Once upon a time in a hemisphere far, far away...

Apparently, all good things must come to an end. Like Iceland, that in a human sense, marks the beginning of the end of the earth.

So on I jumped on Icelandair to have a squizz and to see what all the fuss in Australia certainly isn't about.

And I was impressed.

For those of you that haven't got holiday homes there, but are nonetheless thinking of a little place by a mountain that looks a little like this:

or a town house like this:

Think of this as a review of the joint. I can be your eyes on the ground and ears in the air. To help you decide to emigrate, just visit, or put the place on your do-not-ever-go-to list.

So let's get the obvious stuff, that's been gnawing away at you all this time, out of the way: Do Icelanders like hotdogs?

Answer: Yes.

Why? Because they look like this:

And they are sold to you by generally happy looking people that look like this, just after they've spiked them with hallucinogens.

That they grow in massive Greenhouses like this:

So once you've got your icelandic drug laced food sorted, things start to get a bit strange.

First the weather changes. In about 3 minutes flat. Here's what I think, it looked like:

And then the sun hides and you work out you're in the middle of nowhere in particular:

notice the Sat-Nav was drugged up too.

But the video camera wasn't. It looked like this:

Then things start getting really weird. Waterfalls froze.

and people on the mid left of the above photograph look like ants.

Then geysers appear everywhere

that go off just seconds before you get your camera ready to film it properly

But you forget your hat, and so rush back to your huskies to ask them what to do.

They say 'lets go for a walk!" so you do. Just like this.

Then its all too much so you find a local chinese restaurant

and look at the menu:

but it makes no sense, so you go somewhere else

and that's possibly even weirder

but you enjoy the fish dish anyway.

Then its time for a swim, but the sand is black

and perhaps a tad too refreshing. So you ask the guy behind the counter for advice, who really does look like this.

he suggests you go check out the wildlife except, like this one:

there aren't any. So you find a hotel, where you're the only ones booked:

that some people could find a bit isolated, but I don't know why

So off you go to here:

Whatever that means.

By the way hitching isn't advised, but neither is playing Russian Roullette and that never stopped anyone right?

something about potentially fatal temperatures:

Anyway, the scenery is stark,

striking,

brutal,

and absolutely stunning.

yes

it really

is

special

But then its back to the City, and just when you think your sanity is back; buildings like this appear out of nowhere:

And cutlery is turned into viking boats:

that you can ride to the glacier

or through the lava field

Then its time to take a dip in a genuine blue lagoon that's a refreshing 35 celcius.

Then the drugs are wearing off, because things start to become familiar again.

moss filled lava field flashbacks fade

You even think of thanking this utter fool for bankrolling the whole thing.

That feeling of absurdity quickly recedes.

Because thermal power stations and sub arctic swimming pools are normal right?

And you wonder if just like Pamela Ewing, that was all a dream.

The End.

My day has come. I am now officially ineligible for a youth discount, so it was befitting to conduct the most recent stage of my grand tour in the company of a loyal assistant.

To protect my assistant's privacy, I shall refer to him or her by the clever pseudonym of Miss Truth Lobitoffknob.

To further ensure Miss Lobitoffknob can return to her quaint village without being molested by all manner of rogues, [ That really is the picture that keeps on giving - Ed.] I have without warning to you, dear reader, secreted a single, lone, solitary but nonetheless outright untruth in the following record of our journey, if only to provide Miss Truth Lobitoffknob with the liberty to truthfully deny the veracity of my recollection of just precisely what happened offshore and beyond the territorial waters of the Old Dart.

Plausible denial assured, let us begin.

First, we travelled to Marseille via the brand new worm hole that has just opened up between the South of France and North London. It was a pleasant trip taking approximately .0000065 seconds, yet unfortunately there was no catering. In 2012 it seems, you still generally get what you pay for.

Once deposited in Marseille we listened to some modern music:

and promptly got to work on our laborious journey.

As avid readers of this modern journal would recall, my Catalan citizenship application is currently being processed, so while that happens the need for a humble home has became somewhat pressing. First stop was the Real Estate Agents guild of Marseille, who I am advised maintain the international standard, by all looking like this.

Additionally as a particular regional cultural trait they also all carry knives like this hidden under their polar neck jumpers.

So given the obvious dangers of entering the property market in the area we elected to acclimatise ourselves with the ways of the Méditerranée antique. In doing so we decided to get, somewhat, as they say, down and dirty.

Our first and only significant late night stop was a bar entered through a red faded painted creaky door, (aren't they all the good ones) that was occupied by little more than an 'Attractive bartender who was plausibly an extra in desperate housewives Morroco' (ABPAEIDHM), her (the) mother, a morbidly obese teenager (MOT) who regaled us in his ability to lift the pool table off the ground while grinning oddly and two 'gentleman of almost certain disreputable repute' (GOACDR#1 & GOACDR#2).

I immediately struck up a conversation with GOACDR#1 and to a lesser extent; ABPAEIDHM and two things quickly became apparent. The first was that GOACDR#1 was pinning for the emotional pleasures and physical treasures of ABPAEIDHM, while she cooly in a dead end kind of way, stated her preference to "remain friends."

The second was that GOACDR#1 was keen to provide me with some cannabis related products that he placed on the bar, croupier style, in a flourish.

