I am writing this on a bus, halfway between Ancud and Puerto Montt, stuck at roadworks in the rain. It’s a fair shower, the sky is heavy with shades of grey, the trees are shrouded a mere hundred metres from us. Sarah is trying to sleep beside me whilst listening to With The Beatles, our first in a series of albums we are unfamiliar with, in a bid to expand our knowledge whilst travelling. Sarah is prone to vertigo, travel sickness, and the only thing she can do on these long bus journeys, apart from watch the tv in the distance, and listen to wailing children, is put on some music and try to sleep. I am lucky that I can read without problems, and type too.
Time is going faster right now. We have achieved little over the past few week, and now we are heading north to Valdivia, a university town and a brief stop before heading to the popular tourist destination of Pucón. We might get to climb a volcano. For reasons which I shall reveal below, we might not get to climb a volcano.
The cows are lying down. I hope that means the same thing for Spanish-speaking cows as it does for English ones.
Wednesday 12th Feb
Our last full day in Bariloche. For some reason my fancy Panasonic camera has stopped working. I am distinctly unimpressed.
We take in the Museo De Patagonia, and learn about the geography, geology, flora, fauna and creatures of Patagonia. Up close I have the pleasure of a stuffed condor (pretty big), a pudú (smallest deer in the world, about the size of a spaniel), kingfishers and woodpeckers (both much bigger than I though), plus the usual assortment of gulls. There is also a big stuffed otter. I think it was endangered, if not rare. I wonder what sort of eating there is on an otter.
We tackle McDonalds again but this time vary it up, Sarah tries the Triple Mac (no explanation required) whilst I sample the McNificent (a single patty with crap lettuce and salsa golf, bloody Marie Rose dressing). My single patty is burnt, too. We ‘enjoy’ lunch sitting on the sea wall in the sunshine, but it doesn’t fix what is a fairly disappointing meal. Should have stuck with Big Macs. Cheap and nasty. For those who are unaware, McDonalds had to apologise to Argentina because they have no ketchup left. Better than all the cafes which have had to apologise to us for having no burgers left!
We spend an hour or two at the beach, if you can call it a beach, a pile of rocks beside the lake with some people lying on them. The view is still spectacular but in other respects Bariloche is a fairly work-a-day sort of place that people use to get to other attractions. We slowly head back to the hostel and I book accommodation for Ancud, our first destination in Chile. Ancud is the northernmost town, and first bus stop, on Chiloé Island. On this trip there have been places I never thought I would ever go in my life. Chiloé is somewhere I wasn’t sure even existed. Of course, I feel a bit silly now.
It doesn’t occur to me until 8pm that bus tickets to Puerto Montt might be in short supply at short notice. What I had seen on the internet was plenty of vacant seats for Thursday. What we discovered that night was tha all the buses the next day were booked up. Finally we understand just what a tourist destination Bariloche is. A desperate phone call to the bus station yields no tickets. We start to feel a little desperate. A refresh of the Plataforma10 site reveals three seats available on the Andesmar 13.30 to Puerto Montt. That will do nicely. We snap them up, head out to a little Internet Cafe and get the passes printed off. Simples. The only reason we don’t do this more in Argentina is because you cant take advantage of the unofficial exchange rate on the internet. Still, its fine in an emergency.
Plans to head to the fancy restaurant for dinner are scuppered by the half hour wait for food. That doesn’t work for Daniel and Sarah. We mill around outside for a bit but eventually decide we better go elsewhere before we start grilling the other patrons. By grilling I do not mean ‘asking difficult questions’.
We skulk around the streets for a bit but eventually settle on Las Brasas, a little place that looks family run, where we receive fine service and a lot of meat (and wine) for a reasonable sum. Sarah is distracted by a chap with diabetes at the table opposite, who injects before he orders his dinner, then freaks out a little when the food is slowing in coming. We have seen lots of folk with vitalago here but not so many diabetics. I guess, like serial killers, they just look like everyone else.
Dinner is delicious, and we complement it with a cheeky pint across the road in the Bachmann bar where, WiFi enabled, we watch amusing videos of animals on Youtube. We are the last people in the bar and are kicked out just after midnight. Fortunately the little bar across the road from the hostel yet again obliges us with a few pints, these ones tastier than the last time. Tired, we head back to the hostel only to be accosted by our Kiwi and Israeli friends who both want a pint, and so we set out again, back across the road, where I fall asleep. Time for bed for Daniel.
