It was crowded and seemingly disorganized, such a contrast to my previous visit to the famous Dali museum at Figueres, that almost; no, definitely, indescribable edifice that reminds you of no other; like the man himself, it is unique.

The short road to the carpark was being dug up and we had to wait about 15 minutes just to get into the carpark, relying entirely on those leaving the museum to vacate their spot.  Bizarrely, as if in keeping with Dali’s theme of thinking outside the square, you are charged 0.043229 euro cents per minute for your stay in the carpark; and this is just the first thing designed to fleece the tourists.

The museum itself (when you finally get in after waiting with the busloads) is a masterpiece of involvement with art, i.e., every piece makes you think.  His extraordinary gifts spanned so many of the arts it is hard to believe that only one man conceived all this.  From his exquisite jewellery pieces to his art that was on another planet, the museum never fails to grab your attention.

The famous centrepiece of the Cadillac with vines on the dash and a spray system that will keep the snails inside alive is activated if you insert 20 cents into a slot , the bronze fat lady with snakes on her arms on the bonnet, the stack of tyres topped by a statue of a man wrapped in a tyre himself that has a bust secreted in another tyre at his feet and all of this beneath a boat with huge droplets of water clinging to its side and a mast topped by an umbrella and who knows what else we missed is mind boggling to say the least.

It’s set in what used to be an opera theatre that was accidentally burnt down during the Spanish Civil War and Dali’s idea was that you go in here not to see art but to have a theatrical experience.  I believe he got that right.

He was a fan of many artists including one of my favourites, Gerit Dou, who has two works featured either side of an El Greco portrait titled Saint Paul and all are on show in his Masterpieces Gallery along with one of Dali’s most admired painters Meissonier.

Much of the rest is mayhem and, as Dali intended, you can never see it all in one visit, or two or three for that matter, because so much will elude you, leaving it fresh for discovery on your next incursion.

Our day then took us south to the Mediterranean, thrust on by yet another storm, buffeted by the Tramontana that falls off the Pyrenees which accompanied us nearly all the way to the sea where it almost mysteriously disappeared for the remainder of the day so we could enjoy the beauty of the Vermilion Coast, taking time for a repast at the bustling Banyuls-sur-Mer followed by dinner at the delightful Collioure.

Banyuls-sur-Mer is brash, with modern sculpture, modern boats, jet skis, lots of three storey accommodation houses, busy shopping in tree lined streets and a Catalan flag or two.  There’s a bustling holiday atmosphere about the place, unlike Collioure, that’s steeped in history.

Overlooked from on high by the 16^th C Fort St. Elme of Charles V, then a windmill on the next level down and finally overseen by the waterside castle, originally a Roman castrum, Collioure’s splash of pastel shops are at odds with the drab buildings blocks of the fortifications.

The castle was occupied by Visigoth king Wamba in 673, but has had many noticeable additions since then and was used as the summer palace of the Kings of Majorca in the 12^th century.

Along the sea front is the lovely church bell tower (that once doubled as a lighthouse) of the Notre Dame des Anges, the symbol of Collioure, which is reflected in the waters of the harbour on whom the sun shines for 300 days of the year.  The pastel dome was only added in 1810.

It overlooks the small harbour with its traditional colourful fishing boats, their mast sticking up from the centre of the open craft.

It’s been an inspiration for artists; Picasso, Matisse, Derain, Dufy, Chagall and Marquet to name but a few, and is touted as the birthplace of Fauvism though we’re too late to visit the galleries.

I’d planned to stop and eat here and that’s exactly what happened.  What better way to finish a day than relaxing by the bay of Ansa de Baleta with its gentle waters lapping on the coarse sand as the sun retreated and the evening lights came on to dance across the water.  Bon appétit!

Le Petite Jaune (the little yellow) is a tourist train that I’d like to say huffs and puffs its way into the Pyrenees, except it’s electric, from a place called Villefranche de Conflent, itself a special place with fortifications started back in the 11^th century and enlarged over the years.  However, it was vulnerable so Fort Liberia was erected high (734 steps up) on the side of the steep canyon in 1679 to overlook the situation when Vauban was in charge.  Just in case you were unaware, Sébastien Le Prestre, marquis de Vauban (1633-1707), was responsible for fortifications during the reign of King Louis XIV and was charged with reinforcing France’s defences. There are 130 strongholds, forts, guard houses, bastions and defensive structures bearing witness to Vauban’s productivity and dedication.

Villefranche reeks of authenticity and its narrow streets, once the province of tradesmen, today house craft and tourist shops with the odd restaurant.

