Friday 30 December 2016

Blog Down Under - on the road again

Canberra

After all the beach-related stuff it was time to leave Jervis Bay and head back on the road to Melbourne - this time by the direct route down the Hume Highway. But first we stopped off at Canberra to be wowed by the Australian Capital city. Now it may be me, or we missed the really good bits, or it was the wrong day of the week, or we didn't spend enough time to do it justice . . . or is Canberra really just like a post-apocalyptic-flu-pandemic version of Milton Keynes . . .

Not one to be daunted I managed to squeeze a frisson of blog material out of it by booking us into the 'University House' accomodation on the Australian National University Campus. The offspring were instantly suspicious that I had only done this because I got some sort of academic deal; a charge which I strenuouly denied - though would have done if it had been an option on www.booking.com (other hotel reservation websites are available). The two-bedroom apartment was redolent of campus accomodation constructed in the 1950s, complete with teak-veneer furniture and faux-granite slab bathroom flooring with brass grouting strips that you get in all GB institutional buildings of a certain era. Hence the associated nostalgic whiff of many a conference past spent in student halls hung thick on the air . . .

. . . so that was Canberra.

Back on the road the next day and I promised familia Evans a host of sights to amaze them on the 500 km trip down the Hume Highway which runs between Sydney and Melbourne . . .

1. The Dog on the Tucker Box - who could fail to be awed by this tale of an ordinary drover who, after being afflicted by a broken wheel, exhaustedly turned to his nosh-box to find his dog sitting 'or somethig else' on top . . . a euphemistic reference on the family-friendly plaque methinks to the faithful hound taking a massive dump on the aforesaid box of tucker . . .

2. Holbrook Submarine Museum - hundreds of miles from the sea who would ave expected this, but to be a sub-mariner you have to be completely nuts . . .


3. Glenrowan, the site of Ned Kelly's last stand - OK, so I ddn't stop here because of the all-pervasive image in my head of that god-awful film with Mick Jagger wearing a bucket on his head . . .

G'day

Tuesday 27 December 2016

Blog Down Under - X-Day

Chinaman''s Beach

Inevitably, we determined to have a beach X-day. While not quite managing a barbie we did take a kilo of tiger prawns and a cooler full of beer . . .

. . . except I could only have one, being the designated driver – it make a change from starting on the second bottle of champers by 10 am, but note to self: next time put S on the insurance even if it means gritting teeth and clutching seat of car. The more observant of you will also note that we had a ‘white Christmas’, but not quite like the one’s we used to know . . . Chinaman’s, and the adjacent Hyams (which S keeps malaprop-ing to ‘Hymens’) beaches are famed for their white sands; like ‘walking on warm snow’ the tourist guff said . . . well, like walking on warm sand I would say, but it is white as I’m sure you’ll agree.

Activity Overload

Right, that's got X out of the way, and I now henceforth resolve to leg it off somewhere sunny for every Xmas - sunny beaches are so much better than the mind fog of turkey 10 ways and The Great Escape. Reverting back to 'holiday mode', the son was insistent that he wanted to go fishing, so off we hove to Sussex Inlet where Cap'n Birdseye (for it was surely he) furnished us with a speedboat - nominally, in the sense that it had a hull and an outboard motor - two rods and a bag of pilchards, to which we added a cooler full of beer . . .



Now, regular readers will now that I am not a fishing aficianado, but the offspring professed to have some experience in this area so, optimistically, I deferred to their expertise in the expectation that a four hour boat hire would yield a trawler-full catch that would be the toast of Grimsby. Initial signs were good, with the daughter snagging a big one but failing to land it . . . thereater only catching lots of seaweed. As for S and the son . . . nada, nothing, zero, didn't get a sniff . . . so it was left to the old man to show 'em how it is done, by application of logic and scientific principles . . .


. . . henceforth I shall be known as 'FisherDad' (I did throw it back in readers) . . .


After a successful day angling (for me anyway) the offspring reprieved themselves on Huskisson beach but putting to good use skills learned during many a summer spent on the sands at Polzeath . . .


