did that happen? We had it out, and needless to say, it hasn’t been discussed since! It’s a no-go, no-way, no-how question that is best left like that for fear of major repercussions 😂 and we have both sworn to secrecy on this one 😂. Once onboard, a young girl from Lithuania clearly seeing my disheveled state, began chatting to me. Having literally vomited out my story about almost missing the flight, she took out a little tablet box and told me she had sleeping tablets with her to help her with the long flight and that I was welcome to have one to help me sleep also. Under normal circumstances, I would never accept any sort of medication or drugs from a stranger, but, given the current state of affairs, I gratefully accepted, whipped up the little white tablet, swallowed it whole without water, and was asleep in dreamland within minutes and never woke until we landed in Lisbon, Portugal. It was probably best too that I was. The flight would have been made in silence between us at that point anyway, given the events that had just unfolded. 😱 😂😂😂.

Travelling together as husband and wife and sharing every waking moment with each other is probably one of the biggest tests any relationship can face. Particularly when prior to this we were working full-time and barely catching sight of each other before our journey began. The journey itself, no more than everything in life, has had its highs and lows for us. This, I can assure you was one of the lows. But from the outset, we quickly realized that these things happen on a journey of this magnitude and so we just picked ourselves up, dusted ourselves off, and got ready to explore the next city, Lisbon. The city that would change our lives forever.

More to follow soon….


Photo: The ArtVo Gallery, Melbourne

Three and a half hours after leaving the lovely warm sunshine of Perth, feeling replenished both physically and mentally after our stay with Kevin and Geraldine, we landed in Melbourne. First impressions; it was overcast and cold, and it could have been Dublin we had landed in if we didn’t have “Melbourne” written on our tickets. Something to be aware of when visiting Melbourne. The weather can change really quickly in the space of a single day. It can feel pretty cold and windy one minute and then the temperatures can climb to swelteringly warm in a matter of hours. Dressing in layers of clothes that can be discarded throughout the day is advisable.

Australia is expensive by European standards. We took a transfer bus from the airport directly into the bus station in Melbourne City. The return cost was the equivalent of €40 for us both. Or maybe my reaction to the cost was the fact that we had travelled through Asia at minimal expense on public transport and were re-adjusting to the western style prices. But even taking this into consideration it was still quite expensive to eat out and for our day to day shopping. Thankfully we had booked ourselves into a small studio apartment in the centre of the city which had minimal cooking facilities, so spaghetti bolognaise was top of our menu, followed by ham and cheese rolls. We felt like teenagers again 😱 There are always ways to avoid expensive costs in countries when travelling, Iceland being a case in point, where we lived on pasta and tuna and mayonnaise for almost a week. Booking self-catering accommodation is the easiest way around it. On the cost of transport however, (unless you’re prepared to hitchhike in a foreign country, which is not ideal) it is pretty much unavoidable. Nonetheless, we arrived at our little studio apartment, delighted with ourselves because of its central location and how pristine clean it was, which is always a plus when booking budget accommodation. It was quaint and tiny, and so we referred to it as our very own little “love nest” 😂

Venturing out the next day, I felt like I had stepped back home, just for a day. This city was the nearest I had felt to Dublin in our entire journey. From the weather, to the old buildings, it reminded me in parts of the north side of Dublin city. We spotted an Irish bar “The Last Jar” (as you do when you’re away), and popped in to see whether it ticked all the boxes for its level of “Irishness”. Yep, it didn’t disappoint! I could have been in any pub in the centre of Dublin (back in the 1980’s). With the cold weather outside, a little fire was burning at the back of the pub and some old guys at the bar with the thickest of Irish accents began chatting to us about ..guess what?…Ireland, and how long they had been in Australia (some for almost 50 years without returning once back home). Before the evening was out I was left in no doubt that all these years later they were still dreadfully homesick. I guess this was their place of refuge where they came together with their Irish friends and ex pats and where it felt like they were back home in Ireland too. Adding to the feeling of being back home, was eating Irish Beef and Guinness pie and mashed potatoes and mushy peas. We were in heaven!

A trip to Melbourne would not be complete without meeting up with a dear friend from home, Aine, and her husband Aaron from New Zealand. We had planned to begin our meet up with a tour of Melbourne’s night life and none better than a social butterfly like Aine to show us those sights. Aine moved from Dublin to Melbourne more than twenty years ago, and with the exception of seeing her once since then back when she came home for a brief visit, meeting up with her was long overdue. Our plans, however, took a little bit of a detour when she contacted me to say that she had broken her foot the previous day and was in plaster of Paris. The poor darling was totally incapacitated and in bad pain. And so we deferred our plans until later in the week when she had undergone all her medical assessments and treatments. Typical Aine style, she was undeterred and so we arranged to take a train out to her in the north western suburbs of Melbourne for a much needed catch up.

Photo: Colm, Me, Aine and Aaron in Melbourne

Aine and I grew up in the small village of Finglas, about 4 miles outside of Dublin city. The centre of our community back in the day was a local pub called “The Northway House”. Aine’s parents and mine knew each other well from within this close knit working class community. Now the Northway House was not just a pub. People didn’t go there just to have a drink. It was the central meeting point, the beating heart of the area, where all of the local people gathered every weekend. Like any local establishment, it was the place where parents met up to discuss the best place to buy school uniforms and books that didn’t cost an arm and a leg. Savings clubs for Christmas were organised to offset the expense throughout the year. Raffles for Christmas Hampers and shopping sprees. Summer Holiday savings clubs were commonplace where families would head off together to various parts of the country for little breaks away with their children having saved €5 a week throughout the year for what was, back then, an absolute luxury. It was where men of all ages gathered to discuss the latest football scores, and women met to advise each other on the bargains they got in the local shops and complained about kids and husbands and everything they needed to get off their chests, with the ears and support of the other local women. If someone was having a rough time, everyone would gather round to offer help and support. It was the go-to place for entertainment every weekend, where up and coming bands would play on stage and the locals would be nominated by their families and friends to get up and sing a song with them. Even if the singers sounded like crows, everyone scurried around them when they disembarked from the stage reassuring them that they were “only brilliant” and giving words of encouragement like “ya sounded like Tom Jones you were so good”. It was hilarious! Aine’s father, I remember, blew us away with his singing. He was a tall, unassuming man who resembled Harry Secombe by all accounts, and sang just as beautifully. He was one of the main characters, along with her mum, who was at the heart of the community and who always had a warm and welcoming smile and chat for everyone when meeting them. It was the same when visiting their home. Nothing was spared in the welcome and if ever you wanted to experience a proper Irish session, this was the place to go. On arrival, there was food and drink and the warmest of welcomes for friends and strangers alike who crossed the threshold of their door. They had a large family, one of whom was Aine, and they exuded laughter and positivity wherever they went.

Yet again, I digress. The Northway House was also where Brendan O’Carroll entertained us until our sides were splitting with laughter. In fact it was here that he got a lot of his material for his character in his recent sitcom and movie “Mrs. Brown’s Boys”. It was where the local group “Tinkers Fancy” belted out ballads and music that would have the patrons singing and swaying all night long. If you wanted to have a true “Dublinesque” experience , this was the place to come. Although if you were new to the place, there was almost an initiation process to be undergone before you were allowed into the clique. Pubs in Dublin pay a fortune nowadays trying to replicate this, and we had it in abundance on our doorstep. It was the place where broken hearts got mended when relationships ended one week and new ones began the next. Words of consolation to the spurned guy or girl would be along the lines of “he/she was only a b**tard anyway, you’re well rid of him/her. You were far too good for him/her” and life would feel better and everyone would move on to the next chapter, ready to catch people when they fell and carry them over their next heartache or difficulty. If someone missed a weekend, there was a search party sent out to see if they were ok, until word came back that they were away or unwell, and then they would be inundated with callers to make sure they didn’t want for anything. It was where collections happened when someone was struggling financially to pay for funerals and other unexpected expenses in their lives. If there was an unplanned pregnancy of a single mother, people would offer prams and cots and clothes to help the family through and when the baby arrived, huge celebrations would be had to welcome the new arrival. The oftentimes single mother would be pampered and fluffed around to make sure she knew that she was totally supported. For the young lads who went astray and came to the attention of the police, they were spoken to by the local men and advised and guided on a different path. Some successful, some not. There were Christmas dinner parties arranged for the elderly, and kids parties for birthdays. It was here that I met the most colourful characters of my life. Salt of the earth people. People who were given the nicknames “Radar”, “Bottley”, “Franner”, “Redser” and the like. It was definitely the closest thing to Roddy Doyle’s Dublin characters in his movie “The Snapper”. I distinctly remember one such character (who shall remain nameless), but deserves a mention all the same. A guy who wasn’t blessed with good stature or looks, and was married to a girl who was much bigger than he and literally towered over him. He was a bit of a “Hard Chaw” (or so he thought), and more than a regular at the pub. His wife naturally didn’t want him spending long hours at the pub and so tried to put certain restrictions on him that he obviously didn’t like. When he did manage to get out it was like “the great escape” and something he took great pride in by the time he had negotiated his way from his house to the bar. One evening, he struts in the door of the pub, chest out with pride and delighted with himself that he had managed to get out of the house and as far as the barstool. He climbed up on a stool, legs swinging because they were so short, beside a group of local guys. He orders a pint and starts bragging about how he wouldn’t let his wife dictate to him about when he could and couldn’t come to the pub. Within minutes, a large hand reached in to where he was in the group, lifted him clean off the barstool and dragged him across the floor and out the door. It was his wife, and him looking petrified and mortified as he kicked and squealed as she dragged him home. The next time he arrived to the pub was with her in tow and him fawning all over her. And that was how business was done back then. There was solid community spirit, and no matter what life threw at us, we came together and supported and each other. The Northway House closed many years ago, and the impact it had was huge. Elderly people now had nowhere to go to meet with their friends on a regular basis. There wasn’t an alternative place to go within walking distance and so a whole community suffered as a result. The reason for it’s demise? A million euro car sales company bought the land and replaced the heart of the community with shiny luxury cars. The last thing on a priority list of services that this beautiful village needed! Now, when I go home, it’s a place where my childhood friends and I recall the wonderful memories of those days. A sure sign of growing old when we’re reminiscing about days gone by! 😂.

