From my new, much more agreeable hotel base, I take a good look around Encarnacion, then head off for the second of three Jesuit missions. That involves a bus back upto yesterday's ticket office, then a motor-rickshaw over twelve kilometres of lush green Paraguyan countryside. Much of the route's track is made up of a very rudimentary cobbling. I find it perfectly amusing to be enjoying the views, whilst being shaken like a tin of paint. Halfway down the route, it occurs to me that I probably don't have my ticket, but it's too late to do anything about it now.
When the shaking and rattling finally subsides, I pay and hobble off. After a thorough search, I accept that don't have my ticket. I walk up to the guy at the gate with a smile and ''Tengo un problema." After some short conversation, he waves me in. I'm the only person here. It's about 1730, and that means the sun is about ready to shut up shop. As I'm wandering around the ruins, each of the big windows and doorways is framing the sunset. Today, the horizon is gold, rolling up into a light blue - I'd probably call it ''Azul'' or something, if had a Dulux colour chart to hand. There's wispy red clouds in the distance, and a few purple ones nearby. With the foreground of the old ruined structure and a line of pillars, this one is special. Dawn and Andy O would be have a field day here, hurrying to configure their kilo of camera to snap at this.
There's a cornfield behind the church. I see the perfect opportunity to reenact that asinine film where those kids are being chased through just such a field by a trucker that they pissed off. It's not as easy as it looks, but I guess you find a way to manage when there's a murderous truck chasing you about all about town.
Monday, 7 May 2012
Sunday, 6 May 2012
Broken Stones
I wake up in my questionable hotel room, and in my sleeping bag (for a lack of trust of the hotel's provisions,) and make it onto the 0730 bus to Encarnacion. I've been tempted by some Jesuit mission ruins that have been declared a UNESCO world heritage site, though I'm not sure how much value that title holds - potentially, not unlike the seven-wonders-of-what-ever-suits-us-at-the-time.
Thirty minutes out of Encarnacion, deep in the sticks, behind a little village, is the site of the mission, made up of the ruins of the church and church quarters, and various living quarters around a large square. I'm not 100% on the history, but I'd guess that the Jesuits lived in the former quarters, and the indigenous Guarani lived in the latter quarters. The former looks to include a pool. My presumptuous take is that the Jesuits were the lesser of two evils - the worse evil being the Spanish and Portugese catholics.
When I've seen enough rubble, I head back to the ticket office. I've decided that Paraguay is the land where things are done properly. The ticket office houses a small museum, clean functional toilets, and two computers. The fee for this mission, and two others in the area is a three pounds sterling, and is valid for 72 hours, so you can cover them at gentle pace over three days. Whilst I'm tending to this blog, a couple of local girls, out for a educational sunday evening, tell me there's a 1930 tour when they light up all the ruins. I'm gathering that it's traditional in Paraguay to guide you around something, project a short movie, and light that something up to music. The girls then go so far as to drive me back to town.
A couple of empandas - I forget if I've described empanadas, but if it weren't for the distance, there would be naming rights arguments between all of South America and the peoples of Cornwall - a Quilmes Negra and Apocalypse Now, with Spanish subs, and I'm done for the day. The Quilmes Negra is pretty good, easy drinking - a credit to Argentina.
Thirty minutes out of Encarnacion, deep in the sticks, behind a little village, is the site of the mission, made up of the ruins of the church and church quarters, and various living quarters around a large square. I'm not 100% on the history, but I'd guess that the Jesuits lived in the former quarters, and the indigenous Guarani lived in the latter quarters. The former looks to include a pool. My presumptuous take is that the Jesuits were the lesser of two evils - the worse evil being the Spanish and Portugese catholics.
When I've seen enough rubble, I head back to the ticket office. I've decided that Paraguay is the land where things are done properly. The ticket office houses a small museum, clean functional toilets, and two computers. The fee for this mission, and two others in the area is a three pounds sterling, and is valid for 72 hours, so you can cover them at gentle pace over three days. Whilst I'm tending to this blog, a couple of local girls, out for a educational sunday evening, tell me there's a 1930 tour when they light up all the ruins. I'm gathering that it's traditional in Paraguay to guide you around something, project a short movie, and light that something up to music. The girls then go so far as to drive me back to town.
