Saturday, July 29, 2006

Just a little quick note...

I was going to update a little more from Croatia, but sweat is dripping from my forehead and Lisa and I are pretty tired and we can't upload photos from the USB port here, so we'll use the free internet at our hostel in Ljublana, Slovenia. Slovenia is a tiny, relatively forgotten country at the border between eastern and western Europe. Find out more on Slovenia here and more on its charming capital city Ljubljana here.

Enjoy the wonder of wikipedia and we'll be back with more soon...

Gordon

Land Ho!

Hi all,

We have returned to Split and spent our last night on the Vrgada floating in the harbor here. The last day of sailing from Korcula to Split was our only choppy day and once we had landed I could still feel the gentle sway of the sea as we ate our dinner in an open plaza. Last night, we sat in the main square of Split where a crowd was gathered on th marble steps to hear a piano man who was filling the courtyard of Dioclesian's Palace, built in the 300's. As a last farewell this morning, we shared our traditional breakfast of corn flakes with lukewarm boxed milk, a loaf of white bread with various jams, and instant coffee on the boat. Then, we packed our things and left our home at sea. Gordon and I have said our goodbyes to our wonderful neighbors, the Kiwis: Astrid and Karen and the Aussies: Isobel and Julia, who shared the starboard side of the upper deck on our relaxing week of sailing here and there. Tonight at 6 p.m. we board an overnight bus to Ljubljana, Slovenia because the destination is so highly recommended by our new Kiwi friends. Thanks Astrid and Karen! It is supposed to be similar to Krakow or Prague, two cities that I love!, but smaller and not as well-known to tourists--YET! I'm glad that we decided to leave 5 days of unscheduled time in our trip plans as you always run in to experienced travellers who carry with them loads of great travel stories! So, off we go to Slovenia! Don't worry Mom and Dad, I'm suprised too, but it's very safe!

I have a small cold today, so I will leave you now.

Happy Birthday, Dr. Sam!

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

El Capitan and the Language Problems of Super Salt Man

Lisa just got pooped on by a pigeon. My hands are covered in poopy pigeon residue for trying to be a gentleman and clean off her shirt. I sure hope the internet man isn't reading over my shoulder right now, as these fingers zip along on his little keyboard where I keep tzping z's where y's should be and vice versa because thez're kezboards are a bit funnz (see!!).

Croatia is absolutelz splendid (sorrz about the y i mean z). Although I think I may be getting a little cabin fever on our boat. At least we're trapped on a beautiful ship cruising beautiful islands in a country I never imagined I'd visit, but one where I'm so glad I came.

The islands of Croatia tend to be quite stretched out, nudging up against the shoreline of Croatia in long stretched forms like an meeting of various sized worms. We started our trip with a particular itinerary, but one that our laid back captain axed after the first night. Instead of doing the typical route that most boats do (and there are tons of these vintage sailing boat tours), he decided to do the trip backwards in an attempt to avoid most of the tourists. We like el capitan. He was drinking a toddy when we got on board the boat before we left our starting point in Split, and every night before we pull into harbor he has a beer brought up to him by one of his deckhands. He is quite amusing, and uses his fragmented english in delighful ways. After pulling the boat up to dock one night he was going down the stairwell to the lower deck, and poked his leathery face topped with silvery hair back through the stairwell, and looking at lisa said 'Swim' while doing what looked like a dance from the 60's--all he needed to do was to grab his nose and shake his butt. My favorite time of day is the early mornings. Lisa and I are not the party animals that many of the Australians on our boat are and so we hit the hay before midnight usually, which means I can wake up before the 8 am breakfast and sit on the front deck, usually all by myself. The water is so smooth and the sun is just coming over the mountainous islands as we meander along, just me on the front of the boat in the crisp morning air and the captain behind me in either just his speedo, or a pair of shorts and a skimpy tanktop. 'Good morning' I say, and he responds with a kind smile and continues driving the puttering little boat.

The english of the croatian crew, while better than the captain's, is not nearly as good as people from western europe. But they have plenty with which to communicate with us, as they know far more english than we know Croat, and we are in they're country. My favorite moment was when we had a captain's dinner at night in one of the harbors. Before deciding whether we wanted to eat on the boat or in the only restaurant in the small town we were stopping in, we, the passengers, wanted to know what was on the menu. 'Fish soup' said Marin, a tall slender Croat whose english surpasses the rest of the crew. 'Followed by a good fish dinner with begetables.' After eating fish in each town the past two days, lisa and I (and the rest of the passengers) wanted to know what kind of fish, just in case it was the same mackeral, bass and bream we had had for lunch repeatedly in the course of our Croatian odyssey. 'I do not know the name in English, but it is good, it is very good. It is a special fish. You know, sea fish.' We knew we couldn't win this battle so we all just kind of chuckled, as did Marin, and were happy to know when we returned for dinner that is was not just mackerel or bass, but a very special 'seafish' indeed. Something I still don't know the name of, but it had a red skin, was quite thick and for the first time on our trip, it was headless. Mmmmmm, delicious. With green bean 'begetables' and some of the captain's special liquor to begin the meal with.

Besides the persistent problems of communication, we are also constantly dealing with a little white substance that is particularly menacing. I had learned in chemistry class about the little ionic bond that was created when two totally opposite substances came together. With this bond, a new compound is formed, one which is white and grainy and tastes Oh so lovely when sprinkled on food dishes. Salt. The only problem is that our daily salt dosage exceeds what should be the maximum limit. This is not the salt found in our food (which is generally too little). No. It's the water that provides us with a sheer abundance of the spice. We stop for daily swims in beautiful bays and inlets and my only apprension that holds me back from plunging 30 feet off the top of our boat into the crystal clear water is the fact that when I get out and the burning afternoon sun dries my cool body, I will be preserved in enough salt to make King Tut proud. Just pick me up and shake me over your 'seafish.' Daily rinses are nice, but water is scarce and you just have to deal with the crunching, grainy surface that you're body becomes after a little dip in the water. I'm sure I'll survive and the one positive thing is that for the first time in my life, all the dissolved salt makes it possible for me to float quite easily. A consolation I'm happy to live with.

Hope all is well with each of you. My dad's birthday is on the 28th of July so leave him a happy birthday comment on the blog if you want. I'm not sure what age he is, but it's old.

We'll post again soon...sorry, no pictures today, the internet man said my bird poopie fingers have handled his kezboard (whoops!) long enough and besides I think I'll clog his USB port up with salt anzwaz (double whoops). bze-bze...

Croatia, A Day in the Life...

Dobar Dan friends!

Gordon and I have climbed off of the Vrgada, our homely ship and porter for the week, and climbed aboard the ship next door, climbed aboard the ship next to that one, climbed aboard another, and finally a last ship to walk through in order to reach land. It's our new evening custom when we come in to a port to rinse the day's residue of salt off of our bodies and traverse the ships that are sandwiched beside us until our feet are settled on the ground in a new town. They stack us up like sardines! For the next few hours, we wonder the white marbled streets and watch local families swimming with their families in the clear waters of the Mediterranean Sea. As we amble we glance at menus that are laid out on tables in outdoor restaurants. The hardest choice we make during the day is where we'll have our evening meal. Lately our dinners have been easy to choose once we've picked a location...SEAFOOD! Every night we've had whole grilled fish with olive oil and garlic or seafood pasta. We share a tiramisu icecream cone as we stroll around the port, consumed by the water lapping the pebbled shore, the night sky, the weathered fishing boats, the clear air, the men plazing boccia ball under the orange glow of a streetlight, and groups of children throwing rocks at a buoy. Drained from a day in the sun, we make our way back to the Vrgada, climb the stairs to the upper deck, pass through the lace curtain that covers our door, and stowaway for the night in our bunks. We drift to sleep with a sea breeze and the lull of gentle waves that rocks our ship. Often when we wake, we are already sailing (motoring) along and I watch as the Croatian cliffs on the shoreline stream by before I even lift my head off the pillow. Gordon and I are usually up before our shipmates, so we'll lounge on the bow in the soft morning light until the morning breakfast bell beckons us downstairs.

