Skiing in Kitzbühl

A Name with Memories (Bichel)

He was painting the old Queenslander next door, a top tradesman, always in demand. At lunch time and after he had called it a day he was always ready for a chat. His name? Kev Bichel.

Talking to him would always remind me of a great holiday I once had. What would cause this? No, it was not his humorous anecdotes that brought back my memories; nor his exaggerated stories about other identities about town. It was not the high standard of his work either, although he was a very good painter. No, it was simply his name - Bichel.

It took me back to the Bichlalm, a mountain hotel perched high above the Austrian ski resort of Kitzbühl. Kitzbühl today is one of the classier resorts in Austria with high-priced hotels, high-end shops and a clientele with the wherewithal to patronise these places. It is fair to say that its reputation is built, not on its social life, but the world class skiing possibilities available here.

I knew nothing of this when I when I went there with a skiing holiday group. Before this holiday I had never had a snow ski on my foot. The only actual snow I had ever touched was a dirty remnant on a summer trip to Mt Kosciusko in the Australian alps. I had booked this particular holiday from a newspaper advertisement for it had promised snow and skiing instructors who would soon get me up and running (or should I say skiing?). And I knew it was away from the temptations of the resort life for it was situated outside the village, accessible only by ski-lift.

High in the snow above the Bichlalm near Kitzbühl in Austria.. Taking time to rest on a ski tour.

Next day, fitted out with the necessary boots, skis and stocks, it was on to the beginners slope with the instructors. Here my first memory. It was of Gretel with whom I had travelled from Frankfurt on the bus. She had been allocated the seat next to me and we hit that beginners slope together for she also had never learnt to ski. All decked out, quite nicely too as I remember, she slowly snow-ploughed to the bottom of the gentle slope and then tipped over. Legs and skis were entangled, she sprained her ankle and had to be carried back to the first aid centre at the hotel. What a disappointment! That was the end of her skiing, after a slow 30 metres. However she would not let that be the end of her holiday.

Second memory. How one can sweat when the ambient temperature is minus five degrees Celsius! That's what exercise can do to one. I was determined to get off that beginners slope as quickly as possible. There was no ski lift there to get one back to the top again. So it was down the gentle hill practising my balance, my turns, and goodness knows what else (yes, my stopping!) then it was sidestepping my way back up the slope to do it all again. It was hard work (that's what caused the sweating!) but it proved worth it in the end. I did learn the basics of how to ski.

A skiing learners class being thrown in at the deep end - or should I say being taken to the high end! " Now folks, get to the bottom way down there without falling over and we can move on to the next lesson".

Then followed the memories of ski-hiking along the tops of the mountains above Kitzbühl and the six kilometre downhill run unto the village itself. I remember how cheap whiskey was at the hotel bar but I can't remember how many I actually bought. Finally on the last night at the hotel, at a sort of wrap-up party for our holiday group, I received a certificate for the best Australian skier at the hotel. That's Australian; not to be confused with Austrian! Mind you, I was the only Australian there

Overlooking Kitzbühl in Austria.

Captain Arthur Phillip. Bathampton

On Maps and Chaps  (Bathampton and Arthur Phillip)

There's that old aphorism which says that geography is about maps and history's about chaps. It does not tell the whole story but gives the general idea. Clearly the two are related - an event (involving one or more chaps) takes place in some location (on a map). A situation in which the time axis and the space axis intersect unexpectedly can leave some lasting memories.

This happened for my wife and me. She has always been a history buff and my interest has been in geography. (And yes indeed, it was a memorable occasion when her time axis and my space axis intersected at our marriage many years ago.)

But I am thinking of a memorable epiphany for us which occurred when we found out how a well-known chap in Australian history is associated with a village in England which, I must admit, we had never heard of.

It was a muggy summer's day and we were driving to Bath. We planned to find a B&B there for the night and be ready next day to enjoy what that city had to offer. My navigator, map in hand, correctly orientated, mentioned that according to her calculation, we would soon be in Bath. Countryside soon gave way to urban landscape and we checked in to the first B&B that was signposted.