A couple of empandas - I forget if I've described empanadas, but if it weren't for the distance, there would be naming rights arguments between all of South America and the peoples of Cornwall - a Quilmes Negra and Apocalypse Now, with Spanish subs, and I'm done for the day. The Quilmes Negra is pretty good, easy drinking - a credit to Argentina.
Saturday, 5 May 2012
Eyes of a Panther
Without my heavy load, I'm able to enjoy the chaos of the city. Almost the entire city appears to be devoted to retail. Most of it is electronics, but about a fifth of the stalls are dedicated to selling either jackets or thick blankets. It's over twenty-five degrees out here. I've no idea who's buying that stuff.
At the tourist information, it's explained to me that the city is a duty free zone, and comes narrowly behind Hong Kong. I haven't owned a computer since 2008. I replaced an MP3 player with a record player, the production of which was discontinued in the sixties. And, my phone dates back to the turn of the century. Despite studying computers at university, I have almost no interest in technology. I'd been pushed into buying that camera, and we know what happened to that. I was tempted enough a look at the prices for a phones, watches, and cameras. The Nokia 1616 is about gbp20 here, but my phone and my watch work just fine, and as for the calls for me to buy a camera, fool me once...
Tourist Information also tells me the sight for seeing is the Hydroelectric Dam. My first reaction was to wonder why I would want to use my spare time to see a concrete dam, but on a second though, versus a church, or shopping, a dam suddenly makes sense. Then on a third thought, The falls of Iguazu are all very well, but it's not anything that I can practically relate to. I relate to Playstation and my massively, massively overpowered amplifier. The dam is, in fact, the only logical interest.
I'm welcomed at the dam and ushered onto a bus tour, with just two other locals and our guide. It's an impressive piece of water and a more impressive piece of concrete. Man, one, Nature, nil.
The next stop is the zoo. I don't really need to see another zoo, but it's nearby the dam, and I've got little else to do. On asking where the zoo was, I'm offered a bus ride to it, so seems rude not to. At the zoo, I join a group following another guide, albeit for a tour in Spanish. I was wrong, this isn't another zoo. It's the best zoo I've ever been to. The animals here understand that it's a show, and they need to be front-centre. There's two types of silly monkey, rats the size of pigs, actual pigs, a big anteater with a funny cartoonesque walk, a turtle riding a crocodile, big beak toucans, and even the good kind of parrots - the ones that you see in the movies. There's a couple of fierce looking panthers that are posing for pictures. Man, two, Nature, nil.
Last year was Paraguay's two-hundredth birthday, and I wander into the zoo-adjacent museum, revamped for the occasion. All the two-hundred year history of the country is translated into English, and somehow made interesting to read. Alas, the story is a familiar one. The indigenious people were having a super time, living sustainably off the fat of the land, free of disease, and generally minding their own business, until those dreadful catholics turned up. As was the case in Tierra Del Fuego, the catholics played out their standard game plan - mass genocide, enslavement of just enough people to squeeze the land dry of anything worth taking, and some complimentary heavy-handed brainwashing. Real bastards, those catholics.
The grande finale today, is back at the dam. Twice a week, they bus a load of locals, and for some reason, just twelve tourists out in front of it, and light it up to music. There's hours to burn before the light show, but rather than leaving me twisting in the wind, there's a local band playing a set peppered with CCR, Sting, and even finding time for the Verve's Bitter Sweet Symphony - who knew that one ever got out of England. The light show isn't a Las Vegas styled affair, but is impressive nonetheless. Finally, the tour guide and one of the drivers offer me a ride back into town.
Throughout, the entire afternoon and evening, noone has asked for a single peso. None of the guides have so much as edged a hand out with some expectation. Paraguay isn't on the standard tourist trail - the Inca trail, the death road, Iguazu, etc. None of the travellers I met had been, nor heard anything about it, but for me, Paraguay is knocking balls out of the park, left, right and centre.
At the tourist information, it's explained to me that the city is a duty free zone, and comes narrowly behind Hong Kong. I haven't owned a computer since 2008. I replaced an MP3 player with a record player, the production of which was discontinued in the sixties. And, my phone dates back to the turn of the century. Despite studying computers at university, I have almost no interest in technology. I'd been pushed into buying that camera, and we know what happened to that. I was tempted enough a look at the prices for a phones, watches, and cameras. The Nokia 1616 is about gbp20 here, but my phone and my watch work just fine, and as for the calls for me to buy a camera, fool me once...