When passers-by started taking photos S suggsted that we put down a hat to collect any spare change - I came close, readers, I came close. Now we were really on a roll with actvities following helter skelter one after another - preceded by the $50 notes I hasten to add - and kayaking/padddleboarding was next on the 'must do' vacation list. Suprisingly, after last summer's experience (see previous blog), S and I elected for the double kayak while the offspring for paddleboards (presumably because that is more hip, and life jackets were not compulsory). But clearly, S had learned the lessons of the summer and responded in timely manner to my rhythmic drum-like beating on the plastic hull, and we left the offspring flailing in our wake . . .

Not to be outdone I also managed to squeeze in a bike ride . . .

Whew . . . next stop Canberra.

G'day

Blog Down Under - X on the Beach

Bermagui to Jervis Bay

Eventually we arrived at out destination for Christmas, Jervis Bay Retreat, and what a curious place it is. There are 6 or 7 buildings on a large property, decked out to resemble an Australian frontier town. The various accommodations are themed after public buildings, such as the General Store, Post Office etc. The exterior of the buildings is designed to look like the real thing, but the inside is deluxe accommodation. We are occupying . . . Yes, don’t you know it . . . The Pub . . .



So we have stocked the fridge full of Xmas booze in attempt at maximum authenticity.

The surrounding area if one enormous marine beauty spot, with beaches of white sand, so it is like walking on warm snow. Alas, we have missed the migrating whales, but still hopeful of seeing some dolphins; and there are always the kangaroos. We have finally seen a real one right outside the Pub - Mr Big Balls Kanngaroo standing guard over the missus and young 'un . . .


Despite all this, there is the ever present whiff of being on holiday in the UK during an exceptionally good summer, 1976 springs to mind. Nothing exemplified this more than the Australian Fish ‘n Chip shop; a better version of the home grown variety by far. Not only can you buy fish and chips – and a large variety of fish – but also oysters, prawns, mussels and other seafood. They also double as a fishmongers, so you can buy fresh or cooked – genius, why don’t we have them at home? The children had much amusement at my insistence of getting the bread and butter out of the cooler to supplement the grenadier and chips that I enjoyed beachside - the simple pleasures are the best . . .



As you can see, I am wearing my hat everywhere . . . Except S has banned me from wearing it to bed, even though I tried to convince her that a genuine bushman’s hat would repel the mozzies.


Xmas Eve at Murray’s Beach

Beach day today, and what better place to spend Xmas Eve. One thing that has struck me about Australia is that they do Xmas like we did in the 1970s, i.e. without the 2 month build up and amphetamine crazed, final two febrile weeks of stress and souse. Apart from the odd Santa here and there, you would hardly know it was X; and as far as I am concerned that’s just the way it should be.

Now, it is a tradition for familia Evans to luncheon at Platters restaurant on the Barbican on X-eve. This tradition was unbroken for 15 years, until last year when we spent it in an Ibis Hotel on J32 on the M4 – an experience worthy of a blog in its own right; think Key Largo but transposed to a motorway service station. So, in a further break, we elected this year to raise the bar again and decamped to Murray’s beach in the Booderee National Park . . .


. . . and we all went in the sea, which accounts for my enjoinment to S to ‘suck in the midriff for the photo’ – but it looks like I was the only one who remebered [needed] to make the effort . . .

X-eve done and dusted, we looked forward to X-day . . .

Blog Down Under - I have Wifi

Lack of wifi has hindred progress, but now I have a connection so here is the latest . . .

Merimbula to Bermagui

Having survived the beach we returned to our accommodation at the Sails Luxury Apartments. We have attempted to blend in with the locals to such an extent that S has acquired the new moniker of ‘Parakeet Dundee’ . . .


On the car journey to Bermagui,  during one of those travelling games that you play – ‘Bullshit’, the daughter called it, but I think there is a more family friendly name for the radio 4 version -  I tried to convince ‘familia Evans’ of the existence of the Bandersnatch bird, indigenous to Australia and distinctive by having a blue beak. To their credit they spotted it as complete bollocks, but sadly not due to their extensive knowledge of comic verse. Anyhow, the point is I wish I had said that it had a blue head.


