London’s Piccadilly Line and the 14 Bus

Posted on February 22, 2026 by shane harrison

If you are flying into London Heathrow, the most convenient connection to the city centre is to take the Piccadilly Line on the London Underground, aka The Tube. It’s just over half an hour to reach the central zone while the line continues on out to the suburb of Cockfosters. From Earl’s Court in the west, the line passes through ten Tube stations in the city centre before reaching King’s Cross St Pancras in the north east, all convenient for most top London sights, accommodation and your wining and dining pleasure. If the Piccadilly line doesn’t go by your front door, there are numerous connections with London’s spaghetti bowl of underground lines, eleven in all.

While the Tube is a boon, fast and comprehensive, it’s a good idea to use the above ground bus service too. London’s red double deckers are a famous attraction in themselves, and they are cheaper than the Tube. A favourite route is the 14 which starts in Putney on the River Thames, the starting point for the annual University Boat Race between Oxord and Cambridge. The 14 passes through Fulham before following much the same route as the Picadilly Line, terminating at Russell Square not far from Kings Cross.

Here’s just some of the fun you can have along these routes. On our recent trip we took the Tube from Heathrow to Earl’s Court and could have taken the District Line to Fulham Broadway, but walked instead through Brompton Cemetary. Opened in 1840 this is the resting place for two hundred thousand departed. Amongst these are Luisa Casati flamboyant Italian fashion and art icon, whose Venetian residence is now the Guggenheim, Henry Cole, inventor of the Christmas Card and moving force behind the Great Exhibition of 1851 in Hyde Park’s Crystal Palace, Emmeline Pankhurst, radical Suffragette leader and Kit Lambert manager of The Who. Beatrix Potter, who lived nearby, browsed the tombstones in naming her characters, including a certain Peter Rabbett. An impressive feature at the southern end centres on a domed chapel flanked by symmetrical collonades, the development modelled on St Peter’s Square in Rome.

We were staying at the Stamford Bridge Hotel at Chelsea FC on the Fulham Road. The 14 goes past the door, heading along the Fulham Road before turning into South Kensington. It is a lively spot at the nexus of several major thoroughfares. The tube station lies below a shopping arcade facing onto Onslow Square. The natty boulavardier cast in bronze is Bela Bartok, the Hungarian composer who lived hereabouts between the wars. He stands on stainless steel leaves serenaded by a songbird.

Turning onto Cromwell Road, the street is dotted with elegant landmarks of the Victorian Age. The Natural History Museums is an ornate gothic cathedral guarded by dinosaurs The Victoria and Albert Museum is next door. Founded in 1852 by the V and A mentioned it is another majestic landmark and the largest museum of applied art and design in the world, Joining Brompton Road we head into Knightsbridge ,London’s shopping mecca. Flagship of fashionable retail is Harrods Luxury Department Store opened in 1905. Its vast redbrick facade fronts the largest department store in Europe.

Hyde Park Corner marks the southeastern edge of the park at its junction with Green Park. The entrance pays much homage to Dubliner Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington. He had defeated Napoleon at Waterloo, though on which platform we can’t say (as Myles na gCopaleen might have said). Speakers Corner, by the way, is at the northeastern end, the place where you can spif publicly on any topic, a hobby more often endured in public bars.

The thoroughfare of Piccadilly is wide and straight, leading into the heart of central London. The name comes from piccadill, the white lace collars popular in Shakespearean times, and made and sold here in the early 1600s. Getting off before Piccadilly Circus, we turn into the Burlington Arcade. Lit by giant chandeliers it is the oldest and swankiest of London’s covered shopping arcades. Built in 1819, there are forty high end shops, many famed jewellers and watchmakers, pampering cafes or even a shoeshiner where you can relax to take it all in. The Burlington is patrolled by Beadles kitted out in traditional attire.

At the end of the arcade we turn right towards Regent Street and strike for Liberty’s, a Tudor Revival building from 1920. Like its architecture, it is an intriguing blend of traditional and cutting edge, offering fashion, beauty, homeware and textiles over five floors around a central atrium. The building picturesquely spans the entrance to Carnaby Street. The famed indigenous fashion shops of sixties London are now mostly swamped by international brands. The vibe of Soho persists and there are plenty of quirky shops and no shortage of choices for refreshment. We get a coffee in Cafe Concerto, a large Italian cafe on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue, with huge picture windows, sidewalk seating and tempting cakes and snacks. Leicester Square is around the corner, the centre for theatre tickets and cinema.

The visual arts are also world class around here. A visit to the National Gallery of Art on Trafalgar Square is a must. Or the Portrait Gallery nearby, both if you can. Turner’s part in the collection is a central feature. Most recently we concentrated on late eighteenth and nineteenth century art. The viewer is led from Constable and Turner on to Monet’s reflective pools and Seurat’s giant bathers. But there’s much more than that. It’s free in, so make a few visits. Don’t eat it all at once.

A stroll up the Strand takes us through the heart of old London. The street divides in two at the churches of Mary le Strand, and St Clement Danes. These churches were once traffic islands, but pedestrianisation has returned to them a more antique and relaxed vibe. Volunteers and vicars are happy to greet, and impart interesting information. St Mary’s, smaller of the two, was associated with the Wrens during WW2, Clement Danes with the RAF. Here, I am told, it was designed by a Scottish Catholic, an unusual combination you would think but to which I can attest, being the son of one.

Safely on the kerbside, the Law Courts is a sprawling masterpiece of Gothic Revival, familiar to watchers of the BBC News. It was designed by George Street and opened by Queen Victoria in 1882. Opposite the Law Courts is Temple Bar, once an ancient gate on the western edge of the City. Ducking into a laneway we head down towards the river. A detour through the Temple is worth it, entering the quiet and traditional world of England’s ancient court procedures. The Inns of Court, professional associations for barristers, have their own dining halls, administrastion offices and the various Chambers for practicing lawyers include appartments for senor barrisers and judges. Temple Church is nestled here. It was built by the Knights Templar in the late twelfth century. Extensively damaged during the Blitz, renovation work was not completed until 1958. The church is famed for its appearance in the Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown.

St Paul’s sits at the top of the hill. The entrance fee is prohibitive, but prayer is free. There’s a calm square to the side of the cathedral where we rest and watch stormclouds brewing. A steep pathway leads us down to the river where the Millennium Bridge leads over to the South Bank. You can see downriver to Tower Bridge while the Globe Theatre and the Tate Modern bracket four centuries of creativity on the quayside. This time we walked the north bank upriver, cut in through Temple Bar, and had a few nice pints of Guinness at Daly’s back on the Strand.

The monumental postwar buildings of Aldwych curve back towards the West End. Covent Garden is a little farther on. An oasis from its merry mayhem is found in the grounds of another St Paul’s. The church was built the 1630s and designed by Inigo Jones an early trailblazer of Neo-classicism in England. Entrance is from the graveyard garden.The portico facing the public square is technically to the rear. This has been noted for the first recorded performance of a Punch and Judy Show and remains a regular haunt for street performers. The portico also featured in George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion and the later film My Fair Lady. The area around became a noted theatre district soon after St Paul’s completion. Known as the Actors Church, inside there are plaques dedicated to many notable figures of stage and screen, including Charlie Chaplin, Noel Coward and Vivien Leigh. Across the square Covent Garden’s nineteenth century market building is busy and pleasant, with musicians playing on the lower level. The old market area also hosts the Royal Opera House and the London Transport Museum.

We are on a contemporary London transport project however. A short walk to Holborn by way of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, we stop at an Indian restaurant before heading on to Russell Square to catch our bus. Although London’s alleged rainforest climate is often touted in film, on my sixteen or so visits in the last fifty years, I can’t actually recall being rained on. The rain pours down as we reach the 14 terminus at Russell Square. First we pass the British Museum, then through the full length of Shaftesbury Avenue. The theatre district glimmers in its floodlights and neon, the madding crowds unfazed by the downpour. A sign proclaims Les Miserables. Not us.

I saw you walking down Shaftesbury Avenue

Excuse me for talking I wanna marry you

This is seventh heaven street to me

Don’t you seem so proud

You’re just another angel

In the crowd and I’m…

Walking in the wild west end

Walking with your wild best friend

Wild West End is a song from Dire Straits’ eponymous debut album in 1978.

London Memories – 4.

Posted on February 8, 2026 by shane harrison

River and Time

The River Thames is a highway, and has been since Roman times. Emperor Claudius led the invasion in the fifth decade of the first millennium, establishing Londinium as a fording point where the City of London now lies. The City itself became London’s financial district, marked by the Tower of London to the east with St Paul’s Cathedral towering above its western end. Enclosed by walls it had a population of over fifty thousand people at its height in the second century AD.

London was abandoned after the last leaving of the Romans in the early fifth century. The Anglo Saxons established a small settlement outside the ruined city, known as Lundenwick. Located just west of the ancient walls, the Strand now bisects this zone. Alfred the Great reoccupied the ruined walled city during the Viking invasions of the ninth century. By the time of Edward the Confessor, London had reestablished itself as England’s capital. Edward built WestminsterAbbey and after his death in 1066, William Duke of Normandy was crowned king there on Christmas Day, fresh from his victory at the Battle of Hastings. William would build the Tower of London, the imposing Norman fortress and notorious prison, showing who’s boss. London was back.

The ancient city’s inheritor, the financial district, is highrise and cold. This is where true power now lies. Soaring above it all, some of the more fanciful modern cathedrals of commerce have been given such playful names as The Gerkin and the Cheese Grater. Across the river the tallest of them all, the Shard, scrapes a sharp nail along the underbelly of the sky.