Photo: The Northway House Pub (late 1980’s)

Aine was someone I knew from those years. She was a little older than I was, and a bit of a fashion icon at the time. Dark haired and stunning looking with the widest smile and bubbly personality and the best, warm Dublin accent you could ever encounter. She was a gifted hairdresser working in some of Dublin’s top hair salons and had a quirky, cool and groomed “Madonna style” appearance to her. We hit it off immediately when we met one morning on a bus journey into the city. We met up regularly after that. She permed and cut my hair, gave me beauty tips and advice on anything and everything. She gave me “older sisterly” advice and I took it. Even at such a young age, she was an assertive independent clever and cool woman (and still is), and I looked up to her. She left for Australia back in the ‘80s and found the love of her life, her now husband Aaron, on her first night out there. I had met Aaron on only one occasion when they were on that trip home that I mentioned earlier. My first impression? He was huge! A New Zealander, built like a rugby player, but with soft eyes, and a personality so contradictory to his physical appearance. He was a teddy bear in disguise!

I was so excited at the prospect of visiting them in Melbourne and so after a few days sightseeing which included the amazing Aborigines Museum, some shopping, a trip to St. Kilda’s beachfront (where we almost froze our a**es off), we headed for Aine’s and Aaron’s abode one sunny Saturday afternoon.

Photo: Aine and Aaron in Melbourne

On arrival to Aine’s, the door swung open and in front of me, her beaming welcoming smile, looking like Marilyn Monroe on crutches with Aaron on her tail with his rock star appearance still intact. All I could hear was her distinctive Dublin accent, “Howya Ya…come in…ah jayziz it’s great to see ye!” After all this time in Australia her Dublin accent was as strong as ever, and the only thing changed about her was the color of her hair! The welcome replicated that to which I had become accustomed to when visiting her parents house back home. We “chatted for Ireland” over a few beers and then were whisked off to sample the delights of their favorite local Vietnamese restaurant (Phi Phi) where Aaron ordered a tableful of different dishes, some of which I had never even heard of and were fit for a king’s palate. To top off our visit, Aaron cooked a scrumptious traditional Irish breakfast the following morning (better than any Irishman) and we had a fabulous Sunday, meeting their friends and family throughout the day. All too soon it was time to say our farewells, as our week was nearing an end. I hate goodbyes!

Over the few remaining days, on Aine’s recommendation, we visited some of Melbourne’s sights, one of which was the most entertaining place I had ever been. It was the “ArtVo Immersive Art Gallery” at the Docklands in Melbourne. A large old building with rooms covered with wall to wall art where we could interact and actually become part of the paintings. We captured and created photographs that were just mind blowing and hilarious. I would highly recommend visiting if you find yourself in Melbourne. You will belly laugh all the way through the experience and come home with a tonne of fantastic holiday photos.

Photo: ArtVo Gallery, Melbourne

Travelling to Australia through Asia had left me constantly wondering how the people in the likes of Vietnam and Cambodia managed to get through the poverty and turmoils of their everyday lives. The reason they do is not unlike my story about the people from my hometown. Community spirit is the answer. I witnessed the most amazing community spirit throughout Vietnam and Cambodia where families, albeit living together in very small spaces and shacks, supported and took care of each other in the most difficult conditions that life could throw at them. It’s the bond within and between these communities that brings such resilience, positive outlooks and hope. I believe the Western World in its rapid development might be losing its grasp on this important ingredient in society. Consumerism now takes up much of our time. The “keeping up with the Jones’s” mindset doesn’t actually exist in many of these poor countries, as there’s no place for it. Just a thought and my humble opinion at this point of our journey.

Next stop…Sydney, and another long overdue visit to a very very special family. My late father’s only brother, uncle Paul, aunt Anne, cousins and family that I hadn’t seen for, yet again, for almost 30 years. Excited wasn’t the word when we boarded the plane for Sydney that Thursday morning.

Photo: ArtVo Gallery, Melbourne


Our first day out with Kevin and Geraldine in Perth, Australia (post-showers) 😂

Leaving Cambodia for Perth in Australia came as a huge relief, and I was so excited at the prospect of staying with our dear friends Kevin and Geraldine from home, who emigrated to Melbourne in Australia back in the 1970’s and subsequently ended up moving to Perth where they now live with their two beautiful grown up daughters. Kevin is my daughter’s uncle (the brother of my daughter Alison’s father), and while Alison’s father and I went our separate ways many many years ago, Kevin, his family and extended family have nurtured and nourished and doted on Alison throughout her life. They have also been a rock of support to me as her mother since Alison was born over 32 years ago and are still a huge part of my life and my family’s life to this day. I see them as my extended family, and I adore each and every one of them like they were my own flesh and blood. Kevin and Geraldine have always been a total rock in both my daughter’s and my life since she was born. They had kindly invited me and Colm to stay at their place for as long as we needed to on our trip around the world. They offered to take us around Perth to show us the sights of their adopted hometown. Getting there couldn’t come quick enough for us.

And so we readied ourselves to board our flight to Perth at the airport in Sihanoukville, Cambodia. As always, the first step was to rid ourselves of our luggage at the check-in desk on arrival to the airport. Now, let me add at this point that checking in baggage at airports and trying to figure out the allowance and costs associated with dragging around two years of belongings has not been something I have grown accustomed to on this trip. In fact, I’ve become quite irate at the sheer inconsistency and scamming that goes on. In a nutshell, it’s at the behest of the individual airlines as to what they want to charge passengers and while the majority of information around this is set out clearly on their websites, not all of them are upfront about it until passengers arrive at the check in desk with luggage in tow. Luggage costs is something that everyone should be aware of before undertaking any journey, and while it might appear to be rather insignificant when doing all the booking and planning that comes with travelling, the costs can be very significant if it goes wrong. Cheap flights doesn’t necessarily mean it’s the cheaper option. By the time you factor in the baggage costs it can cost a hell of a lot more than the most expensive flight on your search engine. A couple of incidences in particular almost resulted in me pole-vaulting over the check-in desks. At one point I was contemplating skipping my flight from Nha Trang to Hanoi in Vietnam and doing some serious protesting with banners in front of the airline check-in desk. On that occasion we had booked our flights with Vietjet Air. As always, we checked on their website before arriving at the airport to ensure that our luggage was within the allowance limit listed. It had stated that we could carry up to 32kgs on the flight (included in the flight cost). When we arrived at the check-in desk, we were advised that the 32kg allowance only referred to “international” flights, and not internal ones. This was certainly not stated clearly on the website before we arrived to the airport and I told them so! Having queued at the check-in desk for almost an hour we were re-directed to the airlines information desk where we were told we had to pay a hefty additional cost for our luggage to be accepted on the flight. Thankfully the people queuing were mainly Vietnamese and didn’t quite get the true extent of my rage as I ranted and cussed at the desk about the fact that this was nothing short of an attack on my rights as a consumer etc. and that I would walk around Hanoi naked before paying the costs of the luggage transfer. Clearly the threat of me walking around naked didn’t work, and so we eventually had no choice but to cough up the exorbitant cost of bringing two 20kg suitcases on board with us! I did remove my jacket and scarf dramatically though…just for the effect lol!

Now, here we were at Sihanoukville airport in Cambodia getting ready to board our flight to Perth. Yet again, the airline Air Asia advises when booking that baggage allowances and costs can be found on their website. Our tickets didn’t include baggage costs and so a few days before leaving we checked their website and found that their site was down. Inaccessible, no-can-do on checking luggage etc. We repeatedly checked before arriving at the airport only to find that it was still unavailable and thought no more about it, resigning ourselves to the fact that we would sort it when we arrived at the airport. Again, queuing for quite some time, we arrived at the desk, handed over our passports and dropped our 20kg cases onto the weighing belt. When the desk assistant muttered “that will be €560 please”, I thought she was talking to somebody else as I scanned the area for the person she was talking to. Nope, she was looking directly at me. It was us! She explained that if we didn’t check in online on their website, that it was more costly to do so at the check-in desk. We were to pay €80 each for the first 15kgs of our luggage and €40 per kg after that. Basically we were 10kgs over, which was €400, and €160 for the first 15kgs. A whopping €560 bill or we wouldn’t be able to take our bags with us! Understandably, I flipped! I’d had enough! Rats, flea-ridden dogs, garbage, a nightmare of a journey through Cambodia….it was the straw that broke the camel’s back! I turned into a raving lunatic! Through gritted teeth I reminded her that because their website was down, despite numerous attempts to access the baggage cost section (and to this day is still not working), was she now saying that we were being caught for all of these additional costs? Red-faced with temper, and much to the amusement of nearby spectators, I started emptying all of the contents of my case out on the floor, dirty laundry included (reckoning that it would cost me less to buy brand new clothes and shoes etc. than to transport the ones in the case). I was ready for war! I point blank refused to pay the costs being applied because of checking in luggage at the desk instead of the website and threatened that I was gonna go public with this (I think Joe Duffy got a mention at one point – in Cambodia! That’s how mad I was). Naturally the Manageress was called to deal with this raving mad Irish woman and after much to-ing and fro-ing with her she eventually backed down and charged us what we would have been charged if we had booked in online. The bill of €560 was quickly reduced to €80 in total – and with the savings associated with the costs of a potential hospital bill for cardiac assistance for me and god knows what for her, I exhaled deeply, dusted myself down and made my way to the plane in as dignified a manner as I could muster, and with our luggage carefully labeled and transported to the hold of the plane. My point…it didn’t have to be like this if airlines made sure that their websites were working properly and more importantly, updated regularly!