We lead a charmed life, don't we?

Our days are just as laid back. We've spent the night in Makarska, one in Hvar, and one in Trstenek (a small town of 20 houses where we watched the men play Boccia ball). During the day, we stop in quiet coves to swim and one day we stopped at a pebble beach called Bol. It was beautiful. I collected several smooth stones that are firey orange and white because they match the houses in every town; white siding and terra cotta tiled roofs. Tonight we'll be in Dubrovnik. As you enter the walls of Dubrovnik, there is a giant white map that locates the places where bombs destroyed houses and sidewalks in 1991-1992 under the Yugoslav army of Serbia and Montenegro. Now as we walk along, it's hard to imagine the violence that devastated this country so recently. As a visitor, it's hard to understand the cultural divides that still scar this land and the memories of the people who call it home.

Gordon and I have found some great friends in the other deck loungers that share our boat. Everyone aboard is Australian, except for a few Kiwis (New Zealanders) and our Croatian crew. Our captain has stark white hair and has spent his life on the sea, this is our guess anyway. He has the far-away eyes of one who has spent his life gazing at the horizon. When we first met him, I noticed a small communion-sized glass beside him that he was sipping. Everyday, a crew member brings him a glass of pivo (beer) as we arrive at port. He's calmer than the water we're sailing. And he can dock that boat like magic.

Yesterday, Gordon and I bought goggles so that we can watch the fish swim below. Even when we're all treading above 25 meters of water, you can still see the bottom. We also bought a teal raft with a clear plastic window in it and bright yellow suns. The Aussies call it a "lilo," but we know that its a raft. Sometimes we swim to shore and Gordon does (a version of) elementary backstroke. He doesn't always go straight, so I'll call to him, "Come on Flounder!"

Life is good.

Time for dinner...

Friday, July 21, 2006

Anchors Away!

Photos

Ahoy there friends! Here we are in Croatia. Our ferry emerged from the morning mist and pulled into the port in Split around 6 a.m. We slept well in our cozy cabin in the undergirth of the ship. Just outside, there are some amazing sailboats docked behind us being hosed down before a new crew boards and sets sail along the Dalmation Coast for the week. Gordon and I are happy as clams in the mud at high water. Only a few more hours! I'm glad that I remembered to bring my pirate costume for the ship. The captain seems to have a good sense of humor about it so far.

Our time in Italy was relaxing and oh so delicious! It was great to spend a week with Jen and Rebecca as we hopped from town to town in the Tuscan countryside. They have made wonderful traveling companions!! The four of us shared plenty of relaxed breakfasts, countless pizzas at lunch time, bowls of the freshest pasta, and local wines. Nothing can top the two nights that we dined at Antico Forno downstairs in our B&B in Civita. Anna lovingly made plates of pasta, one with cheese and truffles (I felt like I was melting when I ate it), ravioli, and penne with anciano sauce. This was followed by a second course of meats, salad, eggplants, caprese. Then came desert! Luckily we weren't in a hurry, honestly we could hardly move, so we lingered over a pitcher of wine while our food settled and prepared for the task of climbing the stairs to bed. Our friend, Birillo, a sweet old raggy dog, sat beside us as we dined and nuzzled our legs for something tasty that we might share from the table. The Panda functioned brilliantly as it hummed along the tight turns while we passed fields full of sunflowers, vineyards, rows of olive trees, and endless golden hills covered in straw bales. Gordon drove masterfully (It must be the Italian blood!) and I got to be the captain as I navigated through the well-marked countryside.

We spent a day with locals on the shores of the Lago di Bolseno, a volcanic lake nearby to Civita. It was sparkling blue as we descended from the hill above. Jen, Rebecca, Gordon, and I lounged on white plastic chairs in front of an open air restaurant on a suprisingly quiet part of a crowded lakefront. We read, waded past a few pebbles to a soft sandy bottomed clean lake. A few women and a young boy, who was riding in an inflatible tug-boat, shared the little beach with us. His legs poaked through the seat of the boat, but he was too small to steer and the tide, small as it was, kept him pinned to the shallowest water. Occasionally, his mom would pull him away from the shoreline and he would muster a whiney, "Grazie." Walking back to Civita over the foot bridge that day, someone said Ciao to Gordon. It was a kind of drawn out, very cool Ciaaaao which Gordon politely returned. Then he said to me, "You know I've been getting a lot more Ciaos ever since I started showing my legs with this bathingsuit!"

So here we are, preparing to set sail. Think of us as we drift along the (hopefully) calm Adriatic sea, enter new ports, and explore new places.

Anchors Away!

Civita di Bagnoregio -- So Good It Comes in Two Parts, Part 1

Photos

Civita di Bagnoregio (Che-vee-tah di Ban-yo-ray-gee-o) -- Just practice this pronunciation a couple of times until it rolls off your lips and tongue as smooth as Crisco. Just saying the name of this place already makes me jittery with excitement over the beauty of the Italian hill town. We found out about Civita (as its known locally) through Rick Steves' guidebook on Italy. This tiny town was built 2500 years ago by Etruscans, long before Rome had taken control of this region of Italy. It has also been a part-time home of St. Bonaventure and now holds vacation getaways for millionaire Italian families like the Ferraris. It is a place like no other that we have visited and I doubt that we will ever find another place quite like it again.

Civita sits perched atop a clay plateau that rises steeply from a deep valley. The Etruscans saw the benefit of its easily defensible position and so they carved out a town on the top of this tiny hill. The only way it was reachable was over the top of a saddle which connected Civita to land on either side of it. This narrow ancient pathway has eroded away so that now Civita sits alone, isolated, and connected to the world through a concrete footbridge built in the 1960's as the second path built after the Etruscans had eroded away as well. For years Civita obtained its goods by a donkey which would scurry up the path everyday, bringing supplies necessary for the town's survival. Today, the son of the former courier, now uses a Toro vehicle to bring supplies to the town to stock individual homes as well as the few restaurants that have sprung up since travel writers have found out about this amazing little place.

The problem with Civita, and part of its attraction other than its stunning isolation and beauty, its the certainity of its demise. It is known as the dying town. Clay is not the best substance upon which to build a community, and though it's lasted far longer than it's original purpose as an Etruscan defensible city, it nevertheless continues to slowly fall away. For years the civilians of Civita have woken up not knowing whether one part of the house will have fallen into the abyss during the night. It is only two tenths of a mile long and less than one tenth of a mile wide. The Italian national and local governments have begun putting some money into firming up the foundations of Civita and while Lisa and I were there, constuction was going on to do just that. However, there is a sense of timed demise when you wander the streets of Civita. Especially when one follows the trail at the back end of the city, down and around to the side where you can look up and see exposed wood beams that are holding up rocks of the foundation of the houses. The houses and buildings near the edge of the city are perched perilously over hundred foot drops and it is only a matter of time.