The true signature of the London skyline is best appreciated from the pedestrian bridge connecting the City with the Globe theatre on the South Bank. St Paul’s Cathedral boasts a heritage stretching back almost a thousand years. The medieval cathedral stood here for six centuries from 1066 until the Great Fire when it was destroyed. It was rebuilt by Sir Christopher Wren, completed fifty years later in an exuberant Baroque style. Loved by most, some stern Protestants have decried a whiff of Popery about its ornament and grandeur, noting its similarity to St Peter’s Basilica in Rome.

Some vestiges of the Roman Walls persist nearby, their perimeter topping Ludgate Hill. Walking down Ludgate Hill takes us to Fleet Street, once the centre of the newspaper trade. Hidden up a nearby lane, you might find St Bride’s Church. Another Christopher Wren building, St Bride’s is also known as the Printers Church. It was originally founded by Irish monks converting the West Saxons in the seventh century, and named to honour St Bridget of Kildare.

Bridget lived between 450 – 525 AD. The name Brigid, original Gaelic form of Bridget, is associated with a Celtic Goddess, a name we recognise from the Brigantes of Boadicea fame in Roman Britannia. Little is known of Saint Bridget’s early life but she established a community of nuns and came to be an important Abbess in the early Gaelic church, taking precedence over the Bishop of the Diocese of Kildare. Kildare, Gaelic for the church of the oak, has a cathedral dedicated to her.

Saint Brigid’s feast day falls on the first of February, and is associated with early spring rites. A ritual associated with her is the fashioning of a small cross from rushes. The distinctive cross, its prongs radiating from a central square swirl, has also been adopted as the logo for the Irish national broadcasting service, RTE. Brigid was patron of poetry and the arts, livestock and dairying, and was symbolically associated with fire. Amongst her more regular miracles was the ability to turn water into beer. She was exceptionally popular amongst both Irish and Danes for some reason

St Bride’s has an even more global association. Here, in 1587, Elenora White married Ananias Dare. The couple promptly set sail for America with a group that founded the first English speaking colony there, at Roanoke, Virginia. Their daughter Virginia, born later in 1587, was the first child born in America to the colonists but disappeared along with her parents and other colonists. Desperate attempts by Elenora’s father John White, the colony’s governor, from 1580 failed to resolve the mystery of the disappearance. The Lost Colony may have been wiped out by natives, or perhaps some, maybe Virginia, were sheltered by a local tribe, and intermarried with them.

There are plenty other churches of interest in the immense shadow of St Paul’s. Continue down the Strand, which flows either side of two landmark churches, St Clement Danes and St Mary le Strand. There’s also Temple Church made famous by Dan Brown. The Strand, as the name implies, is not far from the river. The Thames bustles with pleasure boats, service and commercial craft. M and I once took a trip from Embankment to Greenwich by boat. Operated by Thames Clippers, the service runs from Putney way out west, passing Chelsea, Battersea Power Station and the Houses of Parliament to the Embankment where we got aboard. Heading east the City rises to our left, with Shakespeare’s Globe on our right. We pass through Tower Bridge, another emblem of London with its fortress-like architecture and bascule. Horace Jones was the architect and John Barry the engineer. The project completed in1894

Into the exotic east, Canary Wharf is a couple of stops before Greenwich, while Woolwich Arsenal lies further to the east. Greenwich awaits on the south bank. The Royal Navy College is a neo-classical masterpiece of Christopher Wren. Begun in the late 16th century, it was originally the Royal Hospital for Seamen. Beyond the splendour of its colonnades and domes, Greenwich Park slopes up to the Royal Observatory. Highrise London stretches along the western horizon. From 1884 Greenwich was recognised as the line 0 of longitude. The accurate measurement of longitude had been a problem in previous centuries. With the Longitude act of 1714, the British Parliament offered £20,000, almost four million quid in today’s money, to anyone who could devise a reliable system for the reckoning of longitude.

At that time, John Harrison, a carpenter from Lincoln in his early twenties, was making almost frictionless clocks..He took on the challenge and In 1759 Harrison’s H4, similar to a pocket watch, seemed to fulfil the criteria. However, the board demurred, putting Harrison’s success down to beginner’s luck. His H5 passed the test, though Harrison still had difficulty extricating the prize. Only the support of George III gained him some compensation, to the tune of £8,5000. Harrison was eighty years old and died shortly afterwards in 1776. His timepiece was used by Cook on his second and third voyages. William Blythe also carried one, although it was nicked by Fletcher Christian, to be returned to the Maritime Museum much later. The Museum has an exhibition devoted to the Harrison clocks. On our visit a museum guide gave a detailed and entertaining account of Harrison’s travails. Spellbound, I lost all track of time. We nearly missed our boat.

Beyond Greenwich and you are flowing onto the world’s highway, with all the oceans and seas connecting with all the freeflowing rivers and placid canals. Our return trip took us to Southwark Cathedral. The bells were ringing out as we found an outdoor table at a local hostelry. Glorious sound, no doubt, unless you are tying to enjoy a quiet pint in a beer garden. London certainly swings like a pendulum do. And London is always calling the curious traveller.

London calling to the faraway towns …

The ice age is coming, the sun is zooming in

Meltdown expected, the wheat is growing thin

Engines stopped running, but I have no fear

London is drowning-and I live by the river

London Calling is by The Clash, written by Joe Strummer and Mick Jones. It is the title track of their 1979 album, and echoes the opening call of BBC World Service during WWII. The febrile apocalyptic tone is very seventyish, or maybe still persistent. I somehow heard the song’s hookline as “London’s burning, and I live by the river.” Which might be more consoling. Not to worry, though; the Thames Barrier was completed in 1982 near Woolwich protecting London’s flood plain.

Munich – Beer and Roaming in Bavaria

Posted on January 11, 2026 by shane harrison

The curtain of cloud lifts as I leave Salzburg. At last I get to see the sublime world of Alpine life and scenery. I could certainly skip through that swinging my guitar case and singing in a high voice. But, probably better not. The train journey is a magical collage of jagged blue peaks and melting green fields. There is sunshine too. At Munich Hauptbanhof I navigate the crowds and make my connection to Arabellapark.

Arabellapark is seven stops and under half an hour by Ubahn. The area is mostly a businesspark with a few hotels. It is modern, quiet, and convenient for the city with regular public transport. My station is on Richard Strauss Strasse. I’m booked into the Best Western Hotel nearby.

Strauss was born in Munich in1864 and became a famed composer of the late Romantic and early Modernist period. His compositions include Don Juan, Also Sprach Zarathustra and the opera Salome, from Oscar Wilde’s play. Zarathustra provides the dramatic element in the soundtrack for Stanley Kubrick’s 2001 A Space Odyssey, with its opening fanfare, known as Sunrise. Strauss based his sound poem on Friedrich Nietzche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra. Kubrick’s 1968 film helped reestablish Strauss’s music in the world. In 1933 he had been appointed head of the Reich Music Chamber, the regulating body for music in Germany. This led to accusations of his being a Nazi collaborator, He was cleared post war. It was noted that his insistence to work with librettist Stefan Zweig, a Jew, got him sacked. Strauss died in 1949.

There is something of a town centre in a hdden enclave near the Ubahn terminus at Rosenkavalier Platz. Der Rosenkavalier was an opera written by Strauss in 1910. Arabellapark itself refers to another Strauss opera Arabella. The Platz is a modern pedestrian zone with an interesting Art Deco cinema. There’s a cluster of good eateries and shops. Hans um Gluck is a grill bar. The interior is a startling birch forest making an ambience popular with parents and their kids. Hans um Gluck is a folk tale of the Brothers Grimm. It translates as Hans in Luck, wherein the hapless hero manages through a series of rash transactions to convert a gold nugget the size of his head into a whetstone. There’s an Italian Restaurant nearby, Bistro Fohn, another comfy and friendly spot for good fare.

Morning, and back Into the maw of the Hauptbanhof I go, the Ubahn journey lengthened by a forced connection. It’s heavy rain this morning and I can’t get my bearings in the vicinity of the station which has no discernible front door. I find my way, unintentionally, to Theresienwiesse, the park used for the annual Oktoberfest. This festival takes place in late September, not quite what it says on the tin. I arrived the following week, Hangover Week as it isn’t known. The Oktoberest was certainly tempting, though might be best handled in a group rather than flying solo. The festival began in 1810, to celebrate Prince Ludwig’s marriage to Princess Therese of Saxony. The Festival draws seven million visitors consuming seven million litres of beer. So, they only drink a litre each? I reckon there must be big queues at the bar.

At last I align myself and walk back to the city centre. Marienplatz is that centre, a rectangular plaza dating back to 1158. It centres on the Marian Column, in honour of Our Lady, and erected in 1638 to commemorate the end of the Swedish occupation. The New Town Hall, a fabulous Neo-Gothic palace, forms the northern side of the plaza. Built in the mid nineteenth century and based on Brussels City Hall, it was extended in the early twentieth century with a soaring tower of 85 metres. The Old Town Hall marks the eastern end of Marienplatz, while to the west the towers of Fraunkirch loom. Frauenkirche, also dedicated to Our Lady, is the city cathedral. Its distinctive frontal round towers are the highest structures on the inner city skyline, almost a hundred metres tall and topped with onion domes. The church was built in the late fifteenth century, redbrick and sparse in style.

