The next day began in what was becoming a standard fashion: a walk to a train station. Actually, before that, we took advantage of the hotel’s breakfast room, and at the Hotel Mastino (the one beside McDonald’s in Verona), you get more than your average continental. There was an array of baffling coffee machines, a samovar with warmish water, and other contraptions such as one of those toasters that take half an hour to do half a toast, lukewarm eggs and bacon, and so on. But they also had fresh honeycomb and other things of interest, so we fed ourselves up on as much as we needed, packed the bags, and checked out, ready for the next stage of the journey.

We’d had on our list of things to see, ‘Juliette’s Balcony’, because, of course, we were In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, but, I suspect at around the 99% level, that the much advertised (and soon pay-to-view) balcony is another tourist board scam, like Bran Caste/Dracula’s Castle (more about that in the future). So, we hadn’t bothered with that and were once again on our way to somewhere else. This time, Innsbruck.

Why?

You mean, why were we visiting one of the top winter sports locations in Europe? Was it for the skiing? No, there hadn’t been as much snow as usual (global warming but no-one listening, was the cause, they said), and we had no intention of throwing ourselves off the famous Birgisel Ski Jump in the manner of Eddie the Beagle, or whoever – although Jenine did try to impersonate a ski jumper while on the Innsbruck station platform, with the jump distant behind her. However, with knees tucked and butt out, she looked like she was trying to pass a Käsekrainer and much hilarity ensued, although you can probably imagine the indignant complaints of ‘Mum! What are you doing? Stop it…’ from the teen.

We were going there because it was on our way to somewhere else, and we knew there would be snow and mountains – two things a young man growing up solely on Symi doesn’t see and hadn’t seen. Also, for me, a journey through the Brenner Pass sounded romantic. I don’t know why, but it sounds like something from an adventure, a Lord of the Rings kind of thing, where Legoman the elf says, ‘The sun shines this morning; there has been nighttime this night. We must take the pass of Breen.’

‘No!”’ thunders Grandelf. ‘We must risk the Pass of Brenner.’

Well, there was no risk, just miles of scenery none of us had seen before, snow on mountain peaks, amazing engineering on high road bridges and small villages by the grey-water streams alongside the tracks. In three and a half hours, the 9.01 from Verona took us all the way along the 271 Km route to the surprisingly interesting town of Innsbruck. I’d only driven past it before, on my own youthful Grand Tour back in the 90s, and from that, I remembered only office blocks and the usual stack-‘em-high housing. Things, in the centre of town, were and still are very different.

There was plenty to see, but after dumping our bags at the ‘Basic Hotel’, we set off immediately for the point of the day; the funicular and cable car up to Nordkette, also known as the Top of Innsbruck, though the very top was closed. We followed Harry the Map along the riverbank, over the road, around some stunning Baroque and Classical buildings, to a horrible modern thing which was the start of the route up the mountain, and about half an hour later, there we were, above the snowline.

That sounds awfully knowledgeable, doesn’t it? As if we were experienced mountaineers, retelling acts of great derring-do to a packed lecture hall. ‘We were above the snowline watching the spindrift coming off the summit of Piz Buin in the Silvretta Alps, and considering who would make the summit team…’

Yeah. No.

Neil and Harry grabbed the first available sledge, joined the queue of little’uns waiting to scream their way down 100 feet of snowy slope, then made snowballs and attacked each other with squeals and swear words. Jenine and I considered the view, the clean air and an Aperol Spritz.