There are only 10-15 residents in Civita, a number that is strangely in doubt considering the how few people live around there. There are vacation homes and as the locals get older they move into nursing homes in the nearby city of Bagnoregio where they can be taken care of. There are no young people at all in Civita and every morning we were there Lisa and I would see people walking up the footbridge to go to their jobs at the two cafes and 3 restaurants in the city. So during the day, there are probably as many people who come to the city for work as there are people who actually live nightly in the city. It was quite a unique experience to look out the open window from the 3rd floor of our 3 room bed and breakfast (the only lodging in town) and see the few local people going about their morning routines of washing down the dusty paving stones and getting ready for another day catering to the 100-200 tourists who come during the high season.

The local people are the kind of folks who are friendly but natural. There were not huge shouts of joy for us for staying two whole nights in Civita, just a local kindness. This made the experience all the more real as there was nothing put on, just Italy as it used to be, Italy in the raw. There were smiles and laughter among the locals as they sat in the shade of the few buildings in the town, chatting about who knows what. There was a softness of pace that was so relaxing compared with the bustling tourist hungry towns we had just passed through.

The Bed and Breakfast where we stayed also had a restaurant attacted to it called 'Antico Forno' or Antique Oven. It is owned by a man named Franco who lives in the nearby city of Orvieto, but who works tirelessly to put Civita on the tourist map so that the town can survive. Franco was not in the town when we were there, but the four of us (Lisa, Jen, Rebecca and myself) were attended to by his two staff members, Nina and Anna. Both nights we were served an amazing three course dinner including two types of pasta, meat and salad, various kinds of bruschetta and all the local wine we could drink. The freshly made pasta with truffle sauce was particlarly pleasing so we had it both nights. The meals were absolutely filling and for the second night we intentionaly went with only snacks for lunch so we could enjoy stuffing ourselves even more at night. We were always served with kindness as we broke through the language barrier by mutually joking about the only dog in the village Birillo who was always ready to scarf down any table scrap that Rebecca would cautiously feed him under the table when Anna and Nina were cooking in the kitchen.

Civita is a place of wonder. A place (so far) away from the struggles and frenzy of modern life. A place of old Italy. A place where a woman sits near her house beckoning you to enjoy the 'panoramica' from her gardern patio. A place where 2000 year old wine presses an ancient underground tunnels can be found with ease and enjoyed by all (small donation accepted). A place to buy ice cream or beer and wait while that man-made invention of time flies by. A place where there is little to worry about and time for anything. Civita is a place where everyone should go, but also a place I hope few people find out about. Things will certainly ruin Civita. There is already the influx of tourists that is steadily increasing. I just hope the flood of people doesn't ruin this perfect town before the natural elements do. I hope you all go to Civita, and sooner is certainly better than later.

We left Civita, it all its wonder and glory, and headed to Rome on the Autostrade. As we motored down the interstate-type road at speeds up to 140 (kilometers/hour of course) and we were passed by cars doing at least 160 (a blazing 100 mph) I found myself thinking that there had been few times in my life when I had been so sad about leaving a town. I already miss Civita and I hope to go back sometime soon. I guess I'll just have to get over my depression in the best way I know how--sailing on a vintage sailing boat through the stunning islands of Croatia. I think this will be sufficient.

Viva la Civita!!!

Same Photos as Above, in case you missed them.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

The Fast and the Furious: Italian Drivers and Foreign Tourists

Lisa ran out of time with her blog, so I'll briefly mention that Lucca was a wonderful city, away from most tourist and the highlight of the trip was the Pistoia Blues Festival that was about 20 miles away and where we saw Ben Harper and the Innocent Crimnals. It was so very good and set in the most beautiful piazza in the middle of the beautiful city of Pistoia. We didn't go to sleep until 2 am, but who really cares when you have a night that pleasing.

I remember from my family's trip to Italy about 6 years ago that drivers over here are quite sure of themselves when behind the wheel. We had a tour bus driver named Luciano who would drive our charter bus full of anxious, predominately older Americans through a veritible gauntlet of road hazards. Near the Amalfi Coast in southern Italy I specifically remember the nose of our bus go over the edge of a sheer cliff as Luciano made impossible turns down seemingly one-lane roads that Italian drivers saw as two or even three lanes. Using mirrors and immense confidence, Luciano steered us safely through daunting turns, avoiding the endless stream of scooters and motorcycles as we made our way treacherously through Italy. My mom, I'm sure, still wakes up with night terrors of being on Luciano's bus.

After driving for 4 days in Italy I have already had my share of narrow escapes, though the Fiat Panda handles well and it's narrow width and length have allowed me to avoid contact with many objects, moving and unmoving. No SUV's allowed here!

After our trip to Lucca and the adventure of driving on the speed limitless Italian highway system, the four of us (now with Jen and her mom, Rebecca) decided to take the backroads to our next destination of Siena. We made our way through a fairly condensed countryside for a bit, holding back frantic Italian drivers by going at a reasonable speed, until the towns cleared out and the Tuscan countryside opened up in front of us. The hills and towns that unexpectedly appeared after rounding a corners were a marvel to behold. The traffic cleared up nicely as well, which allowed me the opportunity to release the death grip I had placed on the steering wheel. We now took a relaxing pace over rivers, over and around hills, and through vast fields of sunflowers. After spending the last few days in cities it was delightful to view the expanse of green, gold and brown that was before us.

We had decided earlier not to go directly to Siena, but rather to drop by some fantastic little Italian hill towns on the way. The first of these was Volterra which provided us with a chance to stretch our legs after two hours in the Panda. We parallel parked (which is much easier now that I know how to use reverse) and walked through the arched entry way to the city. Aimless wandering allowed us to find an ancient chapel which was near a fountain/spring that had been continuously used for over a thousand years. We examined the arched doorway built by Etruscans a VERY long time ago and then headed up the hill for a lunchtime treat of pizza for each of us. I had the salame (Italian spelling of salamie) which was extra good because this region is known for its special makes of the meat. My favorite type (which I have yet to see in person, but read of it in a guide book), involves taking all the bad, unused parts of wild boar--gristle, fat, etc--and a whole lot of spices, and stuffing it back into the cleared out skull of the boar. I'm trying to find one to see if they'll let me carry it on the plane on the way home. The pizza was delicious as was the house wine which was bought not by the glass, but by the quarter, half, or whole litre. I partook of the smallest size and shared a bit with Lisa. We walked out of the restaurant and discovered a bit more of Volterra before climbing into the Belly of the Panda and heading to San Gimignano, our final stop before Siena.

(By the way, David Gray's (who we saw in concert in Birmingham, England) 'Hospital Food' is now playing in our internet cafe--how easy information spreads around this tiny world of ours!)

