Thursday, 1 October 2015
Low cost airline Norwegian is seeking to widen its fast expanding long haul network with the launch of direct flights from Cork, in the south of Ireland, to Boston. Starting in May it plans to operate four or five service a week from the city, which has a large population of Irish extraction.
The carrier already flies there from Gatwick - as well as New York, LA, Orlando and Fort Lauderdale. It hopes the Cork flights will be operated by its Irish subsidiary Norwegian Air International (NAI) but the operation must first get the green light from the US authorities. Chief executive officer Bjorn Kjos says: "This is only the beginning of our plans for new routes in Ireland but our expansion relies on the U.S. Department of Transportation (DoT) finally approving Norwegian Air International’s application for a foreign carrier permit. Only DoT approval for NAI will unlock the door for these exciting new routes, creating more competition, more choice and better fares for business and leisure passengers on both sides of the Atlantic." Seasoned observers of the airline scene will continue to watch the airline's progress with fascination, particularly following the past failure of so many budget carriers to sustain long haul operations. The problem for such operators has been that as the flight distance increases, so do fuel and crew costs as a proportion of expenditure. Norwegian, which claims to be Europe's third latest low cost airline, says it intends to start flying from Cork to Barcelona at around the same time and to New York from 2017.
Regular visitors to these pages will be aware that Boston is a favourite of mine. See my article on the Freedom Trail - a marked route that enables tourists to explore it on foot.
Thursday, 24 September 2015
It was one of those moments on a hike that lives long in the memory. The morning had dawned grey and wet. The mountains across the valley from our hotel were obscured by a low fringe of thick cloud. We donned waterproofs - jackets and over trousers - in anticipation of a losing battle to keep out the rain. But after perhaps an hour slogging uphill there came a sense, barely perceptible, that the weather was changing. Beads of water on the ferns and overhanging pines began to glisten. We could hear the cattle long before we could see them, the melodic bells, the champing of grass. Then, suddenly, the cloud evaporated. The Alpine landscape was bathed in a soft, diffused light, brightening to sharp sunlight. Ahead of us stretched the imposing grey rampart of the Mandelwand and its highest summit, the Hochkonig. We walked on for lunch at the Arthurhaus, a restaurant where German officers had sought refuge as the Seconnd World War drew to its conclusion and where, while skiing some decades earlier, I had heard the resident dog hold its daily conversation with an echo from the mountains above. The Arthurhaus is one of the largest of a string of Almen, usually small eateries along the trail, mostly run by farmers whose cows, for example, provide milk for the cheese. There you may sit at an outside table and recharge the batteries with Gulaschsuppe or perhaps a Brettlejause - cold cuts, cheese and gherkin,served on a wooden board - and a beer.
|At an Alm|
A little later than anticipated after that indulgence we struck out on a path which followed the contour at the foot of the mountain wall, crossing an occasional chaos of scree and always with superb views to our right, until it was time to troop down over grassy meadows for lunch at yet another Alm. There was more of the same terrain in the afternoon - until it was time to turn off and head down a narrow and traffic free road towards our hotel, the Bergheimat, which I plan to review later.
Sunday, 20 September 2015
A triumph of disorganisation at Heathrow's Terminal 3. Arrived on Virgin flights 12 from Boston this morning at around 9.15. Picked up the second of two checked bags nearly 90 minutes later - at 10.42 am. A small but irritating delay getting the air bridge to the aircraft. Utter confusion reigned in the immigration hall. UK passport holders appeared to be queuing with non EU travellers. There was nobody on hand to sort out the mess. At least the electronic passport and facial recognition equipment was working efficiently. And there was no explanation why the luggage took so long to appear on the carousel. "Almost as long as the flight", mused one passenger. Bags went around with nobody to claim them. Nobody appeared to offer help. What a first impression we create. It was nothing short of a disgrace. Time was when we moaned about long delays negotiating US immigration. Compared with Heathrow's performance today, getting through formalities on arrival at Boston's Logan airport had been as greased lightning. ESTA holders were guided straight to passport readers which asked us all the usual immigration questions, which we answered via a touch screen. We were left slightly bemused as to why we still need to queue to be grilled verbally but the process was a massive improvement on the frustrations of past years. And the luggage appeared almost immediately we reached the carousel.