It was one of those days when we were ‘lucky with the weather’, and there were to be many more. Although when you see the photos taken from the almost-top of the mountain, it looks cloudy and grey, that was all part of the spectacle. “The sun was white, as though chidden of God”, as Hardy wrote, setting a gloomy scene which doesn’t suit my scene, but allows me to show off that I know at least one line of poetry by Hardy. It wasn’t too windy, either, or even too cold (ha ha), and, later in the trip, we would have snow when it mattered, and the weather would be clear on other days. Watch out for blue skies in future posts. [Inserts winky emoji]

Lunch outside at 7,000 feet isn’t as bad as it sounds, and the soups and stews were spot on, and the cable car and funicular weren’t too busy, despite this being high winter season (because of Christmas rather than skiing, I suspect). Later, back at sea level, we were able to change and prepare for the evening, and while Neil and I were out searching for a pharmacy — I can’t remember what for; ChapStick, non-allergenic soap, warmth maybe — we received a message from the B Team to be back at the hotel by five, because they had a surprise for us. Eek.

The surprise began as a pleasant walk through the dusky streets, beside the Christmas market, through older streets and finally, to a large square and an even larger cathedral. The eighteenth-century Baroque cathedral of the Roman Catholic Diocese of Innsbruck, dedicated to the apostle Saint James, and known also as the Dom. St. Jakob. Why there? The reason was about to become clear, but first, there’s some backstory…

Yesterday in Venice, we took a peek inside a large church (I forget which one already), where I told H to ‘Come with me and don’t look back.’ We walked up the aisle towards the apse, and about halfway along, stopped, and I told him to turn around. That, for me, is the best way to see a church/cathedral; organ when one has been built up in the west gallery – and it was a reasonable sight. (See above.) In return, he’d looked for a similar sight in Innsbruck, and found the cathedral was open until six. When we entered, he said, ‘Follow me and don’t look back.’ This view was just as stunning, if not more so, as the Baroque instrument was a riot of silver and gold. Not only that, but an orchestra was practicing for a concert, and we sat and listened to some free classical music while admiring the architecture.

And I thought Innsbruck was just office blocks.

On the way to the Dom, we’d crossed a road, and I’d noticed a man carrying a tuba, as you do, and, in the cathedral, I wondered if he was then up in the gallery tuberign away, but it wasn’t tuba-suited music. Later, though, while wandering the – you guessed it – Christmas market, we discovered a four-piece brass band playing from the gallery of The Goldenes Dachl (Golden Roof), so that was what tuba man was all about. More free music, this time seasonal, including Austrian carols, and we could have stood and listened for ages, except…

Of course, when you have a teen in tow, you can never be far from food, and it was that time of day again. A hearty dinner served by unbelievably cheery staff considering they were run off their feet, a slow walk back to the Basic Hotel, and time to put the feet up and watch Indiana Jones dubbed into Austrian before falling asleep.

I have to say, the Basic Hotel in Innsbruck is designed to be, clearly, basic, but it had everything we needed, was very clean, had towels and soaps, and TV, etc., and was hardly basic at all. It had its quirks. Like the lip between the bathroom and the bedroom, which caught us tripping a few times, and the smoked glass pattern on the bath/bedroom dividing wall wasn’t completely smoked. One assumes this is so kinky guests can spy on their companions in the shower, and the really perverse ones can do the same with toilet occupation. I don’t know, but then, we were in Austria.

And would remain in Austria the next day too, as you will read…

Meanwhile, here’s the gallery.

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Monday (Yesterday). Woke up to heavy skies and the threat of rain. Well, as far as I can see, I did, because it’s only possible to see out of the bathroom window at the moment. Every other one is shuttered, so the house is dark, but it’s also being kept warmer and drier. Also, yesterday-yesterday (Sunday), we saw the news that Greek airspace had to be closed due to a technical glitch (sounds like a bit more than a glitch), and there was disruption all of Sunday morning and most of the day. Well, weren’t we lucky to have flown in on Saturday morning? 24 hours later, and we’d still not be home (Tuesday).

