The Bellarine Pt 1

Sister said I could stay at her place, and they have a room and a nice double bed, but I like my own space, so I booked a flat for two nights at a reasonable price for a one bedroom flat the Friday and Saturday nights. Since then, I've taken a wee blog break, but I've read all of you wrote.

The occasion was to attend a party for Bone Doctor's 50th birthday, sensibly timed for 4pm to 9pm for seniors. The venue was the same boathouse where Jo's 18th birthday was held in July last year, when I had the company of Phyllis and Kosov.

I didn't do much upon my arrival on Friday afternoon, aside from walking the few minutes to the beach. The Rip is the narrow entrance to Port Phillip, and ships must have pilots to enter and depart.

 

I offered to take the trio out for dinner on the Friday night as a gift for Bone Doctor's birthday and Sister chose a rather nice Italian restaurant. Funnily, it was in a Victorian era building where Ray and I stayed when we attended Bone Doctor's 40th birthday. I understand the whole building has been renovated, and that's just as well as where we stayed was rather shabby.

Four people, the cost will be about $80, with my mind firmly back in the 1990s. A bottle of decent wine bumped up the price, as did Jo's cocktail and my Frangelico affogato. We ate well, with me having a serve of bruschetta and my main being mussels in a rich tomato sauce, with bread of course. $270 later... I just thought of all the money I've saved by not going out for dinner with Ray once a week. Whatever, it was a lovely meal and such a nice evening. 

We drove to a carpark to see the moon. It didn't disappoint.

I can't remember why, but Sister and Jo dropped me and Bone Doctor back at my flat, and we sampled Bone Doctor's Japanese whisky she'd brought along, which was nice enough, but we then drank some of my Scotch. We talked about everything and nothing, and as the English expression goes, we sorted out the world. She set off for home on foot.

Next morning we all met up for brunch in Point Lonsdale village, with me driving the short distance in my car. I had some rather nice fruit toast with Vegemite, much to the surprise of the foreign born lass when I ordered. She said Vegemite was ok, but she'd never heard of it on fruit toast. I can assure you, it works well, if you like Vegemite. This was the view from across the road from where we brunched.

We went our separate ways and I drove to St Leonards, where I stopped off to watch boats being launched from the boat ramp. It was a very good four boat ramp launching place, but sadly I did not see any boat ramp disasters to film and make me go viral. Some old dude with a heavy foreign accent in a motorised wheel chair engaged me in unwanted conversation. One must be kind to the elderly who want to chat. 

I clung to the coastal road as I passed through Indented Heads and stopped in Portarlington. There were so many nice houses along the way, mostly two storey to take advantage of sea views, with huge balconies. This was a slam on the brakes moment to get out and take this photo, I think at Indented Heads. 

I parked in Portarlington, happily right near a great mural. The old hotel looks wonderful.

I returned to my flat in the afternoon, with this lush and perhaps a little overgrown garden outside my door. The temperature was low, but with sunshine, it felt warmer.

 

I walked to the cemetery across the road. Real estate agents would call it 'sea views' from the top of the cemetery hill. I would call them 'sea glimpses'. The wrought iron gates are wonderful. The supporting pillars, rather plain. 

Cemeteries are always interesting, and this was not an exception. A nice rotunda is a great facility to hold celebrations of deaths.

 

An eighteen year old who died, maybe a lifesaver with the statue indicating a connection. 

 

This grave for a nineteen year old with an engraved motorcycle might indicate Gavin died in a motorcycle accident. 

One month old, and what a lovely site to remember her.

Ruben, one week old, with an eye catching grave.

This 1800s grave was really sad. Three children died at a young age and are interred with their mother, then later with their father. Plagues or wars?

A war memorial at the top of the hill in the most prestigious location within the cemetery, at the top of the hill with the aforesaid sea glimpses.

There was a bush area sprinkled with memorial plaques.

Men are capable of great love, for their dogs at least, and Frank loved his Missy.