Our flight was a two-stop flight. One stop-over for a couple of hours in Kuala Lumpur and onwards to Bali. The Bali stop-over was a long one of about 7 hours and so we decided when we landed in Denpasar that we would take a cab to nearby Kuta for a bite to eat and some relaxation time before our onward flight to Perth. On arriving in Kuta we did contemplate visiting a tattoo parlor but that kind of crazy thinking happens after long-haul flights coupled with a few gin and tonics  Luckily, time was against us and instead we made our way to a nearby restaurant/bar. Once inside, a huge thunderstorm struck and the road outside became a river. But we were snug and safe inside and with not a care in the world began tucking into our meal. Suddenly I felt a shudder under my feet and a huge rumbling noise filled the air around us! Nervously I asked Colm if this was the country that experienced regular earthquakes? I was sure I was feeling vibrations and rumbling (I assured him that it wasn’t that I hadn’t felt earth move before but this had a different feel to it 😂😂😱). He confidently explained that it was only the vibration from the claps of thunder outside, and so I happily continued eating, we paid the bill, and headed back to the airport. Arriving into the airport, the huge TV screens had reports flashing all over them that only a few miles away from us in Kuta, an earthquake measuring 5.6 on the Richter scale had hit Bali. I knew it! It was an earthquake that I had felt earlier! People at the airport were sharing stories about how they had felt serious tremors from the higher floors of their hotels and how they thought they would have to be evacuated. A quick google of “the effects of an earthquake on a plane taking off” confirmed that we would most likely be able to fly regardless! Our baggage problems were a distant memory at that stage and pretty insignificant…and when the engines roared as we climbed high into the Bali sky and headed for Perth, I didn’t look back!

Perth city in Australia is the most remote city in the world, with a population of just over 2 million people. It is a relatively young city by comparison to other cities around the world and was founded as recently as 1829. It is 2,104 kms away from its nearest neighbour city of Adelaide and is the largest on the entire west coast of Australia. Its population is diverse, with immigrants having moved there from all over the world during the Western Australia gold rushes in the late 19th century. Flying over north western Australia en-route to Perth from Asia gives a real insight into the remoteness of this city. Thousands of miles of red-soiled desert lands with no sign of life gives an almost outer space like look to the land, until out of nowhere, as the aircraft nears Perth, buildings and skyscrapers appear and look a little out of place as we come in to land.

Now you might remember me mentioning in my earlier blog that water was scarce on the islands we had stayed on in Cambodia. Hot water was non-existent, and showers trickled with cold water. All of this you see, led to us resembling hobos. Colm had grown quite a thick beard (I wasn’t too far behind him on that score in the hair growth department 😱😂) and would not have been out of place on the movie Castaway! We didn’t look great in fairness by the time we landed in Perth and probably smelled even worse! We had gotten rid of a lot of our dirty laundry on the floor at the airport in Cambodia and that helped I guess with the odours permeating from our suitcases as we wheeled them through the Arrivals gate at Perth Airport. As we came through, I caught a glimpse of Kevin and Geraldine in the waiting area. The sense of relief and excitement at seeing their familiar faces after our whole journey was so comforting. But I’m almost sure I caught a glimpse of fear in Kevin’s eyes when he saw the state of us first as we reached out to give him a hug. 😂😂😂. It was back to theirs, into the shower and lots of chats and catch up before we headed out again for our first sight-seeing drive around the city. It was breathtaking! Geraldine and Kevin live just a stone’s throw from the ocean and in total contrast to the homes that we had seen in Cambodia, these homes were multi-million dollar ones with ocean views and immaculately kept grounds. My first question was “what do these people work at to be able to afford such splendid houses?”.

Kevin and Geraldine were dream hosts, taking us sightseeing around all of the white sandy beaches nearby, cooking traditional Australian BBQs in their garden where we sat and caught up for hours over glasses of good quality conversation and of course, Australian wine. They couldn’t do enough for us. They took us out to meet their close friends for dinners and of course a much needed girly shopping trip with Geraldine .

A much needed girls day out with funny faces and new hair 🍹💃💃💃

They organized an open-top bus tour with a bus company (Perth Explorer) owned by a friend of theirs, where the company was launching its first multi-lingual audio bus tour which included every language you can think of, including a children’s channel. It is the only bus tour currently that offers this service in Perth. The tour was being filmed as part of a promotional event and to our amazement, we featured on the Australian news channel that evening. Fame at last!  If you ever visit Perth I would highly recommend this tour as you get to see the whole place, including the beautiful Kings Park from a birds-eye view in the space of a few hours. Next on the list was a boat trip out into the Indian Ocean to do some Whale watching! Never in my wildest dreams did I ever expect I would get to do this and it has to be up there as one of the highlights of our trip down under. We boarded the large boat at Perth Harbour and headed miles out into the Ocean to where the huge hump backed whales were happily swimming and breaching the waves. Scanning the horizon excitedly, we soon spotted a mother and her baby calves, with their backs arching above the ocean, and tails spanned wide as they dived deep below us. It was jaw dropping! A large male whale soon joined them and apparently, although not related to the female and her calves, was guiding them back to the colder waters south around the Antarctic where they usually live and away from the warming waters of the Indian Ocean. It was spectacular! Watching their huge tails gracefully lift up as they glided down into the ocean below was like nothing I had every seen before. Yet another once in a life-time experience on this journey that I will never forget!

Capturing a hump backed whale breaching the waves isn’t as easy as it looks 🙂

One of our final trips was to the Fremantle Prison, a few miles south of Perth and a must see if you happen to find yourself in this part of the world. We learned on the day of the tour of the cell blocks and courtyards of the prison that in the 19th century, in addition to Australian convicts held, that Irish political prisoners had also been jailed at the prison. One of the most prominent escapees in the 19th century was a group of Irish men. The story goes that six Irish Fenian prisoners from what was then known as the British penal colony of Western Australia, and who were supporters of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, organized a fantastic escape from the prison. The plan was that an American ship, the “Catalpa” would sail close to Fremantle but remain outside the international limit. The ship was provided by an Irish sympathizer and former prisoner of Fremantle who had received a pardon for his part in Irish nationalism, but who had been banished from returning to Ireland. He instead moved to Boston. The six carefully planned their escape from the prison on a day when police and security were distracted with another event happening outside of the town of Fremantle. All six Irish men were on gardening duties outside of the prison walls on the day when they stealthily made their way to a dinghy in the harbour which took them out to the ship waiting for them a few miles out at sea. By the time they had reached the ship, the prison guards became aware of their absence and immediately fled to the harbour to search for them. A police boat was deployed and sailed out to the ship, firing warning shots across the bow of the “Catalpa”. On seeing the police the Captain of the “Catalpa” raised the American flag on the ship’s top mast and declared that if they continued to fire shots at the ship that it would be deemed as an act of war against the United States, as the ship was sailing in international waters. The ship sailed away without any further obstacles and the six Irish men were brought back to New York to a hero’s welcome. A pretty impressive story by all accounts and we left the prison tour with our heads held a bit higher than when we went in 😂… Go ye Irish Fenian men! 

Fremantle Prison, Fremantle, Australia

Perth City is immaculately laid out and it is clear walking around that the locals take great pride in their city. The public services are like nothing I’ve ever seen before. In the very centre of Perth there is a huge swimming pool with sun loungers where families can gather and spend time together. Nearby is a huge park with public BBQ facilities! And I kid you not, once one family/group of people use those BBQs they leave them sparkling clean for the next group of people. There isn’t a piece of litter to be seen anywhere, nowhere! Not even on the beaches! Their public toilets along all of the beachfronts are the standard of any toilets you would find in a 5-star hotel. A skateboard park and playground flank the outskirts of the city centre and kids can be seen playing from sun up to sun down, leaving the parks as immaculate as they found them. Not a bit of graffiti anywhere to be seen on the walls of the buildings. “What’s their secret?” I find myself asking. There is no other city anywhere we had been on our travels that was so pristine clean and organized with the whole population taking such pride in their surroundings. Whatever they have, they need to bottle it, or at the very least share it!

Now I had heard before arriving in Perth that shark attacks have happened at certain stretches of the beaches in Perth. As we walked along the beaches, we could clearly see cordoned off areas for swimmers with large safety nets and buoys, set up for the swimmers safety. Some of the restaurants in Perth have the remnants of surf boards with huge shark bites taken out of them hanging from the ceiling. So as you can guess, I didn’t sum up the courage to swim in the beautiful ocean. However, I did pop in for a paddle one day and really wanted a photo of myself actually in the Indian Ocean. Kevin kindly offered to take the photo. He shouted, turn around and face the camera and hold on until I get you in view. What I didn’t know was that there was a huge surf wave gaining momentum behind me. I should have copped him trying to muffle a loud laugh, but no, I was standing there, all smiles waiting for the photographer to capture the photo, when suddenly …bang, over my head came the most gigantic wave, drenching me and causing me to scream at the highest pitch I could manage! It still didn’t drown out their laughter on the beach! And that was my photograph of me in the Indian Ocean. Nice one Kevin 😂.

When the photo of me in the Indian Ocean wasn’t what I expected 😂

As our week drew to an end there was one more thing that we had to do before we left. Julie, a friend of Kevin and Geraldine’s, had told us about wild Kangaroos who lived in the local cemetery. Yes, I know…I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why either 😂. And it was simple…a huge expanse of green grassy land with flowers on graves. Perfect for their hungry bellies and for feeding their joeys! And so, Julie collected us on our last evening in Perth and drove us out to the graveyard to see for ourselves the antics of these creatures. As we drove into the grounds of the cemetery I was astounded to see kangaroos everywhere! Hundreds of them all over the grounds. Mothers with their joeys and the larger ones never to far from them. I hopped out of the car and approached a group of them and to my excitement, they didn’t move! They stayed right there and let me video them, although the males were always nearby watching and waiting for any sign of danger or sudden move from me. And what better way to end our trip to Perth than watching a joey climb into his mothers pouch as she hopped off to eat yet some more grass and plants with him safely inside.