Oops! It turned out we were not in Bath but in a small village a few kilometres short of the larger town. Our friendly hostess soon assured us that we had made a fortunate mistake. You're Australian. Great! Go down to our St Nicholas Church in the morning and you are in for a surprise.

St Nicholas Church in the village of Bathampton near Bath in England.

We did and we were.

The outside of the church shows a solid stone building with a solid Norman tower, such as one might see in any number of English towns. Nothing breath-taking here.

The surprise was inside. Here lies Captain Arthur Phillip (1738-1814), the founder of European settlement in Australia and the first Governor of the new colony of New South Wales. And it was not just a simple slab marking his remains. The whole of the south aisle of the church has been redesigned to make an Australian chapel in his honour.

After four demanding years establishing this English outpost in the antipodes he returned to England and when he retired he settled in Bath, but before that he had lived for some time in Bathampton. It is here that he was buried.

Burial place of Captain Arthur Phillip, first Governor of the Colony of New South Wales, located in the church of St Nicholas in Bathampton.

For many years there was no interest in his final resting place. His was a simple slab at the entrance to the church. Only in 1975 was this more fitting memorial to this maker of history in Australia dedicated.

I wonder how many present-day Australians know - or even care about - this little bit of Australia's history in Bathampton? For us this was a surprising meeting of history and geography

The Christian Life

The Christian Life

Like the lilies of the fields (or in this case the tulips) display joy and happiness.

Visit the small island of Mainau in Lake Constance in southern Germany to be uplifted by colour. Experience here the joy that life should be.

I am sure that I am not the only person saddened by the internal strife in modern-day Syria. The indiscriminate bombing, the barbaric beheading of "the enemy", the attempted genocide. Do we live in a world where so little value is placed on the lives of other humans? Where has all the love gone?  But then I am also very disturbed when I read Chapter 6 of the Book of Joshua - to mention but one graphic description of warfare in these same regions three and a half thousand years ago.

Reading from my King James Version , Joshua 6: 21: "And they utterly destroyed all that was in the city, both man and woman, young and old, and ox, and sheep, and ass, with the edge of the sword." My New International Version attempts to rationalise this action by saying, "They devoted the city to the Lord and destroyed with the sword everything thing in it...". No matter which version is read, the fact remains that this also is cold-blooded genocide.

This attitude of dealing so harshly with one's enemies - be they religious or not - has carried on down throughout the centuries. I have recently been reading a little about the situation in France in the 15/16 centuries when there was conflict between the dominant Catholic Church and the Protestant group known as the Huguenots. This was part of my family research rather than a specific interest in history of this era.  My forebears were faced with the options of becoming Catholic or leaving everything and fleeing for their lives. So it was that many Huguenots, opting to save their live and practise their beliefs,  became scattered throughout the Protestant areas of Europe.

This expulsion of the French Protestant Christians is just one example in the history of Christianity when the actions of the Church were at odds with the basic principles on which it was built. I will not sadden you with more extreme cases of Church tyranny.

I am unable to satisfactorily explain why this has been the case. Nor, by the way, why Joshua and his army thought that their God wanted them to commit genocide.  Explanations have been suggested, many of which boil down to the fact that the Church consists of sinful human beings. I do believe, however, that the churches have worried too much about theology and not enough about what it means to live a life as proposed by Jesus. I don't see Jesus as a theologian. Rather, he was concerned that each person should live a full and fulfilling life.

It has often been said but needs repeating: "Take time to smell the roses".

It was Paul who started this theology thing. Well, what would one expect? He was a Pharisee and they were concerned with theology, laws and theory. I don't believe that it has been Jesus'  message that has caused all the squabbles and atrocities carried out in his name or the name of his Church. It has been the theology which has been built up around his life.

Friends: Who cares if some are baptised as babies and others later in life?

                Who cares if men or women preach God's message?

