We traveled from Paris yesterday through the Somme and spent the night along the fault line of the Great War Western Front. Today we will visit Ypres. The landscape is peppered with war graves from WW1 and WW2 (the retreat to Dunkerque) and while walking along the lines of graves yesterday I read "unknown soldier of the Great War" inscribed on the tomestone repeatedly. All very sad.
There has been a juncture in our travels as I had to return to the UK for a check up with my knee in London in early June. There was an odd sense of not belonging; either traveling or back in the UK. No man's land. But, slowly we find our feet again and we have worked our way from across the Pyrenees to Bordeaux and St Emilion, the coast of Brittany, Normandy and the D Day landing beaches, Paris and the Rodin Museum to here.
Friday, 2 July 2010
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
the sacred heart of Jesus church
the picture is taken in Viena do castelo, the church at the top of the hill is the temple of the sacred heart of Jesus. Dirk took the fanicular (cable-car like train) , after being shown the way by the two school girls, who insisted they took us there personally, directions in English seemed harder than a fifteen minute walk. I also think they were charmed by Jasper, as the one little girl took his lead and ran ahead with him. Jasper was not allowed in the funicular, so i was shown a stairway of 500 steps to the top. The little girls left me at the foot and headed to their music class. Jasper ran up and I followed, we made it to the summit at the same time as Dirk.
we noticed a man at the foot of the main stairway of the church selling something, I was expecting to be sold a plastic image of Jesus or maybe one of those replicas of the temple that when you shake upside down snows. Instead he had an old camera, complete with a birdie, we paid 5 euros to the man. He had some examples of his work, mostly shots of people in the sixties and seventies. He was weatherbeaten, from spending a lifetime earning a living on those steps. I was fascinated by the process and enjoyed watching him work in his makeshift darkroom in the sunshine.
And when he was finished I asked him for a copy of the negative, both are pinned up in our van noticeboard, but here is a copy I took with my camera
And when he was finished I asked him for a copy of the negative, both are pinned up in our van noticeboard, but here is a copy I took with my camera
So ends this little adventure as Jasper and I took the stairs down whilst Dirk came by on the train. As a young catholic girl, I used to love the Sacred Heart of Jesus statue in ou parish church. And without being very consious of it I was suddenly saying the prayer that we were taught as children. 'Oh Sacred Heart of Jesus I place all my trust in you'. On this journey of reflection and time out to recover and have fun together, It did not feel too out of place. Marianne
Saturday, 15 May 2010
The festival of roses/ rain
We delayed moving on so as to view the festival of roses. I enjoyed the bombas bands, drumming that moved right through you. But was so disappointed re the roses, however Dirk did find a wreath of roses on the beach which we have drying in the van. Here is a shot of the beautiful beach in a break from the rain
some photos of Portugal
The promonade to Caminha, beautiful light, and broom to ensure against satans ills. Earlier we had been intrigued by the locals picking broom in the forest, they said it was a local tradition and that friday night was the evening to place it on doors, window sills and as we saw even boats.
Some street scenes of portugal, lots of decorated buildings and narrow streets.
Listening to the local musicians, a lovely sunny day before the ran set in for nearly two weeks
Some street scenes of portugal, lots of decorated buildings and narrow streets.
Saturday 15th May
Satao/Casfreires
We have been travelling in Portugal for two weeks, entering the north at Caminha and working our way south and east to Viana Do Castelo, Ponte De Lima, Lindoso, Barcelos, Vila Fia, Guimaraes, Douro Valley and Casfreires.
Caminha was a gentle introduction to Portugal and, this quality has rarely left us since. I was surprised to see so many people working their own plots of land in Spain and, here it is more common. Indeed, it seems as if 1910 still exists alongside 2010. Yesterday, Marianne and I cycled to a nearby town, Lamas, for some provisions and had coffee in a local café. An elderly woman, dressed from head to foot in black, with ankle laced boots and shawl wrapped up over her head slowly worked her way through her lunch, her hands gnarled and her face marking the years passed in her life like tree rings. A sharp but withered chin and nose protruded out from under her shawl. Meanwhile, a flat screen plasma TV sat on the opposite wall with earnest presenters attempting to look as if they had just walked off some glamorous American TV soap opera but just missing the mark; I didn’t think it possible to over do it, yet there it was. The only time the old woman became distracted from her meal was when Marianne searched in futility for the toilet, and she pointed out the direction. She gave such a sweet smile and for the briefest of moments the young woman she once was shone through her clear blue eyes. No one paid any attention to the TV and, it is this that endears me to this country. For we have driven along newly built motor ways with all three lanes empty; listened to accordion players while drinking a beer in crumbling town squares; were lead the way to a cable car to the Temple of the Sacred Heart that overlooked the town of Viana do Castelo by two young girls going school; wandered along twisting and narrow lanes in Lindoso with houses built from granite boulders that appeared to have grown as organically as the crops in the terraced fields that surrounded them while the modern cubist visitor centre opposite lay empty and; walked around the castle in Guimaraes, the birth place of Portugal that would have been more at home in a set from Lord of the Rings. However, as the breadth of Portugal faces the Atlantic we have had our worst weather since arriving. Every day has been marked by, strong winds, rain or drizzle. As I write this today, the sun is shining with a light breeze. Although we have been assured that prior to our arrival the temperature was in the thirties, today has been our best day so far and it is only eighteen degrees.