Tourist Information also tells me the sight for seeing is the Hydroelectric Dam. My first reaction was to wonder why I would want to use my spare time to see a concrete dam, but on a second though, versus a church, or shopping, a dam suddenly makes sense. Then on a third thought, The falls of Iguazu are all very well, but it's not anything that I can practically relate to. I relate to Playstation and my massively, massively overpowered amplifier. The dam is, in fact, the only logical interest.
I'm welcomed at the dam and ushered onto a bus tour, with just two other locals and our guide. It's an impressive piece of water and a more impressive piece of concrete. Man, one, Nature, nil.
The next stop is the zoo. I don't really need to see another zoo, but it's nearby the dam, and I've got little else to do. On asking where the zoo was, I'm offered a bus ride to it, so seems rude not to. At the zoo, I join a group following another guide, albeit for a tour in Spanish. I was wrong, this isn't another zoo. It's the best zoo I've ever been to. The animals here understand that it's a show, and they need to be front-centre. There's two types of silly monkey, rats the size of pigs, actual pigs, a big anteater with a funny cartoonesque walk, a turtle riding a crocodile, big beak toucans, and even the good kind of parrots - the ones that you see in the movies. There's a couple of fierce looking panthers that are posing for pictures. Man, two, Nature, nil.
Last year was Paraguay's two-hundredth birthday, and I wander into the zoo-adjacent museum, revamped for the occasion. All the two-hundred year history of the country is translated into English, and somehow made interesting to read. Alas, the story is a familiar one. The indigenious people were having a super time, living sustainably off the fat of the land, free of disease, and generally minding their own business, until those dreadful catholics turned up. As was the case in Tierra Del Fuego, the catholics played out their standard game plan - mass genocide, enslavement of just enough people to squeeze the land dry of anything worth taking, and some complimentary heavy-handed brainwashing. Real bastards, those catholics.
The grande finale today, is back at the dam. Twice a week, they bus a load of locals, and for some reason, just twelve tourists out in front of it, and light it up to music. There's hours to burn before the light show, but rather than leaving me twisting in the wind, there's a local band playing a set peppered with CCR, Sting, and even finding time for the Verve's Bitter Sweet Symphony - who knew that one ever got out of England. The light show isn't a Las Vegas styled affair, but is impressive nonetheless. Finally, the tour guide and one of the drivers offer me a ride back into town.
Throughout, the entire afternoon and evening, noone has asked for a single peso. None of the guides have so much as edged a hand out with some expectation. Paraguay isn't on the standard tourist trail - the Inca trail, the death road, Iguazu, etc. None of the travellers I met had been, nor heard anything about it, but for me, Paraguay is knocking balls out of the park, left, right and centre.
Friday, 4 May 2012
Dirty Livin'
Iguazu is a one-hit wonder town. It's a great hit, like Alannah Myles' Black Velvet, but a second night here isn't going to yield much excitement. Outside, it's another twenty-five degree celsius day, and there's a pool at the hostel, but after a couple of hours, there's nothing left for me here. The Kiwi's left in the morning, so the team has run it's race.
With little more research than to find the first town in Paraguay, I pack up and move out. Ciudad del Este in Paraguay is a short hop on the bus. As the bus is moving up the main drag, I'm staring out of the window at a scene of absolute chaos. This is hustle and bustle in measures that makes Central London look like Brecon Beacons' town centre. Any pavements are reserved for stalls, and there are people, motorbikes, cars and buses paving the road. In every direction, something is moving and something is making a noise. Noticeably, Paraguay's customs appear to be optional, but I decide it's probably for the best to go back and get a stamp.
Having successfully stamped my passport, I make way back into the carnage with a map marked with the cheapest hotel in town. As with arrival in any new city, I'm in an fierce rage, mostly on account of the extended period traipsing around, stacked with bags, and wellington boots, and a skull, looking like a long game of Buckaroo. Everything worsens the rage - people in my way, cars in my way, the sun, all of it. Though, I know how to relieve the problem, and that time comes. As I find a table to sit down and work through a litre of beer, a family on the table next to me ushers me over. I spend about an hour talking to them in broken Spanish, and as always, ukulele show & tell. As the light is beginning to fade, I ask if the area is dangerous. I get a slightly vexing response, ''mas o menos'', more or less. By the time we're finished, regrettably, it is dark, but there's not much choice other than to search the night for my hotel.