                Why should arguments over the real presence (or various alternatives) in the Lord's Supper       (or one of its alternative names) cause such deep divisions?

I think Jesus would turn over in his grave if he knew what humankind has done to his message. Maybe, that's not a good figure of speech!!

No, Jesus' message was simply love and acceptance. Love yourself, but love God and your fellow human beings more.

This is where the rubber hits the road. Jesus showed us the way. Through his life and actions we are able to snatch a glimpse of what God is :

                * He helped those in need.

                * He fed the hungry.

                * He healed the sick.

                * He associated with the fringe-dwellers in his society.

                * He accepted people as they were.

                * And so on ... and so on....

                * He died for what he believed in. 

People do not see Jesus when they see you (or me) reciting the Apostles' Creed, or the Nicene Creed, or the Athanasian Creed.

They do not see Jesus when they see two theologians discussing the doctrine of the Holy Trinity.

Nor do they see Jesus when they see people in church solemnly moving up to the altar to receive a sip of wine and a wafer of bread.

 

It's time to live a life of peace and contentment. Enjoy life - Don't take it.

BUT, they see a glimpse of a loving God when they see you (or me) befriending an African refugee family which has arrived in the area.

They see a glimpse of a loving God when they see us helping a sick, aging neighbour.

They see a glimpse of a loving God when they see you (or me) coming to the aid of a homeless drunk who has just vomited in the gutter.

Or  wanting to meet a Muslim family, or a Hindu family, or a Buddhist family, or an Atheist family, and not wanting NOT to meet them.

And (and I believe this to be the crunch!) they see Christ in us when we are meeting them to be friends and to show love to them and not to proselytise.

Launceston, Cornwall.

Eether or Eyether 

         You say eether and I say eyether

            You say neether and I say nyther

            eether, eyether, neether, nyther,

            Let's call the whole thing off.

                                                George & Ira Gershwin: From Shall We Dance? 1937.

We were enjoying our sausages and egg, and bacon and tomato, at our B&B in the small village of Stratton in Cornwall. Our hostess, similar to the many we had come across, was very intent on seeing us well-fed before our day's travel. She was also showing keen interest in where we had been and where we were heading.

So where are you off to today?

We want to go to Launceston and have a look around there.

Where?

Launceston.

Never heard of that place. Where is it?

Here, a little bit south of here - as I pointed to the town on the map in front of us. We would often look over our day's route during breakfast.

Oh! You mean Launceston (hostess pronounced it Lansen).

Yes, Launceston (I pronounced it Lawn-cec-ton).

You Australians! How on earth do you get Lawn-cec-ton out of that? And why for heaven's sake do you want to go there?

It's just that our daughter lives in a town with that name in Tasmania. It's Lawn-cec-ton there, or Lonny if you are really intimate with it. And our English Heritage pass says that there is an interesting old castle there.

In Launceston (Lansen)? Just a pile of stones on a hill. Go south along the coast. It's much more interesting.

It usually makes good sense to listen to the locals and follow their suggestions. They can be a gold mine about the local area and put one on the local features the travel brochures do not mention. In this case we did not avail ourselves of the local knowledge. We still felt that as our daughter lived in Launceston (Lawn-cec-ton) and had often visited that place, we would like to see this Launceston (Lansen) as well. So we headed inland and not along the coast.

Our B&B Lady's "pile of stones" in Launceston (Lansen) in Cornwall.

This connection is found in the person of Philip Gidley King, the third Governor of the penal colony of New South Wales. In 1804 a settlement was established at the head of an estuary here in Northern Tasmania. It was named Launceston in honour of the Governor who was born in Launceston, Cornwall. The estuary in Tasmania was named after the river which flows beside Launceston in Cornwall. A geographic coincidence is that in Cornwall a number of tributaries join the Tamar near Launceston and in Tasmania a number of rivers join to form the Tamar estuary.