Thursday 13th Feb
Rise and feel remarkably ok, all things considered. Starting to get the auld spots on the back of my head which indicate too much caffeine. Need to come off the coffee for a week or two til they clear up. Haven’t had any problems up until recently, so I deduce either the humidity of the north and all the sweating I was doing were helpful in keeping my skin clean, or the doxycycline I was taking to prevent Malaria was also great at suppressing my ugly reaction to too much coffee and Coke. Maybe both.
I leave behind an onion and half a garlic bulb for someone else to enjoy. The Chilean border is incredibly strict on what they allow in. Fresh fruit and veg is prohibited. You need to pay to bring in seeds or other agriculture products. Soil and by-products from fishing are a definite no-no. Chile manages to remain free of many diseases because they fail to pass the Andean barrier. As you approach the border you receive a sheet on which you must declare virtually any type of food you carry with you. Best just to tick ‘YES, I HAVE SOMETHING’ when you get there.
At the bus station after a short walk and bus ride, we are a couple of hours early, but we didn’t want to risk anything. Our internet tickets need no extra documentation. We have a few surprisingly tasty empanadas and wile away the hours. 13.30 isn’t too long in arriving. Off we go, through the Andes to the border with Chile, Country Number Five.
The journey is initially through familiar countryside, but this gives way to white dust hills and shimmering trees. Argentina was lush, but Chile makes it looks barren. Our exit point from Argentina is a single office, and we queue with everyone else before being redirected to a tiny little office, where we are stamped out. We are asked for our little pieces of documentation to show we have been in the country. We have never received these. The girls shrugs and we quickly fill out some duplicate forms, just to keep the paper trail right. No one seems very excited about this.
Back on the bus and away we go. A few miles later we hit the Chilean border. A very different kettle of fish. Here are sniffer dogs, agents from the Dept of Agriculture checking every single bag. We have a fascinating incident in the customs office, where everyone must leave their handbags or backpacks at the side of the room and they are investigated by the golden Labrador with the official coat on. Any suspicious package receives a paw on top, and the dog gets a treat. Everyone is spellbound except, presumably, anyone keeking themselves about smuggling stuff through the border. You would not want to have marijuana on you here.
The dog handily posed for some photos, and we are stamped into Chile. Very straight forward. For the first time yet we receive little entry sheets that you feel would be very bad to lose.
We pay a fortune for two empanadas and some juice. We have no Chilean pesos, so the transaction is in Argentine Pesos, and the exchange rate is horrid. Fortunately the empanadas are really good. Why is it that, quite often, food you have to buy in places like bus stations, airports, and border crossing, concerts, sporting events, and so on, is so overpriced but actually quite tasty?
The journey goes on through some wildly varying landscapes. Trees hugs the sides on hills, doused in cloud, and every so often a lake will appear and disappear in seconds. At one point we have to halt only to spot a bus which has skidded on the road ahead and spun 90 degrees so that its rear rests, Italian Job-style, over the edge of the precipice. Our driver does not consider this a serious bad omen, and we blaze ahead.
As soon as we hit the Chilean border the road becomes different. Firstly a section is under construction, but after that the standard is much higher than Argentina. In fact, it doesn’t take very long for us to be reminded of somewhere else, somewhere much more familiar. This part of Chile looks like Ireland.
The traffic lights are the same. The barriers at the sides of the main roads are the same as at home. The landscape is eerily familiar. Evergreens and brown soil and brambles and deciduous trees and green, green fields of grass abound. Lovely rolling hills pulls copses into view, only to ease out of sight. The only striking difference is the architecture. The houses here are wooden, shingled, made to withstand earthquakes (a fault line runs right up the coast of Chile). Every so often though you will spot a housing development, quirky wooden houses in straight lines, equal sized gardens, and a well-paved road running amongst them. They look like Minorca Place in Carrickfergus.
I am a little unprepared for Chile. It’s my own fault, I didn’t take enough time to plan our route whilst I was trying to catch up with this blog, and it always seemed far away. No longer. I wasn’t even sure if Chile was another hour behind or not. I hoped so. The border crossing had us behind time, and we were extremely tight to catch the last bus to Chiloé.