For now, it’s back to the trip…

Venice

The Verona hotel was situated beside and above a branch of McDonald’s and on the way home on our first night, we were thrilled to see we had a police escort. That they were tending to someone from the fast-fat outlet rather took the thrill off the moment, but there appeared to be no bloodshed involved. I think the dispute was over the finding of a hamburger inside a cardboard bun. Apparently, the young man had not only discovered some reconstituted meat, but he had also taken a bite and was severely upset by the false advertising. I don’t know; I sailed past and into our hotel thinking, ‘Serves him right.’

The morning brought a breakfast room with the expected selection of hot and cold this-and-thats, people of various nationalities, and the usual morning conversations and greetings. That done, and wrapped up against the expected cold, we hiked off back to the train station at dawn, and later, caught our booked train onwards to Venice.

This meant we were now day trippers, but not the type who can only holiday in guided packs. We had no stick and flag to follow, no constant voice in an earpiece, and no coach to collect and spew us from one location to another. Intrepid, ready for adventure and keen to discuss what we might see, we watched the distant Dolomites, and (I think it was on this journey) got told off for talking in the ‘silent’ carriage. It wasn’t, actually; it was a quiet carriage, which meant soft talk and no phones. This hadn’t computed with the Italian couple at the end, who clearly enjoyed mobile phone use. They, however, were left unchallenged by the diminutive and dare I say it, rather rounded, woman who marched past, challenged Jenine with a stare and said, at mezzo forte, ‘You do know this is the silent carriage,’ with such an accusatory tone I half expected to be led away. Replying to such self-appointed officialdom is pointless, and the likes of this woman are best ignored with enthusiasm, so we did just that and let her go on her way. The four of us spent the rest of the journey taking the pizzicato out of the diva at the same pianissimo volume we had been before, until we arrived in Venice.

When one thinks of railway stations, one usually pictures their facades. St Pancras, in London, for example, has one of the most outstanding frontages of any building. However grand and wonderful the station, the locomotives, the carriages, journey and service, the splendour of an arrival is often ruined by what you see as soon as you step out of the station’s own world, and into the real one. Usually, as in Milan, you have streets, tall buildings, cars, buses, trams, whatever, and a load of people trying to push past you to get in. When you leave the arches of St Pancras, what greets you? Camden Town Hall and the Euston Road, but in Venice, when you leave the station, you enter upstage centre onto the set of an opera. A piazza. A canal cuts left to right, there’s a bridge, a copper-domed church with classical portico, colourful buildings built, it seems, on water, and the early morning light of a clear, blue-sky day, and somewhere, sadly, some malaka singing ‘Just one Cornetto…’ Though, if you are lucky and happen to be standing by an opera malaka, you might hear a whispering of, ‘O Solo Mio’, but either way, nothing compares to the sight.

The sights continue as we offer Harry the Map a glance of the map in the manner of a handler giving a hound a sniff of the fugitive’s vest, and the chase is on. It’s on, and over, under, around, through, by and finally, to St Mark’s Square, where, at midday, Neil had gifted us all half an hour with a gondolier and his gondola.

Before that, though, there’s time to admire, learn, see, wonder, and, after a good long walk, sit. The first treat of the trip comes in the form of four Aperol sprits at €20.00 each. (You want to gulp at that, but at those prices, you can only afford to sip.) Still, once in a lifetime, and it’s a clear, crisp day, not yet too busy, and the drinks tray comes laden with the best nibbles Carrefour have on offer.

I’ll let the gallery speak for the rest of the day, but along the way, and during our ten-mile walk of Venice that day, we saw many sights, including a flotilla of father Christmases, cathedrals and their interiors, the winding canals and backstreets, a pizza shop where we had a rather confused lunch that was very tasty, the gondola ride of course, where our man didn’t sing, and a long walk back to catch the train. On the way, we stopped at a random doorway so Jenine could photograph us three ‘boys’ in an old doorway which, she realised later, had been the same one she’d photographed her travel mates in back in 1867 or whenever it was. Spooky coincidence, or what?

