Tag: Travel

Modern Take

Business, Eco-Crap, Travels

In Orwell’s Animal Farm, the pigs’ chant changed from “Four legs good, two legs bad!”  into “Four legs good, two legs better!”  and the farm changed forever.

Well, when it comes to airliners, it seems that the latter has become the norm — just substitute “engines” for “legs”, and you get the picture.

Modern engines, we are told, are more efficient and more eco-friendly (in that they burn less fuel and therefore squirt much less of that eeeevil carbon-whatever into the atmosphere), so therefore twin-engined long-haul aircraft are so much more desirable, you see, than those fat and dirty old 707s and 747s.

Amazingly, the oh-so eco-friendly Germans don’t agree (albeit for the wrong reasons), and are keeping some of their 747s:

This four-engine behemoth, first flown commercially in 1970, is no longer financially viable in an era of increasingly-efficient twin-engined jets. The final passenger-configured jumbo was delivered eight years ago, and Boeing has no plans to restart the production line.

But one European airline hasn’t turned its back on the 747 just yet. Germany’s Lufthansa, perceived by many to be aviation’s kings of efficiency, still operates 27 jumbo jets – 19 of the newer 747-8s, and eight older, slightly smaller 747-400s – and is even upgrading some jumbo jet interiors with swanky new Allegris seats as part of a £2bn Lufthansa fleet-wide refit. 

Here’s the reason:

Why the lingering attachment? Part of the reason is simple and unromantic economics. According to aviation analysts, operations out of its Frankfurt and Munich hubs are each at take-off slot capacity.

So, with flight numbers capped, Lufthansa really needs its biggest aircraft, and the 364-seat 747s-8s drop neatly between the Airbus A350 (293 seats) and A380 (455 seats).

Yeah, whatever.

I happen to prefer flying aboard the older 747s for one simple reasons, based on the old saw:  “Two is one and one is none.”  Using that as a yardstick, I happen to think that four engines are safer than two.

I know, I know;  according to the cognoscenti, modern twin-engined airliners can stay in the air if one engine breaks.  But to my way of thinking, if one engine can break, its identical twin can also break, for the same reason.  I know the chances are not high, statistically speaking;  but the chances are not zero.

And forgive me for being a little skittish about my transportation suddenly turning into a lawn dart at 28,000 feet.  Under those circumstances I’d like the odds to be somewhat more stacked on my side, and four engines are not going to fail simultaneously, or even sequentially.

I know that this is more of a moot point nowadays, when it appears that my transatlantic flying days are pretty much over.  And annoyingly, according to a cursory study, Luftwaffe  Lufthansa is persisting with the European Airbus 330 for DFW-FRA.  (Why Frankfurt?  Because if you’re going to connect at an airport in Euroland, Frankfurt is as good as LHR or CDG, to name but a couple, and better than MAD or — gawd help us — ROM.)

But the principle remains, because it’s true for any passenger, not just me.  So in my opinion, Orwell’s original thesis is true:  four legs good, two legs bad.

Thoughts On Kirriemuir

Travels

There is an institution in the British Empire countries known as the “rugby song”.  Rugby songs are usually sung in the bus bringing the team home from an away game, or in the pub after the match.  Inebriation is very much a requirement, as most of the songs are inevitably bawdy not to say obscene.

One such song is entitled “The Ball Of Kirriemuir“, of which I shall post but the intro, the chorus and a sample verse or three (all from memory):

“Four and twenty virgins came down from Inverness;
When the ball was over, there were four and twenty less — singing:”

Chorus:
“Balls to your partner
Arses to the wall
If ye’ve never been shagged
On a Saturday night
Ye’ve never been shagged at all.”

Verse:
“The village doctor, he was there,
Scalpel in his hand;
And every time the music stopped
He’d circumsize the band — singing:”

Chorus

Verse:
“The vicar’s wife, O she was there
Lying on the floor;
And every time she spread her legs
The suction shut the door — singing:”

Chorus

Verse:
“There was fucking in the doorways,
There was fucking on the stairs;
You couldna’ see the carpet
For the mass of pubic hair — singing:”

Etc.

I know about a dozen verses myself… and there are another thirty, if not more.  The song is reputed to have originated in the late 19th century.

But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.

Yesterday’s Landscape pic featured a very pretty little bridge over a wee burn near Kirriemuir, taken by Yours Truly when I was traveling through Scotland several years ago.

And that’s the problem.

You see, having been to Kirriemuir, I can tell you that there’s a problem with the song that made it famous.

It couldn’t have happened.

Now Kirriemuir itself is a lovely little village — quite gorgeous, in fact.


(it hasn’t changed at all since that pic was taken)

But let me tell you:  there’s not a single building in the place that would have been large enough to hold a wee bairn’s birthday party, let alone a grand ball / orgy on the scale envisioned in the song. (There are a few industrial warehouses, but they are of very recent vintage and therefore highly unlikely venues.)

There isn’t even a large manor house in the area, unless you count Balintore Castle, which is several miles distant:

…and until quite recently, has been pretty much in ruins for centuries:

You can’t even see Kirriemuir from the castle because of the hilly terrain and perpetual mist.  (#ScottishWeather)

As a friend pointed out, if the ball had been held at Balintore, the song would have been entitled:  “The Ball At Balintore” which is not only alliteratively pleasing, but also slyly suggestive of the evening’s activities.  But it wasn’t.

The only other building of any size in the area — and which is even further away — is Glamis Castle (of Macbeth  fame):

…and you can forget any plebeian shenanigans occurring there.  (#OwnedByTheRoyalFamily)

So much for the ball at Kirriemuir, then.  Wherever it took place, though, I’d love to have been there.  (#RedPubicHair #DisgustingOrgy)

One should never meet one’s heroes, lest one be disappointed.