We rolled in Puerto Montt at 21.30, 90 minutes late. No chance of hitching a ride at this time of night. We are both tired, hungry, irritable. A bad combination. No Wi-Fi is available to contact our hostel in Ancud to let them know we will be late. Even worse, the reason we hadn’t made plans to stay in Puerto Montt was because it was all booked up. A slight stress descends. We pick up tickets for tomorrow, the first bus with seats on it is at 13.30. The first six buses are full. A sensation of tourist overload grips me. Chiloé might be great, but who can tell when its full of other people ruining it?
Fortunately Puerto Montt bus terminal has a stand informing tourists of accommodation. She books us into her own hospedaje and we follow her up the road to her house, a door in the wall. Sarah’s face is a picture.She, like most girls, does not take well to the random acts that men can adapt to with ease. I reassure her, but my reassuring voice does not convince. We at least have a private room and a kitchen to use. We take a quick walk round town but cannot find anywhere to eat except an empanada shop. I think we are done with pasties for the day. Back to the room and we pass out.
The bus pulls out of the Cruz Del Sur bus depot at 1pm, an hour long journey to Castro, and we sit back and enjoy the lovely mid-Ulster countryside on the way there. Provided mid-Ulster was having some sort of incredible / impossible summer.
Back in the plaza, after a bit of a dander round Castro, we see this attractive mosaic stage. In front of it, out of shot, is another stage. On this one you have Mickey and Minnie Mouse. There are lots of kids watching them. The music starts to play, and Mickey and Minnie begin to dance, firstly to Sex Bomb by Tom Jones, then to Mr Bombastic by Shaggy. Chile is clearly like the UK in more subtle ways too.
We call into a pub and have a pint to pass the time before we take the bus back. I'm glad we are staying in Ancud, at least it has a small town feel, and though our hostel has a rapid turnover of clientele, at least the town doesn't feel the ugly advance of tourist as fiercely. Our beer is delicious, but we watch a young couple devour a pichanga, a single plate dominated by chips, eggs, cocktail sausages, vegetables, avocado, and other unidentifiable foods in an enormous mound. As a food challenge it looks tempting. We watch girls eye it with undeniable food lust. In South America, shying away from meat and carbs is simply nonsense. Over breakfast, we hear American girls studying in Santiago (there appear to be a lot of these, we haven't met this many Americans anywhere on the rest of our trip) discussing their carb- and carb-free days. "Is today a carb-free day?" one asks the other, as they stare painfully at the bread on the table. I don't understand how anyone with a deviant diet could exist here. Even Sarah, who eats like a normal human being mostly, has trouble with a few things (mostly fish, but ugly cow body parts disturb her too, even when grilled). A vegetarian or vegan would despise these countries. Of the four southern English girls we met, three were vegetarian. This continent must kill people like that with the cheese-drenched pizza. At least the fresh produce is good. Bananas rarely let you down, although they bruise easily. Watermelons (sandias) are everywhere and cheap. Peaches (duraznos) are also ubiquitous and delicious. But never mind that. The beef is excellent, and in Chile the chicken is good too (almost everywhere else the chicken is solely available from the rotisserie, it is looked down upon, no better than horse meat). Cow is King.
We get to the bus station and try and buy tickets back to Ancud, but no! Our seller wants to chat to me in German! "Wie gehts?" he asks. I look befuddled. Surely he can't be speaking to me in German? "Danke, gut, und ihnen?" I eventually respond. He looks pleased. We both laugh and wander off. Up the main road we wander through a few cheap shoe shops and Sarah looks at espadrilles. It's like Shoe Zone. We're not taking any chances with the early departure of buses though. The 7pm departure is on time and so are we. Here are photos of a fire on the way back, plus some familiar landscapes.
PS - Can anyone clarify the origins of the term 'pruck'? I know McCreight the Great introduced us to this wonderful word of ye olde Ulster-Scots origins, but can anyone suggest its source? We have walked past a great many pruck shops during our time here, a term that we use to describe products of virtually no discernible worth (plastic arm-waving Chinese cats, sweatshop-produced scarves, picture frames, key rings, porcelain bells, basically shite that you would never care to spend money on but somehow manages to make its way into other peoples' houses).
This line on the left is a crack in the window. An unusual deficiency on the buses down here.
Lovely Red Hot Pokers. Very popular flarrs here in Chile.