Off Marienplaz is the Viktualienmarket. This vibrant square is packed with stalls selling food, flowers and artefacts, gathered around a sprawling beer garden. It is open every day but Sunday and all human life is here. I queue for bratwurst and chips, with a foaming beer, and find a seat under the trees. The bratwurst is huge and sublime. You could sit here all day and watch the world go by. There’s waiter service, though the self service is best. The beer stall simply sets up the foaming beer by litre or half litre measure and you grab one and pay your €5 at the adjacent register. No queue, just conveyor belt booze. Happy daze.

Munich is a mecca for the dedicated beer hound. In the public interest I thought it best to investigate this phenomenon. Having at last freed myself from the embrace of the Viktualienmarket, I careened through the old town towards the Hofbrauhaus on Platzl, most famous of the city’s beer halls. Ludwig I opened it to the public in 1828 and the current building dates from 1897. The cavernous central hall hums with conversation and cheer. High above, the vaulted ceiling is adorned with baroque frescoes. Light flows in through the high arched windows. The effect is practically religious. I almost feel like genuflecting, though that would be hazardous.

I find a bench in the courtyard beergarden which is quiet. I wrap my hand around a one litre stein, or masskrug. Steins were originally a stoneware mug, though now refer to the heavy glass with a handle synonymous with German beer drinking. There’s a technique to drinking such a volume for a lightweight like me. Slide your hand inside the handle and hold the glass body between palm and thumb. Lift and quaff. Repeat as necessary.

Ein zwei drei vier

Lift your stein and drink your beer

Ein zwei drei vier

Lift your stein and drink your beer

Drink! Drink! Drink!

Platzl is a small pedestrian square lined with drinking and dining terraces. The Dubliner Irish Pub across the road provides a cozier port to put into. I can admire the Hofbrauhaus building from the outdoor terrace.

North of the city centre is the extensive Museum quarter, the Kunstreal, Along the wide treelined avenues are a cluster of major art galeries and museums. The Pinakotheks are the three main galleries: Alte Pinakothek for old masters, the Neue for 19th century art from the Romantics to the Impressionists, and Moderne for twentieth century and contemporary art. The word Pinakothek is taken from the ancient Greek.

The Alte Pinakothek was begun in 1826 on the orders of King Ludwig (him again) and was the largest art gallery in the world on its completion. It houses a vast collection of European art from the 14th to the 18th century. Amongst 700 paintings there are works by Durer, Rubens, Memling, Raphael, Titian, Breughel, Rembrandt, Van Dyck, Murillo and El Greco. That starting eleven should win the European Champions League for sure. Others that grabbed attantion included Arcimboldo’s ingenious vegetarian heads, the Debauched Student by Van Honthorst, while Bouchier’s elegant portrait of Mme Pompadour is a centrepiece, and also adorns the entrance ticket.

The Neue Pinakothek followed in 1859, the first European museum of contemporary art. Both buildings were badly damaged during World War II but while the Alte was renovated, preserving the stress suffered by the original, the Neue was demolished. It was replaced with a postmodernist building opening in 1981. We didn’t get forty years out of it.

On my visit the Neue Pinakothek was, of course, closed. It is the same throughout Europe I’m afraid, where art museums of 18th and 19th century art are shut. This building was closed in 2019 and will not reopen before the end of the decade. A section of the Alte has been used to display a selection of work from the Neue under the title rom Turner to Van Gogh. Standouts include Manet on his boat, Sunflowers and a view of Arles from Van Gogh, waterlillies from Monet and Max Lieberman’s sundrenched beergardens. New to me was Giovanni Sagatini with a large panoramic landscape title Ploughing from the 1890s. Snow capped mountains at last! It made my trip.

Pinakothek Der Moderne is devoted to art from the twentieth century and onwards. Built in 2002, the building has an impressive glass facade with high columns supporting the canopy roof. Inside it is divided into quarters devoted to art, architecture, design and graphics around a central rotunda. The art focusses first on important works by Braque and Picasso in the development of Cubism. Woman with Violin by Picasso and Braque’s Woman with Mandoline feature as a duet. Something of an all girl band forms farther on with a lifesize vernacular photograph of Patti Smith prowling with her guitar. Magritte, Ernst, Leger and Warhol are also on show. Down towards the basement, there’s a motor car theme, merging with sixtiesish, or seventies graphics.

Finally I return to the Best Western for a relaxing drink in the hotel bar. Cillian, or Kilian, the barman keeps ‘em coming. It’s a good Irish name after all. A school in my hometown Bray being dedicated to the saint. He’s also venerated hereabouts in Bavaria. Meanwhile, a virtual band shimmers on the video wall. It’s smooth jazz rock, shades of Supply, Demand and (very attractive) Curves. I slip into the ambience.

The Drinking Song is the appropriate soundbite. It was written by Sigmund Stromberg with lyrics by Dorothy Donnelly for the 1924 Operetta the Student Prince. Sung by Mario Lanza for the 1954 film soundtrack, though in the film Lanza’s voice was lip synched by Edmond Purdom. The story tells of a Prince’s student days at Heidelberg University. Prince Karl is heir to the throne of the fictitious kingdom of Karlsberg. Hmmm, it would be called that. In the course of his studies, or daily drinking sessions as they are more accurately described, Karl falls in love with the innkeeper’s daughter. Who wouldn’t drink to that?

May those lips that are red and sweet

Tonight with joy my own lips meet!

Drink! Drink! Drink! Let the toast start!

May young hearts never part!

Drink! Drink! Drink! Let every true lover salute his sweetheart!

Salzburg – Sights and Sounds

Posted on December 13, 2025 by shane harrison

Salzburg is not directly accessible from Dublin outside the Christmas season, so I took an Aer Lingus flight to Munich and a train on to Austria. Salzburg nestles just across the border, ringed by jagged Alpine peaks. Low cloud obscures the Alps on my October visit, which is a pity. The rail route is spectacular, and I did get glimpses on my return. While the Hautbanhof in Munich, efficient hub that it is, visually equates to Hell’s anteroom, Salzburg’s station is sleek, modern and airy, with good refreshment oases. It opens onto a modern square which is a terminus for the city’s tram and bus services. Without sun or shadow to guide me I find myself a bit disorientated but eventually manage to pinball my way to the hotel.

Hotel Scherer is less than a ten minute walk from the station, a bit more when winging it like me. I find it set in a quiet residential quarter that emerges from the edgy periphery of the railway overpass. Such structures are inevitably ugly, though this one serves to make Dublin’s unloved Loopline positively handsome by comparison. It also demarcates the city centre from the inner suburbs. I arrived at four o’clock for check in and then take a short walk down to the river.

The River Salzach powers through the city, its swift flow channelled between attractive quaysides on both banks. Elizabeth Kai leads all the way into the city centre, a fifteen minute walk or so. Nearby, just past the railway, the Mirabellgarten is laid out on the north bank. This is an attractive rectangular park flowing around the Mirabell Palace, well sprinkled with statues and fountains. Beyond the buildings, I catch fleeting hints of mountain peeping through the clowd. Night is falling with the rain as I sail into Franz Josef Strasse

I have my evening meal at Lazart im Cafe Wernbacher. Its modern, slightly Deco facade wraps a warm inner ambience. It looks European, but it is in part a Peruvian Restaurant, mixing Alpine and Andean fare. Two American couples at nearby tables talk and enthuse; one couple obviously regulars. Good food in a comfortable, colourful setting.

Across the road is the Academy Cafe Bar, with a haphazard, vaguely Bohemian ambience and featuring the Best Barman in the World! I kid you not. One man serving maybe fifty customers scattered through several rooms with panache, unflapable good humour, and speed. How does he do it? He even keeps tabs on my cavalier attitude to beermats, frisbeeing them across the lounge whenever I neglect my duty. But most pleasantly done. I returned the next night but he wasn’t there. The staff, all two of them, were excellent.

That night, I talk to a French Canadian lady on the hotel terrace. She is guiding a group of tourists who have put into port here. Salzburg does seem particularly popular with North Americans. Talk is travel too, and soon we are amongst red maple leaves in the Fall. There’s a good friendly vibe around the hotel lobby and bar which should hasten the approach of sleep. But doesn’t. Later I watch Midsommer Murders in German. Subtitles seem to have disappeared from hotel tvs since covid though the cosiness of the friendly English murder pervades.

Tuesday is even greyer on my way to the city centre. First a stop for a caffeine spark at Cup & Cino, calmly presiding over a busy intersection within the loopline. I return to Mirabell Park in daylight. The compact park skillfully blends centuries of building, ornament and greenery. Mozarteum Univercity was founded in 1841 and is a college of the dramatic arts with two concert halls. Mirabell Palace along one side was originally home to the reigning archbishop in the late sixteenth century, Wolf Dietrich Raitenau and his mistress Salome Alt. It was an open affair, celibacy then being regarded as a temporary abberration. The loving duo were later expelled. The palace name was coined by conjoining wonderful and amazing; adjectives you’ll use a lot in Salzburg.

Makartplatz at the base of the gardens has the Mozart Museum at the composer’s residence. Across the bridge the Altstadt, Old Town, clings to the far bank, as scenic as you could hope for with the lofty fortifications of Hohensalzburg Castle forming the icing on the cake. The view affirms the guide book witticism regarding Salzburg: if it’s Baroque, don’t fix it.

Salzburg ranks fourth in size of Austrian cities. It is not a particularly large city with a population just over 150,000 people. It sits about 1,400 feet above sea level with the Alps touching the sky all around. The peak of Untersberg climbs to 6,470 feet and is only ten miles from the city centre. It makes a popular day trip for visitors, with a cable car taking one to within five hundred feet of the summit. The mountain featured in the 1965 musical The Sound of Music. The hills are indeed alive to that.