This stop was a bit disappointing for all of us. First off, parking was a real hassle and after driving around for twenty minutes, I finally dropped off the ladies and parked a little further away. I walked up to the city and was stunned with the flood of tourists crowding the main road. I hadn't remembred it being so bad when my family had come previously, but I guess this is one of the problems with guidebooks--too many good reviews of a place can really spoil it. Lisa and I could even notice it in the faces of the locals as we walked more on the back streets. Their little piece of paradise, an Italian hill town spiked with beautiful towers with a stunning view, was invaded every day with thousands of tourists. It's amazing how well-intentioned interest and curiosity can spoil a remote and peaceful setting. There were certainly some highlights, especially when we walked off the main paths, but at this point the weather was in the 90's and we were all getting pretty tired so we packed up and drove the Panda the rest of the way to Siena. We decided not to eat out and instead got to the supermarket just before closing to gather salad ingredients and the four of us sat on the balcony of the apartment we rented and ate greens and drank wine while overlooking a beautiful part of the city. We all went to bed intending to rest well for the night. This intention was broken by the beautiful church that our window looked our onto. Apparently every morning, the entire city of Siena is waked by this church ringing its bells at 6am, 7am, and 8am, as well as on the half hours. It was very loud, and very long and not as beauiful as one would expect when all you want to do is sleep.

We wandered the city for a while and all enjoyed it immensely. Siena has had a historical competition with Florence, originally over power and wealth, but now over tourism. Floence is certainly the better known, but Sienna retains a bit more charm with less tourists, less size and a more unique character. They have an especially pretty duomo and cathedral here that Lisa and I really wanted to see. Unfortunately, the entire facade was masked with scaffolding and a printed picture of the originaly facade--not quite as impressive as the real thing. What you could see very well, and is unique it seems to this part of Italy, is the design of the church. The predominate feature of which is its black and white stripes that go all the way around the church. These churches are much more fun to look at, as they seem a bit more playful than the staunch, stoic churches of solid color rock.

I was still pretty tired so we headed back to our beautiful little apartment, and I took a nap while Lisa went back out for more sightseeing. We decided to eat in for dinner again and this time we had wonderful spaghetti, cooked by Rebecca (Jen's mom) and bruschetta (cooked by an American we met who is studying classical guitar here) and wine, which Lisa and I bought. We finished this great sunset dinner off with Limoncello, an Italian aperitif that I feel is quite nice.

So here we are now. I only have ten minutes remaining at the internet cafe so I must go. Lisa are shipping a few pounds of clothes back today, and after that we're heading of to the town of Civita di Bagnoreggio--inhabited by (no lie) 15 people and a dog. We're again excited for the solitude away from the tourists of Siena and San Gimignano. After that, we're off to Croatia for a 7 day vintage sailing boat cruise. We'll be back soon. Bye for now...

Pandas, "Tourist" Moments, and Paolo's Tempered Welcome

We rented a car at the Rome airport from a cheeky Italian stalion. A highlight of our check-in experience was listening to him converse with a customer over the phone. "Yes I speak English, speak quickly!" "Where are you now?" (They were in the parking lot.) "What do you mean you can't move!" (They apparently couldn't reverse out of their parking space.) He gave some foggy directions that sounded more like exacerbated reprimands and then clapped the reciever down onto the counter. He looked up... Oh good, Americans. He treated us graciously, however, and we were soon on our way. Our car was already pulled out of it's parking space, and this is an important detail, so we loaded up and we were easily on our way. We're now seeing the Italian countryside from the belly of a blue Panda, Fiat with matching blue insides. They say that blue is the most calming color and that's probably a good thing because driving in Italy is, at times, hectic or free-spirited, depending on how you look at things. Gordon glided masterfully through the traffic in our blue Panda as we inched along the map from Rome around Florence and to Lucca.

Our trip cost us one tank of gas, 18 euro, and one "tourist" experience. We pulled off the autostrade, leaving the fury of the race track behind, for a lunch break. Sandwiches with prosciuto, cheese, tomato. We bought a map and climbed back in the Panda. Gordon shifted into reverse. Nothing. We were stuck in neutral. He tried again. We kept looking back and forth at each other. No wonder the man at the rental counter was nice to us, he gave us a lemmon. Gordon kept trying reverse to no avail so I got out to push. The hood of the car was uncomfortably hot and Gordon forgot to take his foot off the brake so our first attempt was a feeble one. A few spaces away, there was a family eating sandwiches that were wrapped in aluminum foil, politely pretending like nothing was happening to their right. I looked at the father who was standing close by and asked him, as he chewed, if he could help us push our car, it seems that it won't go in reverse, I explained. We gave it a shove, but the Panda was stubborn and wouldn't budge. Suddenly I felt a release (the brake) and this gentleman and I switly propelled the Panda out into the parking lot and for a moment I thought Gordon was lost from me like an astronaut in space gliding away. We narrowly averted a collision from behind, but Gordon found the brake, and honestly, the oncoming car was not a major threat at 10 yards away and crawling at a snail's pace. Calmly back inside our blue safe haven, we cranked up the air conditioner and slid back on to the autostrade.

Two scenic hours later we had arrived in Lucca and parked, in a metered lot, at the train station. We wandered the winding streets to our B&B, La Torre, and found our hosts sitting outside in the small plaza in white plastic porch chairs. After checking in, we asked our host, Paolo, about free parking and he offered to drive us to our car so that we could follow him to the free lot. We also mentioned that two of our friends were staying at La Torre tonight, Jen and Rebecca Arrington. Had they checked in yet? Paolo's face lit up and, hands flying in every direction, he cried, "You know Rebecca?" "We been waiting all day for Rebecca!!" (Their reservation said they would arrive at 11a.m. and it was now 5:30.) "Where the Rebecca? NO ROOM for Rebecca!" His father, an easy going Sammy Hagar look alike with an unbuttoned red hawaiian shirt, blond ringlets and chest hair to match, was mimicking his son's motions. He kept clasping his hands, shaking them, looking up towards the heavens, repeating, "Where Rebecca!" After a line of questions about the Arrington's arrival, (we really had no idea) we climbed in the car with frantic Paolo and whipped through the streets back to the station. Gordon and I tried to explain our problem of going in reverse, but Paolo didn't understand us. Trying to be quick about our back-up routine, we braced ourselves against the hood of the Panda again. Paolo, wondering what was taking so long came back to see why we hadn't started to follow him. He looked around to assess the scene, huffed, and motioned for me to get out of the car. He clamped his hand around the gear shift and squeezed a special button and the Panda slid into reverse. Of course there had to be a trick! Soon, Gordon was back behind the wheel and I looked around the train station and fixed my eyes on two ladies standing at a map wearing backpacks. It took a minute to register, but I recognized Jen's Nike Kantara running shoes (Thank you Ragged Mountain Running Shop in Charlottesville, VA!). "Gordon, there they are!" He honked at Paolo and Paolo's car stopped short. I jumped out of the Panda and corralled Jen and Rebecca over to Paolo's car, too quickly for a decent hello. Arms outstretched, he cheered, "Reeeebecca!!!" It was a masterful transition!

The rest of our time in Lucca was peaceful. We walked the streets, ate leisurely breakfasts of cantaloupe, prosciutto, cheese, and boiled eggs, sampled a variety of gelato, saw a Ben Harper concert, and caught up with our friends. We're enjoying our slow paced life in Tuscany!