The hotel is the second worst hotel I've ever stayed in, but it's within my threshold for gritty living. I don't mind the holes in the wall. I don't mind the lack of sheets on the bed. I don't mind that there's no hot water. I don't mind the many ariels on the TV, none of which pick up a decent reception. I don't even mind having to step on and dispose of a big cockroach - they really do make a crunch. This is the Ritz, compared to the motel I found in a car park in Macedonia. That one sported a mattress on the floor, a non-functional sink in the corner, a non-functional TV on the draining board by that worthless sink, and no toilet paper, but no toilet seat either. That stuff was all within my threshold too, but in that case, it was the used condom on the bed that pushed me over the edge and into a taxi.
On the way over, I've spotted some action at the football stadium, so I catch the second half of the local team, Club Atlético 3 de Febrero, versus some guys in green. The away team looked better, but it turned out Atlético were sitting on a lead. The forty-strong hardcore of red shirted, constantly singing fans celebrated the win with a disorganised backgarden firework display and more singing.
Dinner is in another ex-garage. The meal is predominately meat - asado with rice, some half potato-half, parsnip side dish, and with something that looks like a lime, but tastes more like an orange. It's not gourmet, but as with any predominately meat dish, it's a delight, especially considering the fee is absolutely nominal. The restaurant has a view of the bus station and a favela. The favela is about thirty tents along the roadside. They're built from odd bits and scraps of wood, metal and canvas. Young families are sitting outside their tents, cooking over fires and what-not. It's not the kind of thing to be staring at, so I don't.
With little more research than to find the first town in Paraguay, I pack up and move out. Ciudad del Este in Paraguay is a short hop on the bus. As the bus is moving up the main drag, I'm staring out of the window at a scene of absolute chaos. This is hustle and bustle in measures that makes Central London look like Brecon Beacons' town centre. Any pavements are reserved for stalls, and there are people, motorbikes, cars and buses paving the road. In every direction, something is moving and something is making a noise. Noticeably, Paraguay's customs appear to be optional, but I decide it's probably for the best to go back and get a stamp.
Having successfully stamped my passport, I make way back into the carnage with a map marked with the cheapest hotel in town. As with arrival in any new city, I'm in an fierce rage, mostly on account of the extended period traipsing around, stacked with bags, and wellington boots, and a skull, looking like a long game of Buckaroo. Everything worsens the rage - people in my way, cars in my way, the sun, all of it. Though, I know how to relieve the problem, and that time comes. As I find a table to sit down and work through a litre of beer, a family on the table next to me ushers me over. I spend about an hour talking to them in broken Spanish, and as always, ukulele show & tell. As the light is beginning to fade, I ask if the area is dangerous. I get a slightly vexing response, ''mas o menos'', more or less. By the time we're finished, regrettably, it is dark, but there's not much choice other than to search the night for my hotel.
The hotel is the second worst hotel I've ever stayed in, but it's within my threshold for gritty living. I don't mind the holes in the wall. I don't mind the lack of sheets on the bed. I don't mind that there's no hot water. I don't mind the many ariels on the TV, none of which pick up a decent reception. I don't even mind having to step on and dispose of a big cockroach - they really do make a crunch. This is the Ritz, compared to the motel I found in a car park in Macedonia. That one sported a mattress on the floor, a non-functional sink in the corner, a non-functional TV on the draining board by that worthless sink, and no toilet paper, but no toilet seat either. That stuff was all within my threshold too, but in that case, it was the used condom on the bed that pushed me over the edge and into a taxi.
On the way over, I've spotted some action at the football stadium, so I catch the second half of the local team, Club Atlético 3 de Febrero, versus some guys in green. The away team looked better, but it turned out Atlético were sitting on a lead. The forty-strong hardcore of red shirted, constantly singing fans celebrated the win with a disorganised backgarden firework display and more singing.
Dinner is in another ex-garage. The meal is predominately meat - asado with rice, some half potato-half, parsnip side dish, and with something that looks like a lime, but tastes more like an orange. It's not gourmet, but as with any predominately meat dish, it's a delight, especially considering the fee is absolutely nominal. The restaurant has a view of the bus station and a favela. The favela is about thirty tents along the roadside. They're built from odd bits and scraps of wood, metal and canvas. Young families are sitting outside their tents, cooking over fires and what-not. It's not the kind of thing to be staring at, so I don't.