In order to blend in, I have acquired an Ozzy hat. Originally, as I was toying with the purchase of S’s chapeau she went and bought it from under my nose. Not to be outdone, but also not wanting to look like similarly attired twins, I was on the lookout for another. We stopped in Merimbula for a coffee and, as I strolled the boardwalk, I spied a ‘Drover’s Outfitters’ . . . marched straight in and was flogged a $200 hat on the spot by the nice lady who correctly identified my Welsh accent.  The way I justify such a frivolous purchase is thus: it will prevent my sensitive skin from being scorched by the brazier of the Australian sun; what better souvenir could one purchase after travelling half way around the world; and now that monetary value has ceased too have meaning it is merely a drop in the proverbial ocean of the Barclaycard. But, more importantly, I think it looks pretty snappy when performing the essential manly tasks that one must while on an Antipodean adventure . . .



Now I have to keep it away from the son, who straightaway said ‘I want one of those . . .’ So far on this holiday I have come in for (I think) unjustified sartorial criticism from the familia Evans, so this was the start of the fight back – from the knees up at least . . .


While writing this blog this morning, S suddenly emerges from her ablutions in panicky mode with the announcement that “quick, come and look, theres an enormous spider in our bedroom”.  Bloody hell, thinking it must be the notoriously huge ‘Hunstman’ spider, I rush in with my vorpal sword (towel) in hand . . . to be confronted by .



 . . . a daddy long-legs -  God help us if she sees a real one.

G'day



Wednesday 21 December 2016

Blog Down Under - Melbourne to Merimbula

A combination of jet-lag, incipient cold from either the flight or home, hay fever and driving has curtailed my blogging activity. I also suspect that allergic hay fever - the usual flu-like symptoms, headaches, and sore throat – is visiting me as an unexpected bonus of to travelling to my 'second summer' of the year. But, finally, we have stopped for more than one night in the same place, which allows me to add some words. After tracking down the travelling daughter in Melbourne, where she works in the ‘Swan Hotel’ in East Richmond, near the footie stadium and  not the sort of a place you would ever find me in my [alleged] (according to children) youth . . . at £8 a pint you definitely wouldn’t have in fact . . .

Prices - at this point it’s worth mentioning that, with the state of the pound as it is and the country going down the Farage, and everything, the prices in Oz are a little eye-watering at the moment. Even in my current state of wallet unlock there are limits. Prices are relative to local wages, so they aren’t crazy nuts for the average Australian . . . or everyone would starve.  But it’s back on the bread sticks and water for us, or at least the ‘Carlton Draught’ and home cooked pasta meals for 10 days on the trot – as I keep telling the kids, it’s like my cycling holidays but without the bike . . .


I managed to pick up the hire car and negotiate the ‘left-hand-lane-right-turn-lanes’ that Melbourne is famous for. Then up to the supermarket to stock up on a ‘slab’ or two and some ‘goons’ for the long trip. Then back to the daughter’s hovel to get her on board and onto the highway to head up coast towards Lakes Entrance, which was to be our first waypoint. Now I may be wrong, but Lakes Entrance strikes me as the Australian equivalent of Trecco Bay or Southend, but much more spread out and with much larger and cleaner beaches . . .  but still with some excellent bits of tat . . .


The next day we set off along the Princes Highway towards Merimbula, and it was here that we saw our first kangaroos, five of them in fact . . . all flat as bathroom rugs on the highway. We await our first live encounters. 

Merimbula, is in New South Wales, on the Sapphire Coast (thank you Lonely Planet). Somewhat to my surprise they still have a Woolworths – the chain still exists in Oz, assuming it is part of the same chain, but they also sell food, which may account for it’s survival. We settled in to Sails Luxury Apartments, and got the first game of contract wist under out belts. Next day was an excursion to Pambula Beach; on the map this looks like any beach close to a town with suburbs, but in Australia it feels like being in the wilderness as soon as you step away from the ‘patrolled area’- the term conjures up (if you are used to Cornish beaches) a highly marshalled and teeming bit of surf with bathers and bodyboarders competing with the dudes (any any other wannabe beach boy) between the designated flags. But reality was a tiny stretch (50 metres long max) of flagged area where all the kids went too swim and bodyboard under the watchful gaze of the lifesavers and parents. The rest of the beach was practically empty except for the odd bather. This may have been because of a very nasty rip-tide . . .  or  . . . 


. . . anyhow, we did go in the sea, but kept close to the patrolled area because I didn’t want to chance an encounter with. . . 