I was thinking of putting the headline to the blog as Portugal; temperatures plummet to ….’ But, back home Kingsley reassures us it has been worse in a text message. It has been minus five in Wales at night.
Caminha offered a promenade that led from the camp site on the mouth of an estuary, inland to the town. We had a lovely evening meal in the town square, in which the old stone walls and sagging roofs of the houses were bathed in a warm and soft light of lanterns.
Ponte de Lima is a medieval market town set aside a river. We parked the van a few miles away and cycled along the river bank to get there. It was a joy not to worry about Jasper and traffic. At Ponte de Lima a tangle of town houses crawl around a medieval tower and a square with gnarled olive trees and a large fountain at its centre. Old men were sitting on the benches beneath the trees nodding and exchanging a few words from time to time.
We had to cross the river on a long medieval foot bridge to the town. We were unsure which side of the bridge to climb from the river bank at first. I found some foot steps on one side and left Marianne and the bikes behind. On top and looking around I could see there was a ramp on the other side and I came back down saying that we should cycle beneath the bridge to access the ramp rather than carry the bikes up the steps. As I was doing this I was humming a Stevie Nicks song. I had been thinking of the film; The School of Rock. Its funny those moments when you become aware of what you are doing and wonder why. It wasn’t until we were on the bridge that this discontinuity between old and modern Portugal became apparent. Replica street lanterns followed the bridge into town, each with a speaker beneath pumping out rock music. Stevie Nicks gave way to Bonnie Tyler of all people. Roxy Music, Olivia Newton John (with ‘lets get physical’) among others, followed. My surprise gave way to irritation. “This is urban vandalism” I said to Marianne angrily. It wasn’t until we had a walk around the town that we could laugh at it. Portugal sometimes appears to try too hard to be modern, when what we seek is to be soothed from our everyday modern neuroses. ‘free Wifi here’ proclaimed a stainless steel bollard next to the olive tree. “Should have brought the computer” Marianne said wryly. I didn’t see any of the old men tapping their toes.
Lindoso sits on the boarder with Spain and, travelling to it requires a steep climb into mountains that form part of a national park. Mezio on route had some magnificent Neolithic burial mounds that, unlike in the UK, we were able to walk into. I have read in the guide books that some have rock art but, permission must be sought from government offices first before entering. The passageway at the one we visited was perhaps fifteen feet in length and rose in height until it consumed you at the entrance of the chamber. I love putting my hands on these stones and simply imagining the lives of those who laid them. The vista from the mound lay down the valley over tree tops and beyond.
Villa Fria was unfortunately a bit of a wash out. We had taken an afternoon to visit for the festival of roses. Large baskets decorated by hand, full of roses and weighing a total of 15kg were to be carried upon the heads of women in Portuguese national costume. We waited all afternoon for the procession to enter the town where we had passed the time, moving from one market stall to another that would not have been out of place anywhere in the UK, trying to keep at least our spirits buoyant in deluge. Just before their scheduled arrival the procession was called off. Nonetheless we managed to eat Bakalau, a traditional Portuguese dish of boiled salted cod with potatoes and chick peas. We were interviewed by Raul, a journalist writing a piece for the festival. Raul had worked with a Scottish chef once, supported Rangers, drank Glenlivet and quoted a poem by Robert Louis Stevenson about the whiskey. After he left we wondered what he would write, after all we would not have understood it. “Visit Guimaraes. It’s the birth place of Portugal” he advised and, we did.
If you are looking for old town squares with cafés and restaurants then what we have seen of Portugal in the north would not let you down. Of them all, Guimaraes is exceptional. The old town sits within its walls overlooked by a castle. The narrow streets interlinked square after square and yet what brought most joy was buying fruit and veg from an elderly lady in the municipal market. She fed Jasper biscuits while eagerly cutting open fruit and insisting that we taste and, all the while she nodded enthusiastically.