Back to the train (and our Club Class seats), and back to Verona at dusk, where, after a quick wash-and-change stop at the hotel, it was back out to tramp the streets to find something more to eat, and see some more nighttime sighs before packing for the next day’s journey to Innsbruck via the Brenner Pass.

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Hi, all, and Happy New Year!

Yes, we’re back, and yes, we have been away, and yes, some of you may have seen these images and heard these stories before via Facebook, and, yes, the next several days will all be about our recent trip. I don’t know about you, but I like reading other people’s travelogues, but if you are not of the ilk, then don’t panic. As I write these posts and share these galleries over the next several days, I will drop in any Symi-related thoughts that come to mind.

The galleries will come at the end of the post unless a specific illustration is needed along the way.

My last post of 2025 (below) provided a map of the trip we had spent over a year planning and saving for, but as must happen on Symi, all trips begin with a boat. Or is a ferry a ship? ‘You can put a boat on a ship, but you can’t put a ship on a boat,’ my dad used to say, and although I agree, I still call the ferry (which carries lifeboats) a boat.

Whatever. Here’s the story.

It’s ten past six on the morning of January 2nd, 2026, and our party has gathered outside an unusual hotel ten minutes’ drive from Athens airport. We have an included transfer booked for 06.15, and the boarding of our homeward flight to Rhodes begins at 07.10 – so there’s plenty of time. We are already checked in, because we came down from Bucharest to Athens last night, landing at 22.50 and arriving at the hotel at just before midnight, as we had to wait for the transfer. Although I’ve only had three hours’ sleep since New Year’s Day morning, I have wrestled with a baffling automatic coffee maker machine thing with pods, had a spit of cold espresso, and I am functioning in a bleary kind of way. Still, no worries, the car will be here…

A phone call…

The driver is running ten minutes late. We are back in Greece, so this turns into 25 minutes late, and boarding time is fast approaching. And, as we are approaching the airport, we get caught in slow-moving traffic because it seems the rest of Greece is also flying home early that morning. And then there’s the queue at security, and time is ticking away…

Will we make the flight, and how did we get to be there?

The story unfolds…

Leaving Symi, we were among the passengers on the last Friday boat before Christmas, and, despite the queue of cars reaching back to the main road, and the other half of the Symi population being on foot, the boat left only a couple of minutes late. We were in no hurry, as we had a day and night in Rhodes. We had booked into the Castellum Suites, the all-inclusive hotel we now use in the winter, because it has to be the best value for money I’ve yet found in Rhodian accommodation. More about the hotel in a future post, for now, we are doing last minute shopping, before having an early dinner and an early night, because the alarm is set for 04.00 the next morning. Taxi at 04.30, airport at 04.50, check in for the flight which leaves on time at 06.00 to take us to Athens. I love Rhodes airport in the winter, even at that time of day. There’s something about walking from the departure gate, down the slope, across the tarmac and onto the plane without having to take a bus. It suggests the airport trusts us, and that’s a cosy feeling.

Then, there’s the usual 40-minute flight to Athens, which is more like catching a bus than a plane, then there’s a short wait and a transfer, and we’re off to Milan, where we take our first train of the trip. This one has not been booked, as there was no need, though by the time we find the ticket office, we’ve missed one and have a two-hour wait for the next. By the time we’ve opted for the first-class cabin on the train (as it was only €20.00 more than normal class), found a loo, as older men in the cold must, and bought our tickets, we have 90 minutes to wait. However, with the tickets comes access to the 1st class lounge for free drinks and snacks, so we sit and look down on the travellers below for some time while enjoying railway hospitality.

[For a look into the world of railway hospitality in ‘the old days’, take a look at ‘1893’, my second Clearwater Tales novella. Click here.]