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Barcelona--Sun, Beaches, and Gaudi things

We had originally planned to stop in Dublin for a day or two before heading out to Barcelona, but we cancelled those reservations in favor of another couple of relaxing days in Belfast. Not too much to speak of during these two days, so we'll begin with our time in Barcelona. Our plane left for Barcelona in the evening and after a frantic rush for seats on the budget airline Ryanair, we took off into the cloudy sky of Ireland, arriving a couple of hours later in the clear blue Spanish skies. A bus took us into Barcelona, where we were mapless and clueless as to how to get to our hostel. We convinced ourselves that splurging for a taxi ride would be well-worth the investment as it was already 11pm and we were unsure of safety of the night. We walked up to the taxi line, and an anxious cab driver hurriedly rushed our luggage into the trunk. When he showed us a map of Barcelona we saw that we weren't too far from our hostel, so we headed off for a quick 5 minute ride and when our luggage was unloaded, the driver produced a nicely laminated sheet of paper from his back pocket saying the minimum charge was an astounding 20 euros. It was late, we were tired and our minds weren't ready to produce spanish words and phrases so we dumbfoundedly passsed over the money, knowing we'd been had. Welcome to Barcelona!!! Our next 3 days were spent with few if any problems. The sun was warm and the sky was hazy but clear as we wandered around the city of modern art. The first day we chose places at random and just walked there. The first was a beautful park with museums, a stadium, and palace scattered throughout. Barcelona held the Olympics a few years back and many of the new facilities which were built then have been converted to public use, such as the Olympic diving stadium where kids played joyously as the 10 meter platforms loomed overhead. We were hot by this time a had trouble finding a watering hole that had water that tasted like, well...water. Even the water at our hostel had a rather strange taste, but one we could at least drink without a worry for our health. But our money saving method of filling up our water in public bathrooms went awry during these three days in Barcelona. After stopping for juice and at an english book store, we wandered down to the beachfront and along the boardwalk until our bodies signalled it was time for dinner. This first night we shared the traditional Spanish dish of seafood paella, which is seafood mixed with yellow rice and spices and served in a big, black skillet for two. We shared a bottle of wine and bought ice cream on the way home to end our hot, sweaty day with something cool and nice. We woke up in an alley--really. Our hostel room was in the Gothic quarter of Barcelona which is known for its narrow streets and confusing road system. Indeed there are some "streets" that are so narrow that sunlight only reaches them when the sun is directly over head. This would seem to make our night of sleep much easier as we were not woken up by a sun that set at 11:00pm or rose at 4:00am, as in Belfast. However the constant noise of street cleaners, trash pickups and late night partiers, made sleeping here difficult as well. Nevertheless, we woke up on the second day, bought towels and headed straight down to the beach, jelly and nutella sandwiches in tow for lunch, ready to do a whole lot of nothing for the day. We rented two chairs and an umbrella and laid out from 10am to 6pm, when the man came to collect our rented merchandise. We were the last ones still in our chairs, although by this time the beach was still teeming with people. This had certainly been the most relaxing day of the trip as we did nothing but sit, read, wade, and watch the bathers, making sure to pretend to avert our eyes from those topless ones. We made pasta with tuna for dinner that night and went to bed exhausted from all the non-activity of the day.
Our last full day in Barcelona was spent appreciating the archictecture specific to this city--namely the buildings and public art designed by Gaudi. Instead of taking a guided bus tour, we walked for several hours visiting his famous buildings, such as Casa Batllo, and the park he spent twenty years designing, Parc Guell. It was absolutely stunning work. Gaudi was known for making the typically boxy concrete structures come to life with curves, arches, swirls and tile work akin to something out of a Dr. Seuss book. Lisa and I loved his work the more we saw of it, as it seemed as if all buildings had become something not just functional, but fanciful. His Sagrada Familia was of particular interest as this church, which is yet uncompleted after 50 years of work, seemed to be built like a child would a sand castle, by drizzling handfuls of wet sand into various shapes. We dined on a five plate dinner of tapas, which included tuna, mushrooms, a salad, calamari, bread with dressing and potatoes with paprika and garlic mayonnaise. We were stuffed full, and wandered home, slowly winding through the narrow streets for the last time. We went to bed early and woke up even earlier, having to catch a bus to the airport at 5:45 am. But by the time our plane would land, Spain would seem a distant memory as the land of Tuscany opened up new opportunities of beauty and exploration--not to mention driving our own car through the streets filled with Italians doing their best impressions of Mario Andretti. More to come from the land of the Azurri...

By the way, we're trying to post pictures as often as possible, but you have to download them on someone else's computer, so we'll do it when we're allowed and when we can. We'll have some more up soon I'm sure.

Sunday, July 16, 2006

Upon Returning to Belfast, A Beautiful Wedding

After a brief visit to Edinburgh, Gordon and I headed back to Belfast to attend the wedding between Clare Porter and David Harte, two of Gordon's friends from Crumlin Road Church. The service was at 1 p.m. in the afternoon, a fairly traditional ceremony, with a short interlude while the bride and groom departed into a back room to sign some official documents. When they returned, the wedding party processed out of the sanctuary and into the rainy Belfast streets. There was a dinner to follow around 5 p.m. so we went with some friends, Sandra, Jim, and Richard, to a coffee shop for an early dessert of a caramel square, scone, and two enormous cheesecakes to complement our coffee and tea. At the country club later that day, there was a comfortable sitting area with a cash bar to amuse the guests while the dining room was being prepared. In a short time, we were seated at a table. The women had Ferrero Rocher to mark their place settings and the men had a giant Yorkie bar emblazoned with the words, ITS NOT FOR GIRLS! We had vegetable soup followed by a Thanksgiving-style meal of turkey and ham rolled around stuffing, mashed potatoes, fried potatoes, sausage, carrots with parsnips, and brocolli and cauliflower with cheese. For dessert, profiteroles accompanied our coffee and tea. We returned to the lounge area, stuffed like geese, to hear some acoustic guitar and recover for the dancing ahead. The dancing commenced with an ABBA re-mix and the DJ worked his way up through the decades with hits for every generation in attendance. When the cake was served, the lights came on, and we dined, once more, on desserts with coffee and tea. There were two types of cake, a plain white one and a Christmas fruit cake - they are popular over here! Gordon and I danced all night long and had such a good time. He is quite a fun dance partner. We loved watching young and old couples and friends share the dance floor, and when the DJ stopped playing at 1 a.m., all ages were still in attendance and sad to know the party had ended. We headed home to bed, thankful to be included in such a beautiful celebration.

We spent a few more days in Belfast, saw some movies, walked around, did our laundry, watched the World Cup final, enjoyed drinks at Kellys Cellars with friends and traditional Irish music, and relaxed before our next set of travels.

Soon to come, stories of Barcelona....

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Post-”amble”: to Edinburgh and Belfast, 0 miles walking!!! (Gordon’s Version)

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Our bus was at 10:40 and our train in Scarborough left at 11:30, which was followed by a connection in York which took us to Edinburgh. It was a bit of shock as we rode quickly through the trees, hills, and country side that we had just previously walked rather slowly through. The fluffy, baaing sheep turned into lightning fast specks of white light as the rolling hills blurrily paced by. It was amazing to think it took us over 2 weeks to walk around 192 miles and now in the space of a couple of hours we could travel the many miles from Robin Hood’s Bay to Edinburgh. It was also a bit strange because we finally felt we were getting into good walking shape, and now we’re left with little walking to do. This has certainly been an amazing trip, with wonderful people and stunning scenery and I hate to see it all fly by so quickly. But alas, rooms have been book and there is a wedding we must attend in Belfast and life forever seems to move so quickly.

We arrived in Edinburgh, checked into our hostel, and then walked leisurely around the city. We took some pictures next to ceramic cows and drank free Pepsi Max beverages (as the pictures will attest), visited an old haunted cemetery and turned in early for bed in our 10 bed hostel room. The next day was met with a little bit more walking around the city before catching a plane from Edinburgh back to Belfast where we have spend the last four days.