Coming to Casfrieres we drove along the Doruo Valley an area outside the city of Porto and a major vine growing area for port. Where we parked to walk Jasper along the river a large silhouette of Sandeman Port sat on the hillside, a giant Zoro figure seemingly overlooking the pleasure cruisers on the river below. I felt the hub caps on the wheels just before our walk. Hot like coals after the drive over the mountain into the valley below. I don’t think I took my foot off the brake the whole way down.
Satao/Casfreires
We have been travelling in Portugal for two weeks, entering the north at Caminha and working our way south and east to Viana Do Castelo, Ponte De Lima, Lindoso, Barcelos, Vila Fia, Guimaraes, Douro Valley and Casfreires.
Caminha was a gentle introduction to Portugal and, this quality has rarely left us since. I was surprised to see so many people working their own plots of land in Spain and, here it is more common. Indeed, it seems as if 1910 still exists alongside 2010. Yesterday, Marianne and I cycled to a nearby town, Lamas, for some provisions and had coffee in a local café. An elderly woman, dressed from head to foot in black, with ankle laced boots and shawl wrapped up over her head slowly worked her way through her lunch, her hands gnarled and her face marking the years passed in her life like tree rings. A sharp but withered chin and nose protruded out from under her shawl. Meanwhile, a flat screen plasma TV sat on the opposite wall with earnest presenters attempting to look as if they had just walked off some glamorous American TV soap opera but just missing the mark; I didn’t think it possible to over do it, yet there it was. The only time the old woman became distracted from her meal was when Marianne searched in futility for the toilet, and she pointed out the direction. She gave such a sweet smile and for the briefest of moments the young woman she once was shone through her clear blue eyes. No one paid any attention to the TV and, it is this that endears me to this country. For we have driven along newly built motor ways with all three lanes empty; listened to accordion players while drinking a beer in crumbling town squares; were lead the way to a cable car to the Temple of the Sacred Heart that overlooked the town of Viana do Castelo by two young girls going school; wandered along twisting and narrow lanes in Lindoso with houses built from granite boulders that appeared to have grown as organically as the crops in the terraced fields that surrounded them while the modern cubist visitor centre opposite lay empty and; walked around the castle in Guimaraes, the birth place of Portugal that would have been more at home in a set from Lord of the Rings. However, as the breadth of Portugal faces the Atlantic we have had our worst weather since arriving. Every day has been marked by, strong winds, rain or drizzle. As I write this today, the sun is shining with a light breeze. Although we have been assured that prior to our arrival the temperature was in the thirties, today has been our best day so far and it is only eighteen degrees.
I was thinking of putting the headline to the blog as Portugal; temperatures plummet to ….’ But, back home Kingsley reassures us it has been worse in a text message. It has been minus five in Wales at night.
Caminha offered a promenade that led from the camp site on the mouth of an estuary, inland to the town. We had a lovely evening meal in the town square, in which the old stone walls and sagging roofs of the houses were bathed in a warm and soft light of lanterns.
Ponte de Lima is a medieval market town set aside a river. We parked the van a few miles away and cycled along the river bank to get there. It was a joy not to worry about Jasper and traffic. At Ponte de Lima a tangle of town houses crawl around a medieval tower and a square with gnarled olive trees and a large fountain at its centre. Old men were sitting on the benches beneath the trees nodding and exchanging a few words from time to time.
We had to cross the river on a long medieval foot bridge to the town. We were unsure which side of the bridge to climb from the river bank at first. I found some foot steps on one side and left Marianne and the bikes behind. On top and looking around I could see there was a ramp on the other side and I came back down saying that we should cycle beneath the bridge to access the ramp rather than carry the bikes up the steps. As I was doing this I was humming a Stevie Nicks song. I had been thinking of the film; The School of Rock. Its funny those moments when you become aware of what you are doing and wonder why. It wasn’t until we were on the bridge that this discontinuity between old and modern Portugal became apparent. Replica street lanterns followed the bridge into town, each with a speaker beneath pumping out rock music. Stevie Nicks gave way to Bonnie Tyler of all people. Roxy Music, Olivia Newton John (with ‘lets get physical’) among others, followed. My surprise gave way to irritation. “This is urban vandalism” I said to Marianne angrily. It wasn’t until we had a walk around the town that we could laugh at it. Portugal sometimes appears to try too hard to be modern, when what we seek is to be soothed from our everyday modern neuroses. ‘free Wifi here’ proclaimed a stainless steel bollard next to the olive tree. “Should have brought the computer” Marianne said wryly. I didn’t see any of the old men tapping their toes.