That Consummation

Travels, Two-Minute Hate

…devoutly wished:

…comes home to roost:

Spanish officials have admitted that a relentless campaign of anti-tourist protests in Majorca is ‘scaring away visitors’ – with locals claiming some resorts are now ‘completely dead’.

With British holidaymakers seemingly among foreigners turning their backs on the island, its tourism industry is in panic mode as officials overseeing the nightlife sector and tour companies warn that guests no longer feel ‘welcomed’. 

The restaurant association president, Juanmi Ferrer, gave a stark warning that the messaging of the protests is ‘scaring visitors away’. 

Ya think?  Then there’s this priceless bit of wisdom:

Miguel Pérez-Marsá, head of the nightlife association, told Majorca Daily Bulletin: ‘The tourists we’re interested in are being driven away; they don’t feel welcome and are going to other destinations.’

Well, yes;  except that those tourists you’re interested in — the hard-drinking, hard-partying Brits and Germans — are the ones who sparked all the protests in the first place.

Rock, meet hard place.

Here’s the ironic part.

I don’t actually blame the locals for trying to end the seemingly-endless summer invasions of their home towns — it’s as true for Amsterdam as it is in Majorca — but if your sole income is pretty much derived from tourists (unlike Amsterdam, for whom tourism is important but not critical), then I guess the full-time residents of the party places just need to endure… or move.

Unsaid in all this is the fact that young people (the partiers and drinkers) are almost by definition going to be louts and sluts when far from home and full of cheap booze, and so of course you can’t expect them to behave themselves.  While older tourists may be more desirable socially, the old ‘uns don’t spend anything like what the kids do — unless of course they’re buying themselves a holiday apartment, thus driving up the prices of local real estate and making the place unaffordable to the locals.

See where all this goes?

Equally ironic is the fact that a huge proportion of the local population are greatly dependent on those tourist dollars to stay alive, whether cab drivers, bartenders, waitresses, tour operators or restaurant owners.  And they’d all be harmed financially — i.e. bankrupted — as well as the rest who reap the “soft” benefits of tourism such as lower taxes and civic improvements, all made possible by the dollars / pounds / euros of the hated turisti.

Like I said, about those rocks and hard places…

Goodbye To All That

Deep Thoughts, Travels

Longtime Readers will be very familiar with my penchant for travel, especially to the U.K. and parts of Euroland.

However, as I’ve been paging through my travel pic folders to find landscapes and cityscapes to post on Thursdays, a feeling of gloom and melancholy is starting to make its appearance.

I’m not sure I want to travel internationally again.

There are several reasons I make that statement, but let me deal with the easier one first.

I’m getting old, and while my overall health is pretty good (according to my doctor, not just for my age but for just about any age), I’m not sure how I’d feel about, for example, climbing up the steep cobbled street from the ferry dock at Meersburg to the town itself on top of the hill.

Hell, it was tough when I last did it — in 2004 — so now, over two decades later… you get my drift.  And I loved Meersburg, with a passion.

Also, when strolling around cities like Paris or London, I thought nothing of walking all day — I mean, for those who are familiar with the cities, from Notre Dame to Sacré Coeur and back to our hotel next to the Sorbonne;  or from the V&A Museum to World’s End at the other end of Chelsea, and back.

Either of those little jaunts would take me two days, now.

Which brings me to my second thought.

Even if I could do those walks, I’m not so sure I’d want to because of the crime that seems to have overtaken most of Europe’s cities.  It’s not that I’m afraid of becoming a victim of some Rolex Ripper on Bond Street or Rue Royale;  I’m not a fearful person by nature — but I can be an aggressive person when faced by thuggishness of that kind, and I don’t want to deal with the possibility of having to explain to an unsympathetic bobby or gendarme why some little scrote is lying there screaming with a broken arm or, for that matter, having to deal with the NHS or its French equivalent when said little scrote hacked at me with a machete because I had the effrontery to refuse his attempt at property redistribution.

And we all know how the Filth in Britishland regard the matter of self-defense Over There.  Nothing puts a damper on the travel experience like having to explain to some judge why you didn’t want to just let the little choirboy take your property and shake your head sorrowfully at your loss.  That you applied your walking-stick to the little shit’s cranium (in lieu of having the old 1911 at hand) would no doubt land you in Serious Trouble, just as your attitude to the cops being more or less on the criminal’s side rather than on yours might also result in the cop’s uniform being ruined by the flow of blood (his).

Altogether, not a prospect worth spending thousands of dollars (which I don’t have) just to visit their poxy paradise.

And then there’s this little nugget, from one of my most-favored places on the planet:

Most famous districts in Vienna are in the heart of the city and during summer or at Christmas season they become overcrowded, which can lead to pickpocketing, mugging and even terrorist attacks.  In these areas frequented by tourists, bus and train stations, people around you need to be carefully watched and your possessions should be kept close to you.

WTF?  Now add to that the chance that some “migrant” takes offense that your female companion doesn’t have her head covered to his satisfaction… do you see where I’m going with this?

Fuck that for a tale.

One might think, given all the above, that the places to visit in Europe would be those which haven’t allowed untrammeled African- or Muslim incursions.  We’re talking here of Poland and Hungary, for instance.

But here’s my problem.  I would love — love — to visit those two countries, but I’m completely unfamiliar with both their languages, and honestly, I’m not sure that my old brain can handle learning even a smattering of either with the facility that used to be one of my strengths.

This really sucks.

So it may be that at long last, I’ll have to trim Ye Olde Bucquette Lyste of the travel items therein, sadly and regretfully.

I think I’ll just go to the range, assuming my eyesight is still up to the task of seeing the sights of a gun instead of the sights of a foreign city.

Bah.