We were there for the train ride though and the anticipation built during our half hour wait for the train that leaves at odd times about every hour.  Once on board the three carriage affair we moved slowly out of Villefranche, deeper into the gorge cut by the river Tet, a rushing torrent that was never out of sight until near the end of our trip.

The catabatic wind whistled down the gap, bending branches here and there and introducing the chill from the snows on high.  We photographers who braved the elements on the balcony outside may have gotten better photographs but had to pay a price.

All the way to Villefranche in the car and during the early stages of the train trip the supreme snow-capped peak of Le Canigou rose majestically skywards making it easy to understand why the locals hold it in such reverence.  At every slight gap in the canyon walls, there it stood, clouds gathering as if to pay it homage while the spring thaw drained its mantle of snow to expose its lower slopes.

After well over an hour we reached the ski resort of St. Louis where the man behind the desk at our timeshare had advised us to alight.  There’s nothing to eat there, no coffee, no alcohol, despite a steady stream of tourists.  The train goes on further but he had said it was just “more of the same”. 

The wind didn’t do us any favours except make the air clear during our 45 minute stay there; just enough time for a short walk and then back to the station where we attacked the snack and drink dispenser with gusto.

On the return journey two of us were nodding off, a reflection on the fact that we exhaust ourselves every day, wanting to extract every last morsel from the plate of our holiday, never getting back to the accommodation before 10.00 p.m. and often after 11.

We savoured Villefranche and the lovely quirky shops, 12^th century bridge and ramparts before leaving for lunch by the sea, the first time we’d seen the Mediterranean this trip.  The plethora of medium rise apartment blocks, the coarse sand and the lack of surf meant it was awaiting the summer holiday season when you would be lucky to find a plot of sand to put your towel on.

We dined at a restaurant that night at Canet Plage that was run by a guy from the tiny Caribbean island of St. Martins.  He and his wife had split and she’d moved back to Perpignan but his son kept ringing him so he came to France and bought the cafe.

Another day had passed.

Bidens Pilosa, aka farmers’ friend.  There are things in nature that people don’t like.  Most of them have a reason for being.  I mean, without flies, there would be no coffee, though, as a tea drinker, I couldn’t really care.  There are others though, mosquitoes and leeches to name but two, to which I’m struggling to attach benefits to.  Bidens pilosa falls into that same category.

I’d been talking to Jim, one of Mike’s friends who’d stopped to chat while I was doing my one annual repair to the long suffering motorhome.  Deep into the conversation I started into the granite outcrops around Moonbi.  Jim wanted to know if I’d been out on Tanglewood Road, just past the cemetery.  Well, actually, no.  I’d never heard of Tanglewood or knew where the cemetery was.

Abandoning my bird shooting expedition, that I’d half planned, in a matter of seconds, I got full instructions with the intent of heading off immediately after a cuppa.  Somehow, without asking, I just knew it was going to be on private property.

The road was smooth and I took the turnoff opposite the Caltex as advised and headed in the direction of Limbri.  It hardly seemed anytime at all than I was noticing formations of interest, two in particular.  Trouble was, there were houses in front of the formations.  I went on, another house and fencing but then, just when I was resigned to door knocking, there was an unlocked gate beside a Telstra mast.  The saying is “In like Flynn” and I took no prisoners so to speak.

While the heights seemed readily attainable, the weeds were in Easter party mode.  They were in abundance after the recent rains and walking through them was going to be a nightmare.  The rocks however, beckoned me on as I hid the Lambo and my backpack.  I slipped through one fence and got to those granite pieces on the lower slopes.  The cast-offs here were medium sized or smaller, obviously having broken off hundreds or thousands of years ago.

The main problem was you could only walk 2-5 steps before having to stop and find the best route, partly through the rocks, mainly through the weeds.  I broke off over a thousand farmer’s friends, thereby severely denting the population by about .02 percent.  You couldn’t totally avoid them or the ground hugging soft vine that had a penchant for wrapping itself around your ankles and shredding its tiny round seeds in the tongue of your boot while doing it.

While there was some interest in the shapes, I had high hopes for what was to come.  I turned left, on reaching the saddle, towards one of the two outcrops I’d seen from the road, broaching fences regularly though, at times, they were hard to see, such was the proliferation of the weeds.

Then, as I started to climb, it started to get interesting, mostly due to the size I expect.   Boulders were significantly larger, the cracks more dramatic, the oddities more strange.  I also started to catch glimpses of the next high point I would eventually get to as well, so I had some bearings.

Rocks perched precariously on other rocks, a massive shard sticking up without its mother lode like a giant broken eggshell, a tall rock coming to a sort of point.  I saw them all before I got to arguably the largest and walked around the side.  To say I was dumbstruck would definitely be an understatement for there, right before me, was one of the strangest I’d ever seen.