Whereas Governor King arrived in New South Wales to take his place governing the colony, a Launceston compatriot of his arrived on the first fleet in more lowly circumstances. This was a man called John Ruse, a farmer, who at the age of 23 was arrested for breaking and entering. He was sentenced to seven years transportation to New South Wales.

But John Ruse made good, for the farmer boy in him stood him in good stead. He was the first to grow wheat successfully in his new home and as food was desperately needed in the growing colony he was granted land to grow grain. So he lived to a ripe old age of 77. He carved his own epitaph on his gravestone (before he died) which echoes a satisfied life:

            MY MOTHER REREAD ME TENDERELY WITH ME SHE TOCK MUCH PAINES

            AND WHEN I ARIVED IN THIS COELNEY I SOWD THE FORST GRAIN

            AND NOW WITH MY HEVENLY FATHER I HOPE FOR EVER  TO REMAIN

 But back to Cornwall in the 21st century. The remains of the fortress castle high on a hill over Launceston proved to be more than a pile of stones. The restored section held a fine historical record of its existence. It was however a far cry from its glory days when it was heavily involved in the politics of the day. That was all for the history buff. I was happy to look out over the countryside struggling to keep dry and hold my balance against the strong wind.

Our visit was brief as was also our visit to the town itself. The weather reminded me of its counterpart in Tasmania (rainy, windy and cold), but there the comparison ended.

One shouldn't make comparisons, but I think that our Launceston (Lawn-cec-ton) in Tasmania has outdone its English ancestor. And how do you get Lansen out of Launceston?

Now Launceston (Tasmania) really does have piles of stones. Here at The Basin in the cataract Gorge, one of the great places to visit.

    

Plane travel

A Flight ......to where?

It is after lunch on a soporific spring afternoon. The squatter's chair on the front veranda is very comfortable after the more-than-necessary lunch. My eyes glance towards the sound of an aircraft, then focuses ahead on a passenger jet heading into the west. As it disappears into the distant haze I forget about my daily routine and let my imagination accompany that Qantas Airbus. It is taking me to ...... to where?

Escape to foreign climes. But in the shrinking world of the twenty-first century are there foreign climes? Isn't this merely a carryover from Victorian times? What new is there to explore which hasn't been shown (with many repeats) on the Adventure Channel, or National Geographic Channel? The world has given up its foreign secrets. The world of today has been reduced to a 102cm flat plasma screen.

I have been allocated a window seat. Is this better than an aisle seat? Debates have raged over this. Passengers have fought over this. I personally remain quite neutral. To avoid arguments assume that in this instance I have been lucky and have the advantage of a window seat. Look out of the window and what do I see? The plane's wing and massive engines? No, I'm seated further to the back. The top of the clouds? No, when they are not there.

Snow covered fields -where? What does it matter to us in the sky.

Well tell me, what do you see? I see the page of an atlas. Watercourses meandering across the page and fading into the distance. Dots of settlements. land patterns. All so remote, sketched, so detached from reality. I am looking at a different world. Where are the personal struggles, the lovers' tiffs, the daily grind for existence?

Modern aeronautical technology has lifted us above the mundane. From 10000 metres there are no international borders, no power struggles. The trouble spots of the world pass unnoticed. Those magic flying carpet makers in Seattle and Toulouse have created a world of its own, a world apart. This world, high in the sky, is only so very tentatively attached to mother earth with the rarefied atmosphere acting as an umbilical cord. Qantas or Emirates, Air China or Lufthansa, it matters not at all. In this world of the high fliers the experiences are similar.

And then finally - it can seem like an eternity - a change in revs, a decreasing speed and altitude and the plane delivers me to the assigned gate. Buffeted now by other people's carry-on luggage I join the caterpillar line emerging from a long tunnel to claim my luggage from the carousel. I hurry. Yes, hurry. But why hurry? So that I can spend longer waiting for my yellow-spotted bag to appear?