G'day




Friday 16 December 2016

Blog Down Under - Heathrow

Unusually, this is largely a non-cycling blog. After suffering through numerous seasons of cycle camping and dodgy gîtes, S has prevailed upon me to lever open the wallet doors and spring a substantial wad on an exotic holiday to the other side of the world. Obstensibly to visit the nest-flown daughter, who is currently experiencing the world post-University and prior to gainful employment. So Australia it is, despite my protestations that it is merely a warm version of bungalowed Plympton, albeit with more deadly wildlife.
In order to get there I must endure the first circle of hell - the limbo of Heathrow airport and a 24 hour flight to Melbourne, where we will eventually arrive on Sunday morning. In order to ameliorate the pain I have arranged a taxi to the airport and signed up for some airport lounge passes. Now, regular readers will know that I am not normally given to feckless largesse, and also that S must be discouraged from 'impulse luxury purchases'. So you are probably wondering if I have undergone some sort of Damascene conversion after watching 'A Christmas Carol' on the festive telly. The truth is more prosaic - I dislike flying so elected to buy 'not the cheapest flights' at the most expensive time of year, and then discoverimg that the was practically no economy accomodation to be had in the middle of the Ozzy summer holidays, my normal credit-card aversion therapy has failed to stem the debits, and I now wear it on my forehead so I can bang my head on the card reader while making the next contactless payment in the constant flow of holiday expenditure.
Later . . .
After an uneventful taxi ride to Heathrow we arrive at just after 2 pm, a good 5 hours before scheduled departure, having ignored the advice about arriving 'just in time'. After the usual faffing around with bag check-in and security - empty pockets, remove electrical items, false teeth, take off belts, underpants` prosthetic limbs etc. - we got through to departurtes at just after 3 pm. This still left nearly 4 hours to kill, which is one of the bits that make flying such a painful experience for me. Wandering the aspeptic concourses of the hermmetically sealed, mini-city that is Heathrow, buying over-priced crap and trying not to start heavy drinking at the overpriced bar. But, this time we are saved by the Lounge Pass. If you haven't done this, it's worth every penny of the £36 entrance fee - relaxing with a 'fishfinger sandwich' and chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc in a lounge with leather armchairs . . . middle-age disposal income has its benefits. Better still, it was a freebie with our bank account. The only surprise is that S has not checked out the Spa; just as well, because the Bespoke Skin Polish (imagine a giant shoe-shine machine into which you disappear and come out looking like a lightly-buffed, tan brogue) is £35.


G'day mate

Wednesday 10 August 2016

Tour 2016 J summat

Sans Velo

Not only have I lost track of time, but we have had a day off the bike. Not that I was going to let S get away scott free with a sedentary day - no fear. Instead, we went kayaking on Lac de Guarledan. Well actually, we were invited by our hosts, so needless to say, I rustled up some kettle drums and a whip to make sure that S kept up a steady paddling pace . . .

. . . the only problem was that she kept paddling in circles, citing a left shoulder injury sustained while falling off her bike. Clearly this is a justifiable excuse so, patient and thoughtful spouse that I am, I applied the lash predominantly to the left arm, thus correcting the imbalance in her stroke.

Roman Retour

Next day we returned to the ancient Roman quarry, the subject of a 2015 blog post so I will not repeat my description of the sacrifiicial pit . . .


However, this usefully provides an example of what you can miss when not paying attention. To explain, a certain amount of back-story is necessary - unless of course you are a regular reader, in which case you will know that last year we happended across a series of installations at the spooky Chateau at Coat Caravel; and by installations, I mean the type of stuff that you find in the Tate Modern. Anyhow, to cut a long story short, on our previous visit to the quarry there were quite a few bits and pieces of no apparent utility scattered around in the trees, but we did miss this one . . .

. . . a gigantic rock suspended in the branches of a tree? At first I thought it might be an enormous puffball which had manifested that morning, so knowing that, en France, such forest fungus goes down a storm, I was stropping the Opinel to cut some large slices. But while I was counting the Euros S informed me, after closer inspection, that it was a bit of modern art made out of chicken wire and cotton wool . . . bollocks!

Moules et Pain

You may have wondered what has happened to the traditional moules et frites? No fear, we have broken our duck and embarked on a 'marathon moule munch' at the restaurant in Caurel, as evidenced by this before and after snap of S . . .

While there, I revisited the baguette vending machine. Feeling like I needed to don a scruffy raincoat and take my own brown paper bag, I surreptitiously inserted the €1.10, expecting to hear reciprocating and whirring sounds from within and, in a sort of prosthetic forming process, to see my baton extruded through the little hatch . . .