Gracefully declining the generous offer of some smokey paranoia and the inability to speak for 8 hours, I thought it still necessary to create a bond with my new found retailers of substance abuse.

I made my move and in one swoop my friendship with GOACDR#1 was cemented for eternity. I did this by suggesting in an offhand, but diplomatic kind of way to ABPAEIDHM that she give GOACDR#1 "a whirl". She laughed first with and then at me while GOACDR#1 keenly embraced me and my idea and bought me a beer.

Encouraged, I tried to explain the "friends with benefits" phenonomen (as I understand it) to ABPAEIDHM without speaking French and asked how popular that was in Marseille, before drawing a line under my own self induced brashness.

During this time my assistant was neglecting to prepare the easel and charcoals for my latest seaside-at dusk landscape so I had to take a picture instead:

Instead of preparing for the days art, Miss Lobitoffknob may have been sampling various noxious looking cigarrettes with GOACDR#2 while debating North African politics with the Mother while MOT continued to grin in the background whilst flexing his bits and bobs.

I sensed danger and thought it prudent to exit the building. However my assistant declined my command and continued to inhale from some rather pungent, sweet smelling tobacco all the while growing in confidence that her fluency and vocabulary of a growing range of languages ( French, Arabic, Jewish, Catalan, Indonesian, Neo-classical Economics and English) doubled with every inhalation. Critically, it also became foggily clear that my assistant thought her new found friend's understanding of her greatly expanded language repertoire also increased with every single one of her exhalations of the aforementioned sickly sweet tobacco.

Thankfully the bar closed and we stumbled away, shaking hands, kissing cheeks a la stereo and promising to visit again.

The following day, with our lie of the land strong and true, we got serious and chased down a few unreal real property leads including

a crash pad:

a delightful corner terrace:

A home with a courtyard:

Some solitude with waterviews

or a waterfront.

A low maintenance rock garden perhaps:

With good security:

or perhaps a small town square,

That extra bedroom you've always wanted

because let's face it, we only live once.

So take your pick.

Shockingly we also witnessed some street crime, which as you'd know only ever happens in Marseille. Isolated or not it was perhaps manufactured for its comic cliche, involving the sound of running feet and startled shoppers, shouts, and whistles, (oh yes many whistles) before a rather hungry looking fellow ran past us with some leather goods before knowing the game was up, throwing the goods on an awning. Let the record show the black object on top of the red awning as Exhibit A.

Alas the petty villain was also being chased by an even hungrier looking man in a security guard suit so the petty villain was aprended and quietly led away to be jailed for life, as we understand it, here:

Some people say Marseille is dangerous. That's not the reason we had to move on though. Instead it's because its not dangerous enough. Every part of the city is cleaned and every part exists with those of poor sight and frail elderly hips first and foremost in city planners minds. Look at these safe cleansed streets.

too safe,

too often

and not a trip hazard

in sight

So while you'll always be in our hearts Marseille, for the time being, can't we too, like ABPAEIDHM says, 'just be friends'?

Next stop a real genuine mega castle known as Carcassone. Cue trumpets and the sound of running horses.

We thought the view would be superb and the garden would be pretty, but it would be hard to heat, and with too many gutters and down pipes to clean

and door knockers to polish

so with heavy hearts, we passed on that one too.

Toulouse was scoped out as a possibility as well. Besides building aircraft, it really is a city for for the obsessive compulsive, there are utterly mad OCD suffering pastry chefs on every corner. Timing, weighing, painting and creating around the clock. Hence it would be very easy over indulge. So living there would be bad for your health.

Nice way

die

though.

Instead of dying we took the next stage of our journey via train. Our first leg of the journey had a 7 minute window to change trains. Which the lemon sucking clown at Eurail I note, had the audacity to note on my ticket some weeks before:"Passenger accepts risk of 7 minute change"

As you've guessed that all important 7 minute window occurred precisely during that time we sat on a stationary train some 15 kilometres away from the station where we were meant to be. Upon arrival at the belated station, the French train bureaucracy played to their strengths and promptly called a taxi.

With instructions to attraper ce train à la station suivante!!! (catch that train at the next station"), the taxi driver sped off as one part of two part convoy down the freeway that quickly seemed to metamorphasise into France's only remainingAutobahn. At 169 kph, sitting in the front seat, I quietly glanced at the speedometer, shrieked and then blacked out. I woke up shortly after the taxi decelerated to the sound of an unknown post middle aged co-passenger in a similar predicament make a high pitched brief prayer to Maria, before she reached for the door handle, ineptly opened it, vomited and failed to maintain her dignity.

Alas we missed our connecting train and didn't make it to Barcelona that night. As a second prize though, we got put up in the Barcelona Hotel, here was the welcoming banner:

For an a feel of what the hotel was like, think building site, the shining

and the Simpons in French.

And Blend, 2, 3, 4. Blend, 2, 3, 4.

After practically walking to Barcelona from France I spent the week chasing up my Catalan citizenship application and ensuring I'd pass any trumped up generally but not always dark hair and not terribly tall Catalan citizenship policy with research, mountains of research. I also went furniture shopping for my new crash pad in the Catalan area.

Some mood lighting ideas:

and colour scheme tips.

together with some refined,

dignified

terribly post graduate

furniture that may well now be on lay by.

Then the last step of trip beckoned. We'd heard that the accommodation options in Granda while out of the way, were worth a look. And well I suppose they were.

The gardens were nice,