Of even more note musically is Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, born here in 1756. At seventeen (going on eighteen) he was a court musician in the city but sought fame further afield and settled in Vienna in 1781. His writing across a wide range of musical genres is seen as a pinnacle of classical composition. Operas such as Don Giovani, The Magic Flute, Eine Kleine Nacht Musik and the Marriage of Figaro remain at the top of the Classical repertoire.

He died at thirty five in Vienna, leaving his wife and two sons, and a body of work to console the whole world through the centuries. And beyond. He is well remembered in Salzburg. His birthplace and later residence are preserved in museum and concert hall, by way of fridge magnets and chocolate treats.

Across the river I stop at Cafe Glockenspiel on Mozartplatz (of course) for their Happy Eggs breakfast. I drape myself on a seat on the heated terrace looking out at a statue of the man himself. Happy indeed. The Dom Cathedral backs on to this square and is a powerful and distinctive landmark of the city. It was designed in the late 16th century in the reign of Raitenau. He was a fan of Italian Baroque, and also responsible for the Old Residence building attached. It was not until 1614 that the foundation stone was laid, the final design by Swiss architect Santino Solaridom

The entrance fee costs me €5 although I thought the sign read €9, and that with a Salzburg card. Cheap at half the price and rewarding with an interior that is peaceful and inspiring. I stop for prayer at the first available altar, lighting the essential votive candle. I had to repeat the process at the final altar too. Its icon to Mary, in the Orthodix style, was the same as one we had in our childhood home where my mother and my sister dressed a daily altar on the landing. That’s worth a candle at least. Mind, by the time I had lit two candles I was nearing €7 and then …

I exit with a calm energy. The front of the cathedral faces on to Domplatz, an enclosed square centred on an impressive Marian column. The square is accessed through three arches. I am leaving the square through the western arch when a duo pop out of an alcove to serenade us. The couple, who I think are English, give voice to the magical music of Salzburg. I am caught in their web for three or four numbers. Culminating in the Magic Flute, where heroine Pamina and comic everyman Papageno sing:

Bie mannern welche liebe fuhlen

fehlt auch ein gutes herze nicht

(men who hear the call of love

do not lack a gentle heart)

The duet is in praise of love and the marriage of man and woman. It links love with the divine, expressed in music that is spiritual and sensual. Hearing such music live, red and raw, is elevating. Soul swooning upwards left me dizzy. Lighter financially, of course; they are buskers after all. The coexistence of spirit and senses inside and outside the Dom had set me back a tenner, but was truly priceless. I walk on air, feeling like a character in a painting by Marc Chagall. Excuse me while I kiss the sky.

To get truly high in Salzburg take the funicular to the castle. A true ice cream castle in the air, for centuries it was the bastion or the ruling archbishop. The fort was first established around 1077 and has been embellished over the centuries. The funicular was built in 1892 as tourism grew. It beams us up through building, forest and cloud to deliver us to giddy heights. Whether the clouds cushioned or contributed to the sense of vertigo is hard to say. A biergarten balanced on the cliff edge is not open, while the battlements offered leeting apertures of the city far, far below. There’s much to see within the walls. A museum of puppets includes an animation of the peasant’s siege of the sixteenth century. And the Von Trapp family in miniature. The castle museum has models of the fortress through the centuries. There’s much of miltary and political interest. History never rests, but persists.

i’m walking on air again as I make my way back via the funicular. Touching ground, I consider this the perfect time to fortify myself with a pint. Stiegkeller is a large building beside the funicular, with cavernous old style bars, restaurants and a rooftop garden. From the garden terrace there’s an excellent view over the city, dominated by the Dom. Service is straightforward scoop and go, a lady pulls your pint and you carry it off. This is music to my heart, dispensing with the middleman, the waiter so beloved, mysteriously, of continentals. Still, such delaying tactics, and indeed food, are available here. But bah! I decide on another self service pint.

Back to Andalusia – Almunecar by Bus

Posted on November 16, 2025 by shane harrison

The bus from Grenada to Almunecar heads due south through the Sierra Nevada. We get an eyeful of high mountain scenery. As a designated driver, it is such a pleasure to sit back on the bus and soak in the beautiful views. Almunecar is on the Grenada region’s short coast. The bus station is at the high end of town. Disembarking, we cross the busy thoroughfare and take a sidewalk seat at the first available cafe bar, Casablanca by name. Though it doesn’t resemble Rick’s Bar; I am sure a lot of people come here, with welcome refreshments and a terrace panorama of busy town life. When we orient ourselves, we take a fifteen minute walk seawards along Avenida Europa to our hotel. Hotel Goya is a small family run affair, between the main lower town and the seafront. Above all, is the castle; Castillo de San Miguel.

Near our hotel, the Botanical Gardens contain the ruins of the ancient Phoenician fish salting factory. The Phoenicians were settled on this coast from 800BC and their name for the town was Sexi. The natives might still refer to themselves as Sexitanos. Just so you know. The tourist office is right across the road. Housed in the La Najarra Palace, a nineteenth century building in the Mudejar style. Set amidst a wonderful garden, with towering palms, chequerred walkways and a central pool, it is an Eden of relaxation on a hot day. There’s a child sized house at one end. We spent a late afternoon sketching there, with no end product but pleasure.

The town name is derived from the Arabic, meaning surrounded by mountains. Indeed it is. The Costa Tropical collides with steep mountains to spectacular effect. Almunecar has a population of just over twenty five thousand. It is more a Spanish than a foreign tourist resort. Less busy than Nerja just a few miles west along the coast, it is intimate and relaxed.

Almunecar may ring a bell for literature fans, featuring in Laurie Lee’s book, As I walked Out One Midsummer Morning, 1969. This formed the second installment of his memoirs, a few years after Cider with Rosie. From 1934, Lee travelled the length of Spain. He made his way taking casual jobs and busking; he played violin. He arrived in Almunecar, which turned out to be his last stop in Spain. Here, he worked in a hotel, and as a tourist guide. The Spanish Civil war broke out in 1936 and Lee was evacuated by a British warship sent from Gibraltar. He would return to Spain the following year to fight for the Republicans. In Lee’s account, the town is referred to as Castillo.

The Castillo de San Miguel certainly defines the town. It was first established by the Romans in the times of the Punic Wars, two centuries BC. Subsequent alterations now prevail. The fortress prosperred in Moorish times, ultimately surrendered in 1488. During the Napoleonic Wars, the Castle last operated under control of the French. The English, with Spanish support, seriously damaged the complex, although the outer defenses were reletavily unscathed. For a while it was used as the town cemetery, until the rise of tourism prompted restoration work to begin in the 1980s

Visiting the castle is a must. The old town is a serpentine maze, constantly rising. Just off the main drag, Plaza Higuitos provides an oasis. While the eponymous establishment is beseiged by growing queues, across the tiny square there’s room at Bodegas Manuel Callejas The tapas here are good too, not just the automatic default; as we have eaten enough olives throughout Grenada to turn green and start a pip factory

Higher up, the narrow street widens into Plaza de la Constitucion, with the Ayuntamiento (Town Hall). along one side. There are two good restaurants at each end; and we fortify ourselves with drinks and tapas. The Church of the Incarnation is on a hill behind the town hall. It dates from the 16th century and has a stern imposing facade. This is the centre for the Semana Santa processions, and the street is tellingly named Calle Jesus Nazareno. Behind the church is Casa de la Cultura with a museum and theatre.

The orienteer within eventually guides us to the high esplanade of San Miguel. The saint’s festival is getting underway and everyone is gearing up for the nights festivities, setting up stalls and quaffing a few aperitifs. So, it’s getting into evening by the time we reach the castle. The lady at the door obligingly gives us a pass for the next day as we stop our visit abruptly owing to a sudden onset of starvation. Returning early the next day we are rewarded with a relaxed time amongst the ruins, and breathtaking views from the ramparts. There’s a good exhibition at the on site museum showing the castle’s evolution through the ages.. From the southern ramparts, the view downwards to the coast overlooks the cross at Penon del Santo. This was once connected to the castle by viaduct.

We take the rapid descent route back down. This winds down beneath towering castle wallls, touching earth beside our Botanical Gardens. Heading on to the searfront, Penones de San Cristobal are three rocky crags, dividing the searont at Almunecar. The highest crag, Penon Del Santo, is marked by a tall cross, a modernist structure from 1900. Guarding the base of this rock, there’s a monument to Abdalrahman I, the founder of the Emirate of Cordoba in 756.

Puerta Del Mar to the east is the main bay of the old town while Playa Del Cristobal is a long straight esplanade heading into the west. Chirinquito El Pilici and Bar La Cana are amongst the many beach bars lining the seafront, offering a large selection of food, many with charcoal grills. We stop streetside at Restaurant Sabina. Sabina Schumacker herself greets us. A German lady, she makes a superb menu guide. Though I am not always a fish fiend, other than my chipper favourite of battered cod and chips, Sabina guides us towards the Monkfish and it is as superb as promised. Next door is the Helios Costa Tropical, the largest hotel on the seafront. This boasts a rooftop bar with great sea views, the prime place to bask in the setting sun.