Saturday, 19 September 2015
Friday, 18 September 2015
The only reason we stoped there was its location, midway between the north side of Quebec's Gaspe Peninsula and our base in Boston, Massachusetts. The two legs of the jouurnney south would take around 6hrs each. It's a big continent.
I booked a night at the Bennett House, a b&b in Woodstock, wnich turned out to be an unexpected delight. Only about 20 minutes' drive from the US border, it was New Brunswick's first incorporated town. It sits at the confluence of the mighty St. John River and its tributrary, the Meduxnekeag. There's a pleasant, traffic free walking, running and cycle path along the St John, where, ona gorgeous, musky September evening, I was able to uncramp muscles barely used during the long drive.
The town is full of elegant, Victorian era buildings, of which the Bennett House is one. Built in 1878, it served first as a recory, then as home and office of a prominennt lawyer, as local headquarters of the Mounties - before being bought in 2005 and restored ("lovingly", of course) by Derek and Debbie Bennett. Their attention to detail, give or take a few concessiions to modern comforts, is extraordinary. A broad wooden staircase led to our room, one of four, which afforded glimpses of the main river beween rooftops and trees on the slope below. The floor was pine, the furniture in acceptable harmony wth the period. Besides a well equipped bathroom there was an antique wash basin, stand and jug, which were not intended for use) and early electric bedside lamps with engraved glass bowls, whichmost certainly were - and provided better reading light than many 21st century equivalents. Downstairs was a sitting room with a sailing theme, containing elaborate models including a beautiful replica of the Cutty Sark
We strolled down Main Street for dinner al fresco by the Meduxnekeag. Breakfast included fresh fruit and eggs Benediict. We were informed it would be at 8.15 am (there was no choice), which was 7.15 am according to our body clocks since New Brunswick time is an hour later tan Quebec and the eastern seaboard of the US. Confusing or what?
Befoe we hit the Interstate again we took a spin around town, past lovely, wood balconied houses, some with a faintly tired look.
If you fancy life in small town Canada - Woodstock's population is circa 5000, the Bennett House is on the market. The asking pirce, at the current exchange rate, is jst under £140,000. Meanwhile, should you be passing that way, a supremely comfortable night, with breakfast, will set you back a mere £50 or so for two. (I booked through booking.com)
Sunday, 6 September 2015
Labour Day weekend and Crane Beach, an hour or so north of Boson, is crowded with families and teeage groups enjoying the warm sunshine of the publlic holiday that officially marks the end of America's summer. It's part of a regular ritual when we come to stay with relatives here. First we cross the boarrdwalk over the freagile dunes. This time something new: little nesting boxes, shaped like amphorae, have been perched in a pole for the purple martins, whose numbers here have diminished. It prompts the thought that while we have fllown here from Heathrow in less than seven hours, these gorgeously plumaged members of the swallow family travel annually from Brazil to join the dainty piping plovers that skitter by the Atalantics' dying ripples. We walk or just chill on the vast shining sands, where shameless herring gulls will snafffle your pinic if you turn your back then a late afternoon fishfest at one of ouur favourite restaurant's. Woodman's East in the Rough. It's the same as ever, even if the prices appear to have climbed a little. We queue for maybe a half hour to get in. It's always like thi on busy weekends. People come straight from the beach, in T-shirts and shorts, though with bikinis and swimmig shorts usually covered, entertained as they wait with tinny '50s hits, played over speakers.. They still have sand between theit toes. We order sweet clams, dug from the mud flats outisde at low tide, share combination dishes of the same, plus fat scallops, haddock and shrimp, all fried in a light coating of corn meal and sale our salt air thirsts with Sam Adams beers in plastic cups. he food comes in lidless cardboard boxes. It's a wonderfully democratic institution - 100 years old last year. The young,old, wealthy and of modest means all mess down and dip their "steamers" (steamed clams srved in their shells) first in water the rinse off the sand, then in melted butter. Some ore lobster from the counter outside by the road. We drive home as the twilight sky catches fire, full of seafood and contentment.