Lindoso sits on the boarder with Spain and, travelling to it requires a steep climb into mountains that form part of a national park. Mezio on route had some magnificent Neolithic burial mounds that, unlike in the UK, we were able to walk into. I have read in the guide books that some have rock art but, permission must be sought from government offices first before entering. The passageway at the one we visited was perhaps fifteen feet in length and rose in height until it consumed you at the entrance of the chamber. I love putting my hands on these stones and simply imagining the lives of those who laid them. The vista from the mound lay down the valley over tree tops and beyond.
Villa Fria was unfortunately a bit of a wash out. We had taken an afternoon to visit for the festival of roses. Large baskets decorated by hand, full of roses and weighing a total of 15kg were to be carried upon the heads of women in Portuguese national costume. We waited all afternoon for the procession to enter the town where we had passed the time, moving from one market stall to another that would not have been out of place anywhere in the UK, trying to keep at least our spirits buoyant in deluge. Just before their scheduled arrival the procession was called off. Nonetheless we managed to eat Bakalau, a traditional Portuguese dish of boiled salted cod with potatoes and chick peas. We were interviewed by Raul, a journalist writing a piece for the festival. Raul had worked with a Scottish chef once, supported Rangers, drank Glenlivet and quoted a poem by Robert Louis Stevenson about the whiskey. After he left we wondered what he would write, after all we would not have understood it. “Visit Guimaraes. It’s the birth place of Portugal” he advised and, we did.
If you are looking for old town squares with cafés and restaurants then what we have seen of Portugal in the north would not let you down. Of them all, Guimaraes is exceptional. The old town sits within its walls overlooked by a castle. The narrow streets interlinked square after square and yet what brought most joy was buying fruit and veg from an elderly lady in the municipal market. She fed Jasper biscuits while eagerly cutting open fruit and insisting that we taste and, all the while she nodded enthusiastically.
Coming to Casfrieres we drove along the Doruo Valley an area outside the city of Porto and a major vine growing area for port. Where we parked to walk Jasper along the river a large silhouette of Sandeman Port sat on the hillside, a giant Zoro figure seemingly overlooking the pleasure cruisers on the river below. I felt the hub caps on the wheels just before our walk. Hot like coals after the drive over the mountain into the valley below. I don’t think I took my foot off the brake the whole way down.
Sunday, 9 May 2010
leaving spain more photos
For me that first coffee in spain, just delicious. So herewith the photos I wanted to put on my last blog, but lost patience and connection time.
At the waterfall pool in the evening, Jasper having fun dropping his ball, in the flowing water and then panicking when he can't get it out. Luckily Dirks walking stick came in very useful. 
well these are a few extra pictures to match Dirks text. I am relaxing into the journey, we have been a month on the road, and the van has become home. I thought I would include some pictures of domestic life in the van.
Dirk of course wearing our delft blue dutch apron, on a throw that comes from india, definately looking cosy
Well thats it for now. Love Marianne
Well thats it for now. Love MarianneLeaaving Spain
Saturday 1st May
Caminha, coast of North Portugal
We have travelled from Oleiros (near Porto Do Son) on the north east peninsular of Spain to Northern Portugal.
Oleiros was magical being situated in the mountains with a waterfall as a backdrop. We spent one evening swimming in a large pool at the head of the fall in full sun, late in the day. The water was a deep and clear turquoise with an invigorating chill. The surrounding rocks radiated the heat of the spent day and oak trees followed the line of the plunge pools up the river. It was wonderful to stand in the water, looking up as the river flowed towards you and, listen to toads answer each others croaks from across from one corner bed of floating white pine head flowers to another.
Overall we spent nearly a week at Oleiros; it was good just to pitch up and not move every third day. The climate being already warmer than a Scottish summer and, we spent two of our days on the beach.
After taking one day to drive along the coast line will pulled up outside a DIY store in Porto Do Son completely by accident and, I spent half an hour excitedly walking the isles pulling out different hose adaptors, oil for the bikes and an electricity convertor plug for motor homes and caravans. Funny the thrill you get from such things that would ordinarily have entailed a quick visit to B and Q at home. Marianne left the store triumphant with a collapsible wheelie bag under her arm and we discussed our prizes over coffee in the town square watching local life go by.
Being a keen gardener, one thing that warmed me to the area was the amount of land set aside to grow vegetables for, it seemed, nearly every house had a plot of land in which something was growing or being attended to as we cycled or drove by. The soil was a rich red brown, inviting you in and hard to resist. One joyful moment for us was cycling around a corner to see a local standing astride a cart being pulled by two cows; ‘Ola’! he grunted as we passed.
The area has been rich in habitation with Neolithic settlements to Celtic round houses and Roman bridges and aqua ducts. We chose to visit Castro de Barona, a round house settlement on the lee of a sea headland and imagined the morning away while we strolled from one home to another. What beliefs did they hold, rituals they practiced and, how did they structure their community? What was first contact with the Romans like? Their walled defences built with large rounded granite boulders at the entrance to their little town still stood pristine with clear lines as if recently drafted by an architect.