Mammy Kangaroo with her Joey at the cemetery in Perth, Western Australia

Isn’t nature just a wonderful thing?!

Our plan was to spend three full weeks travelling Australia. One week in Perth, one in Melbourne where we planned to meet up with another old friend, Aine (Geraldine’s sister) also from my hometown who had emigrated many years ago to Melbourne. For the last week of our Australian trip we decided we would head to Sydney to meet my late father’s only brother, my uncle Paul and his family, who had also emigrated from Ireland to Sydney back in the 1970s. I haven’t seen him or his family for almost 30 years and at this point of the journey, I am beside myself with excitement at the prospect of spending some good quality family time with them.

But for now, it was onwards to Melbourne…

More to follow….soon 

EYES WIDE OPEN! Sihanoukville, Cambodia 🇰🇭

(Photo: The street running alongside our resort – Sihanoukville)

I’m still trying to figure out how we didn’t spot the dangers and horrors of this place, Sihanoukville before we booked a ten-day stint here. By all accounts, the reviews and articles that we read about it led us to believe that it was a paradise on earth with beautiful stretches of beaches, palm trees and restaurants. It also had an airport that would fly us on to Australia, our next destination after Cambodia. And while we didn’t expect top class accommodation having stayed in the more southern areas of Cambodia, availing of budget accommodation in the main, we certainly did not expect what came next.

We excitedly scoured the internet for accommodation in advance of travelling to Sihanoukville (a city just north of Kampot on the mainland of Cambodia). We booked a quaint looking bamboo cabin at a beach resort, with a traditional looking Cambodian restaurant and bar attached to the premises. The beach was literally a few steps from our doorstep with sun loungers and comfy couches and chairs with sun umbrellas for shade. The photos we viewed had the most picturesque views of beautiful scenery and surroundings. The reviews were relatively good, or so we thought. It was only in hindsight that we realized that many of the reviews were from many years ago, and hadn’t been updated. What could go wrong?…Basically, in a nutshell, we got it wrong! So wrong!

Our three hour bus journey from Kampot to Sihanoukville was the stuff that nightmares are made of. We had been advised not to travel after darkness fell as the roads were in such dangerous condition that there was a really high risk that we might not arrive at our destination in one piece, if at all. And so we opted for an early afternoon bus ride with a private company that seemed to have a relatively decent safety record. The bus was basically a converted mini-van that we shared with other westerners who were brave enough to take the risk of travelling by road. The World Health Organisation has raised concerns for many years about the high rate of road deaths in Cambodia, pointing out that it is the leading cause of death in the country. Over 2,000 people on average are killed every year and in 2018 a further 5,539 people suffered serious injuries. Compare this to our own statistics of c. 150 road deaths each year in Ireland and it brings some perspective to what Cambodia is dealing with. The roads are death traps! Regulations and rules of the road are practically non-existent and the lack of money being invested in building roads, let alone maintaining them is clearly evident. To travel short distances, there are small “Tuk Tuks” which are basically motorbikes that pull you along on a seated cart, with luggage tied on to the same cart with bungee cords. However, their ability to travel long distances is limited. There is literally no public transport in Cambodia, albeit one train runs from Phnom Penh (midland Cambodia) to Sihanoukville daily, and so we had no choice but to take the risk of travelling by bus. The bus travelled like a snake along main traffic filled roads. At points of the journey the bus driver couldn’t see the road in front of us because of the clouds of dust rising from traffic travelling in the opposite direction, and there were a few ‘near misses’ as we sped along what was left of pot-holed roads swerving to avoid both them and oncoming traffic. We were certainly getting the “how the locals live” experience as we had signed up for on this journey. The saying “be careful what you wish for” came to mind on numerous occasions during this particular part of our trip! 😱 With a huge sigh of relief from everyone when we disembarked in the city of Sihanoukville and changed over to a local Tuk-Tuk which took us a few more kilometers along just as treacherous roads to our final stop, Otres Beach 1 along the coast.

On the face of it, when we pulled up outside the resort, (albeit in darkness), it looked relatively ok. We rocked up to the bar in the middle of the restaurant and introduced ourselves. A friendly Cambodian guy checked us in and proceeded to show us to a row of lovely bamboo cabins that flanked the fringes of the restaurant. As we made our way to our cabin, out of the corner of my eye I was sure I spotted a large rat running into the one next door. But it was late and I was tired and thought I was imagining things. Until we closed the door behind us and above our heads, scurrying along the beam over our bed was the biggest rat I had ever seen in my entire life. It was the size of a small kitten! In shock, we both agreed that under no circumstances were we staying in this cabin and quickly made our way to the bar area again. Nearing tears I explained that we could not possibly stay in a room where there were rats running around. He kindly transferred us, temporarily, to a room above the restaurant, off the ground floor, until, he assured us, the problem would be resolved the following morning. Reluctantly we agreed to climb the wooden stairs to another bedroom at the top, with floor lino for wallpaper and just one bed in the centre of the floor. We slept very little until the sun came up the next morning. The ocean view from the window of the room was spectacular, and the comforting sounds of the waves lapping against the shore calmed everything down. Temporarily! Our bathroom was a communal bathroom with showers and a sink at the entrance to the building. My first attempt at having a shower failed miserably when I discovered that the water was a trickle of freezing cold water, and that the sink offered only the same. “Maybe it might improve after breakfast” I thought. And so we sat for breakfast in the vast open space of the restaurant and placed our order. Lying in the middle of the floor in front of me was a clearly neglected female dog, yelping in pain and biting aggressively at her front legs where her fur had been bitten away exposing large areas of pink flea infested flesh. Being covered with fleas, she was biting and scratching and yelping trying to ease the horrifying discomfort she was in. She circled the floor trying to bite at her tail continuously as her yelping intensified. And then another dog appeared out of nowhere with the same neglected look and biting and scratching continuously. These dogs freely walked in and out of the kitchen of the restaurant and having eaten one small portion of my breakfast, I decided, there and then, that we needed to find somewhere else to eat at the very least, and to stay. As we waited for our new cabin to be readied, I agreed to hold off and take a day on the beach first before making any decisions. I was upset. Seeing dogs in this condition and rats in our room was taking its toll on me and so I made my way into the ocean for a swim, to try to get my head together and figure out how to get out of a ten day stay at this nightmare of a place, and what options we had to stay somewhere else. We made our way out of the resort for a walk to scour the area for a place to eat that was relatively clean. As we walked along the road, my worst nightmare came to pass. Right outside the resort, on the side of every road, were piles and clearly weeks of garbage stacked and sprawled along the streets. The putrid smell was unbearable. I wanted to run and hide and find somewhere clean and safe, but there was nowhere. Each place was as bad as the next! No wonder there were rats! Mangy, undernourished, neglected dogs, scratching themselves vigorously, were lying around outside every building in the searing heat. Only kept by local businesses for the purposes of killing rats it appeared. That evening, on returning to our resort, we sat on a couch near the restaurant floor and witnessed rats running back and forth across the floor every few minutes. It was rampant with these vermin and even with four flea-infested dogs (another two appeared out of nowhere) keeping watch, these rats weren’t intimidated and weren’t going anywhere. As soon as one was killed, another would appear.

When I asked a local boy working in a nearby restaurant, who was responsible for dumping all of the rubbish on the streets, … his response was “the Chinese”?!! Unsure that he understood my question properly, I was desperate to find out what he meant and what was going on in the area. A friend of mine who had visited Sihanoukville only a few years earlier explained that this was not her experience of staying at the same location. On seeing some of my photos, she explained that it was certainly not like this before and that something was clearly going on in the city to bring it to what I was seeing today.

I had noticed a number of lavishly decorated, brightly lit, Chinese gambling casinos en-route to our accommodation that looked very much out of place against the backdrop of the poverty stricken Cambodian homes we passed along the road. It was time to talk with the locals and foreigners in the area to see what was going on. It turns out that more than 30 casinos catering exclusively for Chinese gamblers have been built in the city and there are another 70 under construction. That was the reason that the city looked like a building site at every turn! As we spoke to more and more of the local people we discovered that Cambodian businesses have been forced to close and thousands of tenants turfed out of their homes in order to make prime land available to not only Chinese investors, but to gang-lords and mafia. The local people have become hostile to Chinese visitors and tourists and they are understandably angry. Implying that the Chinese are responsible for dumping rubbish outside businesses to the point that local businesses cannot function because of rats etc. making businesses untenable to the point of closure, might only be said by the local people out of anger, but it begs the question as to the power, or lack of power that these local people have against such huge Chinese conglomerates taking over their city. The Cambodian people themselves can never work or play at these glittering multi-million dollar casinos as it is illegal for any Cambodian to gamble, let alone work in these playgrounds of the rich Chinese. To add insult to injury the Cambodian Prime Minister has embraced this Chinese investment (neighboring countries have not). The southern coast of Cambodia is now home to $4.2bn worth of power plants and offshore oil operations, all owned by Chinese companies. The Chinese businesses are obviously attracted to the tax free haven that has been offered to them by the Cambodian government. Naturally there is rising hostility between the locals and the Chinese arriving in their thousands. But hang on! If the Chinese are investing all of this money buying up prime land and building huge casinos and hotels; opening businesses and setting up offshore oil operations. Where is all this money being reinvested by the Cambodian Government for the local people? And yet, this is never questioned by the local people on any large scale? And why? Because they can’t! Because if they do they risk their lives and that of their families for raising any concerns about their government! It’s as simple as that! So the Chinese get the blame and the local people deal with living in even more horrific conditions than before. And no one helps them. Sure it’s a democracy…why would anyone interfere?!!! (Eye roll). Yes, the wealthier Cambodians are most likely gaining from all of this Chinese investment, but the local small businesses and ordinary poor Cambodian families are being run out of their homes to live in dire conditions under tarpaulin sheltered hovels in filth and dirt. They are down-trodden and bear all the signs of people that are wonderfully welcoming to the non-Chinese foreigner, warm and kind, but people that clearly feel that they have no hope for their future and that of their children. Their homes have become multi-million dollar casinos, and basically no-one gives a damn. Not even they care anymore about their surroundings. Piles of rubbish can be burned away. They didn’t even have the will to do this. No will to bother about hygiene and basic sanitation for themselves, let alone for us tourists! And again, clearly the link between poor sanitation and health did not ring through for them. Without a proper education system for its people, this is what happens! What corrupt government wants an informed electorate?!!! And what I was seeing, was the result of this!