Fortunately Puerto Montt bus terminal has a stand informing tourists of accommodation. She books us into her own hospedaje and we follow her up the road to her house, a door in the wall. Sarah’s face is a picture.She, like most girls, does not take well to the random acts that men can adapt to with ease. I reassure her, but my reassuring voice does not convince. We at least have a private room and a kitchen to use. We take a quick walk round town but cannot find anywhere to eat except an empanada shop. I think we are done with pasties for the day. Back to the room and we pass out.
Friday 14th Feb
Our initial mood in Chile is not good, and we need to remember than we have been on the road for 12 weeks now. We also must remember that we have never felt good on Day One in a new country.
Sadly our hospedaje doesn’t really do much to help. There is no hot water in the shower, nor Wi-Fi to contact anyone. We pack quickly and get the hell out of Dodge. Back at the bus terminal we have a tiny slice of Valentine’s Day at the donut stand, heart-shaped donuts that, in our mood, we don’t really care will send Sarah’s sugars sky high. The coffee is absolutely horrendous. Muddy brown water. This does not really help anything. We switch cafes. This time I have tea. A big improvement. We also get Wi-Fi and sort out our accommodation in Ancud. All is getting better.
Puerto Montt bus station is a long hall full of people going elsewhere. We are glad to get out of it. Puerto Montt is like Larne. thats exactly what it feels like. Even five days later, on our way up north to Valdivia, as we pass through it again, the sensation returns. A hill to get into the town, a crap port, a crap sea front, crap houses, crap restaurants and bars, a weird road system, a funny smell.
Our bus rolls down to the coast and onto the small ferry that will take us to Chiloé. Its just like getting a ferry across Strangford Lough, but with sea lions and penguins swimming around you.
We drive through a very Country Down landscape and arrive in Ancud. Our hostel is supposed to be right beside the bus station. The bus doesn’t even go into the bus station. We have another anxiety attack and make our way to the front of the bus, which stops and lets us out. We stumble back to the bas station and search for 13 Lunas Hostel. No sign of it. A woman in a garden points out that there are two bus terminals. We learn something new. The other terminal is on the other side of town. We put our frayed tempers in a taxi and arrive, moments later, at a large and attractive house, exactly across the road from the Cruz Del Sur bus terminal.
Luckily the hostel is big, comfy, has big common areas and a decent kitchen. We have the biggest bunk beds ever seen, queen sized, and made with military precision. Sarah is very concerned she will roll over the side and die in the fall. I cannot help on this occasion. All the bottom bunks are occupied, and I cannot switch with her.
Out to the seafront we go. Its like walking around Portaferry, except there are public exercise machines for everyone to keep fit. Chileans have a pretty weird accent though. We wander past a few eateries that are shut, but are beckoned up a flight of stairs by a eager woman who assures us her restaurant is open for business. The interior reminds me of the Gilchrist’s house in Coolmoyne Park. Bright pine slatted wood walls, ornaments, tablecloths. Admittedly there weren’t normally three old fishermen hanging around drinking big bottles of Escudo ruby lager usually, more cooked ham and cups of tea. Plus this place has some photos of what Sarah assumes is the gaucho equivalent of Ricky Martin. Except that Ricky Martin isn’t gay. But this guy looked like he was in love with his horse. Maybe he was more like Daniel O’Donnell. Either way, these guy seemed to think he was great. We ordered the only two dishes they had, grilled chicken and rice for Sarah, battered hake and rice for Daniel, a tray of lettuce between us. We managed to convince out waitress to put a bottle of white wine in the fridge for us, and when it arrived we had the pleasure of drinking ‘vino blanco’. No grape variety required.
Dinner was admittedly delicious. Merluza (hake) seems to be pretty popular down here. Sarah still cannot deal with chicken on the bone, but chicken fillets are impossible to find. We still have a mad craving for a filthy Chinese take away.
We are entertained throughout our meal by a DVD of local music and dancing. The first song is called ‘Que Lindo Es Castro’ (‘How Pretty Is Castro’), features accordions and a lot of churchy-looking people singing, plus some morris dancing too. Truth be told, after three or tour tunes we were really enjoying it. We wanted to buy a few copies for presents, but forgot to ask where we could buy them. We assumed Castro, and we had plans to head there in the next day or two.
Two dinners and a bottle or wine, plus bread, was $10000, or £11. Could be a lot worse. Chile has a reputation for being expensive. We’re not sure how anything could top Uruguay. So far this is ok. Hostels are a little dearer, restaurants a little cheaper. Wine is definitely much more affordable.