. . . the reality was that it just dropped out immediately.

Ca va

 

Sunday 7 August 2016

Tour 2016 J 9

Pontivy Sud

Yesterday we ventured into new territory. After perusing the sales at Pontivy, and lunch at our favourite Moroccan restaurant, we headed further down the River Blavet on the bike path, ostensibly towards a scenic spot at Castennac. It was en route that S's latest accessory came in useful . . .

. . . she gleefully presented this to me some months ago, running all the way home from the shops and announcing that she had spent all of her pocket money on it; the princessly sum of £1 . . . I will be getting her some streamers for her handlebars and coloured staws for the spokes to go with it.

Nevertheless, it did come in handy for alerting the slow-pedalling folk that we were steaming up behind. However, it was during this leg of our journey that the Brittany Ferries boarding card finally gave out and my earlier blowout re-presented itself . . .

. . . but, with the foresight of the well preared cyclotouriste that I am, the replacement tire which I ordered had arrived the previous day and was now stowed in the depths of the Carradice. So, a quick change over, and we were once more on our way . . . not before S triumphantly pointing out that I had aquired a chainring mark . . . Clearly this is not in the same category as hers, because I was gainfully engaged in a complex maintenence operation, during which it is common to smear oil over parts of ones' body, curse, throw things, and generally be bad tempered and impatient - especially when you have upended the bike in some particulalry potent stingy nettles and the slow-pedalling folk come smirking past . . .

On we went until we arrived at the designated scenic spot, which was . . . erm, scenic. Another time, and we would have loitered for lunch or a bier, but I was conscious of the fact that we had cycled 45 km almost completely downhill. Now, as any cyclist will tell you, if you go down a hill then you will certainly have to go back up again if you wish to return to your starting point, hence the prospect of a 45 km uphill was not to be to be waved away as a mere trifle. So, off we set, on the return leg.

Now, as regular readers will know, I always maintain that one of the joys of being a cyclotouriste is that you come across unexpected delights by taking the path less travelled. However, knowing the propensity of S to suffer the dreaded bonk at a moments notice, I thought it best to enquire whether she wished to take the scenic or direct route, thereby insulating myself against any subsequent marital hot water, so to speak. Well, give her credit when it's due, we happened upon a cycle race in the village of Melrand - the village had been closed off for the purpose and there was no way through. What else could we do then but stop for a cold biere and watch the fun race which was still going on after the main event. . . .

Apparently, this is called a Voiture a Pedalier, and there is even a European Federation dedicated to the sport, as evidenced by the card proffered to me as we loitered - www.fevp.fr. Obviously, there is a clear remit to vie for the most outlandish regalia . . .

After all this excitement we still had to slog our way back up the remaining very long hill, stopping for the usual photo-op at the bottom of the last climb . . .

It was at this point that S, for some unaccountable reason, decided to start racing me back to the gîte. Perhaps it was the bag of Haribo Star Mix which she had scoffed earlier, now coursing through her veins like the equivalent of EPO for an ADHD afflicted child. Luckily, I have the Garmin, so I sat on her wheel until the very last steep nip, then dropped her like a hot casserole dish to the finish . . .

Ca va

 

Friday 5 August 2016

Tour 2016 J 8

Al Fresco with Friends

Regular readers will know that S and I being creatures of habit, we tend to return to the same places if they are any good. Of course, this ignores the numerous duff places we have stayed. I tend not to mention these latter accomodations to S after the event because of the attendent trauma, but as I say to her 'you have to sort through the silt to find the gems', to which she retorts 'if you opened your wallet you could buy the bloody gems . . .'

Moving on from these inexact financial allegories, the place we do keep coming back to is the Ancien Presbytère at Lescouet-Gouarec, an old granite vicarage, lovingly restored and operated as a chambre d'hôte with attached gîte, by Pete and Keith. And let's face it, who wouldn't want to stay here . . .

Now this year, as you already know if you've been paying attention, the SBCC were staying nearby at Huelgoat, surviving solely on spaghetti bolognese and omelette from Le Brittany Pub. So, taking pity, we invited them around for lunch - and if there's one thing guaranteed to tempt the average cyclist on a round trip of 70 odd miles it's the offer of a slap up meal and cidre.