About 35% of the largest I’d come across had disengaged, following two massive fault lines; one horizontal and one vertical.  My head was shaking from side to side as I got closer, scrambled up some of the smaller fallen remnants and peered inside.  It was extraordinary, both fault lines had parallel patterns of colour, probably an indication of what exactly had happened here.  It was some time before I left it, still in wonderment.

I turned back, got through another fence and headed across the next saddle.  More bloody farmers’ friends.  My boots were once again uncomfortably filling up with seeds.  I crossed over another fence.  There are no trails, just relentless knee to waist high weeds.  My curiosity was my sole driving factor. 

The ascent was steeper than the previous one and there were no shapes in the saddle; nothing until half way up the climb.  I approached a squarish one with a large semi-hemisphere on top and, beyond it, a tall tower of a rock overshadowed them both.

Near the top the weeds flattened out and when I neared the largest outcrop it was sad to see that someone had painted their initials on it.  I scouted around to the front that overlooked the valley beyond, squirmed along a slanting crack and made it almost to the top where all manner of granite destruction was taking place, judging by the odd shapes.  Weather, the ubiquitous fig trees; heavens, there was even what I took to be rabbit dung in clutches on top of several of them.

I sat down and did my shoes again.  It seems to take ages to do a good cleanse, trying to remove every last irritant but always missing one or two.  Still, the vast panorama made it a good place to stop.

Then I cut across the front of the formations and reached another huge one, seemingly almost ready to slide down the hill judging by its undercut.  I couldn’t get underneath it, the down slope being beyond my capabilities so I climbed again and then turned right for home, slowly working my way back across the second saddle.  I’d already seen the stuff at the top of that mount so there were no expectations.

You know what, the thing that I’ve learnt here is that you only have to move a couple of metres in a different direction and you might be blown away.  Well, I found a massive crack and worked my through to the other side.  Not a lot to see on the other side; some interesting shapes, a wavy tree bark just before I passed another big rock. 

Nothing prepared me for what evolved in the next ten metres for here was one of the most extraordinary formations ever.  It looked for all the world like a giant mouth.  Two large flat surfaces at around 140 degrees to each other.  I knew while looking at it I’d never see its like again.  It was hard to photograph because (a) you couldn’t get a decent angle at it and (b) I couldn’t stop gawking.

For the next hour while I slowly worked my way back I couldn’t get it out of my head.  I’ve been to Girraween, done Boonoo Boonoo (pronounced bunny banoo in case you were wondering), climbed Bald Rock (several times) seen Draining Rock out of Tenterfield yet nothing was any better than what I’d seen here in the Moonbi area during two of the last three days.

My blister burst on my left ankle, my arm was bleeding from scratches and I stubbed my right big toe.  The pain was excruciating, I doubted I could continue, but it eased after a minute or two.  All travails were overcome by the persistent memory of what I’d recently seen.  I was so happy when I reached the bike, full in the knowledge that the road home was all downhill but had to pause after I got through the gate for another exorcism of seeds.  Only then did I notice that both soles on my expensive Scarpa hiking boots had all but come adrift after only half a dozen outings.

They have a potential tourist attraction here; it’s just that nobody realises it yet!

Next morning, after having gone to bed before 8 p.m., we’re awake around 5 a.m. and I’m restless to do some writing.  Despite creeping stealthily down the hallway and through the door into the dining room, where our computers are resting, I make one small noise and it seems that almost instantly Sheila’s face pokes around the doorway and queries as to my well being.  “No, everything’s fine”, I assure her, feeling guilty about having woken her, but it seems hardly any time at all before Lorraine’s in the room as well and Sheila has a cup of tea made.

We’re delving into yesterday’s photo production and the results are pleasing, leaving us with pictorial memories that will bring pleasure for years, but we still find it hard to come to terms with the fact that when 7 a.m. rolls around there’s still no evidence that the sun might return for another day. 

Still, after breakfast, while Lorraine’s packing her suitcase, I escape outside and, for the first time, pull my birding lens out of its bag and record some of the avian species that abound around the farmyards.  No sooner do I start than I regret not having done it sooner and, not long after that, I’m summoned back inside to finish my packing so we can be gone.

The Skoda fires up and we bid Sheila farewell, wondering just how much longer she can keep running this rustic place, such a treasure for nature lovers though not for Lorraine who down marked it severely for the overcooked dinner we were served the first night, the smallness of the rooms and bed and the tiny bathroom area with a toilet that croaked for several minutes after you used it whereas I was bug-eyed just looking at the panoramic view out the window and the sheep wandering right by; everything else didn’t matter much.