We’ve only been through three countries (if Northern Ireland and Scoland are counted separately from England) and three weeks and yet it feels as if we’ve been away for much long. Well an update from our second bit of time in Belfast will be forthcoming, but for now, we must pack for Barcelona. Thanks for reading and we’ll post again soon. Until then……..

(Don’t forget to post some comments so we know who is actually reading this thing!)

Day 14: Glaisdale to Robin Hood’s Bay, 19 miles (Lisa’s Version)

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Gordon and I woke up early for our last day’s walk and skipped breakfast in place of a packed lunch from the Arncliffe Arms. We had a very steep uphill when we hit Grosmont (just after we stopped to see the Harry Potter train). We went through a moor with heather in bloom, across a busy road, over a stile onto a public bridleway, and into the Little Beck Woods. There is a shelter hollowed out of a boulder where a pilgrim once took refuge, “The Pilgrimage” is carved into the rock face. The whole forest area is gorgeous. Just beyond it is a beautiful waterfall, Falling Foss, and a little further the creek widens and the trail crosses it. Gordon and I perched on a log alongside the stream while we ate our lunches.

Later in the afternoon, we were back in open fields of heather. The land was cracked and dry and the day was hot with few clouds. We could finally see the coast, but not the sea because of the clouds that were hovering just over the coastline. Eventually, we crossed a caravan (R.V.) park and when we got to the bottom of the hill we got our first real glimpse of the sea – one where we could actually see the waves. It was beautiful. Sunny day, groups of gulls, rocky cliffs. We had made it! We walked through our last fields of sheep and cattle as we skirted the coastline far below. We were so happy when we reached Robin Hood’s Bay. We passed Andrea and Melinda from Washington state on our way in. They were sitting in plastic lawn chairs outside of their B&B. Just around the bend we saw the Californians sitting and waiting for us outside of the general store. We all slowly and carefully went down the steps because we were hurting (most of us) and down the steep hill through the town and to the North Sea.

We shed our packs, boots, and socks, and hobbled through shells and algae out into the water. The cold temperature of the sea felt incredible on my tired, swollen feet. The water was shallow because the tide was out. Gary, Gordon, and I laid down in the water, fully submerged like a baptism in the salty bath. Gordon and I sat on a rock together and Gary took our picture – proof that we had completed our journey! It was a wonderful feeling. It took us 2 weeks, 3 hours, and 15 minutes to walk across England. We began the slow march back to our shoes and I saw Al and Bill along with Paula and Hilary above at Wainwright’s Bar, having a drink, waving with huge smiles. We bought ice cream cones from the ice cream truck and checked in to the Boathouse just across the street. Gordon and I shared tea, hot chocolate, and biscuits, took hot showers, looked out the window at red roofs and endless sky, and listened to the gulls. We went back across the street to the Bay Hotel (Wainwright’s bar) for dinner where we met our friends and shared an evening on the porch overlooking the water. Everyone seemed so satisfied and happy.

In the morning, Gordon and I collected some shells by the beach and had a last look at the sea before breakfast. The Boathouse had a spread of fruit on the table to match the most colorful produce section of a grocery store. We shared our last meal of our coast-to-coast journey, took a few group photos, bought some postcards, and headed up the hill to catch the bus out of town.

Our walk across England was amazing because of the beautiful countryside that we got to know over two weeks, the cozy B&Bs with big homemade breakfasts, tired evenings at the pub watching England compete for the World Cup, shared pots of tea, exhausting days of walking, hot baths, new types of chocolate bars and new flavors of chips, and endless fields of humorous sheep. It was made so much better by the walking companions and friends we made along the way as we ambled from the Irish Sea across England to the North Sea. HELLO OUT THERE and Thanks to all of our fellow walkers: Paula, Hilary, Jen, Gary, Sarah, Jeff, Andrea, Melinda, Al, Bill, Peter, Steve and his dogs, Stella and Bruno. You made our trip so much better!

Day 13: Clay Bank Top to Glaisdale, 18.75 miles (Gordon’s Version)

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After Gerry left us we scurried up to the top of the moors getting soaked along the way as we dipped under trees drenched with mist from the morning. It was cold and windy and a dense fog smothered our view. We trudged along unsure of whether the path we had taken as a little shortcut was the appropriate one. We finally realized that, in fact, we hadn’t gotten lost and followed a old railroad track that had been converted into a trail for five miles. Although we were at a high altitude of near 2000 feet, the plateau we were walking on was incredibly flat, making the entire day’s journey quite easy for the distance. We stopped at the Lion Inn at about the halfway point. It was a remarkable place, with a history dating back hundreds of years when it formerly served as a stopover point for travellers. There is not a single other building for miles, and the large pub and inn sits high atop the windswept moors. Quite the desolate site and a place you’d expect to see the characters of Wuthering Heights stopping in for a pint. The moors we walked were the ones which inspired the setting for the novel, and the story left an accurate description of the terrrain we traversed. After the Lion Inn, we remained with our California friends (Gary, Jeff, Jen and Sarah) for the remainder of the day. Our journey turned into Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 as we relived songs from the 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, 90’s and today. The miles flew past under our weary feet as we sang and frolicked our way down to the cute little hamlet of Glaisedale. Our friends weren’t stopping until 3 miles later in the town of Grosmont, so we left them to continue their day’s journey as we achingly ascended the stairs to our room at the Arncliffe Arms Pub and Bed and Breakfast. The Arncliffe Arms is owned by a couple who moved out from the big city. The husband is a licensed chef and has turned this little hamlet into a well known place merely by the cuisine he cooks. I had the most taseful hamburger I’d had in years while Lisa munched down on Thai chicken with Asian coleslaw. We watched the World Cup semifinals at the bar and then headed up for a restless night’s sleep, excited about the prospects of finishing the walk the next day, on time and surprisingly under budget.

Day 12: Osmotherley to Clay Bank Top, 14 miles (Lisa’s Version)

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Hallelujah, the Hills! Today we were back into the rolling hillside and have been somewhat relieved to have some harder climbs and forested areas after long, flat days of road walking. It was another foggy day as we started our walk with Jen, Gary, Sarah, and Jeff, but the skies quickly cleared. We stayed in Urra, a village close to Clay Bank Top on the trail. There isn’t a town or even a building close to Clay Bank Top, it is just a clay bank top, so you have to go North to Great Broughton or South to Urra. Wendy, our hostess, gave us a lift into G.B. for dinner with our friends. We all had 2 courses for £6.95 at the Jet Miner’s Inn with sticky toffee pudding for dessert before we caught a cab back to Urra. Wendy and Gerry’s little B&B is called the Maltkiln House. Our room is a converted pigsty that they’ve turned into a nice yellow suite with twin beds. They have the best looking rooster that I have ever seen and several chicks who circle around the mother hens. Gerry was telling us what a nice family they are and how they all play in the dust together over in the field behind the house. He walked us up the footpath in the morning so that we could find our way back to the C-C path from their backyard instead of backtracking.