I wait. Round and round, the same red case, the same bulging backpack. Should they be in Vientiane perhaps, and not in Vienna? Why are my cases always the last to appear on the carousel? Does anyone's case ever come out first? Eventually my yellow-spotted case finds me and we can move on to the other formalities of foreign travel.

These completed it's through the countryside and the suburbs to my hotel. Past the dwellings crowned with a defoliated forest (or a jumble of discs) tuned in to the local TV channels. All made in China attempting to standardise the world - a reverse Babel - but being strenuously resisted with the "no", "nein", "nyet", "siyo", "tidak". Wait a minute. Are they succeeding? Relaxed now in my hotel room, showered, shaved, re-humanised, I flick on the TV. CNN speaks to me in American, as it has always done. Does the hotel room TV set (made in China) default to CNN when switched on? Or does it have a personal disagreement with the antenna on the roof which is determined to speak German, or Russian, or Swahili, or Indonesian?

"Have you brought that washing in yet?"

I'm  back on earth with a thud. I'm at home dozing on the front veranda.

Pilgrim Church

A Wow of a (Pilgrim) Church

Give unto the Lord the glory due unto his name;

Worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness.                 (Psalm 29:2)

It is Sunday evening and so I think the quote from the Psalms is quite appropriate. It also takes me back a few years when we were driving along a road in Southern Germany. We were following our route on the road atlas and we noticed a “place of touristic interest” in the middle of what appeared to be nowhere. The specific symbol on the map indicated this “place of touristic interest” to be a church. It had the name “Wieskirche”.

Being in no great hurry, we decided to investigate. This is one of the advantages of individual travel. You do not have to be at a specific place at a specific time. But then I can remember times on a planned tour when we weren't where we were supposed to be. There was this one time when.... But I'm getting off the track. Back to Southern Germany! We came over a rise and Wow!! Here was this huge church. Yes, in the middle of nowhere, but surrounded by hundreds of cars, buses, trinket shops, restaurants, and beer stalls. This was the Wieskirche, or to give it its official name, 'Wallfahrtskirche zum Geißelten Heiland auf der Wiese' (Pilgrimage Church of the Scourged Saviour in the meadow).

The beautiful church in the meadow.

We had unknowingly stumbled on one of the most beautiful rococo churches of Southern Germany – a cultural site on the UNESCO World Heritage List. So much for a planned, well-researched holiday!

Going into the church was a double Wow! It is easy to see why hundreds of pilgrim groups and over a million tourists visit this church every year. Who said church attendances were falling in Europe? That day – admittedly it was a Sunday – things were really buzzing in the surrounding establishments as well as in the church. What on earth is going on here? What is this church all about? My inadequate descriptions would be superfluous. There are a lot of interesting facts about this church at www.wieskirche.de (in English also) as well as many other sites. Especially intriguing is the history surrounding its establishment as a pilgrimage church and the reason for the name 'Scourged Saviour'.

All of which raises a question – Why are churches so high on the list of tourist sites? Not only this one which has such obvious appeal, but most places like to promote their local church as a place worthy of a visit. Or is this a subtle form of proselytising?

Perhaps the verse from Psalm 29 gives some clue. There have always been devout people who spared no expense in building worship centres, (Christian and other) where a specific deity is worshipped. It is refreshing to sit and meditate in beautiful surroundings. The Abbot and monks of the nearby town of Steingaden spared no expense in having this church built. Nor did those who recently restored it to its present (or should I say past?) glory. Today people still come to churches to worship. Others just to see the beauty. But I agree with those who say that there is much more to it than this. Must think more about these thing.

Music from this organ inside the church would lift one's soul: soaring with the angels.

The Pilgrim

We are all Pilgrims

Just received the travel documentation and itinerary details for my trip which is coming up very quickly - A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land.

No, no a trip, a pilgrimage.

I have never been on an actual pilgrimage before. A number of years back, Jill and I did have the notion of walking part of that pilgrimage trail through Spain, the Way of St James, ending up at Santiago de Compostela in Spain. But (aren't there always "buts"?) changing circumstances, a rush of old age with creaking joints and a realisation of what was really involved put a "Ya gotta be dreamin!"on that idea.