With a grave holding multiple people my mind drifted to would I ever see as gay couple buried together? Burials are rare now, so it is most unlikely. But look what I came across! Phillipa who died thirty years ago, with mention of her partner Diana.

 Land has been cleared at the back of cemetery, I guess to add more room for plaques. 

Finally, this is where I am staying, in a three storey building, with a weird layout. There is a modern two storey house behind where I was staying on ground level of this three storey building. Somewhere within what all that seems modern, perhaps 1960s chimneys, poke upward.

Limericks and words

The first limerick I think I heard was by my father, 'The boy stood on the burning deck, his pocket full of crackers...", you know how it goes.

The next I can remember was in a book I was reading, "Doctor Foster went to Gloucester in a shower of rain. He stepped into a puddle, right up to his muddle, and never went there again". This puzzled the very young me for two reasons. I must have known by the then how limericks should be constructed, and Foster could not possibly rhyme with Gloucester, which of course it does. The second issue being muddle, clearly meaning middle. Was muddle ever an alternative word for middle? Now online, I see the word middle is used, which makes it wrong as a limerick. I suppose you could say, 'He stepped into cow piddle, right up to his middle'. 

I had to look this one up as I had forgotten the main verse. This is also my father's quoted version.

"Not last night but the night before,

Three little monkeys came knocking at my door.

One had a fiddle, one had a drum,

And one had a pancake stuck to it's ???

Don't be mistaken, don't be misled,

One had a pancake stuck on it's head.".

I assume everyone who knows this verse also knows this version? Maybe that was my first introduction to word play.

I'm sure I could do much better than this off the cuff limerick, but;

There is a cat we know as Jass,

who could behave like a bit of an ass.

While she seems rather gruff,

she is not really that tough,

in fact she is just a bit sass.

 

Repost from 2017 (I forgot about this even after this post)

 

I know nothing

When you have been with your partner for 38 years, you would think there wasn't too much you didn't know about them.

We were watching the English tv show Vera last night. The show is set in and around Newcastle in the north of England, where R hailed from. The scene was set in a pub.

R: I worked in that hotel. It was at the base of the High Level Bridge.

Me: Fascinating dearest. You've worked in so many places, it is a wonder you can remember.

R: Yes, my brother in law to be and me both worked there as we were saving to go to Butlins (a holiday camp of the most ghastly variety, but this is with hindsight) and of course that was where I met Cat Stevens. The hotel has changed........

Me: Stop! Now! What did you just say?

R: About meeting Cat Stevens?

Me: Yes, you've never told me that before?

R: Thought I had. Cat Stevens was Irish (I didn't know that) The pub was owned by an Irishman and he was a friend of Cat and he came to visit him once at the hotel and we were introduced.

Me: How come you have never told me this?

R: I thought I had. He was only semi famous then.

I used to find Cat Stevens so sexy before he became a weird religious Moslem nutter who agreed with murder of those critical of the prophet Mohammed. I am quite perplexed as to why I did not know R had met Cat Stevens.

Friday Funny

The waiter was deadpan. It was funny to me, but what I think is AI at the end of the guy almost spitting out his coffee, just made it.

I'm away for a few days, and I'm staying next to a cemetery. I doubt my sleep will be disturbed by noisy neighbours across the road, and I'm sure there will be an interesting walk among the dead.  

Catch ya soon, me maties.

Hashtag I hate Trump

Another old unpublished post is set free.

It seems like California is the most progressive state in the US. It is certainly the largest by population and by economy. CA is the power house state in the US. Yet, how often has the President visited the state during his second term in office. Just once, in 2025 after the terrible Los Angeles fires, and even then tried to blame the state government for the fires. 

So why? Is he too old to travel? Or is that he knows he is generally hated on the west coast and there are no votes to be gained by visiting these states?

This question arose in my mind because I never hear a news story about #47 in California. I've never heard it reported that #47 avoids the west coast, but when my suspicions were confirmed by a little checking, it really is extraordinary that he never visits the most populous and economic powerhouse state. 