At the supermarket we pick up another bottle of Vino Blanco (to avoid a hangover) although we don't get through the whole bottle, a little dry in my opinion, and seeing as it cost about a quid we don't need to worry about it. And, to finish our day, we make friends with Tuang, an retired Chinese gent who reads his laptop screen with a magnifying glass and is determined to go penguin watching with us tomorrow. I am working on a special musical project whilst I am here, and this is a productive night. Watch this space (or not. No 'dead baby' songs on this one. That's a bit of an obscure reference, sorry if you aren't in on it).
Saturday 15th Feb
Rising at 8.30am, we meet Tuang at the bottom of the stairs, still fixated on going to see the penguins with us. The 13 Lunas Hostal offers a decent breakfast of toasted English muffins, tea, and scrambled eggs (provided you ask for the eggs). Instant coffee rounds out the meal. We are uncommitted to the penguins, but there's no letting go for Tuang. Sometime around 11am we three head out the door, intent on finding a tour. Sometimes you just have to go along with a make-it-happen sort of chap.
At the supermarket we pick up another bottle of Vino Blanco (to avoid a hangover) although we don't get through the whole bottle, a little dry in my opinion, and seeing as it cost about a quid we don't need to worry about it. And, to finish our day, we make friends with Tuang, an retired Chinese gent who reads his laptop screen with a magnifying glass and is determined to go penguin watching with us tomorrow. I am working on a special musical project whilst I am here, and this is a productive night. Watch this space (or not. No 'dead baby' songs on this one. That's a bit of an obscure reference, sorry if you aren't in on it).
Saturday 15th Feb
Rising at 8.30am, we meet Tuang at the bottom of the stairs, still fixated on going to see the penguins with us. The 13 Lunas Hostal offers a decent breakfast of toasted English muffins, tea, and scrambled eggs (provided you ask for the eggs). Instant coffee rounds out the meal. We are uncommitted to the penguins, but there's no letting go for Tuang. Sometime around 11am we three head out the door, intent on finding a tour. Sometimes you just have to go along with a make-it-happen sort of chap.
Our Man In Ancud is convinced a taxi straight to the other bus terminal will get us on the 11.30am tour. We think its a little tight. He stops people walking in the street and barrages them with questions. They look on, bemused and amused, and give us a knowing smile in return. Eventually, after he has held up two lanes of traffic as he ploughs across the road, we find ourselves in the tour operators kiosk in our nearby bus station, where the woman politely but firmly explains they only do an 11am tour, and that someone else may offer one at 11.30am but she knows nothing about it. Something is being lost in translation. We politely suggest that, as it is 11.30pm, perhaps the game is up, and we might do something else for the day. Tuang admits he is leaving town that afternoon. An opportunity for hijinks is missed. We commit instead to travelling to Chiloé's capital Castro, so lovely as the song says, and the third oldest city in Chile. Not to be missed. And its a nice sunny day, what else could we do? First to go to the supermarket to get some money from the Santander bank machine, as the other bank network is well known to reject foreign cards (apparently).
A big chipboard building. Not something you see every day.
An amusingly named shop. Not as amusing as "Mr Cock", the children's clothes shop in Bariloche that I regret not getting a photo of.
The bus pulls out of the Cruz Del Sur bus depot at 1pm, an hour long journey to Castro, and we sit back and enjoy the lovely mid-Ulster countryside on the way there. Provided mid-Ulster was having some sort of incredible / impossible summer.
We arrive in Castro utterly starving and go straight to the nearest restaurant, where I inhale a charrusco, or sausage bap. And a beer. Mmmmm Cristal. It's like South American Carlsberg.
One single lady is responsible with serving the entire restaurant. Lunch is tasty and cheap-ish, and when we pay the little chap behind the counter looks harried. "Hot" he says "its hot and busy". I nod knowingly and we head back out into the backpacker-laden streets.
Castro is a city that people go to and then wonder why they have come here. Its charm mostly revolves around a single square and church in glorious garish colours. It's also completely made of wood.
We thought this was the gang we had watched on DVD the day before. We were excited! Accordians and hankie-waving! Sadly not. It was just a regular youth orchestra. Rubbish.
Ah wooden churches!
Wooden Jesus!
Charming! If only for the woody novelty!