Day 11: Danby Wiske to Osmotherley, 12 miles (Gordon’s Version)

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After waking up today and realizing we still have 12 more miles of flat, road walking to go, we both could understand why some people just toughen up and do 21ish miles from Richmond to Ingleby Cross in one go. But we enjoyed our leisurely stroll through the flat, hot countryside as much as one can who is going through mountain withdrawal. The most interesting part of the day was when we followed the public footpath into a field filled with cows. Our recent experiences with the bovine species had comforted us, allowing us to see that all cows are not killers, and that that experience of the charging momma cow outside of Shap was a fluke, nothing by which you could rightfully judge all cows. Yet horrid flashbacks began to occur when we crossed a stile and entered into their territory. Immediately 20 or 30 chunky heads turned our way and just stared. That long, uncomfortable stare as if there was bit of food in our teeth and they just couldn’t keep from looking. As we approached, the cows started moving. Not away from us. No, that would be too courteous of them. Instead they all started moving directly at us. We inhaled deeply, and pressed on. Hoping that they would see our determination and relent. We weren’t sure whether they could smell fear or not, but we sure hoped not. As we got closer and closer, we realized that the cows started heading not toward us, but toward an empty feeding bin in the middle of the field. These weren’t demented beasts after all, they just though we were bringing them a little bit of hay for them to eat…and then spit out…..and then eat again.

We headed out from the pasture and on towards the glorious hills that lay before us. We stopped at a major highway and ate some ice cream with our California dudes while resting in the shade. There was no bridge over this road as there was on the way to Shap, so we needed refreshment and rest in order to summon the strenth to scamper across this unpedestrianized motorway. With courage and fortitude we all made it, empathizing with rabbits, opossums, deer and armadillos along the way. It was a bit like the game Frogger, and fortunately we successfully made it to level 2. We passed through the twin towns of Ingleby Cross and Ingleby Arcliffe, before climbing a forest road, and heading off the main trail for mile to the town of Osmotherly, our place of rest for the night. The hostel wasnot open when we arrived so we dropped our bags, washed ourselves a bit in kitchen, and headed back into town frozen treats, dinner, and then more frozen treats. We slept well and headed off in the morning on a shortcut that got us back on the trail without descending and then reascending. Only 3 more days to go!

Day 10: Richmond to Danby Wiske, 10 miles (Lisa’s Version)

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The walk to Danby Wiske was flat, unshaded, and mostly on the road. I think Gordon, especially, like Mr. Wainwright, was feeling uninspired by our walk today. We played some alphabet games to pass the time and waited for hours for a shady place to take a break. We found a stream lined with trees and sat on the bridge for a moment to rest and eat snacks. By now, we were a stone’s throw away from Danby Wiske. We made our way through the very small town to the Manor House, which, according to our hosts, Mike and Jan, was Lord Baltimore’s house. Mike, a pencil of a man, smiled when he greeted us at the door and said, “This house is older than your country!”

After showering, we went to the only pub in town, the White Swan, to watch England play Portugal in the semi-finals. We were sharing the pub with a wedding party, our California friends, and two other walking companions, Paula and Hilary from London. We moved half-eaten pieces of chocolate cake in napkins from chair tops, brushed off some crumbs, rearranged stools, ordered some beer, dodged the cue sticks from the kids who were playing snooker, watched as the World Cup game was projected on a sheet on a wall, and witnessed England’s loss to Portugal in the last penalty kick of the shoot-out. It was a tragic way to lose, but quite a fun atmosphere.

For dinner, since the pub wasn’t serving food tonight, Mike flew us into the nearest town. We were gliding over that windy country road like a silent rollercoaster while the calm classical music played on and in five minutes we had arrived in Northallerton. We had some pizza and the Road Runner was there to pick us up by the time Gordon was stepping out of the phone booth. MEEP! MEEP!

In the morning Gordon was looking for his sock. I just looked at him and smiled at first because I thought he was playing a trick on me. He does that, you know. It was sticking to the velcro on the back of his pants, but it looked like he had tucked it into his pocket. He was turning in circles and picking things up to peer underneath, “Where’s my sock?” That’s when I realized it was the velcro.

Day 9: Reeth to Richmond, 9 miles (Gordon’s Version)

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This day was somewhat unremarkable, based on days past, but was quite stunning compared to what lay ahead. We left the Hilary House and headed toward Marrick Priory, which we walked right past as a school group was being shown how to appropriately apply bud repellent to sheep (hopefully without making them go all do-lally in the head). We then headed up a splendid little trail through a small bit of forest, and through a couple of small towns. We caught up with Steve, Stella, Bruno, and Peter again and after leaving them in the small town of Marske, we went ahead through fields, over stiles, up a little hill and then past a couple of farms where we past more cows (but less scary than others) and more tourist walkers (much scarier than our bovine friends). With the help of a local farmer in Applegarth, we and another walker found the right trail and headed through a wooded, forest road before emerging on the other side with views of our destination, Richmond in sight. After taking a couple of obligatory your-hometown’s-name-in-another-country pictures, we wandered into the metropolis of the trip. Richmond is the biggest town on the journey and it really feels like it. Although it has a population in the thousands (rather than the tens or hundreds) the cars whizzing past you really hurts your ears and your senses when you’ve been used to lonely country trails for nine days. We saw something else here that had left us for a large part of the trip—pop culture. For most of our trip through tiny hamlets and villages, we ran into many local people who had no need or desire for stylish clothes, cars or other trappings. But in Ricmond, we were surrounded by folks with a sense of “style” otherwise missing on the trip. And with that sense of style came a feeling that this town isn’t all that different from any other town. It seemed to have lost its uniqueness in being mainstream. So while some people stayed around for two days in Richmond, as it had all the comfortable amenities of modern living and was a good place for a rest day, Lisa and I were quite happy that we had already booked a room down the road in Danby Wiske. Our experience of Ricmond wasn’t all mediocre though, as we stayed at the lovely Willance House, a name is derived from a man a few hundred years ago who fell off a cliff, but survived, his horse being the only casualty. This miraculous man had lived in this same house where we sipped tea after our hike. The owner of the place was a lovely little lady, whose name escapes me, and she and her husband had just taken over ownership a couple months back. What wonderful hosts they were and what a lovely house to stay in! Especially as our Californian friends were there as well. Our stay was also enhanced by a dinner at a thai restaurant (I guess bigger cities aren’t all that bad), as pub food had become quite stale by this point. Regardless of how many ways you cook a sausage, it’s still a sausage and I surely had had my fill. We went to bed content and with a bellies fully of Thai cuisine.

Day 8: Keld to Reeth, 10 miles (Lisa’s Version)

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The walk from Keld to Reeth was not my favorite even though the day started off well with beans and toast (I’ve said goodbye to the English breakfast), sunshine, and a field of ferns high above a river (which, as it turned out, we were not supposed to walk through). Our walk took longer than we thought thanks to a couple of wrong turns and a broad indistinguishable path over a mountain ruined by mining roads and gravel and “rushes” (where water is released to clear vegetation in search of veins of lead to mine). This warm and tedious walk was far behind us, in my thoughts anyway, when we reached Reeth and saw some friends drinking beers on an outdoor patio. They sent us straight to the ice cream shop. Rum Raisin and Mint Chocolate Chip made us so so happy as we sat on a bench and looked across the main square of Reeth, one of my favorite towns along the way. We stayed at the Hilary House and were greeted instantly by our host, Clive, who sprang to his feet when we saw us pass the living room window. I liked his parents, especially his dad with only one bottom tooth. Clive introduced us to his dog, Sam, his African Gray, Del, his cat, and all of his fish. It was obvious that Del was in charge of the household. Clive taught us extensive facts about African Greys and told us several of the things that Del likes to say. That night we could hear Del going through his portfolio of noises, including the beeping from a construction truck in reverse. We heard cat meows and dog barks, a variety of shrieks, we even heard him talking like Clive. We never heard him call the dog, “Sam, come here Sam….You stuuuupid dog!” although we were waiting and hoping.