Thursday, 3 May 2012
Down to the Waterline
We roll into to Iguazu a little before 0800. Apparently, I'm the only one who was able to sleep for any worthwhile length time. And apparently, the movie broke before the undoubtedly thankless ending. Nonetheless, the sleepless motley crew remains determined to hit the Iguazu Falls today.
The waterfalls are on one of these seven-wonders-of-some-arbitrary-subbdivision-the-world lists, and so the Argentineans have plucked a tourist tariff of 130 pesos from the wet air. We're more offended because the price for Argentineans is 50 pesos. Nonetheless, it's an impressive show, and it includes monkeys.
For another deep pocket full of pesos, a tourist RIB takes me under and into one of the thickest fall. The boat must be only a few feet away from filling with water. As it is, it's a heavy shower. Rocket-like streams of pulverised water shoot back up out of the water and up as almost as high as it fell. In the thick of it, it's difficult breath and impossible to see.
Our grand finale is the farthest and most impressive fall. It'd be hopeless to describe the view. Pictures from any angle I could get wouldn't suffice either. It's nice. More importantly, I'm looking for more mischief. Rory tells me that a number of tourists suddenly recoiled as I jumped up to straddle the fence at the edge of an eighty-two metre drop into a mist from which the sprays makes a splashzone of the viewing platform. In a pointless demonstration of my trust of Argentinean construction, I sat on the fence facing inwards, then hooked my feet through a lower horizontal post and hung backwards over the fence by my knees for the upside down view. I'm not sure what compels me to do such blatantly puerile things, but it is strong.
The waterfalls are on one of these seven-wonders-of-some-arbitrary-subbdivision-the-world lists, and so the Argentineans have plucked a tourist tariff of 130 pesos from the wet air. We're more offended because the price for Argentineans is 50 pesos. Nonetheless, it's an impressive show, and it includes monkeys.
For another deep pocket full of pesos, a tourist RIB takes me under and into one of the thickest fall. The boat must be only a few feet away from filling with water. As it is, it's a heavy shower. Rocket-like streams of pulverised water shoot back up out of the water and up as almost as high as it fell. In the thick of it, it's difficult breath and impossible to see.
Our grand finale is the farthest and most impressive fall. It'd be hopeless to describe the view. Pictures from any angle I could get wouldn't suffice either. It's nice. More importantly, I'm looking for more mischief. Rory tells me that a number of tourists suddenly recoiled as I jumped up to straddle the fence at the edge of an eighty-two metre drop into a mist from which the sprays makes a splashzone of the viewing platform. In a pointless demonstration of my trust of Argentinean construction, I sat on the fence facing inwards, then hooked my feet through a lower horizontal post and hung backwards over the fence by my knees for the upside down view. I'm not sure what compels me to do such blatantly puerile things, but it is strong.
Wednesday, 2 May 2012
The Road to Hell
The travelling band of two Swiss, two Kiwi's, an American and I have crossed the border by way of ferry across the Rio Uruguay. Argentinan customs were only interested in declaration of live animals, while Uruguay's customs had very few interests at all.
It's mid-afternoon in Concordia and we've set up a camp that we've contructed from the bags containing all our worldly posseions and a park bench. As with any camp or any park bench at mid-afternoon, we set about swigging a litre of beer, trying to pass time until our 1900 overnight bus.
Argentina has a policy, at supermarkets I visited, at least, whereby you can only buy the litre bottles of beer with the exchange of an empty bottle. I cannot find the logic in this. It seems the only way to get started is to buy a bottle in the hostal or a restaurant. Then, you're commited to storage and defense of that empty bottle until you want to buy another. What was wrong with charging a bottle deposit, as is the case elsewhere?
As we make our single file jaunt across town, I'm looking for a McDonalds. I wouldn't normally, but in here in Argentina, I'm given to understand that the Big Mac is held at the fixed price of some years ago. Apparently, it's a piece of government intervention to disguise inflation, as measured by the Big Mac Index. Back at the bank, something like that would need a "workaround" - a term we often used for turning real numbers into the numbers we needed for some arbritrary purpose - and that would irritate me. Out here, I want my deflated Big Mac.
I would admit that the Falklands gave me a determined dislike for Argentina, but they don't do themselves any favours. Given the way the country is run by that mad banshee, I expect it's economy will implode in the next year or two. Then, it'll be cheap, and ripe for the picking.