Back onto the streets, we wander around Castro. It might be lovely, but its a bit boring. The main square is heaving with kids with rucksacks, sitting around and taking up room, annoying the locals and generally being an eyesore. We can't judge, but we don't have to like it, hypocritical as it might be. At least we get out bags into the hostel at the first available opportunity and don't carry them everywhere like a badge of honour. There's nothing valiant about looking and behaving like a tourist.
We were amused by a pub called Ottoschop. A schop or shopp or chopp (depending on your country) is a draught beer. In Brazil, like Portugal, draught beer is expensive and everyone drinks from bottles. In other countries, draught and bottles have less of a price difference, but here in Chile draught beer is, like home, a wonderful and sacred thing, and everyone drinks a media, or pint. The glass might be marked for a half litre, but the head is more often than not closer to the correct (British) measurement. Another similarity, and one of persnicketiness that we must bear in mind when considering the Chile / Britain connection.
Sleepy streets of Castro, a block or two away from the backpackers. They love this island, even though, like almost everywhere in this continent, you need your own car to access the rich secrets.
These are the river houses on stilts, admittedly these are not like anything in Ireland.
Are you really not reminded of Carnmoney?
Back in the plaza, after a bit of a dander round Castro, we see this attractive mosaic stage. In front of it, out of shot, is another stage. On this one you have Mickey and Minnie Mouse. There are lots of kids watching them. The music starts to play, and Mickey and Minnie begin to dance, firstly to Sex Bomb by Tom Jones, then to Mr Bombastic by Shaggy. Chile is clearly like the UK in more subtle ways too.
We call into a pub and have a pint to pass the time before we take the bus back. I'm glad we are staying in Ancud, at least it has a small town feel, and though our hostel has a rapid turnover of clientele, at least the town doesn't feel the ugly advance of tourist as fiercely. Our beer is delicious, but we watch a young couple devour a pichanga, a single plate dominated by chips, eggs, cocktail sausages, vegetables, avocado, and other unidentifiable foods in an enormous mound. As a food challenge it looks tempting. We watch girls eye it with undeniable food lust. In South America, shying away from meat and carbs is simply nonsense. Over breakfast, we hear American girls studying in Santiago (there appear to be a lot of these, we haven't met this many Americans anywhere on the rest of our trip) discussing their carb- and carb-free days. "Is today a carb-free day?" one asks the other, as they stare painfully at the bread on the table. I don't understand how anyone with a deviant diet could exist here. Even Sarah, who eats like a normal human being mostly, has trouble with a few things (mostly fish, but ugly cow body parts disturb her too, even when grilled). A vegetarian or vegan would despise these countries. Of the four southern English girls we met, three were vegetarian. This continent must kill people like that with the cheese-drenched pizza. At least the fresh produce is good. Bananas rarely let you down, although they bruise easily. Watermelons (sandias) are everywhere and cheap. Peaches (duraznos) are also ubiquitous and delicious. But never mind that. The beef is excellent, and in Chile the chicken is good too (almost everywhere else the chicken is solely available from the rotisserie, it is looked down upon, no better than horse meat). Cow is King.
We get to the bus station and try and buy tickets back to Ancud, but no! Our seller wants to chat to me in German! "Wie gehts?" he asks. I look befuddled. Surely he can't be speaking to me in German? "Danke, gut, und ihnen?" I eventually respond. He looks pleased. We both laugh and wander off. Up the main road we wander through a few cheap shoe shops and Sarah looks at espadrilles. It's like Shoe Zone. We're not taking any chances with the early departure of buses though. The 7pm departure is on time and so are we. Here are photos of a fire on the way back, plus some familiar landscapes.
I had a delicious carmenére that set me back about two quid, Sarah attacks more vino blanco. We try to be productive but it just ends up in a mess of ugly noise in Garageband. The supermarket gives us three kilos of spaghetti plus tomato and basil sauce for £2, but there's no way we can eat all the spaghetti, and we will have to lug it around for another couple of stops.
PS - Can anyone clarify the origins of the term 'pruck'? I know McCreight the Great introduced us to this wonderful word of ye olde Ulster-Scots origins, but can anyone suggest its source? We have walked past a great many pruck shops during our time here, a term that we use to describe products of virtually no discernible worth (plastic arm-waving Chinese cats, sweatshop-produced scarves, picture frames, key rings, porcelain bells, basically shite that you would never care to spend money on but somehow manages to make its way into other peoples' houses).
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