Transcending the mundane is perhaps a primary motivation for me in travelling. Eighteen years spent pouring over an old cottage that I called home, touching almost every square inch and wondering ‘what if’ or, ‘what else’? Not to mention the less existential times when there simply was no more than, ‘how can we get through this’. The journey affords an opportunity to leave behind the old and familiar, whether they be routines or wounds. Perhaps therefore reflecting on what we see and do on this journey is pleasantly misleading as it does not reflect my state of mind. Nonetheless, one struggle is replaced by others. The struggle of running a home and raising a child is replaced by uncertainties as, where and how we could exist either for a few days or, would we choose to buy somewhere here? Or, on some days with more practical questions as simply, how do you get from here to there? Perhaps the physical act of putting much ground underfoot is an attempt to create inner space. An attempt at some inner rejuvenation as my mind is drawn back to old conflicts at work, old grievances or terrors. I remind myself to look outward at such moments to view the ever changing scenery whether that of the Celtic round houses or, standing in the cooling waters of a plunge pool. A reminder of the transitory nature of life and a reconnection with a goodness in the holding of the beauty in the surroundings. Sean said wryly before we left, having reflected some of the struggle Marianne and I experienced in simply becoming a couple; ‘Enjoy your therapeutic journey!’ One thing however remains constant now despite the looking outward and, that is connection with my heart. Perhaps that has been the longest journey.
Caminha, coast of North Portugal
We have travelled from Oleiros (near Porto Do Son) on the north east peninsular of Spain to Northern Portugal.
Oleiros was magical being situated in the mountains with a waterfall as a backdrop. We spent one evening swimming in a large pool at the head of the fall in full sun, late in the day. The water was a deep and clear turquoise with an invigorating chill. The surrounding rocks radiated the heat of the spent day and oak trees followed the line of the plunge pools up the river. It was wonderful to stand in the water, looking up as the river flowed towards you and, listen to toads answer each others croaks from across from one corner bed of floating white pine head flowers to another.
Overall we spent nearly a week at Oleiros; it was good just to pitch up and not move every third day. The climate being already warmer than a Scottish summer and, we spent two of our days on the beach.
After taking one day to drive along the coast line will pulled up outside a DIY store in Porto Do Son completely by accident and, I spent half an hour excitedly walking the isles pulling out different hose adaptors, oil for the bikes and an electricity convertor plug for motor homes and caravans. Funny the thrill you get from such things that would ordinarily have entailed a quick visit to B and Q at home. Marianne left the store triumphant with a collapsible wheelie bag under her arm and we discussed our prizes over coffee in the town square watching local life go by.
Being a keen gardener, one thing that warmed me to the area was the amount of land set aside to grow vegetables for, it seemed, nearly every house had a plot of land in which something was growing or being attended to as we cycled or drove by. The soil was a rich red brown, inviting you in and hard to resist. One joyful moment for us was cycling around a corner to see a local standing astride a cart being pulled by two cows; ‘Ola’! he grunted as we passed.
The area has been rich in habitation with Neolithic settlements to Celtic round houses and Roman bridges and aqua ducts. We chose to visit Castro de Barona, a round house settlement on the lee of a sea headland and imagined the morning away while we strolled from one home to another. What beliefs did they hold, rituals they practiced and, how did they structure their community? What was first contact with the Romans like? Their walled defences built with large rounded granite boulders at the entrance to their little town still stood pristine with clear lines as if recently drafted by an architect.
Transcending the mundane is perhaps a primary motivation for me in travelling. Eighteen years spent pouring over an old cottage that I called home, touching almost every square inch and wondering ‘what if’ or, ‘what else’? Not to mention the less existential times when there simply was no more than, ‘how can we get through this’. The journey affords an opportunity to leave behind the old and familiar, whether they be routines or wounds. Perhaps therefore reflecting on what we see and do on this journey is pleasantly misleading as it does not reflect my state of mind. Nonetheless, one struggle is replaced by others. The struggle of running a home and raising a child is replaced by uncertainties as, where and how we could exist either for a few days or, would we choose to buy somewhere here? Or, on some days with more practical questions as simply, how do you get from here to there? Perhaps the physical act of putting much ground underfoot is an attempt to create inner space. An attempt at some inner rejuvenation as my mind is drawn back to old conflicts at work, old grievances or terrors. I remind myself to look outward at such moments to view the ever changing scenery whether that of the Celtic round houses or, standing in the cooling waters of a plunge pool. A reminder of the transitory nature of life and a reconnection with a goodness in the holding of the beauty in the surroundings. Sean said wryly before we left, having reflected some of the struggle Marianne and I experienced in simply becoming a couple; ‘Enjoy your therapeutic journey!’ One thing however remains constant now despite the looking outward and, that is connection with my heart. Perhaps that has been the longest journey.