The train arrives, we board, and find we do indeed have our own four-seat enclosure, and we enjoy a very comfortable ride to Verona, where we find a distinct drop in temperature. Quick loo stop, and on to the hotel, which is a 20-minute walk away. Luckily for us, we have the male equivalent of Dora the Explorer (which, admittedly, I’ve never seen, but…) in the form of Harry the Huntsman who has the ability to glance at a map of a foreign city and get from A to D without having to fuss about the B and C, so we follow him off towards the older part of town. We will soon get used to following the bouncing puffer jacket as he takes on the role of expedition map reader, and the pounds simply drop off us as we double-time to keep up.

We could easily have spent a week exploring Verona, but the idea of the trip wasn’t so much full explorations of the destination, but to grab a quick bite of each while making ‘the journey the thing’ as Homer never said. So, it’s two nights in Verona with a day-trip to Venice planned for the day in between, and that will be coming along tomorrow. Meanwhile, Verona is in full swing, and we swing by the Christmas market on the hunt for dinner. This ended up being in a small pizzeria away from the main drag, and there, I had my first proper Italian pizza. Well, we all did, because when in Rome (or nearby), act like a Veronese.

Did we get a chance to visit the amphitheatre? Sadly, no, but we walked for miles, saw loads, ate too much, and, after a long day, fell into the hotel early to prepare for a grand day out on the Grand Canal the next day.

[Meanwhile, on Symi yesterday, as I write, it’s raining, we’ve had a brief power cut, I’ve tried to fill some cracks on the bathroom roof as the paint has failed a little, and we’ve got three heaters running. Eek.]

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Actually, as you are reading this, I am probably packing, because we are off early tomorrow morning. Whereas some people rehearse their packing months before they set off on a trip, I’m a bit more blokeish about it. This reminds me of something that made me laugh last Friday. Youngsters these days, I don’t know what the world’s coming to, particularly among the boys. I was at Harry’s place and asked him if he’s started packing yet, to which he replied, ‘No, but I have organised my fragrances.’ Later, I was chatting to one of his ‘peskies’ on the boat, and he told me it had been a last-minute decision to come to Symi, and he’d packed in a hurry. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I made sure I had the right fragrance, and then I just shovelled up whatever clothes were lying around.’ Clearly, a teenage boy’s fragrances are of much importance. In my day, it was Brut, Old Spice, or, if you were posh, Aramis. Didn’t have that? Then sweaty armpits it was.

Anyhow, one day to go and you still don’t know where we are going. According to the Rough Guide I put together, we start off in Rhodes. That, when living on Symi, is one of only two possible ways to get anywhere. The overnight Blue Star cabin experience to Athens is now too costly, so we are flying up on Saturday morning, and thence to Milan for as long as it takes to catch the train to Verona. From then on, it will be train only until we reach Bucharest. Before reaching there, though, we have other places to see, glimpse, sniff and pass through. From Verona, the next day, we make a day trip to Venice, where Neil has booked us a gondola trip. (At first, he told me he had booked half an hour with a gondolier, and I became mildly enthusiastic, but I did think to check, and it turned out to be a gondola. I must dig out my best ribboned boater.)

Back to Verona for a night and then off to Innsbruck for a night. The main point of this stop is to see things we don’t see on Symi. For example, mountains, snow and cable cars, because despite local gossip, we still don’t have a cable car on the island. From there, it’s on to Salzburg to prance about the famous fountain and learn how to make apple strudel. At least, that’s what Jenine and Neil will be doing while Harry and I visit Mozart’s birthplace and the cathedral.

No time for hanging around, however, as we’re then off to Prague for three nights over Christmas. Concerts and boat trip dinner booked, and Harry in charge of our mystery Boxing Day tour of the city.

Then what follows is an overnight journey from Prague to Brașov in Romania. There was not time or money enough to stop in Vienna, Budapest or anywhere else en route, but we do have four hours in Vienna, and I might race Harry up to take a photo of the Belvedere while the others are shopping for supplies for the onward, overnight part of the journey, where there is no buffet car, apparently.