(Photo: A home in Sihanoukville, Cambodia)

Another piece of advice that we received within the first two days of our arrival was to stay no more than three days in the area. Foreigners are not safe in Sihanoukville. We were told stories of tourists’ movements being monitored by hardened criminals over a three day period, and once a pattern of movement is established they go in for the kill, robbing and beating tourists for their valuables. Of Chinese gangs and drug-lords shooting people in broad daylight on the streets. Stories of foreign girls being raped and beaten were far too many for me to feel safe in this city. And bringing a crime to the attention of the police is pointless. We heard stories where badly injured tourists tried to follow up with the police about their attacks, only to be told that if they paid the police money they might “consider” trying to solve it. It was time for us to abandon ship and find a safer place to stay until we could return for our flight to Australia. By day three, having been given another room on the ground floor, I had not slept for longer than two hours each night with the sound of rats scurrying around. By then, I had had a serious “head-to-head” with the manager of our resort about having dogs on the premises that were being totally neglected. Freaking out at him when he made feeble excuses as to why the owner of the premises and the dogs was not having them cared for and treated for fleas and whatever other godforsaken disease they happened to have. I’d had enough! It was time to grab a Tuk Tuk and head for a boat that would take us to an island, Koh Rong Samloen, off the mainland and away from this “Hell on Earth”! A place, I hoped, where I could shower and clean my teeth without the noise of rats and dogs and the putrid smell of garbage permeating in my nose at every turn. What was very much on my mind at that point was how lucky we were that we could afford to “run away” from this hell. The local people living here have nowhere to run. No matter how bad it gets, this is their only existence. For them there is no escape! In Cambodia, one out of every eight children born dies before his or her 5th birthday from diseases associated with these poor unhygienic conditions. For every 1,000 babies born in rural Cambodia, 170 die in their first year, with most of these deaths occurring in the first month of life. Another 33 plus out of this 1,000 die before their 5th birthday. It has one of the highest infant mortality rates in Asia. Malnourished mothers are uneducated and are unaware of the benefits of immunization and therefore their children are exposed to so many illnesses. The lack of knowledge on how to treat children for basic illnesses such as diarrhea as a result of poor sanitization results in a huge number of deaths. And this is happening in 2018! 2018!!!! 🤬🤬🤬😡😡😡. And yes, it makes for depressing reading! Yes it makes for …”let me turn this off” reactions! Yes, I would often do the same when pictures of poor people from third world countries flashed up on the screen in front of me. But to see it, in all its glory…the reality of what’s happening in some of these countries. The conditions that people are living in as we jump into a warm bed at night time after a nice dinner and a few beers. The frustration of not being able to do anything that would make any sort of a meaningful difference, apart from raising awareness and a few attempts at raising money … because we’re dealing with a government who controls all of this. A government who controls all of the charitable donations made to its people, for its people, that never reaches its people in any real sense. The huge efforts and obstacles that NGO’s and charitable organizations have to overcome to even begin helping these people! It’s an “eyes-wide open” moment that changes you, to the very core of your being. What we have seen cannot ever be unseen and everyone, or should I say every western foreigner that we met along the way, had the very same experience. In 2018, people should NOT have to live like this! But what is the solution? The biggest question … what is the solution????

With a huge sense of relief, we boarded a boat that would take us to a safer place. We arrived on the island of Koh Rong Samloen early that morning, a boat journey of only 40 minutes, to a room that was clean, with a running shower (albeit the water was cold), and a proper toilet and wash hand basin with a full stream of water flowing from the tap. And not a sign of a rat! It was heaven and even more so when we arrived at the local café to find it immaculately clean with lovely hot food on the menu. And while it boasted that it had electricity for 24 hours per day, this wasn’t the case. But considering what we had left behind, the lack of electricity was a small price to pay for providing us with a safer and cleaner environment. We took a stroll across to the other side of the island (only a few kilometres away) along the white sandy beach, through the island’s jungle, where monkeys lurked and signs were pinned to trees advising us not to feed them, again, due to their tendency to give pretty serious bites to the naïve tourists trying to attract them. It was on this walk that we bumped into the most wonderful, funny, Malaysian guy, Lucas, who had travelled to the island alone and asked if he could join us on our walk. And am I glad we agreed. He was a breath of fresh air and after a few lessons from him on how to make seats for ourselves on the beach from the leaves on the nearby trees, and some more such tips, we made our way back to the local café to spend the evening being totally entertained by this wonderful soul. We shared so many stories about his and our travels and said farewell to him at the end of the night, as he was leaving for his onward journey the following morning. Early the next morning, just after the sun rose, I heard a rapping on our front window. With a fuzzy head, and even fuzzier hair, I opened the door and it was Lucas! He was on his way to the boat and called to say yet another goodbye to us. Now Lucas is the type of person that has the ability to bring a beaming smile to the face of anyone he meets, just by looking at him. He’s colourful and mischievous and I felt I knew him forever even though we had only spent one day with him. He was exactly what we needed right there and then. A godsend and medicine for our souls! We spent only three days on this island, and to be honest, I could have stayed forever. I had contemplated coming home at one point while in Sihanoukville. I was ready to abandon our trip altogether, but after our stay at Koh Rong Samloen, it settled me somewhat and gave me some extra vigor and enthusiasm to continue the journey and to move on to yet another island nearby, Koh Rong. Could any more Koh Rong? 😛😛😛

(Photo: Lucas, Colm and Me on the island of Koh Rong Samloen after our escape)

Arriving on the pier to catch our boat, we came across two other couples who were touring Cambodia. One couple from Finland, and another from Holland. Sharing stories again with these people as we sailed out onto the Gulf of Thailand was just wonderful. They too had been shocked at what they had seen as they travelled through Cambodia and it formed the basis of much of our conversation as we travelled. We reached the Island within a couple of hours and arrived at our accommodation in the early evening. On arrival, we were greeted by none other than David, a 73 year old Irish man who lived and worked at the resort, and who offered us an extra warm welcome when he saw our Irish passports! We spent the next few evenings sitting in his company in the restaurant, enthralled by his story telling. Stories of his family in Ireland, of him growing up in Dublin and the time he spent as a student at Trinity College majoring in English. About his journey since leaving Ireland over 40 years ago, never to return, and his decision to live in Asia since. Learning about his life experiences while living in Asia was fascinating. His insight into how the powers that be operated in Cambodia offered us some explanation as to what we had just experienced in Sihanoukville. He told us stories of what he had witnessed during the years that he had lived here and kept us riveted to our chairs on many of those story-telling nights. During the days we walked to the nearby village of Prek Svay where we met with local children at a nearby run down dilapidated school. A school where the playgrounds swings, slides and see-saws had long since given up the ghost. David explained that many of the beautiful children that we met on the way to the village would most likely not be aware of what a proper playground looked like, let alone ever had the joy of playing in one. With 300 pupils attending the school and only 3 teachers, education isn’t a priority for the children of the village, and there is really no incentive for them to attend school. We suggested to David that we might take another trip to the school the following day to see for ourselves what the possibilities might be to provide a basic swing, slide and play area for the children. David immediately put us in touch with a local man, Mr. Hun, who lived and worked in the village, giving up his time freely to the locals to teach them cooking, English and about how important it is to protect their environment by disposing of their garbage correctly. Mr. Hun works alongside the village “Chief”and is a highly respected individual amongst his community. We travelled back to Prek Svay the next day and met with Mr. Hun. He struck me as an almost angelic figure, who devoted his whole life to improving the lives of the people of the area. We spoke at length about how we might be able to provide some play equipment for the children at the school in an effort to encourage them to go, and in particular ensuring that any funds raised would be used for just that and only that.

(Photo: A little boy we met on our walk to the village of Prek Svay, Koh Rong island)

After much to-ing and fro-ing and discussions with both David and Mr. Hun, David happily agreed to arrange for the transportation of any play equipment we could fund by arranging for a boat belonging to a friend of his to transport it free of charge from mainland Cambodia to the island. Mr. Hun also explained that if we could fund the play equipment that the local men in the village would work to install it in the grounds of the school for the children. Both men reckoned it could be provided for less than €3,000. I have recently since set up a “Go Fund Me” page where I’m now trying to raise as near as possible to the €3,000 target for this project. To date, there is €250 in the pot! So any more contributions for this, no matter how small, would be greatly appreciated! (Link below).

Our time in Koh Rong was just as wonderful as that in Koh Rong Samloen. Our stay at both islands was a lifesaver for us. But the day was coming soon when we had to go back to Sihanoukville, just for one night, to catch our flight onwards to Perth in Australia. I dreaded going back, but we did our research properly this time and booked a room at a resort that was totally secluded, albeit near to where we had previously stayed. We had come across it on one of our walks and it was the nearest we could find to a clean and comfortable place to stay before we travelled.

