In the early 70's, like most of my friends, I jumped on a plane to the far side of the world as soon as I could afford a ticket. I wanted to go everywhere that was unlike anywhere I'd been before. The journey was full of adventure. Everything went wrong: A major car accident at 160kph on route to the airport; there I found my tickets had been incorrectly written to Canada instead of Europe; In Delhi (India) a transit nearly turned in to a missed connection due to yet another ticketing mistake; At Athens we were stranded in the aeroplane because of the catastrophic terrorist attack inside the terminal (http://news.bbc.co.uk/onthisday/hi/dates/stories/august/5/newsid_4533000/4533763.stm); In Brussels a blizzard (probably ice on the wings) caused the plane to strike a building on takeoff. The undercarriage was severely damaged and as a consequence an emergency landing in London followed. Walking from the airport bus terminus in London a few hours later, still alive and relieved to have arrived, I watched in amazement as the cars piled up on top of each other in the street in front of me. Had I come through? Or was the final disaster still trying to catch up with me.

This part of the photo album is under construction

My first trip away from Australia by my own initiative was very special. For years I had dreamed of making such a journey. It was December now though. And England was amazingly, wonderfully, beautifully cold, foggy and grey. With just a little luck there might even be snow. On my first day on the ground I made my way to Paddington Station and bought a ticket for Henley on Thames. Getting into the country was urgent. The train journey was not disappointing. The countryside through the windows was not like any I had seen before. The grey mist stretched over hedges and houses and naked trees whose branches seemed to have been caught in a mid explosion time freeze. At Henley I walked around quiet, empty streets and peered in through windows of little lighted shops. I watched the occasional car go by and thought how much fun driving here would be. My Lotus was still on the water (coming from Australia) and would not arrive for several weeks yet. I began to think of buying a car when back in London later in the day. The next day I packed my small kit into a beautiful little green MGA. During the next 6 months I drove 13,000 miles. I doubt there was an English road I did not discover.

Below: Norfolk countryside and the beach at Great Yarmouth.
Memories of 'David Copperfield' came tumbling back ....

Below: Derbyshire & the peaks, winter 1973. The most astonishing sight in England, to my eyes was the remnant of the Roman road that crosses the peaks. It maintains a constant gradient to permit troops and horse drawn vehicles to travel swiftly and effortlessly across the mountains. It achieves this, without spiralling around the steep slopes like modern roads do, instead cutting a more or less straight line by chizzeling through peaks and back-filling in the deep valleys (leaving tunnels for animals to pass through). The scale of these works, performed by hand and manual labour, is staggering.

Below: Yorkshire. York. - Whitby (home town of Captain Cook). - The Wolds.
Cold.
Dark.
Foggy.

The Triumph had already performed many long journeys. The previous owner, Brian, had used it to travel backwards and forwards from London to near Stuttgart, where he had been working, for several years. It had also carried him further north to deep inside Scandanavia more than once. I set to work to ready it for another epic. To be on the safe side, I fitted new rings and bearings in the motor, replaced gearbox bearings and fitted a new chain. At length, all was done, I gave up my flat, packed my clothes and camping equipment into the large orange waterproof satchel and clipped it onto the bike. Then one cold grey September afternoon I left work in London, kicked the Trumpy into life, and headed towards the Dover ferry. In the first week, my route took me from Calais through northern France into Belgium, Luxembourg and Holland. In week two I meandered across to Aachen in Germany. In week three I wandered backwards and forwards across what was then West Germany, nearing to Saar Brucken. After several days exploring the Rhinelands, my route went south east towards Baden Baden and Calw in the Black Forest region, then resplendent in autumn colours. Finally, another week or so later I reached Munich. From Munich my route went south to Innsbruck in Austria and then across to Switzerland and over the San Gottardo Pass down to Italy.

Naturally, a young fellow was enthusiastic about anything with wheels, so most of my photo efforts then, as now sometimes too, tell stories of motoring adventures. For those interested, the Lotus below is a 1961 1220cc Coventry Climax engined Elite. The photos were taken on New Years Eve 1975 driving from England to Genova where I was to take up a job.

Mornington Peninsular. South eastern Australia. Pleasant and picturesque villages south of Melbourne.

North of the Murray. The farmers are still there but after decades of drought and neglect by governments in far off cities, they face greater and greater hardship. The children no longer stay on the land, partlly because we compulsorily educate them, instead, for lives in the cities.  Nevertheless, life in these regions in rich with strong community and sense of purpose. In a dry plain sense the landscape is very beautiful.

The Turon stream which runs through deep valleys carved through these dry hills was the the center of the New South Wales gold rush from the mid 1850s to 1860s. Its difficult today to imagine these quiet hills teeming with prospectors and ringing to the sounds of pick and shovel. One hundred thousand people or more made their ways here, treking under strenuous conditions through hostile, steep, waterless landscape. While the country side remains scarred by their diggings it is silent today, inhabited by a few sheep, eagles, kangaroos and foxes.

There is an old saying, "You can take an Irishman out of Ireland but you cannot take Ireland out of an Irishman". It must be true. Though my ancestors left here 150 years ago. when I look upon the photos, walk upon the fields, paddle in the lakes, I KNOW this is my ancient home. I feel deep affection for it.

This tomb, built in the early 18th century by ancestor James, was sadly opened and robbed shortly before my cousin Gerry and I arrived to take these photos.
James was an important clan chieftain. As a young man he followed two famous uncles in leading resistance to the English invasions. As an older man he played two hands against the middle, using English ways to restore the family to wealth and influence under English domination. Sending sons and nephews to the far corners of the world, he set up family trading organisations that moved silk out of China, tea out of India, cotton and tobacco out of the USA, diamonds, gold and timber out of Africa, animal bloodlines out of the England, laces out of France and Belgium. In Australia, the family established cattle and race-horse breeding farms and they went out across the country teaching in far flung schools. James was just as astute in arranging marriages for his daughters and nieces. Some of the bone and silk fragments left behind in the tomb, belong to descendants of Edward the Third. The body lying under his great sword is James.

During the time of James, the family estates were very extensive. A broad avenue was constructed through the middle linking many of the family homes. Cragg House was the home of branches closely linked to the Clan Chieftains during the past three hundred years.

Great great grandfather John walked these lanes and pastures, prayed in this church, attended this school more than 150 years ago. He lies buried by the ocean in Sydney now.