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Ancient celtic settlements and lovely beaches and sun
we have had two wonderful days, yesterday, visiting Porta do Son a small fishing villiage, with a sweet square, where we had our first spanish coffee and tried ordering something to snack on, we were a little disappointed when the waitress brought out toast and jam. Spent time at an ancient celtic settlement and the beach. In the late afternoon we walked up the hill behind our campsite and swam in a gorgeous pool , enjoying a packed dinner. It stays light and warm till late here. So I am wondering do I still apply suncream at 7pm? amazing.
Sunday, 25 April 2010
Settling into Spain
We are currently in the Galicia region of Spain. The sun is lovely and warm, and we are having a relaxing day doing laundry and for me figuring out the blog, I unfortunately twisted my ankle whilst exiting the van this morning so whilst Dirk walks Jasper I am resting up. It is alright but just want to take it easy today.
I recieved a fancy camera for my 40th birthday from my family and have been figuring out how to be digital. here are some photos. The first is in Asturias, the first campsite we stayed at, lovely views of the sea, although very chilly, but worth a skiny dip. I enjoyed taking shots of the waves as they crashed against the cliff faces. Just tried to load a few shots but in one click I deleted them.
Dirk has shown some amazing driving skills, he has done all so far, I together with the satnav try navigate, although it is really tricky. But here are some pictures of the fantastic roads we have been on. Winding up past the snow line in the Picos de Europa.
.We stopped for lunch and Dirk took this one of me hugging a bear, and of course the one of Jasper on Dirks previous blog. And Finally I add a picture of Dirk scribing on the computer whilst Jasper wants to play fetch. Just a few moments on our journey so far.
Spain
April 16 2010
On board the ferry to Santander.
I was surprised to walk into a cabin that had a port hole. I said to Marianne that when I had crossed the channel with my family as a child and had a cabin we were never afforded such luxury. Looking out over the sun kissed waves as the cabin gently lolls I recalled how my grandfather had spent his early working life as a steward on board cargo vessels working eighteen hour days. Nonetheless he managed to complete a correspondence course on English, Mathematics and German as he had to leave school aged just 14 years to provide his mother with financial assistance. He said he had managed to save time working by smearing pork fat on the brass port holes to save polishing them so often. Within the space of two generations my suffering is reduced to what I should select from the menu on my i-pod to accompany such day dreaming. I listen to Respighi’s Fountains of Rome.
Unsurprisingly, I feel more at home onboard a ship than in an airplane. As far as I know all three previous generations of men in my family carved a living upon the ocean. My great grandfather Stephen Alexander was even born at sea. Watching each wave coming into and out of form are like the thoughts bubbling up from my unconscious. Do our thoughts connect the space between us as the sea does with all peoples and continents? I have lost count the number of times that either Marianne or I verbalises the others thinking. It is hard not to marvel at this capacity of mind without falling into familiar nouns; vast, endless, sublime while looking out to sea. It touches my heart with a familiar feeling of joy and a tinge of sadness and I wonder what my ancestors life was like as they plied their trade and I ask myself if my journey is to explore my place upon it. Perhaps we travel to escape the reminders of every day and exchange them with each continent for reminders of every life. Certainly, I draw comfort from this.
Before we departed my sister In law, Corrine, commented that you can always swim from a sinking boat. Marianne was speaking of the sinking of the Zeebruge and wondering what our crossing would be like. Corrine’s husband Sean wondered how long you could swim for. I commented that at least we have an ability to swim as opposed to flying. Better to know ones limits.
I phoned Maisie as the ferry left its mooring to say goodbye. We discussed one of her revision topics: Obama’s health care reforms as the ferry passed the uniform grey of docked Royal Naval vessels. She hears the chiming of the university clock tower from her flat, an hourly reminder of essay deadlines and exam timetables looming.
Later at dinner Marianne draws my attention to an item on the menu; ‘Crayfish (caught willingly)’. Lost in translation?
19th April 2010.
We have left a site on the coast where we rested after our crossing to Spain and, now we are in the mountains; a National Park. Jasper is keen for my attention and keeps nusselling under my hand as I try to write this.