The night before we left the island we had one more thing to do. David had told us about some bio-luminescent plankton that were visible under the water at a stretch of the beach not too far from where we were staying. He thought we might like to enjoy the experience before we left. With his directions memorized, and his advice that we had to find the location at night time when it was totally dark to enjoy the full display of flickering lights shooting from the plankton as we walked through it on the waters edge, we headed off with torches in hand, and excitement in our heads at what we were about to find. He told us that the plankton lay below the water in the sand at a point between two large bushes. A large tree stood between the bushes, and if we followed the line of that tree along the sand to the water, that was where the plankton lay. After a few attempts at running into the water with no success, suddenly out of nowhere, between my toes, sparks of beautiful pink and red lights shot up through my toes like magic fairy dust. Barely visible to begin with until I walked further into the water, there, right at my feet were more and more shooting starlike lights surrounding my ankles. It was breathtaking and yet another, more positive “eyes-wide open” moment. This time, I was so delighted that this was a vision that once seen, cannot be unseen! It was the most perfect way to spend our last night on Koh Rong. We left the following morning on the boat that would take us back to Sihanoukville. David came along to wave us off. A sadness came over me momentarily as the boat left the island and David stood on the pier waving. I wondered at that moment would I ever get to see him again, to spend even one more glorious evening in his company, learning so much about his adventures. I really hope that some day soon I will get to travel back to spend some more time with him, captivated by his stories.

(Photo: Our wonderful friend David. Koh Rong Island, Cambodia)

And so we spent an uneventful night back in Sihanoukville (well uneventful in the sense of things I can write about here…ahemmm 😂😂😂😂) thankfully. We left for the airport, relieved to be leaving, but all the richer for the lessons we had learned on our journey through Cambodia, and thankful for the fantastic people that we met along the way.

And oh boy! The thoughts of a hot shower and a washing machine was a dream about to come true once we hit Australia! But we had a stopover at Bali enroute! Another eventful first-time experience was yet to come!

More to follow…. 😛😁😜


(Photo: The home of one of the “luckier” families in Kep, Cambodia)

Early on Wednesday morning 24th October 2018, we headed to Ha Tiên in Vietnam to meet our escort and interpreter Mr. The, who would accompany us across the Vietnamese/Cambodian border. We had heard from a number of reliable sources that it was a relatively common occurrence for tourists to encounter corrupt officials who would impose absurd costs for visas on foreigners travelling out of Vietnam and onwards to Cambodia. In fact there are men and women who surround the border waiting for vulnerable tourists to arrive on the pretence that they will help them with border officials to have ease of passage at minimal cost. The flip side of this scenario is that these men and women charge a huge sum of money to tourists for their “service”. Mr. The had come recommended to us by a westerner living in Ha Tiên to help us avoid “hidden” costs that often “suddenly” arise on the whim of an official at the Border Control Office.

Mr. The, a dark-skinned middle-aged Cambodian man with a gentle tone to his voice greeted us in Ha Tiên and explained to us in broken English what we needed to do that morning. He was very much aware of the effect that corruption was taking on the tourist industry in his country and wanted to assist foreigners as much as possible to counteract what was going on for many years at these border crossings. His fee was just €40 which included the travel costs, and seemed a small price to pay to avoid any potential difficulties we might encounter had we have travelled on our own. A taxi arrived to take us to the exit point of Vietnam. We walked across the Vietnamese border and entered the office on the other side to have our visas processed by the Cambodian officials. Mr. The followed our taxi on his motorbike and made himself known to the uniformed officials on our arrival. They sat behind their desks looking serene and intimidating, using abrupt hand gestures instead of words. Mr. The stepped in immediately and spoke to them respectfully and almost pleadingly in their native tongue. Within minutes, more abrupt hand signals and our paperwork was processed with no “additional” costs added ad infinitum! Mr. The quickly guided us to another car waiting for us (and our luggage) on the Cambodian side of the border to take us to our first stop, Kep, just 30kms from the border. It felt like we were taking part in an old James Bond movie, and that Sean Connery would appear out of nowhere at any moment in his specially equipped Aston Martin. I was quite relieved to see our luggage being tossed into the boot and not us! 🙏🙏🙏

(Photo: The border crossing on the Vietnamese/Cambodian border)

Having spent almost two months travelling through Vietnam, I was very much shocked at the poverty I witnessed there. I expected that Cambodia would be very much the same, however, I was in for yet a greater shock as we drove along the practically non-existent roads to our next destination. The fact that this country is one of the poorest countries in the world became obvious as we drove. White malnourished cows wandered along the roadside. A large white cow tethered to a post inside a corrugated iron shelter caught my eye. I assumed it was a cattle shelter. And as we spluttered along the pot-holed roads, barely hanging onto the teeth in our heads with the jolting of the car, I spotted children sitting on top of wooden boards that ran along the width of the shelters, balanced on boxes to raise them off the muddy floor below. There were no lights, just total darkness inside. In some of the shelters, young adults lay sleeping on these boards. As we passed more and more of these corrugated boxes, I quickly realized that these structures were in fact homes! The luckier families live in these I’ve been told. The not so lucky ones live under sheets of tarpaulin held up by bamboo sticks. As we came closer to Kep, homes became a little bit more sturdy, with many old Cambodian style wooden houses built on stilts to protect them from the flooding that comes with their “wet season”. But even these houses are not fit for purpose in many instances and would be considered too dangerous to use as a home in Ireland. In all my lifetime, I never ever realized that this type of poverty existed in the world today! My understanding of “poverty” was the worse case scenarios I’d come across in the western world. Seeing what I was seeing as I travelled the roads into Kep and beyond, has been one of the most life-changing lessons I have learned while travelling on this journey. This is not “poverty” as we know it. This is Cambodian people living in conditions the equivalent of what we would deem apocalyptic. Hell on earth basically! And sadder still, they do not know. This is all they know! They have no way of accessing media from the outside world and so they live in these hellish conditions totally unaware of how the rest of the world live! Or maybe it’s better that they don’t I guess? As I grew more and more saddened by what I was seeing, the biggest question for me was “WHY”? WHY? Why are people who are born here expected to live like this? Why? Who is to blame for this? And why … just WHY? If people in other parts of the world live with their only worry being where the next designer bag or car is coming from, or indeed, me, who had just spent three weeks enjoying the wonders of an idyllic paradise island only 100 kms away, WHY are these people living like this??? By the time we reached our accommodation in Kep I wanted to delve into the history of these people, their Government to try to find some logical answer to the questions that were running through my mind at 100 mph. However, with limited access to Wi-fi, my questions would take longer to research and I would have to rely on local knowledge for answers.

Yet again, when we arrived at our clean and comfortable, but very basic, one roomed Cambodian style home raised on stilts, I was hit with pangs of guilt that we had at least a bed, electricity and running water. The homes we had just passed didn’t have any such luxuries! Once we had settled in, we rented scooters for the princely sum of $6 per day (princely by Cambodian standards. The average household income for a Cambodian family is just over $2 per day) and set off to explore the locality further. What we discovered was mostly the ghostly remains of old derelict French style buildings hidden behind large walls with padlocked gates, clearly abandoned many years ago by the French who occupied many of the finer buildings in Cambodia almost 150 years ago. Evidence of the grim atrocities that this country has endured over the last 50 years during the war in Vietnam is everywhere. And even more so, the impact of the genocide that went on during the years of the Khmer Rouge reign, led by the well renowned Monster who was the Head of State back in the 1970’s, Pol Pot! Yet again, the word apocalyptic best describes the ruins that remain, not only of the buildings, but of the bridges and roads and whole infrastructure in most parts of Cambodia. This country has not even come close to the beginnings of recovery from its past, and it won’t, because the existing Government won’t allow it. The existing Government is basically made up of the lower members of the earlier Khmer Rouge regime, (the higher members having either died from old age or having been imprisoned for purely international PR purposes rather than to punish them for what they put these people through during their reign). There was an eerie silence throughout the countryside as we travelled, and again, a sense of doom and desolation. We travelled onwards towards Kep beach where we found the market square with young people selling street food from their simple stalls. Buddhist Monks from the local Monastery strolled along the beach in their orange robes, skimming stones into the water. We stopped for a cold drink at one of the bars and sampled yet more of the refreshing lime and peach juices, and a dip in the warm water of the Gulf of Thailand was a must. In the evenings, small monkeys waited patiently on the walls by the beach for the last of us humans to leave, allowing them to feast on the days scraps of food left behind. We had been forewarned not to approach them for fear of them dishing out a severe bite. Their cuteness is an illusion that many tourists fall foul of when attempting to get near to them, offering them food in exchange for a possible cuddle. It doesn’t happen! They are vicious and thankfully we knew this in advance, as the novelty of these creatures is quite enticing if we didn’t.

Over the days we spent in Kep, we came across groups of impoverished children happily playing along dirt roads. When we stopped to talk to them, the older children watched us cautiously with fear clearly evident in their huge brown eyes, while the younger ones (no more than 4 years old), approached us excitedly to examine us and our scooters. They were a sight to behold!

(Photo: Children playing on the roadside in Kep, Cambodia)

Another very unusual part of Cambodian society is the absence of older people, i.e. people from 60 years and older. Over 50% of the population of Cambodia is made up of people under the age of 22 years old. Only 4% of the overall population of now 16m people are over 65! A shocking statistic! While travelling throughout other countries in Asia there were elderly men and women everywhere. China, in particular, where grandparents are the main carers for their grandchildren are a huge part of society. However, there are very few people over the age of 60 still living in Cambodia. Why? Well most of them were murdered by the Khmer Rouge back in the 1970’s. Demographics from a number of census records from 1947 through to 1981 shows continuous population growth up to and including 1971 with an average growth of approximately 30% every ten years. However between 1971 and 1981 there was a sudden drop in the population of over 8%. Over 2 million people were murdered or died from malnutrition, which goes some way towards explaining the huge deficit of elderly people living in Cambodia today.