Another night we eat at Elysium Restaurant farther on. It radiates a relaxed Bohemian air. The manager, laid back and friendly, tells us about the cuisine prepared by her husband from Aghanistan. The couple moved here last year from Austria and are enjoying the sun and sea air. We enjoy the food immensely. Ad hoc entertainment is provided by an English woman shellacing her errant husband, first on mobile phone (aren’t mobile phones wonderful!) and then in person. As we sneak out she comments loudly on our Irishness. We fade to black.

From here, the long seafront winds away to a beautiful emtiness, darkness on the edge of town, lights at the edge of the next twinkling with distance. The sun has set, but will rise again tomorrow. For many, in fact, the night never really ended. The Spanish know how to do festivals, and with the festival of San Miguel in full swing, the hilltop revelry goes on long into the night. Its a pleasant distant soundtrack, cushioning the fall into sleep.

After check out we head out for breakfast and towards the bus station. Churreria Picasso opens early, and is a popular start to the day for locals. Churros are made with choux pastry dough, fried till crispy on the outside and cut in long lengths. Taken with coffee for breakfast, or dipped in hot chocolate, they are popular throughout the Spanish speaking world.

We have time for one last coffee at Casablanca and watch the time go by, again. There’s a crush of coaches at 11 o’clock, but a friendly German expat puts shows us to the right one. It’s just over an hour along the coast to Malaga and we close the circle of our magical bus tour.

I know I’ve played this before, but I…. I’m not going to say it; and neither did Humphrey Bogarde. As Time Goes By was written by Herman Hupfield in 1931 and rose to fame when sung by Dooly Wilson (playing Sam) in the film Casablanca in 1942.

You must remember this

A kiss is still a kiss

A sigh is just a sigh

The fundamental things apply

As time goes by

Back to Andalusia – Granada by Bus

Posted on November 2, 2025 by shane harrison

We took the bus direct from Malaga airport to Granada some sixty miles northeast. The journey takes about an hour and a half which brought us into late afternoon. The road rises through the coastal mountain range before falling to La Vega de Granada, the fertile green basin leading into the city. The Sierra Nevada soar to the south. Spain’s highest peaks make an impressive backdrop as we alight at the terminus, Grenada with a population of over two hundred thousand sits two and a half thousand feet above sea level. Higher still, the magical Alhambra floats above the city.

I visited Grenada before, around Semana Santa in late March, and the Sierra were snow capped on the horizon. Grenada shivered, showers of snow and sleet washing across the limpid Spring air. That was my pilgrimage to the Alhambra, visions of Spain caught in a curious snow globe. It was brought about by my first guitar, an Alhambra, and my ambition to play flamenco. Now I’m back.Fying solo’s fine, but with M in tow I have a shoulder to lean on and an ear to burn and boast to.

Granada bus station is a good bit out of the city centre and we take a taxi to our hotel. We are staying in the Exe Triunfo Hotel off the top of the main avenue, Gran Via de Colon. The receptionist is a fountain of knowledge and our three days in Granada are well mapped out. The hotel is next door to an ancient entrance gate of the city. The Gate of Elvira, a russet fortified archway, presides over the square. Passing through, we enter the labyrinth of the Old Town winding down to the city centre. Gran Via de Colon to one side and a steep hillside forming the other bracket.

Calle Elvira itself is the main drag of the Old Town. The name is a curious echo of our friend’s villa in Elviria near Marbella where we will be heading next week.. But this is a slice of ancient urban Spain. Rambling, rickety and full of character. It is lined with quirky shops, cafes and casual eateries. Elvira leads to the city centre where the Plaza Nueva spans the Darro River. Before that, the street branches into a few vibrant city lanes. Caldereria Nueva leads uphill into the Albaicin. Towards Gran Via, Cetti Meriem has a cluster of clubs and eateries. We eat at a few of these, the food and the atmosphere are great. This area had been a haunt of mine in the cold times of old. Hennigan’s Irish bar to be precise. Nights spent amidst copious pints and a vivid soundtrack of suitable rock including the Red Hot Chilli Peppers and Iggy Pop.

At the far end of Cetti Meriem, the Cathedral soars above the pediment. The Cathedral was begun in the sixteenth century, replacing the existing mosque within the Moorish medina. It is a montage of architecture, the end backing onto Gran Via a packed ornate gothic, the frontage an imposing Baroque facing Plaza Pasiegas. The massive towers on the north were never completed. I recall how its white interior perfectly mirrored the cold exterior in that cruel April. More comforting, the vast dome with gold stars scattered across a deep blue sky.

Elvira ends at Plaza Nueva with its lively bars and restaurants. Despite its name it’s an old square, being built over the Darro River in 1500. The Royal Chancery flanks the north side while the Church of Santa Ana closes the square with the Darro visible beyond. Nearby there’s a fountain and beyond there’s access to the Alhambra via parkland. Alternatively, you can take a bus. It’s a punishing uphill climb, especially in the heat, so that’s what we did this time.

The Alhambra for five centuries was home to the Moors who had occupied much of Iberia in the 8th Century. Grenada would be their last stronghold. The Nasrid dynasty ruled Grenada from 1232 until the Reconquista of 1492. They built the Alhambra on the site of an 11th century fortification. In fact that had been the palace of Samual the Prince, a Jewish leader in a Moslem state. Muhammed I founded the complex we see today, greatly enlarged and embellished over the two hundred and sixty years of Nasrid rule. Ultimately, Muhammad XII, aka Boabdil, was defeated by the combined monarchs of Castile and Aragon and forced to surrender Granada to them. As he left for the coast through the Sierra Nevada, he took one last look back at what had long been his, and his people’s home.

The mountain pass where this happened is now called Suspiro del Moro, the Moor’s Sigh. Salman Rushdie’s book, the Moor’s Last Sigh 1995, refers a few times to the episode. In a story of identity and memory, Boabdil’s action provides apt illustration. It was Rushdie’s first book since the Satannic Verses of 1988. Fanatical reaction to that resulted in the fatwa issued by Ayatollah Khomeini, leader of Iran. Similarly aligned groups such as Hezbollah and Al Quaeda have persisted in the fatwa into the current century. Rushdie lost an eye in a knife attack in New York three years ago. He still lives, and writes and thinks.

The Alhambra became the court of Ferdinand and Isabella. Christopher Columbus was witness to Boabdil’s handover and was received at court by the Monarchs as they approved his voyage to the Americas. There is symmetry therefore in that it was an American, Washington Irving, who established the Alhambra in the modern imagination. He lived in the complex in 1830 and published Tales of the Alhambra 1832. This contributed hugely to the preservation and restoration of the Alhambra over the last two hundred years.

It is a huge complex with many different facets, including palaces, gardens, two hotels and other services. The Alcazaba fortress on the west side overlooks Granada. There are several towers giving great panoramic views over the city and mountains and the complex itself. The Generalife is a garden estate just outside the walls to the east. The Nasrid Palace is the jewel of the Alhambra, a glorious medley of rooms and courtyards, pools and fountains, featuring the best of Mudejar craft and design. Access to the Nasrid Palace requires a specific ticket. This was fine on my first visit but this time, though I tried some three months in advance, tickets were sold out. So shop early. It’s a treasure indeed. Nevertheless, there is an awful lot to see with a general admission ticket. From morning till late aternoon, we had our time in paradise.

At the business end of the complex is the Alcazaba. Plaza Aljizibes alongside forms something of a town square, a public access area with services and refreshment stalls. The Renaissance Palace of Carlos V lines the other aide of the square. This was begun in 1527 but only completed four hundred years later. The Renaissance building encloses a circular courtyard, with a collonaded terrace on the upper floor. The Museum of Fine Arts there houses a collection of Spanish art from the 17th to the 19th century. The Alhambra Museum is on the ground floor.

Just past the Nazrid Palace, the Partal Palace is accessible, This is the oldest surviving palace with an elegant pavillion overlooking a reflective pool. Calle Real is a public street near the southern wall. Along here is the Church of Santa Maria built on the old mosque. Further on is the American Hotel, with a cafe in its pleasant courtyard. I had stopped here before for some coffee and heat. Today we go for the Parador de Granada, a larger hotel. We stopped for a drink on its terrace, a perfectly relaxing conclusion to the day

Beyond the gardens of Partal and Secano we leave the Alhambra for the Generalife. This lies across a narrow ravine with beautiful gardens leading up to an attractive villa. Built as a retreat for the Royal Household free from the travails of the Palace, it offers some of the best views of the Alhambra, Granada and Sierra Nevada

We left the Alhambra by way of Carretera de los Chinos, a long downhill saunter below the castle walls. This led us down to the Darro and Puenta del Rey Chico. There was a music concert that evening where the riverside street broadens into an esplanade with the floodlit Alhambra towering over the far bank. Crowds sat on the plaza, while a singer and guitarist serenaded from the tower at one end.

Facing the heights of the Alhambra is the steep ancient neighbourhood of Albaicin, and Sacromonte, the Sacred Mountain. From near the foot of Elvira there’s a sharp uphill to Plaza San Gregorio. The white church was built in the late sixteenth century, becoming deeply embedded in the community. We stopped adjacent for good food on a terrace at the edge of the commercial sector. From here the narrow street climbs up through the Alcaibin to the Mirador St Nicholas. The Mirador hosts such a view over sierra and castle that it must elicit an aching sigh or two. The grounds of the mosque next door offer respite, heat and throng dispelled in its subtle shade and soft fountains.