"So what areyou cooking them?"

"Eh . . ." - H, looking up from Discworld novel No. 7

"What are you cooking?" S says, "'I'll do dessert" . . .

Not one to be daunted by the magnitude of this catering challenge there was only one answer, the Casa Hevanos signature dish of chorizo stew. So, borrowing a slow cooker of which Desperate Dan would be proud (readers under 30 please refer to the Comics Collection in the British Library), I set to the task of constructing a meal of gargantuan proportions . . .

. . . meanwhile, S popped down to the shops and bought a tarte au pommes.

So, leaving the stew to marinate, we set off the next morning to meet our lunch guests at Rostrenen and pilot them in, so to speak, plus pick up a few extra bits and pieces from the local boulangerie - not, I hasten to add, the automated baguetterie described yesterday . . .

On the stroke of twelve, as we reclined at a pavement café enjoying the inevitable café au lait, our guests arrived to be led back up the hill to lunch - myself weighted down by bread it must be said, though perhaps the two bottles of red wine in the depths of the Carradice did not help.

What else is there to say . . . we were kindly lent the use of the terrase and household crockery, and a darned good nosh-up was had by all . . .

. . . plus Keith made us a special chocolate cake to complement the tarte au pommes . . .

Ca va

 

Thursday 4 August 2016

Tour 2016 J 6&7

Il Pleut

Well, it wouldn't be Brittany without a bit of rain and the inevitable day infront of the telly. The gentle, misty precipitation swept across the central spine of Bretagne, underhandedly sneaking in under your sou'wester and finding its way into your boots . . .

But it did brighten up later so we went for a walk around l'etang where we exchanged pleasantries with the locals over half a 'stella in the lakeside bar - run by and Irishwoman from Wexford and simultaneous patronised by an ex-fireman from Middlesborough. If we find any French people I'll let you know. So around the lake we walked, clearly using different muscles to the cycling ones - because 6 miles without wheels seems a long way. But packed with little sights and surprises, such as a new shrine to St Efflam (they recently knocked down the old chapel) . . .

. . . and the water feature that some retired engineer has lovingly constructed in his back garden, where all the bits and pieces rotate and reciprocate und the power of a water wheel (OK, I know I've posted this picture before but consider this an update; the clothes on the see-saw dummies have been changed) . . .

. . . and windmills . . .

Now, regular readers will know that S is prone to the occasional 'chain-ring tattoo', but this holiday she has uncharacteristically avoided this fate . . . until today. The inevitable happened and here is the evidence of, admittedly a small but definite, indication of a return to normal service.

A spin around Lac de Guarledan today. Apparently the plug has been found and le lac is once again full of water (see last year's blog for details of the empty lac). Clearly an empty muddy valley that was once a lake (but also prior to that an empty green valley) maintains it's tourist attractiveness for only a limited time, plus I expect that they wanted the electricity back. We checked out the garden of whacky sculptures where S has spotted the frock she wants to get after her post-vacation diet . . .

S is perpetually mystified by how it is possible to go on a cycling holiday, travel 1000 km under your own power - and burning 50,000 calories according to the Garmin - but still put on weight. My explanation is threefold: 1. the Garmin lies; 2. all non-cycling time is spent either eating (plenty of evidence of that in previous blogs) or; 3. this . . .

2. and 3. being fairly typical holiday behaviour, I have consoled S with the knowledge that if it wasn't for the pedalling we would return home looking like the Pillsbury dough twins.

One of the differences I have noted en France is the unaccountable survival of Durex vending machines on the external walls of pharmacies. In GB, Such machines would swiftly be stripped of their contents, not least by wishfully thinking, adolescent boys too embarrassed to go into the Chemists and make the purchase in person. To add to this, I can now report sight of a baguette vending machine . . .

. . . not likely to be raided by adolescent boys I admit - unless they wanted to make a particulalry large impression. The question remains: how does it work? Is it a large bread making machine which someone fills with yeast, flour and water evey night before goimg to bed, or is it replenished with fully-formed baguettes each morning by an itinerant baker? And do the baguettes come shooting out of the small hatch, requiring you to take your own baguette catcher? I was tempted to make a purchase but S forbade it on the grounds that I would make a scene. I shall have to return after dark to find out . . .

Ca va