And again, the same question, WHY? The answer, genocide in the main! So I had not really been conscious of this guy Pol Pot, the Prime Minister of Cambodia from 1976-1979 before coming to Cambodia. I had seen the movie the Killing Fields as a young girl, but living in Ireland, I couldn’t relate to it on any real level. Yes, it moved me. I remember that much about it. But no more than any other movie did…. the old romantic ones where I cried at the end, put the popcorn away and then got up and moved on and forgot about it. The Killing Fields at that time to me was “just another movie”. I had no real connection or knowledge or understanding about the background to it. What young child would I suppose? But here, being here. Seeing the poverty and the carnage that the years of war left behind made me want to watch it again. And I did. But this time in a whole different light.

(Photo: Prime Minister of Cambodia Pol Pot 1976-1979)

It would be too detailed and lengthy to go into the whole history of Cambodia under this man’s reign as Prime Minister and leader of the Khmer Rouge. A shortened version which gives some insight into the poverty that remains in Cambodia is that Pol Pot came from a wealthy Cambodian farming family. He struggled with his education, failed miserably at many of his “prestigious” exams and eventually went on to study Marxism-Leninism amongst the wealthy aristocratic society in Paris in France, eventually returning to Cambodia, becoming involved in politics. The Vietnam war rained terror on Cambodia during the 1970’s. Both the Vietnamese and the United States Army basically bombed the s**t out of Cambodia in an attempt to prevent North Vietnamese soldiers using it as a passageway from Hanoi in North Vietnam to Saigon in the South to attack the southern Vietnamese people. With war escalating between the Vietnamese and the Cambodians in the 1970s, Pol Pot was elected Prime Minister of Cambodia in 1976. His vision was to establish an agrarian socialist society. Probably influenced by his Marxist ideology! His aim was to have a self-sufficient state. He forced those working and living in the cities in Cambodia into the countryside and his intention, unrealistic as it was, was to force his own people to be self reliant and successful by working on collective farms. His expectations were delusionally high in the context of the amount of work that he expected from the Cambodian people. Those who failed to reach his unrealistic and unachievable targets, working in horrific conditions, were tortured and starved at best and executed or buried alive at worst. And those who objected to his ideology were viciously murdered by his party, the Khmer Rouge. He blamed the evacuation of the Cambodian people on the threat of American bombings on the cities, and the Cambodian people were none the wiser and obeyed his orders. They believed the evacuation would be temporary. The Cambodian people became peasants to the Government and were starved, religion was banned, minority groups exterminated, and educated people executed for fear of them retaliating. Anyone who wore glasses was immediately executed on the grounds that they were reading too much and likely to be educated. In the rice fields, in order to keep the output targets high, workers’ rations of rice were taken to inflate the figures resulting in them dying of starvation. Today, some 20 years later, over 20,000 mass graves from the Khmer Rouge era have been discovered in Cambodia. It is estimated that this Monster Pol Pot and his party were responsible for the deaths of over 2 million people during their reign. In 1998 Pol Pot was summoned by an international tribunal to account for his actions during his reign, however, he died (conveniently) that night. According to his wife he died of “heart failure”, however when his wife refused to hand over his body for an autopsy and had him cremated, suspicions were raised that he had in fact taken an overdose and killed himself. Almost 50 years later, a United Nations backed tribunal has convicted only three senior Khmer Rouge leaders of crimes against humanity. Some have died while waiting to go to trial…50 years later!??@. And while the senior figures are no longer in power, every dog on the street knows that the existing government is merely an extension of the same party, the Khmer Rouge! Cambodia is not a poor country per se. There is wealth and money there. It’s just not shared with the people. It’s put into the pockets of the current leaders. Greedy, heartless leaders who pass their own people every day living in squalid conditions, yet still line their own pockets with money. And no human rights organisation seems to be doing a goddamn thing about it! The excuse? It’s a democracy now and no longer a communist country?! Oh really? So the leader of the opposition party that apparently won the last election was executed in strange circumstances and a recount of the election result was called by the current leader Hun Sen! And imagine, when they recounted, Hun Sen’s party was found to be the winning party?! Ok then…lets not give a s**t and ignore what’s going on there so! Grrrrr!

Yet again I digress from our travels. But it’s important to know what’s happening in the world I believe. I didn’t know until we came here about the conditions that exist for people in Cambodia, and as I’ve pointed out before, all travel blogs are not glamorous. In this part of Cambodia there are no bikini bodies and muscle men lying on the beaches, other than foreigners. There are few holiday resorts per se! In fact, we left Kep after one week and travelled further north to the city of Kampot. To arrive into a western style resort was like stepping from one world into another. It was situated on the banks of a river where firefly danced at night and palm trees isolated it from the poverty that existed outside. It had a pool which was a blessing in temperatures of almost 40 degrees. Run by a wonderful guy from Holland called Hans, who left Europe in the 1970’s to come out to do refugee work in an effort to help the Cambodian people who had suffered at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. Now retired, he has made Cambodia his home and has set up this wonderful resort (and only resort) just outside the city. A few days there gave us time to refuel.

Little did we know how much we needed to before we reached our next destination of Sihanoukville, a major city further north, and a place we decided to visit for ten days because it was the only place along the west coast of Cambodia that allowed us to fly directly to our next destination, Perth, Australia.

If we thought we’d seen the worst of Cambodia, we hadn’t! Sihanoukville was yet to come!

….More to come!


Just 45kms west of the city of Ha Tiên on the western coast of Vietnam and Cambodia in the Gulf of Thailand, lies a beautiful underdeveloped paradise island called Phu Quoc. The island itself is surrounded by some 27 uninhabited smaller islands. Having earmarked Vietnam and Cambodia for our onward journey from China, we found some really interesting articles about this island. We read that it was practically unspoiled and untouched by the tourist industry. It has only recently been discovered as a potential tourist destination and already it’s been named the new “Bali” of Asia. We thought, why not take a trip there to see what everyone is raving about? Before it’s over-run with high rise hotels and the multi-million dollar tourist industry that is already planned for its future. Recently, the Ritz Carlton has begun construction on a new hotel on the island, along with many more hotels. Half of this small island is a protected natural park, with beautiful landscape for miles, and so it was a no-brainer to book a three week stay at a small resort on the west coast of the island in one of the main towns, Duong Dong.

One evening, just a few weeks before we left for Phu Quoc, my phone pinged with a message from a dear friend of mine back home, Irene. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I opened it. She was coming out to Asia to join me for a few weeks of my travels and asked where we would be in October! “Phu Quoc” I replied when we got chatting! “Oh…well if you put it like that, she said”…and then the penny dropped. Yes, that’s exactly what it sounds like when you say it fast 😂 “No, no, no”, I said. “It’s the name of the island off the west coast of Vietnam where we’ll be staying” I explained, in hysterics laughing. And so, within a matter of hours, Irene had booked into accommodation right next door to us in the Vela Phu Quoc Resort just outside Duong Dong. Now, I think it’s important to explain before going any further that this was Irene’s first time in Asia, so the usual sight of unfinished buildings and construction sites everywhere was not something that she was accustomed to, nor the living conditions in Asia generally. This is what the term “culture shock” was invented for I guess. I too had had my fair share of it travelling throughout some parts of Asia I must admit. And so the planning got underway for Irene’s long haul journey from Ireland to Asia. The excitement for both of us was palpable. Added to the sense of excitement was the fact that Irene was also bringing out with her some Irish cheese and bags of Tayto crisps! Oh the joys of the simple things in life when you’re away from home! Sure we were laughin’ 😂. Transporting Irish sausages and bacon was also considered, but discarded just as quickly, as Irene understandably couldn’t hack being banged up abroad for too long if it went wrong 💥

Irene, you see, is one of the most feminine of women I know. She has been my close friend for many years. It’s not unusual to meet her donning a beautiful flower tucked behind her ear, with her beautiful sun kissed blonde hair perfectly styled, her petiteness and long girly eyelashes wrapped around big glistening blue eyes, dressed to feminine perfection no matter what the circumstances. She has it all! Having spent almost a year travelling with my wonderful husband, trekking around in tee-shirts and jeans, Irene was like a whirlwind of fresh air to have around. Her happy and sunny disposition, her sense of childlike fun came just at the right time, and I was so excited at the prospect of spending a few weeks with her after all this time.

Irene’s arrival to Phu Quoc preceded ours by a few days. Her “culture shock” experience was hilarious to witness on occasions. While in Vientiane I received a message from her saying “it’s like a construction site here Martine, I don’t think you’re going to be too happy with it.. maybe I should say something to the resort owner?”. There were Kango hammers going at the small wee hours of the morning and all through the day. On arrival, we very quickly realized that this was everywhere, every resort, every building was being demolished and rebuilt, or extended etc. And that’s Asia! It’s something to be aware if you are considering travelling here. Noisy construction work is pretty much the norm and unavoidable, albeit bloody annoying. But it’s one of the very few downsides to experiencing this beautiful part of the world.

As sure as night follows day, as soon as Irene opened her door when we arrived, she was beaming with excitement from ear to ear with a beautiful pink flower pinned to her immaculately groomed hair. After lots of hugging and air kissing, we made our way down to the lovely restaurant on site and caught up with all our girly gossip to make plans for the following day. Bicycles were top of the list so we could begin exploring our surroundings the following morning.