Beyond the Albaicin the steep hill descends to the Darro. There’s a turn at a picturesque, even picaresque, taverna, El Rincon del Chapiz. Take this turn to visit the Sacred Mountain. With our first step into Sacromonte, we are in a different world. The city evaporates and a mirage of a mountain top village rises before us. Winding up above the Darro Ravine, white houses cling to the slopes and the Sierra Nevada embraces all. We stop for a drink and tapas at Casa Juanillo, wondering how we have found ourselves in the middle of nowhere, and the centre of everything. This was originally the Gitanos quarter, and a mainspring for the source of flamenco music. Dotted all around are music venues; hold your whisht and you can hear the music echo from the stones and trees.

Fly away on my zephyr

I feel it more than ever

And in this perfect weather

We’ll find a place together

For old time’s sake, The Red Hot Chilli Peppers Zephyr Song (from By the Way 2002) to take us out, and up.

Back to Andalusia – Mijas and Fuengirola

Posted on October 19, 2025 by shane harrison

Southwest of Malaga the A7 highway flows past the strip of beach resorts that have become synonymous with holidays on the Costa del Sol. Torremolinos, Benalmedina and Fuengirola form a densely populated highrise urbanisation along the sun blasted coast. A little farther on is La Cala de Mijas which retains much of the feeling of the whitewashed Andalusian fishing village. Mostly lowrise and home to about ten thousand people, this is a different world from the crowded developments nearer Malaga. The modern commercial centre fronts the A7 and there’s a weekly open market here. Behind that the old town meanders down to the searont.

A small plaza with plenty of restaurants and bars is laid out around the historic watchtower. This resembles our Martello towers, and is of similar function and era. Its official title – Torre Vieja de La Cala de Moral, derives from the original name for the town, referring to the area’s abundant mulberry trees. The tower was built in the late eighteenth century as a watchtower guarding against Berber pirates, still prevalent along the coast. Built on a hoof shaped plan, the wall curves around three sides with the linear fourth side rising sheer to the ramparts. The building contains a museum, and the top is accessible for visitors to admire an impressive panorama.

We stopped at an adjacent restaurant for lunch, the busy waiter doing well to cater to the midday trade. No better place for a postprandial stroll; the coastal boardwalk connects to Cabopino, Marbella’s eastern outpost, 6km farther on. La Cala is pleasantly remote from the hectic holiday world, while still conveniently close to it.

The Romans called the area Tamisa which the Moors shortened to Mixa leading to Mijas when the Catholic Monarchs took over. The municipality of Mijas also includes Calahonda and La Rivera farther along the coast. Collectively known as Mijas Costa, it is something of a golfer’s heaven. Though I’m more keen on nineteenth hole pursuits myself.

There’s a more authentic experience a couple of miles inland. The settlement of Mijas Puebla teeters atop the high coastal hills. Sierra de Mijas rise to a height of 1,150 metres. Mijas Puebla itself sits at 1,476 feet above sea level. Once across the A7, it’s a zig zag drive to reach the town and there’s a multi storey carpark right in the centre. We called into the tourist office at the pedestrian entrance and talked to the friendly lady there. She gave us a street map of the town and some good pointers. We visited on a rainy morning and, as the rain cleared, the clouds still clung to the high altidude village, lending it a remote grandeur.

A small grotto nearby teeters above the drop to the coast. The candles glow invitingly, in contrast with the rain outside. A place for pause and a prayer. The tiny streets pack in a surprising amount of commercial variety with good shopping and services. The precarious position of the town frequently allows for some spectacular views. Into the maze of backstreets the quirky charm persists. We come across the town’s tiny bullring. Built, uniquely, in an oval, as distinct from a circle, it is Spain’s smallest bullring; probably.

There’s a bar with Picasso sitting outside, in full artist regalia. Waiting no doubt for a passing Joyce or Beckett. I’m sure they’d have got on fine here. We find an outside table balanced at a steep corner. The proprietor was keen to get us indoors but we stuck to our guns and had a pleasant coffee and tortilla while the street crowds began to peek out again after the rain.

Fuengirola is spread out below the hills. It is the last stop on the Malaga coastal train line. From here we have, in previous visits, taken that train from the airport and got a bus on towards Marabella. A previous drive through from Malaga, via Torremolinos and Benalmedina, was rushed and a bit chaotic. I am more orientated now, at home on the Spanish highway, and we took the short drive up from Marbella to have a deco. There’s convenient parking near the Moorish fortress at the southern end of town; though we skipped this and parked in the centre in an outdoor lot beside the port.

The string of resorts along this stretch of coast isn’t exactly a pearl necklace, but it does its trick and has its moments. It’s a scorching day in mid September and the beachfront is thronged with strollers and swimmers. Just a few blocks inland is the older part of town leading up to the Plaza de la Constitucion. This tiled square faces the church of Our Lady of the Rosary, its clean, white facade topped by a high belltower. Plaza del Ayuntamiento is nearby along the main thoroughfare. To the side, narrow streets lined with bars and cafes take us through a more intimate environment. Calle Dr. Maranon is part of an enclave of low, white terraces, welcome relief from the highrise norm. We catch a glimpse of the Central Mosque beneath its daylight sickle moon. The Rio Fuengirola marks the southwestern end of town. On the far bank the fort stands atop a rocky outcrop.A friendly visitor, German I think, falls into conversation before striking out enthusiastically for the summit. We opt first for the shade. Bar La Terraza is a small cafe bar on the far bank where we stop for coffee and a snack..

Sohail Castle was built by the Moors at the end of the tenth century. It is likely the site was used before by Phoenicians and Romans, but it is the Moorish structure that remains. The imposing, red fortress consists of four corner towers connected by curtain walls. From the parapets there are dizzying views of the coast and town. A Festival of Music and Dance is held here in June

The Catholic Monarchs conquered at the close of the fifteenth century. Later the Castle was extensively damaged during the War of the Spanish Succession. It was back in use again for the Peninsular War, but was deserted by the start of the twentieth century, only recently being repaired as a visitor attraction

Fuengirola was mostly uninhabited after the Reconquista, Mija being the largest settlement hereabouts. By the 17th century a small town had grown around fishing and farming. A lone inn catered for travellers. It was not until the 1960s that Fuengirola was transformed into a top resort. Today the population is 85,000. of whom a quarter are foreign born. Many of these are Irish, British and Scandinavian with immigration too from Morocco and Latin America. High season sees an influx of visitors, and high season here spans at least six months. You can see why. It’s mid September and the mercury’s touching thirty.

Local business and employment has benefitted and expanded hugely from tourism, but there are problems too. Spain has been in the news recently for anti tourism protests. While these may give rare opportunities for lefties to shout abuse at foreigners, there is a real issue. The steeply rising population further swelled with visitors, puts pressure on amenities and accommodation. Not just here, mind, but all around the world. Governments need to strive for balance. Locals and visitors need to treat each other with mutual respect, preserving the integrity of the places where we live and play. For us and future generations.

Mana are a Mexican rock band. Donde Jugaran los Ninos? (Where Will the Children Play?) is the title track of their third album from1992. It remembers an idyllic childhood, setting it against the overcrowded modern world. Nostalgic, naieve, still it chimes with us all. An echo of Joni Mitchell’s Woodstock: how to get ourselves back to the garden? It is a universal concern. The world keeps on turning, with more and more people in it. We need to spread our wings and fly. And use the broadened mind that travel bequeaths.

Cuenta el abuelo que de niño él jugó

Entre árboles y risas, y alcatraces de color

Recuerda un río transparente y sin olor

Donde abundaban peces, no sufrían ni un dolor

Cuenta el abuelo de un cielo muy azul

En donde voló papalotes que él mismo construyó

El tiempo pasó, y nuestro viejo ya murió

Y hoy me pregunté, después de tanta destrucción

¿Dónde diablos jugarán

Los pobres niños?

Leaving Liverpool

Posted on September 6, 2025 by shane harrison

Back in the seventies, on our daytrip to Liverpool we visited the modernist Roman Catholic Cathedral. Known as the Metropolitan Cathedral, or Paddy’s Wigwam to some, it is at the North end of Hope Street. The Anglican Cathedral lies near the street’s southern end forming something of a heavenly bracket. However, the naming of the street isn’t a reflection of this ecclesiastical nature. Neither faith, hope nor charity are invoked; Hope Street is named after William Hope, a merchant who once lived here in the late eighteenth century.

Hope Street also hosts the Liverpool School of Art building from 1883. John Lennon and Stuart Sutcliffe studied here in the early sixties. In 2008 the Art School moved, though the memory of Lennon remained. The new school is housed in the John Lennon Art and Design Building nearby. Meanwhile, the Liverpool Institute for the Performing Arts is now based in the old building.

The Metropolitan Cathedral was completed in 1967. It was a long time coming. During the Great Famine in the 1840s, Liverpool saw a huge influx of Irish Catholics. Many passed through the port, heading for America or elsewhere in Britain and Empire. Many stayed. By the 1850s a Cathedral was planned. Edward Pugin was the first commissioned for this, but only a local parish church resulted. In 1930 Edwin Lutyens was chosen, producing designs for a massive cathedral on Hope Street, to rival the also massive Anglican Cathedral. It would have been one of the largest churches in the world, with the largest dome. But it wasn’t to be. The strictures of World War Two put a halt to such grandiose plans. Only the crypt was completed in the late fifties. This, strangely, plays host annually to the Liverpool Beer Festival. Or perhaps that’s not so strange.

And if life is a bar room in which we must wait

‘Round the man with his fingers on the ivory gates

Where we sing until dawn of our fears and our fates

And we stack all the deadmen in self addressed crates

Heaven knows no frontiers

And I’ve seen heaven in your eyes

No Frontiersthe is a song written by Jimmy MacCarthy, becoming the title track of Mary Black’s 1989 album.