Two or three nights in Transylvania, including a driver and car for 10 hours to see some of the locality and not just Brasov. Though I do want to visit the Black Church because last time I was there, it was on the one day of the year the church was closed to the public. I have no idea why. Yes, Bran Castle is on the list – hence my handout on how this isn’t Dracula’s castle, had very little if anything to do with Vlad the Impaler, and it’s only considered the castle of Stoker’s imagination because of the Romanian tourist board of the 1960s. Don’t get me started.

Then, finally, to Bucharest for New Year’s Eve, including a gallery visit and other attractions before, hopefully, fireworks and such like. Back for an overnight in Athens, well, about six hours at a nearby hotel, thence to Rhodes and home before dark.

So, now you know what we’ll be up to over Christmas and the New Year, let me wish you a good time, and thank you for reading this year. Who knows what the next will bring?

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Now then, you might have picked up that we’re off on a trip, and this begins on Friday. After months of planning, scrimping, saving and desperately trying to sell books, there are now only two days to go before we set off. I shan’t be following the adventure on here (though I may when we return), but there will be images on Facebook for sure.

The trip came about because of Christmas. We have spent 21 of the last 23 years celebrating Christmas with Jenine and ‘the boys’ who are now ‘the young men.’ Being us and them, our traditional Symi Christmas consists of spending too much on presents and games, food and wine, and generally ensuring the day is like a scene from the Darling Buds of May. At least, that’s how the day usually starts. By the end of it, we more resemble Hogarth’s depiction of Gin Lane.

That’ll be Sam chewing on the bone, while Harry and his best mates, the ‘peskies’, cause a riot in the background. Neil’s haggling with Sotiris at the pawn shop, while I’m off stage left pouring gin down someone’s screech, and we can all see that Jenine’s well out of it, and no-one knows where the dog came from.

This year, we decided to spend the Christmas savings on a special trip. The young men are getting no younger and soon will be off on their own family adventures, so, before it’s too late, we should do a ‘family’ trip. Except, sadly, Sam can’t come because he has to work; the decision was his, and it is respected. H, on the other hand, is chomping at his retainer to break free of the shackles of Rhodian college and see some more of the world.  All year, when we could, the four of us put money into the kitty, and at some point, Jenine produced a spreadsheet to rival those produced by NASA, and, when we could, we booked places to stay, flight tickets, and excursions, while putting some aside for spending.

There are many other reasons for taking the trip, and one of them reminds me of the Grand Tours of the past. The Grand Tour was a traditional, multi-year European journey for wealthy young aristocrats (mainly British) from the 17th to early 19th centuries. They took in the sights of the ancients and visited places such as Venice, Florence, and Athens. The tour was, in a way, a rite of passage. To mature and gain independence before adulthood. Although not a wealthy aristocrat, I was once young, and when I was in my mid-twenties, I undertook a ‘grand tour’ of my own. With a friend, we drove through France, Germany, Italy, Austria, the Czech Republic, Germany again, the Netherlands, Luxembourg (it was closed) and Belgium – in two weeks. One day, we had breakfast in Pisa, lunch in Florence, and dinner in Venice, but that’s a tale for another day. The point was, I had unknowingly taken myself on a grand tour 80’s style, as did Jenine in the 90s when interrailing was the thing. So, these ‘grand tours’ continue, or the idea of them does, and we’re off on one in two days.

The question remains, though, what is the route?

The theory is to open eyes to as many places as possible in the time we have, and this means quick stops and not enough time to do everything those who have visited before insist you must do. However, we will be stopping for more than one night in a couple of places.

As the trip came closer, we set about organising the peripherals; the new cabin-sized backpack suitcases, boots for the cold, wet and snow, handy picnic utensils for when we’re eating on the move, thermals, and rain macs from Temu that are flimsier than tissue paper, and designed to only fit three-year-olds.

I’ve also written my own rough guide to the trip with a side handout about Dracula.

Ah, yes, the destinations. I’ll let you know tomorrow in what will be the final blog of the year.

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