Of 59 interstate trips, (after discounting Florida, where he be visiting his ghastly gilt 'palace') in 2025 he made only one visit to California.

Of  15 trips, so far this year, none have been to California.

This would be unheard of in Australia, although at times federal politicians do tend avoid states where they are unpopular, but they know they must at the least fly the flag at times.

Aside from enriching himself and his cohorts, I don't understand why he is trying to destroy democracy, inclusion, world respect for the US, its long kinship with Canada, the decent hard working poor, the less fortunate in society, in fact alienating everyone he possibly can, except for his demented MAGA folk, the Basket of Deplorables.

I once thought it would not take long for the US to recover after #47, but now I am less certain. Other countries, as the learnt lesson was to future proof themselves during Covid, have now diversified their economies from the US. 

It is not just #47. It is the Republican Party that tolerates his outrageousness, the Democrats who vote for his policies and don't call him out. Worst of all is the 1/3 of voters, 77 million, who actually voted for #47.

A tax cheat, a multiple bankrupt, a rapist, a paedophile and the creator of ICE, which is like a paramilitary army, that kill US citizens who have done nothing wrong, and a war monger.

I just don't understand but what I do understand is that the world now needs to protect itself from US interests and the government's outrageous actions. The government can no longer be considered a reliable friend nor partner to Australia. 

Wednesday Extra

It has been an interesting week in the state of Victoria, Australia. 

Politics was at the fore as the ruling Labor Party dumped its leader Jacinta Allen for a respected bloke. 

After quite a number terms in office, the former premier saw the writing on the wall, and as happens, handed over the poisoned chalice to Ms Allen. This is what the Labor Party does when it sees the end of its rule on the horizon, handing over power to a woman. It has history.

Former Premier Allen received such undeserved vitriol. 

The numbers of women in politics in Australia is good, but they are just not well treated by apparatchiks, especially by the Murdoch media, and judged by the public much more harshly than men are judged.

Gracious in defeat, Ms Allen's resignation speech contained something for women to note.

She also urged women not to be discouraged from entering politics.

"Please don't look at what I have experienced this week and think: 'stuff that, I don't want to be involved.' Look at the support I have experienced over my career and think: 'I can make a difference here too.'"  

My eyes deceive me

Some posts are fun to construct, and this is one of them.

I've known Ingrid/Gattina via her blog Nonna's Castle for what must be 15 plus years, maybe longer. Ingrid is 80+ and lives in a retirement home, a former castle in Waterloo, Belgium. Yes, that Waterloo of battle fame.

While her age has now restricted her adventures, she looks outwards to life, and has become somewhat of spokesperson to management for residents in her home. 

That almost sounds like an obituary, but she is alive and well and has been playing with AI, especially with old and newer photos. 

I hoped to get permission from Ingrid to use her photos to show what can be done, and she was quite happy with that, so here are some of her efforts. I am just imagining the commands she gave to fix and alter the photos. This is the original with her late husband Rick.

With their baby son.

Boring background?

 

Just whack in a back drop of the Rocky Mountains. When I saw this it made me rather afraid for the future, let alone family history.

Show my cat Rosie biting my nose.

Shorten my son's hair, and add a red shirt and a nice background.

Show my grandson smoking and drinking beer. Note the librarian dog going about its work.

Ingrid was wearing black pants and her cat Arthur was not sitting at her feet.

Son and grandson on holidays.

Put my son and grandson in diving wet suits.

This was funny, when she pointed out it was raining cats and dogs.

Me, me, me. Let me have a turn.

Raining cats and dogs made me think of the Weather Girls' song It's Raining Men. Nah. Too many boring older men, along with a number of Mary Poppins wannabees. 

Rain me some hot looking men. There, much better.

This photo of Ingrid and her bodyguards, her son and grandson, amused me. Her son and grandson are 2 metres tall, 6'6", and Ingrid is not tall, but I don't think this photo is quite right.