We did cross that "Way" on one occasion, I remember. That was when we visited the church of St James in Rothenburg ob der Tauber on the Romantic Road in Germany. This church lies on one of the many feeder routes which lead south to the main pilgrim way in Spain. At the front of the church is this tall bronze statue of a pilgrim, right foot forward ready to keep moving and the right index finger pointing to the pilgrim's real destination. We stood beside him for a while but then continued our journey NORTH.

A bronze statue in front of the St James church in Rothenburg ob der Tauber, in Germany, encourages pilgrims on their way.

A mediaeval German monk and mystic, Johannes Geiler von Keiserberg, wrote back in the fifteenth century that it is death that will guide us all to our true homeland, our true destination (our Heimat). The whole life of the Christian person, the pilgrim, is leading back to a reunion with the maker. This need to be reunited presupposes the Christian belief that humankind's initially perfect relationship with God had been broken by the rebellious, selfish action of the human race. This yearning to be reunited, for a re-association with "Paradise", has remained in spite of the alienation from God. This makes us all pilgrims and gives the life of a Christian an eschatological perspective.

We are trying to follow that statue's finger. We want to return to our ultimate Heimat. We are striving to reach that perfect, harmonious relationship, which according to Christian mythology, existed when, as stated in the Bible, "God saw everything that he had made and indeed, it was very good"(Genesis 1:31).

Yes, we are all pilgrims on the way.

Makes me think of that old classic by John Bunyan, The Pilgrim's Progress. I rooted out a copy which I knew was hiding in the house somewhere. I found it. It was old and batted, patched up with brown paper and sticky tape. And a real surprise awaited me when I found it. Something I had completely forgotten. The book had belonged to an old aunt of mine. The bookplate inside the front cover read: "Awarded to Freda H.... for obtaining highest marks in the Ropeley Lutheran Saturday School, 1924. H.E.Temme, Pastor."

 Sadly Aunty Freda passed away many years ago. But Saturday School? Who goes to school on a Saturday? And at a church? Now there's some more memories!

Yes, a batted copy, seemingly read by many, but I would soon ask, "By whom?" After reading a number of pages of this classic from the late seventeenth century, it soon became apparent that it would not figure on any modern best seller list. To give you some idea.

"Then said Evangelist, If this be thy condition, why standest thou still?  He answered, Because I know not whither to go.  Then he gave him a parchment roll, and there was written within, Fly from the wrath to come.

The man therefore read it, and, looking upon Evangelist very carefully, said, Whither must I fly?  Then said Evangelist pointing with his finger over a very wide field, Do you see yonder wicket-gate?  The man said, No.  Then said the other, Do you see yonder shining light?  He said, I think I do.  Then said Evangelist, keep that light in your eye, and go up directly thereto, so shalt thou see the gate; at which, when thou knockest, it shall be told thee what thou shalt do............ (The Pilgrim's Progress  p19.)

John Bunyan's pilgrim, Christian, shouldering the many cares and worries of life - carrying the load himself.( Picture from an early edition of The Pilgrim's progress -pre 1924. R.T.S London.)

The pilgrim then begins his journey towards the shining gate, meeting a wide range of types on the way, mostly wanting to hinder his progress. There was Obstinate and Pliable, Sloth and Presumption, Mr Malice and Mr Cruelty, Mr Love-lust and Mr Live-loose... and the list goes on.

I suppose we can all relate to many of the episodes related in this book, for we also are nomads, wandering east of Eden, daily being confronted by members from this cast of colourful characters hell bent on keeping us from our goal.

Too much time spent with these characters and one can become despondent, overburdened by pessimism, bent low by cares and worries. This is not how life should be. My trip is sub-titled "Following in the footsteps of Jesus". I know that written in those footprints, inscribed on Jesus' parchment roll, are new directions which will take one past the many road-blocks. This trip will, I hope, help us read those directions more clearly and continue our earthly pilgrimage with a lighter step.