We climb over the Gap for the last time and, despite Lorraine’s focus on moving on, I insist on taking a last picture or two because there’s fog in the valley floor and it looks magic as the sun caresses the top of the mist and highlights the colours of the slopes.  Over the crest and down the other side there’s no direct light at all and I manage to stop a couple of times more.  Lorraine actually gets out at one and takes her best picture of the trip so far, one of a stone bridge and the water beneath that you can see through all the way to the bottom where the green growth is so clear you’d almost swear the water wasn’t there.

Further down I get a shot of a derelict building that I’d missed the day before and find much satisfaction in the result but, we’re on our way to Adare, a town of promise and the prospect of a castle visit.  Lorraine’s so excited she falls asleep for half an hour and wakes just in time to enjoy the arrival into this chocolate box top place where almost every building is a picture in itself.

We call at the local tourist office and the abrupt girl manning it tells us brusquely that the castle isn’t open because it’s off season.  I’m in shock.  Initially because it is closed and secondly because when we’d visited Muckross Castle the day before there were hundreds of tourists.  However, she doesn’t care and immediately jumps back on her computer, obviously annoyed at the intrusion on her life while we are left standing wondering what to do next.

She had given us instructions on how to view the attraction from the road so we followed those which took us past so many thatched roofs we were entranced.  Built by Lord Dunraven in the 1820s they are a noted tourist attraction these days though three were, sadly, burnt in 2015. 

The town only became an earldom in 1822 and, when the 7^th Earl died in 2011, the title went with him.  The Dunravens were responsible for much of the eye-catching architecture and town layout you see today.

In 1756 John Wesley preached to the people of Adare from under an ash tree near the Franciscan Friary but the tree died around 1860. Today a stone marks the site where this tree stood and the Methodists hold a Field Meeting here in June each year.

Further down the road we chanced upon a local school that was built upon the remains of a 14^th century Augustinian Abbey, colloquially known as the “Black Abbey” because the monks wore black habits.  The school itself celebrated its 200^th anniversary in 2014. 

We chanced our arm and walked in and managed to see some interesting stuff like the cloister and some in-memoriam tablets from the 19^th century but couldn’t go further because the rest was taken up by the school.

Then we crossed the bridge over the river Maigue, somewhat tentatively I should add as there is no walkway, just two traffic lanes and when trucks come past on this busy highway it tends to be unnerving.  Here is the best view of Desmond Castle, a 12^th century structure trashed by Cromwell on his destructive visit to Ireland around 1657.  Elsewhere in the vast grounds there is an impressive manor house, one of those “if you have to ask the price you can’t afford it” types.  Apparently the interior is stunning if a little dated in a couple of areas.

We turned around and headed back to the village and the Dunraven thatched cottages that give the village such a magnetic attraction.  En route we pause for five minutes in the local park with its avenue of mature trees and streamlet running by.  Is there nothing in this place that isn’t beautiful?

There’s barely time for a cuppa, watching eye-popping farm machinery go by that would require an escort in Australia and admiring the delightful colours of the business facades.  Such a change from modern boring shopping centres back home.

Oh sweet Adare, Oh lovely vale
Oh soft retreat of sylvan splendour
Nor summer sun nor morning gale
E’er hailed a scene more softly tender
 Gerald Griffin   1803-1840

Powerscourt, I’d never heard of the name and only came across it by chance when I was researching a route to take from Dublin to Waterford.  Now, if you simply hit the motorway you can be in Waterford in under 2 hours.  The way I chose was more like 4 hours.  As we travellers are wont to say, “Getting there is half the fun”.  Still, I had to weigh up Lorraine’s stamina because I already knew that Powerscourt would involve walking.

I was shattered when I discovered that the gardens are rated at number 3 in the top ten in the world, according to no less an authority than National Geographic.  It was time to rectify my ignorance and go for a visit.

We thought we’d had trouble the day before without using a true GPS; today was just as bad.  I’d written down the route we wanted to take and handed it to Lorraine.  Unfortunately, just as we got on the M50 out of town, she realized she’d lost the bit of paper.  I further compounded the error by believing that I’d memorized enough to take us straight there.  It was only half an hour away, how hard could it be?

By the time Lorraine had worked out where we were, I’d actually overshot all the turn offs, despite seeing a brown sign with the name Powerscourt written on it too late.  The trouble is, in many places, vegetation has obscured some of the signs and I’m still waiting for the arrow.  Now, with panic rapidly rising in the seat beside me, I take the next available turn off, spy a photogenic church and pull up to take a picture.  Panic in the seat beside now escalates but I’m determined and go and grab a few shots before we’re on our way, this time with clearer instructions now that we’ve worked out “Here We Go”, the app we’re using.

