Hi folks,

It's the last in the series and I've news that hasn't hit the international press just yet. The Great Maltese Escape can be deemed a success. After two solid weeks on the run, I've finally made it back to base camp.

The planning stages were the most tedious with many a drop of sweat being poured over the keyboard as timetables, prices and errors flashed across the screen. Suddenly, quicker than an EF could drop out of diving, it began.

After a savage ending to a fantastic time on my Mediterranean outpost, I was skimming across the water in a North-North-East direction and hit landfall on Sicily. The highly fortified region of Catania to be precise. It's so well protected that the transport authorities wouldn't let me onto any outbound trains. I think their brief was to protect the mainland from any foreigners at all costs.

Finally, after much negotiation I got on the move once again. Once out of the shadow of Mt. Etna, I stowed the train away on a ferry for the crossing to the mainland and made it to Napoli as night fell. It was only in daylight the following day I noticed another menacing volcano lingering above me. After a quick inspection of the volcano and it's previous victim, I made a quick exit. Onwards and northwards to the seat of power.

Rome was a mixed cocktail of Aussie tour guides and suicidal taxi drivers, blood and guts stories at the Collosseum, as well as wealth and power in the seat of Catholicism. Each in their own individual was mesmerising and enlightening. Especially the taxi drivers. After 3 days the sheer size and history became overwhelming. I was being weakened physically and psychologically. A quick escape was needed to friendly territory.

A short train ride inland to Florence lead me right to what I needed. Reinforcements and supplies. For those of you that know him, Doug says hello. He is doing well in Florence although ready to tar and feather all Italian civil servants. So with a guide to lead the way I had set aside 3 days under the shadow of Brunelleschi's dome. The first two days went to plan. There were statues, paintings, golden doors, bridges, panoramic vistas and picturesque little streets. They, however, were followed by several beers including a disgusting Mediterranean Guinness at 2am so the third day was a right off. There were coffees, pastas, random conversation, and stumbling down wrong streets.

The last leg of the journey beckoned. The climax. The place I would either love or hate. It was not to disappoint. Continuing westwards on the journey the water once again reappeared in the form of the Adriatic. The Adriatic as it flowed through the canals and under the bridges of the lagoon city. Venice. There are no words to describe it without being theatrical or else cliched. all I can say it was emotional. Being done with the touristy stuff since Rome and Florence I avoided it totally. The best pasttime was simply getting oneself lost in the streets, narrow corridors, and bridges over untroubled waters. It was also an experience to watch the bruising the country received from The All Blacks in the (un)comfort of a distraught Italian bar. It was hard to leave the even crazier taxi drivers, the just as crazy prices and the somewhat less crazy sidestreets. The job though... was done.

Full pictoral evidence is available at http://picasaweb.google.com/subaquaman.

Back on another island in an even bigger sea,


Rob