At last, sometime between Lady Chatterly and the Beatles first LP, Frederick Gibbert’s radical modern design went ahead. Built on top of the crypt, it forms a flared conical structure above a circular plan with the altar central. Sixteen curved concrete trusses frame the building, forming flying buttresses at the lower level and rising into a pinnacled crown at its height. The rushed and economical construction practices of the time resulted in flaws appearing early, and extensive rapairs and alterations were required in the 90s.

The Protestant Cathedral is more traditionalist, though it is also a twentieth century building. Begun at the start of the century, it is the largest cathedral in Britain. Giles Gilbert Scott was a student in his early twenties when he won the design competition. More contentious still, he was a Catholic. But, maybe that brought a certain flourish to the interior, particularly the Lady Chapel. Scott was a versatile architect and designer, his notabe works including Battersea Power Station, and the iconic red telephone box.

Overall, his design for the Cathedral draws on gothic tradition with a more pared down modernist finish. It was greatly modified early on towards a simpler, bolder statement. The central tower rises to over a hundred metres, immediately establishing the church as a city landmark, already in a strong position occupying the high ground south of the centre.

The vast interior is a perfect place to top up on spiritual awe. We’re hungry too, having skipped breakast, and that physical yearning was also catered for. On the terrace there’s a licensed bistro, good for breakfast, lunch, a coffee and a snack. You can even relax with a beer. Hitherto, my only experience of drinking alcohol in a concecrated building has been the odd communion with two substances. Liverpool is more liberal, whichever foot you kick with. Whether down at the Crypt or up on the High Church. So it’s something of an Ecumenical matter to go boozing with the Anglicans. I’ll drink to that! Later we ell in with a friendly vicar and talked about this and other things, including the various works off art the cathedral has accumulatied in its time.

Heading downhill towards the Port, we pass through the gate of Chinatown. The spectacular arch was transported from Shanghai at the Millennium and reassembled here. It is one of the largest such arches outside of China itself. Liverpool’s Chinatown is the oldest established in Europe, develpoing back as far as the mid nineteenth century.

A familiar focus of travellers to Liverpool is Lime Street. When laid out in the eighteenth century it was on the city’s periphery, but the coming of the railway in 1836 brought it to the centre.The Rail Station is famous, fronted by the Great Northwestern Hotel built in 1871in spectacular Renaissance style. This was originally the Railway Hotel, and closed in the 1930s. Subsequently it was used for office and accommodation returning recently to the hotel business, operating as the Radisson Red.

Lime Street gushes with colonial and mercantile pride. Statues stand guard; of Prince Albert, Disraeli and of course Nelson atop his column. St George’s Hall dominates the plaza opposite the station. It was opened in 1854 and contains a Concert Hall and law courts Behind the Hall are St John’s Gardens, a welcome green space on a scorching day. Then its back into the throng heading downhill through Liverpool’s main shopping precinct, completing our circle on the Waterfront.

Our hotel, the Ibis, is beside Albert Dock, so the city centre and major sights are nearby. Albert Dock was built in 1846 of cast iron, redbrick and stone, a state of the art facility in its day, machinelike in its eficiency and fireproof too. The changing patterns of world trade and technology made it derelict just over a century later. In the early seventies, redevelopment could have meant removal, however sympathetic redevelopment won out preserving the majority of the buildings in a waterways setting. Apartments, shops, bars, restaurants and visitor centres line the waterfront, and this is the go to part of Liverpool, where it was once the place for leaving.

The Tate Liverpool opened in 1986 adding to the city’s prestige. Unfortunatey, the Tate was closed during our visit due to major renovations. My love of art galleries has been thwarted by such closures in recent years, so this is just another in a long list. The RIBA, Royal Institute of British Archotects, hosts a selection of the Tate collection in the meantime. The Liverpool Maritime Museum, the modern Museum of Liverpool, and the Beatles Story are other major attractions. There’s a funfair into the night, and everywhere the madding crowds strolling and going out to the many hostelries onstreet and off, and floating in the dock for that matter.

We frequented the Pump House for a few drinks. It’s set in a converted redbrick beneath a soaring chimney. There’s seating outside looking over Canning Dock and Mann Island, with the Tate Liverpool making a sharp modernist statement beyond. Later, we head through the Colonnades around Albert Dock browsing its shops and restaurants. We dine at the Panam Restaurant and Bar, its glass frontage giving a fabulous view over the dock as night falls. It’s an early rise in the morning and we catch a bus to the airport from the station next door. The airport is another major building named for the Beatles John Lennon. Originally Speke airport, it was renamed in 2001. It now sings.

Oh Liverpool Lou, lovely Liverpool Lou

Why don’t you behave just like other girls do?

Why must my poor heart keep following you?

Oh, stay home and love me my Liverpool Lou

Liverpool Lou was written by Dominic Behan in 1964. Ten years later the Scaffold did a cover, attributing it to Paul McCartney. McCartney later apologised and correced the attribution. On Desert Island Discs in 2007, Yoko Ono picked Behan’s song, saying that Lennon had sung it as a lullaby to their son, Sean.

Ferry to Liverpool

Posted on August 24, 2025 by shane harrison

There are daily ferries from Douglas to Liverpool, the crossing taking three hours. The boat, the Mannanin again, is packed. Mostly bikers returning from their Isle of Man TT pilgrimage. We breakast on the boat. It’s a full English, or Irish, or Manx; you know what I mean. I was once in Liverpool, back in the early seventies on a daytrip by boat. I bought myself a portable typewriter and an airbrush, fuelling my twin ambitions to be a writer and an illustrator. It’s a long story. Or, several short stories and a novel, some slick illustration too, though I’ve abandoned that technique for the paintbrush.

Our day in 70s Liverpool was shrouded in drizzle, the city providing a gothic silhouette to our shopping adventure. This time, it’s baking in blue heat. The ferry berths on the northern end of the waterfront. The majestic dockside running south has been beautifully developed into a vibrant showpiece for the city, dotted by landmarks with a host of visitor attractions. It absolutely throbs with life under the hot sun.

We walk the mile or so to our hotel, the Ibis, at Albert Dock. This stretch of dockland along the Mersey River is very much the heart and soul of the city. Pier Head provides a stunning architectural panorama. This area was called George’s Dock until the end of the nineteenth century. Liverpool Corporation bought the site with the Mersey Port and Docks Board retaining a portion for its new headquarters. The Port of Liverpool Building was completed in 1907. A typically Edwardian building in a Neo Baroque style, its central tower and dome was the tallest in Liverpool when built, very much the city landmark. This was surpassed in 1911 by the Royal Liver Building, the true Liverpool icon. In 1916 the Cunard Building came in between. Built to a modernist version of an Italaian Renaissance palace it completes the trio known as the Three Graces. Behind this trio is a fourth grace, perhaps, the George’s Dock building from the 1930s. This is an Art Deco building with a high central tower used as a ventilation shaft for the Mersey Tunnel. The reliefs on the top half of the tower resemble a sleeping face.

The Liver Building was designed by local architect Walter Aubrey Thomas for the Royal Liver Friendly Society. It’s one of the first major buildings I knew. My mother was a customer and her insurance book featured a line drawing on the cover The Liver Man came every month in his fancy Austin Cambridge to do the account thing. Exotic times. England’s first skyscraper is built of white reinforced concrete. Its twin towers climb to almost a hundred metres. The Liver Birds perch atop, eighteen feet tall. The mythical birds have been named Bella and Bertie. Taken from the ancient city’s coat of arms they are, officially, cormorants. Since Liverpool received its charter from King John in 1207, it’s likely that the bird first featured in the city arms, in homage to the king, was meant to be an eagle. Just badly drawn. It became a cormorant by the late eighteenth century, on the blazon for the coat of arms granted by Norroy King of Arms,the authority for northern England and Ireland, a certain George Harrison. The bird, whatever it is, has become the emblem of Liverpool itself and the football club Liverpool FC, though local rivals Everton, the older club, originally used it. Anyhow, a hundred metres up, Bertie looks inland, Bella to sea. It is said she keeps an eye out for the sailors, while he checks to see if there’s a pub open.

The Liver Birds was also the name of a BBC tv series from the early seventies, written by Carla Lane and Myra Taylor, two local housewives. It featured Polly James and Pauline Collins, and later Nerys Hughes, as the girls, or birds, in question. Something of a female equivalent of another north of England comedy the Likely Lads. The theme song was sung by the Scaffold, a comedy folk group including John Gorman, Roger McGough and Mike McGear, nee McCartney, brother of Paul. It is now possible to take a trip to the top of the Liver Building and with the birds to share this lovely view.

Even more famous than the two birds are the four lads, the Fab Four. Their statue at Pier Head provides the perfect photo opportunity. You can insert yourself amongst the foursome as they, slightly larger than life, stride out towards the Mersey. John, Paul, George, Ringo and yourself. Become your own fifth Beatle.

The Beatles form a good proportion of our mission. or pilgrimage, to Liverpool with a visit to the Beatles Story on Albert Dock. The Beatles Story opened in 1990 and has been a flagship of the growing Beatles tourist industry. Housed in a 19th century warehouse, the exhibition takes visitors through a chronological tour of the Beatles phenomenon. The group were one of many beat groups who flourished at that time, inspired by the first lowering of rock and roll across the Atlantic. Beatles was a clever pun, with a nod to Buddy Holly’s Crickets. The original trio of Paul McCartney, John Lennon and George Harrison, were augmented by drummer Pete Best and bassist Stuart Sutcliffe. The band played locally and for a few seasons in Hamburg, Germany. Sutcliffe stayed in Germany to pursue a career in art but less than a year later in April 1962, he tragically died of a brain haemorrhage. Pete Best was dismissed during their first London recording sessions with George Martin and Ringo Starr was drafted in. Then they had a hit with Love Me Do and the rest is history, with a fair bit of hysteria thrown in.