It’s not that far away but we first come to a real charmer in a village called Enniskerry.  It’s straight out of the “cute” manual and we decide that’s where we’ll have lunch after our visit.  Powerscourt is just up the road and you travel through what can only be described as “gorgeous” countryside to get there.  Travelling through the 250 year old beech trees lining the road is an absolute delight.  It’s a huge estate, with two golf courses as well as accommodation in a mansion before you reach the carpark where we can immediately ascertain that we’re not the first to arrive.

Some places have a wonderful feel about them, this is one.  In 1730, wishing to flaunt his wealth, as they did, the Earl of Powerscourt commissioned a German born architect to turn his then castle into a mansion.  How ironic that the architect’s surname was “Castle”!

The gardens, so evocatively portrayed in many a picture, don’t disappoint.  In 1844, at the age of 8, Mervyn Wingfield, 7^th Viscount of Powerscourt, inherited the title and the Powerscourt Estate, which comprised 200 km² (49,000 acres) of land in Ireland. When young Lord Powerscourt reached the age of 21, he embarked on an extensive renovation of the house and created the new gardens.

Even the story of the terraced Italianate section is worthy of inclusion.  Apparently, the architect of them, Daniel Robertson, would hide in the dome at the top of the house when the sheriff’s officers came to arrest him because he was constantly in debt.  Not only that but he suffered from gout and directed operations from a wheelbarrow, fortified by a bottle of sherry.  When the sherry ran out, work stopped for the day.

That it took 12 years and 100 labourers to complete the task is no surprise, but that’s only a part. We skirt along the top of them towards the walled garden and pass the largest of the sculptures, that of Laocoon and his sons being strangled to death by serpents.  Laocoon was a priest of Apollo in the city of Troy and he tried to warn the inhabitants not to take the wooden horse.  However, Athena and Poseidon were favouring Greece and so sent the sea serpents to kill Laocoon, the act shown in the sculpture.  The original, described by Pliny the Elder as a masterpiece from the sculptors of Rhodes, was unearthed in 1506 and immediately purchased by Pope Julius II and became the feature in the Vatican’s sculpture garden.  I’d come across a replica in the Knights Palace at Rhodes many years ago and was so impressed I’ve never forgotten it.

Aeneas was one person who did heed Laocoon’s warning and he fled, later to found the city of Rome, from where the original work was purchased.  The single piece of granite on which the Powerscourt copy stands took two weeks to move on rollers from Glencree, all the while supervised by Robertson who sat on top of it!

Inside the Walled Garden are some copies of famous bronze statues of ball throwers found at Herculaneum (one of the other places buried along with Pompeii).  As we stroll through it’s obvious that spring and summer would be the preferred time to view these areas and we move down into the woods and past the pet cemetery that contains about 50 deceased animals of various kinds. 

Immediately after you come to the picture postcard view of the estate beside Triton Lake.  Looking across you see the life-sized winged horses done in zinc, as represented in the family coat of arms while in the middle of the lake is a fountain modelled on that of the Piazza Barberini in Rome.  Beyond is the cascading water that emanates 25 metres from the back of the house and tumbles down the entire slope to the pond.

We move on to the Japanese Garden, the one that Lorraine has been enthused about from the moment she first knew they had one.  At last she finds comfort in this exceptionally landscaped section, at this time of the year one of the crowning jewels.  Its nooks and crannies are as intriguing as they are delightful and the autumn hues splashed seemingly at random offer colour for the soul to savour.

Next we climb further through the 1,000 acres to the famous tower, modelled on, wait for it, a pepper pot from the dining table; hence its name “Pepperpot Tower”.  Lord Powerscourt was an avid fan of the scouting movement and used to survey the area from atop when the scouts had camps there.  There are cannons as well, some from the Spanish Armada and the Battle of the Boyne.

Then we curve back to the mansion, past the ivy covered tea rooms, so tempting but we’ve already decided on Enniskerry.  The Slazenger family bought the place in 1961 and fitted it out as a tourist destination that was opened in 1974.  Tragically, on November 3^rd a fire gutted the main rooms, leaving them a roofless shell.  It wasn’t until 1997 that it was finally re-opened.  We troll the shops inside the mansion; so tasteful but with a price tag to match; i.e. if you have to ask, you can’t afford it, but hunger overrides all other interests and we depart for Enniskerry.

It’s a popular little place, no doubt bursting at the seams at peak times and we settle into a nice restaurant with art-adorned wall and gaze out onto the streets that have been used many times as a backdrop for film and T.V.