I remember as a young girl cycling out past Dublin airport along the small country roads, with my girlfriends in tow, excited that my parents had given me the freedom for the first time to travel further than my nose and with the wonderful anticipation of finding new places as we travelled further and further away from home. Well, getting on a bike with Irene and Colm the following morning was the very same. I was 13 again! And with the same sense of excitement we headed off down the pot-holed roads of Phu Quoc, over dirt tracks where old cows with square bells tethered to their necks, (their eyelashes not a patch on Irene’s beautifully curled ones), looked on at us with curiosity as we passed by. And then the gasps! We arrived slap bang into paradise, to one of the most gobsmackingly picturesque beaches I had ever seen in my entire life! The sand was ice-cream white and just as soft! Palm trees everywhere and a little bamboo hut bar/restaurant with sun beds for us to lie on free of charge. Crystal clear blue water for us to swim in! But where was everyone? Only two people, aside from us, were sitting on this huge stretch of beach…how could it be possible that no-one else was here? That we had the whole beach to ourselves? We soon discovered that there are so many beaches on the island and that most of them remain undiscovered (as we had heard), and untouched! We had just found one of them! A secret beach that we had all to ourselves! Well, we felt like we’d hit the jackpot! Towels came out, and clothes came off and we ran into the warm sea to cool off from the heat of the early morning sun. All three of us, like children, spent the day splashing around in the water and lazing around on the beach until the sun went down over the horizon, drinking lime juice with fancy straws like it was going out of fashion. We were in heaven for sure! And this was our life for the first few days on the island. Cycling around, discovering yet another beach to explore…and continuously gasping with delight to find yet another gem, and huge tree swings to keep us occupied when we wanted to take a break from our endless dips in the sea.

Our next adventure was a boat trip to three of the islands that lay south of Phu Quoc, one of which is known as “Robinson Crusoe Island”. This was going to be fun! Snorkeling off the huge boat that took us from one island to the next. Each island more spectacular than the last. We spent hours snorkeling and swimming amongst spectacular coral reefs, with the most colourful fish and sea creatures. Visiting some more jaw-droppingly beautiful beaches, swinging on hammocks and eating some of Phu Quoc’s most famous dishes! My favorite was chicken wings smothered in the island’s really famous fish sauce. It sounds incompatible with chicken, but trust me it was absolutely delicious. Phu Quoc is renowned for it worldwide. There isn’t enough of it to export to other countries so the only place you can get it is on the island. It’s sweet and syrupy and really doesn’t taste too much like fish at all. Also, pepper farms are sprinkled everywhere on the island, and some of the pepper sauces served with food are to die for. Irene became addicted to the large coconuts on sale at every street corner. When I say “large”, they were often not much smaller than herself 🧚‍♀️🧚‍♀️🧚‍♀️. Not a day went by that she wasn’t sipping coconut water from a huge green ball of a coconut

Our trip wouldn’t be complete without a trip to mainland Vietnam. Irene had mentioned that she would love to see what the mainland was about and so, without further ado, we booked a boat to takes us for an overnight trip just 45kms across the water to the city of Ha Tiên. Now this was probably the most hilarious part of witnessing Irene’s culture shock! Walking around the markets on the quay when we got off the boat and watching her gagging as we passed the fish market, with sea creatures staring up at her that I wouldn’t even begin to guess what they were. At one point she was beginning to retch and we thought it best to move along. 😂😂😂. We carried on through the fruit market and into the area where people were haggling for live fowl. We came across a bicycle with large baskets on either side of it. In the baskets were huge live chickens and turkeys squawking and flaying their wings trying to escape. Their legs tied together and pinned to the baskets. One of the traders, noticing my discomfort looking on, proceeded to pick one up and teasingly chased me around the market with it, much to the amusement of all of the other traders! I was terrified but hysterical with laughter as she chased me from stall to stall to the roars of laughter from all of the other traders. A fabulous moment shared with all of the hardworking women at the market that day led to chats and a wonderful welcome to us naïve and privileged travellers who had come to have a peek into their world for just one day. I have the height of admiration and respect for the women throughout Asia who spend long hours doing backbreaking work at these markets to earn a crust for their families. I know I would never be able to endure for one hour what they do every single day of their lives, and I know that Irene felt the same having met these people on our visit to Ha Tiên. Witnessing the extreme poverty of the people living on the outskirts of the city, similar to what I had seen in Saigon, was gut wrenching. There are no words to describe the desolate conditions that many of the Vietnamese people have to live in. Watching poverty-stricken elderly women pushing heavy carts through the markets just to earn enough to feed and clothe themselves is a disgrace in this day and age! Enough said…I feel another rant coming on, so moving swiftly along…

Our accommodation in Ha Tiên was basic and clean. We stayed at a Hostel, with an Entrance Hall that had gold-painted walls from floor to ceiling and Buddhist statues everywhere. Thankfully, that color theme didn’t run through to our bedrooms. We settled into our rooms across the hall from each other. Well, that was until I saw the picture hanging over our bed! A young naked woman covered in flowers smiled down at me from the picture frame! Nope! There was no way I was having that sort of competition in my bedroom! And even moreso, over my marital bed?! No wayyy! So I quickly dashed over to Irene’s room to see if we could casually “switch” rooms. Oh No! An even more beautiful naked woman hung on her wall! Back to my room, I was wrecking my brain for a solution. And I found one! A bit ingenious if I may say so myself (see the picture below). Maybe not very discreet, but beggars can’t be choosers! 😂😂😂

We ventured out and about around Ha Tiên and came upon some of the most ornamental and colourful Buddhist Temples. We dipped in and out of as many of them as we could, joining in meditations and lighting candles for everyone we thought might need a bit of Buddhist intervention along the way. As the sun went down, we lazed by the banks of the Giang Thanh River sipping a Gin and Tonic before heading back to our Hostel for the night, with me feeling quite happy with myself knowing that that floosy in my room was well out of sight 😂

Before leaving to return to Phu Quoc Island the following morning we decided to pop into the only bar in the city that served a good hearty English/Irish Breakfast, The Oasis. There we met the owner “Andy” who sat and chatted to us about our travels and gave us some tips about travelling on to Cambodia which was next on our travel plans. Explaining to us about the corruption that can go on when tourists try to cross over the border from Vietnam to Cambodia, where Visa application costs can be ramped up on the whim of anyone we might meet at the border control office, he offered to help us with our passage across. And so we arranged to return to his bar a week later before we crossed into Cambodia. Andy promised he would provide us with a local “negotiator” and a driver to take us to the Vietnamese side of the border and then another driver to meet us on the Cambodian side who would take us safely to our accommodation. Andy, in a nutshell, was a godsend for us at that point of our journey.

With only a couple of days left of Irene’s holiday on Phu Quoc Island, no trip would be complete without a girlie pampering day together. So off we trotted to the local Vietnamese beauty parlor for massages, manicures, pedicures and whatever else we could have done for a quarter of the price we would normally pay for them at home. Delighted with ourselves that we had managed to avoid the “Drag Queen” look when we were done, we of course had to have a little celebration with none other than some more lime juice and coconut water. No day passed without us downing litres of the stuff. 🍹🍹🍹.

Sure enough, all good things must come to an end. We said our goodbyes, sadly, to Irene one morning as she headed off for her return trip home, but feeling very much rejuvenated and the better for having spent such a wonderful fortnight with her. We were ready and motivated to go on with the rest of our journey.

With only a few days left ourselves on this paradise island, we decided to take a trip across to the eastern side of the island to have a glimpse at what that held. An early morning bus took us to Sao Beach, where we spent a few hours rambling around. While it is a beautiful beach, the west side of the islands beaches are far superior. We stopped off for a visit to the famous Fish Sauce Factory and the Pepper Farms and took a tour of the notorious prison camp “Coconut Prison” where North Vietnamese soldiers were held and tortured during the Vietnamese war. Even with tourists gathered at the camp, the silence was eerie and the shock of what went on here many years ago was clearly sketched on every persons face who had come to see it. It is not a comfortable experience and I was happy to leave it and return to Duong Dong that evening. It was yet another learning experience and one that again left me shocked at the atrocities that human beings can inflict on each other when brainwashed enough.

In Phu Quoc, there are no “seasons” as we know them. There is only a “wet season” and a “dry season”. Our stay was right at the end of the “wet” season. While most of the torrential tropical rain fell at night time, with spectacular thunder and lightning storms, on the day we travelled back to Duong Dong from the east side of the island, one of the heaviest rainstorms hit. Within minutes of our journey back, roads turned into rivers. Shopkeepers were up to their knees in rainwater inside their tiny shops, desperately trying to put up barriers to keep the rain out and sweep out the rising levels of rainwater from inside. The roads have little or no drainage so the water rises rapidly. Thankfully we had boarded the bus before the worst of it hit, but the two hour journey back was pretty hair raising in parts, as the bus driver struggled to deal with the road conditions. Yet, by the time we arrived back and had our meal, the heat of the sun had dried up every inch of rainwater and it was as though it had never happened. The locals take this regular occurrence as part of the course during the wet season. They mop up and just get back to business within hours basically. Whatever damage is done is temporarily fixed until the next downpour. No insurance claims or payouts to victims of the weather…it’s just life in the eyes of the local people.

Our time on Phu Quoc Island was most definitely one of the highlights of our journey, and if we could we would have stayed much longer. Right now it is a paradise island where everything is cheap and affordable. Our stay at both the resort and the hostel in Ha Tiên cost us no more than €15 per night. Food and drink is extremely cheap and we paid for everything in dollars rather than the Vietnamese Dong (you can opt for either currency). But if you opt to use dollars, make sure to bring US Dollars with you as they cannot be got from the ATM machines on the island. Another red carrot they offer to tourists planning to travel to Phu Quoc is that if you travel through Vietnam directly to Phu Quoc a visa isn’t required, for up to maximum stay of 30 days. The beaches and surrounding islands are spectacular and are like nowhere else we have ever been. Clean and stunningly beautiful with some of the most amazing sunsets we have had the pleasure of seeing. We have been so lucky to have had the chance to spend time on this island before the mania of the tourist industry hits and possibly destroys it. And it will! There is evidence everywhere on the island that this is earmarked by the powers that be and the big guys in the hotel and tourism industry that major development is coming. There has been no provision made apparently for the impact on the island’s eco system which the locals are extremely concerned about. But being poor, they will have no say over the wealthy conglomerates plans to invade their home. We will most definitely be coming back someday to see for ourselves the changes that will happen in the next few years. In the meantime guys, if you get the chance, go visit it in its natural and raw state before it becomes yet another tourist trap. It has been an experience of a lifetime for us for sure!