I thought that the drive to the fist site was a challenge to my nerves. However it appears a gentle introduction to the road to here. I said to Marianne that the area reminded me of the Eastern Cape in South Africa. Majestic mountains rise steeply along an undulating coast. The terrain is all limestone and, walking the coastal cliffs was like taking a trip down memory lane and walks long past as a child on the Gower coast. The flora is all limestone loving and, being the height of spring the lanes were full of flowers reminiscent of my past. I thought about taking some to press but remembered reading in Armitstead Maupin’s book; ‘tales of the city’ that one should never give a prostitute cut flowers as it is symbolic of being cut down in ones youth. I left them in situ and walked by throwing the ball for Jasper, pointing out the different ones I see to Marianne. My favourite are tight deep blue florets on stems that Marianne says they look like rosemary. They hang on sinewy branches over hot white limestone but rubbing the stems does not produce the expectant smells, rather disappointingly of nothing at all. Meanwhile I become pensive and spend time wondering, where Armitstead Maupin got that line and what does it say about me that I choose not to pick them? Perhaps we all want momentos of our travels, a marker that says ‘I was here and this is what I saw’. Acts of vandalism like people chipping off pieces of stone from ancient monuments or scrawling their initials on tree trunks. The blooms did look delightful however.
The site we left on the coast was set as an amphitheatre with each pitch given sea views over the bay below. Being spring, it was nearly empty. In comparison, the only other site in the UK I have enjoyed as much was a pitch on the banks of Loch Lomond. All others in the UK we have visited have been like mobile suburbia; caravans and motor homes rounded up in tight fields which leave me struggling for breath.
The area is almost like revisiting my boyhood. On the coast I watched two young men kit out in wet suits and spear guns. Jasper and I followed their wake through the azure sea from the coastal path above. Later, while trying to find a super market in neighbouring Llanes we took a break on the beach opposite the harbour. The beach was littered with many protrusions of rock giving secluded nooks and corners that were familiar to ones I used to sunbathe behind. It was with reluctance that we left Llanes beach as I had very much wanted to take a canoe ride around the points for the cliffs rose steeply from the sea with sea old sea caves perched high amongst them from times of changed sea levels in the past.
Yet, to the mountains we set and soon found ourselves in a limestone gorge with sides as steep as 1000ft, which turned and twisted through overhangs and narrow bends for mile after mile. Nets to catch rock falls were full, some had blistered and burst with no sight of the boulders they must have halted. The obligatory sign posts for ‘danger: rock fall’ in a red triangle littered the road side. What are you supposed to do if you are caught in one? Sit there and comfort yourself with thoughts like; ‘well, I guess I was warned that this could happen’.
On board the ferry we met Thom, who lived in Madrid. He caught the ferry from the UK as all the flights were grounded due to the Icelandic volcanic ash. He said that the Spanish holiday in the north while the south has been taken over by the British and Germans. Don’t go there he warned, try Saville instead. The only tourists we are running into here are the Dutch. Content perhaps with the cooler climes in exchange for this alpine landscape next to the sea. The small valley which we have arrived at is surrounded by a mosaic of steep sloping fields that give way to pines capped by snow clad pyramidal peeks that disappear from time to time in mist. The only sound is of the white noise of the river disappearing down the gorge and bird song pitched just above it.
On board the ferry to Santander.
I was surprised to walk into a cabin that had a port hole. I said to Marianne that when I had crossed the channel with my family as a child and had a cabin we were never afforded such luxury. Looking out over the sun kissed waves as the cabin gently lolls I recalled how my grandfather had spent his early working life as a steward on board cargo vessels working eighteen hour days. Nonetheless he managed to complete a correspondence course on English, Mathematics and German as he had to leave school aged just 14 years to provide his mother with financial assistance. He said he had managed to save time working by smearing pork fat on the brass port holes to save polishing them so often. Within the space of two generations my suffering is reduced to what I should select from the menu on my i-pod to accompany such day dreaming. I listen to Respighi’s Fountains of Rome.
Unsurprisingly, I feel more at home onboard a ship than in an airplane. As far as I know all three previous generations of men in my family carved a living upon the ocean. My great grandfather Stephen Alexander was even born at sea. Watching each wave coming into and out of form are like the thoughts bubbling up from my unconscious. Do our thoughts connect the space between us as the sea does with all peoples and continents? I have lost count the number of times that either Marianne or I verbalises the others thinking. It is hard not to marvel at this capacity of mind without falling into familiar nouns; vast, endless, sublime while looking out to sea. It touches my heart with a familiar feeling of joy and a tinge of sadness and I wonder what my ancestors life was like as they plied their trade and I ask myself if my journey is to explore my place upon it. Perhaps we travel to escape the reminders of every day and exchange them with each continent for reminders of every life. Certainly, I draw comfort from this.
Before we departed my sister In law, Corrine, commented that you can always swim from a sinking boat. Marianne was speaking of the sinking of the Zeebruge and wondering what our crossing would be like. Corrine’s husband Sean wondered how long you could swim for. I commented that at least we have an ability to swim as opposed to flying. Better to know ones limits.