Waiting at airports

Waiting for the future but remembering the past.

"So what are you going to do with all that stuff you spend your time writing down?"

It was a reasonable question, but the following comment was somewhat jarring, not to say disappointing.
"Because you know what will happen to it all when you pass on."

But I had to agree there was an element of truth in what Jill (my wife) was saying. She had been watching it accumulate throughout the many years of our married life. And probably much of what I was writing was merely for my own benefit: It kept my mind active, and there is personal enjoyment in reliving memorable, happy occasions. But I must hasten to add that most of those memorable, happy occasions included her!

And I do spend many long hours researching what I wish to write down. At times this does become tiring but I get help and carry on regardless.

"Maybe the kids, and later even the grandchildren would be interested in some of their grandfather's thoughts?" This suggestion prompted a non-committal shrug.

Undeterred, I continued, "There might even be others out there who would relate to my memories." And then it struck me. "I'm going to blog them! And include some of my photographs as well. (Yes, I am well aware of what would happen to them too, when I 'pass on'.) I will notify my friends and relations so that if they have an idle moment, feel that the time is dragging, they could log on and join me in my reminiscing. That's what I'm going to do. I'm going to blog everything!"

All this discussion on the fate of the bits and pieces of my writings and my photographs - remembering that this is my past, my memories we are talking about- coincided with an e-mail from the tour leader of a trip to the Holy Land and Jordan for which I had signed up. Jill was prophesising (ops! I mean imagining) further streams of travel memoirs. But that is in October.

I am indeed looking forward and waiting expectantly for that trip.

Talking about waiting ......

How many puzzles does one really have to do before boarding time arrives?

I had to go to Launceston at short notice recently. The flight leaving that evening was booked out and I had to wait till next day and travel by the rival carrier. Which was good for I later heard that the previous evening's flight was delayed for six hours. Six hours! How can a domestic flight be delayed for six hours? Imagine sitting and waiting for six hours for a plane.

Now I am not a world traveller, always in the air, with millions of frequent flier points. I was practically middle-aged when I first flew in an aeroplane and since then have been in the air only infrequently. Hardly a frequent flier. But even so, it hasn't always been smooth flying. And delays? Yes!! I've had a couple of good ones.

Was booked on Air India to fly out of Sydney to London some years back. I was scheduled to land in London in the morning in time for an appointment later that day. It was important that I be there on time. I arrived in Sydney to be told there would be a delay. “A delay!! How long a delay?” “That's hard to say,” was the reply, “the plane's still in Bombay!” I was able to transfer to a Qantas flight and got to London just in time.

I suppose it is some consolation that the planes have to wait as well. Maybe they create the puzzles rather than solving them!

Once while waiting in Dublin, Ireland, I noticed the man next to me continually looking at his watch and seeming disturbed. “Worried about waiting?” I asked him. “Not really,” he replied, “I'm waiting for my brother to come from Sydney. He's been out of the country for thirty years and I mightn't recognize him.” “He probably won't recognize you either,” I suggested. “No worries there,” he assured me, “I've not been out of the country at all.”

More recently, son Peter and I had completed a 10 day holiday in China and shortly after breakfast were waiting at the hotel for the bus to take the group to Beijing airport for the flight home. Our tour leader appeared with the message, “There's been a delay!” Our plane was still in Sydney. It had missed the curfew the night before and it (and its passengers ) had to wait till next morning before being allowed to take off. I could imagine the disappointment of those passengers. At least we had an extra day in Beijing.

Maybe when we have fully automatic, computerized planes, waiting will be a thing of the past. Passengers will be automatically called to board – on time. The plane will taxi automatically to its start point and then take off on time at the say-so of a computer somewhere. When in the air a voice will come over the PA system: “Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen. Welcome on board this fully automatic flight where everything is controlled by computer. Sit back and relax. Nothing can go wrong....go wrong....go wrong....go wrong.....