The Beatles Story constructs a sequence of imaginative tableaux and actual paraphernalia by way illustration. Brian Epstein’s crowded office, George Harrison’s first guitar, John Lennon’s specs and a room devoted to Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Each of the four have their own room and there’s a touching note at the end with John Lennon’s piano room from Imagine.

There’s also a recreation of the Cavern Club. The Cavern Club itself is a focal point of the Cavern Quarter up on Mathew Street. It opened as a jazz club in 1957. By the early sixties, beat groups were knocking on the door. The Beatles most persistently. Between February 61 and August 63 the group made almost 300 appearances there, but by then they had outgrown such a small venue. Ten years after, the Cavern shut up shop. Then the zeitgeist moved towards restoration. Developers originally hoped to excavate the original cellar but instead had to make a reconstruction with a lot of the original material

M and I make our way up there on friday night when the quarter is at its most raucous and exuberant. Weaving through the crowds in a mixed musical din has a certain spice to it. Sometimes weaving won’t quite work. A sequined lady from a time machine lurches to grab me. She is a doppelganger for the Cilla Black statue nearby on Mathew Street, if rather more aggressive. M and I decided to return on Saturday afternoon. Still loud and fun, but more relaxed. A fiver will get you in, card only, to walk a few flights down into the actual Cavern Club. Okay a reconstruction but it’s as real as it gets, and that’s fine by me. An amiable troubadour, somewhere west of Bill Bailey, takes us through a field of memories. The repertoire was a mixture of Beatles and Monkees, with some Oasis thrown in too, their comeback tour looming large in late July;

The Monkees were the American TV Beatles, and the band for my age group. Daydream Believer was amongst their best, and enjoyed a second coming with a later generation of Macams. Alternative lyrics came from a lively party of Sunderland lassies in the Cavern that day. Cheer up Peter Reid! Who, by way of connection, is a Scouser dressed in blue. Everton, in other words. As regards alternatives, it wouldn’t have been appropriate to shout for my Monkees favourite: Randy Scouse Git.

The Cavern has branched out, with a theatre hall set up and a dining area part of the labyrinth we explored. We stuck with the original, enjoying a couple of drinks before finishing with the Searchers, or five rocking old geezers in suits playing their stuff. Then we walk, tired and emotional, happy really, up many flights of steps and into the sun. We’re in the home the Merseyside sound; Gerry and the Pacemakers, the Merseybeats, Cilla Black and the Searchers. The Beatles, of course. The people who made teenage living fun, made us what we are today, and made too many damn fine records to mention.

There can be only one choice to play us out. On first setting foot in the Cavern, the opening song our troubadour played was Here Comes the Sun. It appeared on 1969s Abbey Road, the last album recorded by the Beatles. It was written by George Harrison in the April of that year. Harrison was oft referred to as the Quiet Beatle. Though he wasn’t quiet. He was, however, the most Irish of the Beatles, as you can tell from the lyrics of this song; ha ha. In fact his mother Louise, nee Ffrench, would often take him home to visit her ancestral family in Drumcondra, Dublin. In the early fifties, George with mother and brother was photographed on O”Connell Street, Dublin, by Arthur Fields, the famous Man on the Bridge. Curiously, my own mother, Veronica, was from Drumcondra. An O’Flanagan she would go on to marry a Harrison, from Blantyre, Scotland. She loved the Beatles too. Get Back was her favourite.

Little darlin’

It’s been a long, cold, lonely winter

Little darlin’

It feels like years since it’s been here

Here comes the sun, doo-doo-do

Here comes the sun

And I say, “It’s all right”

Isle of Man by Rail

Posted on August 10, 2025 by shane harrison

The morning is warm and hazy, sea, sky and promenade merge in the glaring whiteness. Out in the bay, the Tower of Refuge makes a magical sandcastle apparition; at once real, but not real. The Tower occupies the small St Mary’s Island just offshore. It was built as a refuge, and guide, for sailors suffering shipwreck on the notorious reef. Sir William Hillary, founder of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution initiated the project in 1830, following the sinking of the St George. The ship of the St George Steam Packet Company was landing its cargo from Liverpool when it ran aground on a stormy November night. Hillary himself commanded the rescue and was injured when swept overboard. There is a memorial to the rescue on the Loch Promenade. A bronze relief vividly depicts the danger and daring of this heroic episode. The Tower was completed in 1832, William Wordsworth wrote a poem in its honour during a visit the next year. A statue was erected to Hillary on the headland beyond the port and he is buried here in Douglas at St George’s Churchyard

The perfect way to see the beautiful island of Mannin is to use its excellent public trasport system. £21 will get you an all day ticket usable on all trains, trams and busses. We got full value from it on a hectic day whizzing about the island’s sights. From Villa Marina, towards the southern end of the Douglas Promenade, we took a horse drawn tram to the Electric Railway terminal at the far end of the seafront. The service was built and run by Thomas Lightfoot from 1876, who sold it on in 1882. It operates during the summer months.

The Electric Railway was established in 1893. The terminus is called Derby Castle which was also the name of the large amusement park that once stood nearby until the end of the 1960s. The original tiny picturesque rustic ticket office survives while the Terminus Tavern adjacent also dates back to the 1890s.

The Electric Railway travels north to Ramsay. It makes its discreet way through the suburbs of north Douglas into open green countryside and woodland. At Laxey there’s a connection with the line leading to the top of Snaefell, the island’s highest point. Laxey itself is a pleasant winding village tumbling down a valley from the highlands to the sea. Its fame rests on the Laxey Wheel, a short uphill stroll from the tramstop. The Laxey wheel is the largest working waterwheel in the world with a diameter of over 72 feet. It was built in the 1850s for the local lead and zinc mines.

Snaefell Mountain railway climbs to the top of Snaefell, near enough, at just over two thousand feet. The five mile journey takes about half an hour. There’s a pelasant cafe for refreshments and snacks with seating outside to take advantage of the spectacular panorama. The view boasts that it takes in seven kingdoms: the Isle of Man, England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales. The other two kingdoms being the Kingdoms of Heaven and of the sea. This last being ruled by Mannanin Mac Lir, so closely associated with the island. We summit in complete calm under hot sunshine, even at this altitude.

Back at Laxey we have coffee at the tramstop and explore downstream towards the sea. We catch a bus from Laxey back to Douglas. The main bus station in Douglas is at the southern end of town and it is only a short walk from here to the Railway Station for steam trains. The Steam Railway goes south to Castletown and Port Erin. Also passing near the airport at Ronaldsway.

The Steam Railway is a most colourful way to see the island. It was set up in 1873. The traditional rolling stock is quaint and dinky, the timber clad compartments with facing banquettes seating six people. It’s about an hour to the terminus at Port Erin, with Castletown a little over halway along.

Castletown was the island’s original capital until 1869, the Tynwald meeting here until moving up the road to Douglas. It lies on the river estuary of the Silver Burn south of a small harbour. A majestic medieval castle rises in the town centre. Castle Rushen is a well preserved fortresss dating from the thirteenth century when the Kings of Mann and the Isles reigned. It was later the scene of the century long tug of war between the English and Scots for control of Mann. Robert the Bruce capturing the castle three times, though ultimately the English would prevail.

It’s a short walk along the river into town. A giant heron sculpture guards the bridge. Above the quayside is the castle entrance. The Arts and Crafts Police Station blends well with the Gothic feel of the place. The main town square, Market Square, has become an occupied fan zone for bikers, gathered about a giant screen with food and drink from local hostelries and mobile outlets. Our visit is a fortnight after the TT Races, but another major event, The Southern 100 is on nearby, with such biker heroes as Dean Harrison. Five times TT, Dean is English but lives in Laxey. Then there’s local lad Nathan Harrison. You can’t keep up with the Harrisons! Whatever about the Castle, and the hectic world of motorbikes, we’re not rushing (pun intended) and we have plenty of time for a snack and a pint of beer in the glorious sunshine we’ve enjoyed throughout our stay on Mannin.

The steam train service tails off around half four, although busses still go into the night. We return to Castletown station which has a model railway display and the same cheerful traditional ambience as elsewhere on the isle. The train is quite packed and some compartments are fully booked but we get seats and head off in smoke and sunshine.

Back in Douglas we enjoy an evening stroll along Loch Promenade shrouded in an eerie and intermittent mist. The Tower of Refuge is a magical mirage in the bay. We dine in Duke Street, on the front outdoor patio of Wine Down. The interior is crowded, perhaps because the restaurant is very good. Heaters on the patio dilute the misty evening chill, and the wine and good food help too.

Tomorrow we’re leaving Man and taking the ferry across to Liverpool. For a farewell song I’ll take one that evokes our stop in Laxey, sort of. Apt too for our ongoing ferry odyssey. Proud Mary was written by John Fogerty for his band Creedence Clearwater Revival. One of my favourites. It was a big hit single and appeared on their second album, Bayou Country in 1969.

Left a good job in the city

working for the man every night and day

and I never lost one minute of sleeping

worrying about the way things might have been

Big wheel keep on turning

Proud Mary keep on burning

Rolling, rolling, rolling on a river.

xxharrison

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