I phoned Maisie as the ferry left its mooring to say goodbye. We discussed one of her revision topics: Obama’s health care reforms as the ferry passed the uniform grey of docked Royal Naval vessels. She hears the chiming of the university clock tower from her flat, an hourly reminder of essay deadlines and exam timetables looming.
Later at dinner Marianne draws my attention to an item on the menu; ‘Crayfish (caught willingly)’. Lost in translation?
19th April 2010.
We have left a site on the coast where we rested after our crossing to Spain and, now we are in the mountains; a National Park. Jasper is keen for my attention and keeps nusselling under my hand as I try to write this.
I thought that the drive to the fist site was a challenge to my nerves. However it appears a gentle introduction to the road to here. I said to Marianne that the area reminded me of the Eastern Cape in South Africa. Majestic mountains rise steeply along an undulating coast. The terrain is all limestone and, walking the coastal cliffs was like taking a trip down memory lane and walks long past as a child on the Gower coast. The flora is all limestone loving and, being the height of spring the lanes were full of flowers reminiscent of my past. I thought about taking some to press but remembered reading in Armitstead Maupin’s book; ‘tales of the city’ that one should never give a prostitute cut flowers as it is symbolic of being cut down in ones youth. I left them in situ and walked by throwing the ball for Jasper, pointing out the different ones I see to Marianne. My favourite are tight deep blue florets on stems that Marianne says they look like rosemary. They hang on sinewy branches over hot white limestone but rubbing the stems does not produce the expectant smells, rather disappointingly of nothing at all. Meanwhile I become pensive and spend time wondering, where Armitstead Maupin got that line and what does it say about me that I choose not to pick them? Perhaps we all want momentos of our travels, a marker that says ‘I was here and this is what I saw’. Acts of vandalism like people chipping off pieces of stone from ancient monuments or scrawling their initials on tree trunks. The blooms did look delightful however.
The site we left on the coast was set as an amphitheatre with each pitch given sea views over the bay below. Being spring, it was nearly empty. In comparison, the only other site in the UK I have enjoyed as much was a pitch on the banks of Loch Lomond. All others in the UK we have visited have been like mobile suburbia; caravans and motor homes rounded up in tight fields which leave me struggling for breath.
The area is almost like revisiting my boyhood. On the coast I watched two young men kit out in wet suits and spear guns. Jasper and I followed their wake through the azure sea from the coastal path above. Later, while trying to find a super market in neighbouring Llanes we took a break on the beach opposite the harbour. The beach was littered with many protrusions of rock giving secluded nooks and corners that were familiar to ones I used to sunbathe behind. It was with reluctance that we left Llanes beach as I had very much wanted to take a canoe ride around the points for the cliffs rose steeply from the sea with sea old sea caves perched high amongst them from times of changed sea levels in the past.
Yet, to the mountains we set and soon found ourselves in a limestone gorge with sides as steep as 1000ft, which turned and twisted through overhangs and narrow bends for mile after mile. Nets to catch rock falls were full, some had blistered and burst with no sight of the boulders they must have halted. The obligatory sign posts for ‘danger: rock fall’ in a red triangle littered the road side. What are you supposed to do if you are caught in one? Sit there and comfort yourself with thoughts like; ‘well, I guess I was warned that this could happen’.
On board the ferry we met Thom, who lived in Madrid. He caught the ferry from the UK as all the flights were grounded due to the Icelandic volcanic ash. He said that the Spanish holiday in the north while the south has been taken over by the British and Germans. Don’t go there he warned, try Saville instead. The only tourists we are running into here are the Dutch. Content perhaps with the cooler climes in exchange for this alpine landscape next to the sea. The small valley which we have arrived at is surrounded by a mosaic of steep sloping fields that give way to pines capped by snow clad pyramidal peeks that disappear from time to time in mist. The only sound is of the white noise of the river disappearing down the gorge and bird song pitched just above it.
Sunday, 4 April 2010
Followers
sorry; our three followers!!! Hi Josie, nice to see you. This new technology is quite something. We have just got a sat nav and have named her six of nine (for all you star treck followers). She is a little short of seven. Marianne.
Samye Ling
Just eaten fab carrot cake and had hot chocolate after a look around the monestary asking blessings for a safe and enjoyable journey. Happy Easter and all good blessings to our one follower!
Saturday, 27 February 2010
Our lives are slowly reduced to boxes, taped and stacked. Each day we say another small goodbye to our surroundings, that apprehension and excitement for the final letting go and the openness of the road. Our route is simple, south for spring, north for summer and autumn returning south again for winter in an eastern zig zag across the continent starting in Spain.
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