After that great deal of time eventually passes, we're on the road. The bus is otherwise almost empty. It's perfectly comfortable, until the movie starts. It's an absolutely diabolical chick flick starring Katherine Heigl. I try to escape into sleep, but the whiny, self-righteous voice of this pointless blonde harlet won't let me. In desperation, using a piece of paper with the Thermal Spa advert on it, I scrunch and roll up a pair of ear plugs. Thankfully, sleeping on buses is a speciality of mine.
It's mid-afternoon in Concordia and we've set up a camp that we've contructed from the bags containing all our worldly posseions and a park bench. As with any camp or any park bench at mid-afternoon, we set about swigging a litre of beer, trying to pass time until our 1900 overnight bus.
Argentina has a policy, at supermarkets I visited, at least, whereby you can only buy the litre bottles of beer with the exchange of an empty bottle. I cannot find the logic in this. It seems the only way to get started is to buy a bottle in the hostal or a restaurant. Then, you're commited to storage and defense of that empty bottle until you want to buy another. What was wrong with charging a bottle deposit, as is the case elsewhere?
As we make our single file jaunt across town, I'm looking for a McDonalds. I wouldn't normally, but in here in Argentina, I'm given to understand that the Big Mac is held at the fixed price of some years ago. Apparently, it's a piece of government intervention to disguise inflation, as measured by the Big Mac Index. Back at the bank, something like that would need a "workaround" - a term we often used for turning real numbers into the numbers we needed for some arbritrary purpose - and that would irritate me. Out here, I want my deflated Big Mac.
I would admit that the Falklands gave me a determined dislike for Argentina, but they don't do themselves any favours. Given the way the country is run by that mad banshee, I expect it's economy will implode in the next year or two. Then, it'll be cheap, and ripe for the picking.
After that great deal of time eventually passes, we're on the road. The bus is otherwise almost empty. It's perfectly comfortable, until the movie starts. It's an absolutely diabolical chick flick starring Katherine Heigl. I try to escape into sleep, but the whiny, self-righteous voice of this pointless blonde harlet won't let me. In desperation, using a piece of paper with the Thermal Spa advert on it, I scrunch and roll up a pair of ear plugs. Thankfully, sleeping on buses is a speciality of mine.
Tuesday, 1 May 2012
Twisting by the Pool
It´s a public holiday today, so the hostel´s rag-tag group of travellers and I are all in Salto for the day. Everyone here is going upto the Iguazu Falls. Salto is a border town, but is famed (in Uruguay) for it´s hot springs.
We arrive at the one of the hot spring spas at midday, and that´s where the rest of the day is spent. It´s not hugely exciting, but there´s nothing else to do, so I´m forced to enjoy it. It´s a beautiful sunny day and I´m laying in or around a hot pool. I don´t have to force myself very, very hard. A thought of the possible alternative, my old office, comes to mind. As JJ would put it, yuck. In the afternoon, on a couple of lounge chairs, Jason, an American traveller, and I discuss Pale Ales. I´ve used my knowledge of mathematics and some few pesos to add beer to the equation. It´s not ale, but needs must. I fondly remember enjoying a half of Wychwood Hobgoblin in The Flying Horse at Gatwick Airport. The Flying Horse is a Cask Marque pub. Good to know, eh? Though, the other Wetherspoon´s pub in the Airport, The Beehive, is not.
This is also a chance to even out my Frankenstein tan - whereby it looks like the arms and legs of a low-latitude traveller have been grafted onto the torso of a guy who works in a bank in London.
We arrive at the one of the hot spring spas at midday, and that´s where the rest of the day is spent. It´s not hugely exciting, but there´s nothing else to do, so I´m forced to enjoy it. It´s a beautiful sunny day and I´m laying in or around a hot pool. I don´t have to force myself very, very hard. A thought of the possible alternative, my old office, comes to mind. As JJ would put it, yuck. In the afternoon, on a couple of lounge chairs, Jason, an American traveller, and I discuss Pale Ales. I´ve used my knowledge of mathematics and some few pesos to add beer to the equation. It´s not ale, but needs must. I fondly remember enjoying a half of Wychwood Hobgoblin in The Flying Horse at Gatwick Airport. The Flying Horse is a Cask Marque pub. Good to know, eh? Though, the other Wetherspoon´s pub in the Airport, The Beehive, is not.
This is also a chance to even out my Frankenstein tan - whereby it looks like the arms and legs of a low-latitude traveller have been grafted onto the torso of a guy who works in a bank in London.
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