Day 7: Kirkby Stephen to Keld, 11 miles (Lisa’s Version)

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From our huge, old house in Kirkby Stephen, with the cold interior and lovely antiques, Gordon and I took our time departing in the morning. We stopped at the chemist to buy extensive items for blister-treatment, went to the library to use the internet, and stopped at a local bakery for some sweets. Gordon had a blackcurrant tart and I had a love cake (shortbread with strawberry jam layered in between). By the time we left Kirkby Stephen behind us, it was 11:30. In the early part of our walk, in a 30-minute rain shower, we arrived at Nine Standards, a group of nine large and well-constructed cairns, that marks the shift in the watershed. Now, the raindrops will accompany us on our march to the North Sea! For the majority of our walk, we strolled across a boggy moor where the mud reminded us of used coffee grounds in color and texture. It was, at times, a saturated and hungry landscape that threatened to swallow your leg or at least your ankle. Bog-gone-it!! We can’t take any Moor! Still, we were feeling pretty good, pretty happy. Gordon had some nice blisters and we both had a sore knee from our last hilly day in the Lakes District, so the soft ground was a welcome reprieve. We had some more rain, passed some distant fields covered in buttercups, passed through a couple more cow pastures, and we were in Keld along with the sunshine at 5p.m. (Almost) everyone we know was staying with us at the YHA Keld and we had a happy reunion to celebrate our half way point while we took turns using the washing machine that took one hour to run one cycle. In a hiking magazine I found a brief article that said, “Carnivorous Sheep: You Decide.” Apparently, a sheep was found eating the carcass of an animal, or possibly, a bird. In the same region, in the previous year, a 67-year-old lady, peace be upon her, plummeted to her death after a herd of sheep herded her over the edge of a cliff. Gordon and I did have an incident with the cattle, but the sheep seem harmless (and brainless) enough. We decided to buy an air horn…as a precaution.

Day 6: Shap to Kirkby Stephen, 21 miles (Gordon’s Version)

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As Lisa “accidentally” forgot to write about our 21 mile day to Kirkby Stephen (pronounced without the ‘k’), and instead accidentally wrote about the beautiful day up and over Nine Standards, I shall relate to you our supposed 21 mile hike from Shap. The day started off poorly to begin with as we missed our turnoff from the main road. This was of little problem as we only went about two block too far. We then ventured over fields, crossed the interstate like motorway, followed around an old rock quarry, passed a strange walled town that even more strangely doesn’t appear on ordnance maps, headed over grassy hills, passed Robin Hood’s Grave and then came the infamous fork in the road. We could have easily stayed on the main trail and arrived in Kirkby Stephen at a reasonable time and 21 miles was quite a long way to walk. But the power of gluttony on the taste buds got the better of us, as we detoured into the town of Orton for a stop at the chocolate factory. Mmmmm—dark cholcolate, nutty chocolate, milky chocolate, chocolate that tastes like Tiramisu—this place was a regular Willy Wonka Factory and did we ever enjoy it! After cleaning our chocolate rimmed mouths we headed out into a brief spell of rain where we were supposed to be looking for Knott Road, but unfortunately for us, the English country folk are so used to their back country roads that they’re only really signposted when they feel like it. So passed the road we went. And then there was another chance for a turn off to the right path. This time it even had coast-to-coast written on the sign, but somehow we talked ourselves into believing that this was for the coast-to-coast cycle route (which does exist) and we continued toiling on this road for miles and miles and miles. One would think road walking would be an easy, pleasurable experience as the trail is easy to find and follow. However as the pain increases on the soles of your feet with every step, you realize that those mountain passes weren’t all that bad compared to the incessent pounding of walking on tarmac and even worse concrete. So along we went, not so merrily, for miles and miles and miles. Eventually we ran into the right route more by accident than choice as our road ended at a major highway and there was no way we were going to walk on that thing. So we headed north for a bit and ran into the trail again at a gorgeous valley with a stunning river, the Smardale Bridge spanning its breadth. We rested here for a while and met two wonderful men. Peter was an older English gentleman walking the coast-to-coast in order to raise money for to build a school in Kenya. Steve was an American transplant living in England. He was walking the trail with his two collies, Stella and Bruno. We walked with them for awhile, enjoying watching the dog get so excited that they were in fields covered with sheep, only to be disappointed when Steve told them not to round the sheep up into neat little groups. We left them and headed on into Kirkby Stephen where we trudged along, all the way to the Manor House, on the entire other end of town. Our long 21 mile day had turned into a 25 miler, but I guess we wouldn’t have met Steve and Peter if we’d stayed on the proper trail. We dined at the pub, with Lisa sampling her basic, but most favorite food of the trip so far—beans on a jacket potato. I opted for the locally made cumberland sausages and mashed potatoes and we watched the World Cup before heading to bed for a much needed rest in the ancient, old Manor House.

Day 5: Patterdale to Shap, 17 miles (Gordon’s Version)

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We awoke from our slumber at Greenbank farm aware that the nice 8 miles days of the past 48 hours were gone, replaced instead with a seventeen miler followed by a twenty-one miler. Oh well…. Our day began with myself popping a couple of advil for the ole bum knee and then climbing up one of the steepest ascents of the trip. The weather was quite cool in the morning, which was nice as we wouldn’t have wanted our sweat to soak through our bags too early in the day. Up, up, up the road we went until finally we stoped going up and instead (and more wisely as well) the trail decided to go around the big hills instead of over them. Waiting for us around each bend were spectacular views down into several valleys, with the glistening valley lakes hazily visible through light fog. Then around one corner we came to a little bit of heave in the shape of Angle Tarn (tarn=lake), a mountain top lake surrounded by grazing sheep and with a tent pitched right in the middle of the tarn on a little peninsula. The view was absolutely wonderful and scenic and I talked Lisa into enjoying it for awhile (my excuse for catching my breath). After a too brief repose, we headed off, following the trail around the Angle tarn and acrosse the saddle of the mountains, losing our way only briefly, before regaining the trail and heading up to our highest peak of the trip, Kidsty Pike at 2560 feet. The ascent up was not much to speak of as after the initial ascent our of Patterdale, we were already at a significant altitude. The view was….how shall I say….remarkably insufficient. The problem being that we the fog was covering the peak and only faint glimpse of the beyond could be gathered. Oh, well. We still felt good about our last large summit and headed down with our Californian friends. Downhill was always the worst part for Lisa and I. My knee always started hurting and it just wasn’t a pleasant experience trying to stop your body and a twenty pound pack from the desire of gravity. But this was our last descent for the day and we cautiously made our way down to the lake of Haweswater which we skirted around for 4 miles before emerging on the other side, out of the Lakes District and into the English country side. We walked for a few more miles, turning back every so ofter in the realization that at this point we were very happy to be away from all the climbing and descending, but also knowing we’d be missing those misty mornings. Just when all seem quite nice and less treacherous as we ambled through open pastures and fields we came through the path of some innocent looking cows. In most circumstances, cows are quite fearful of humans. They are big and meaty, and look dangerous, but most are quite docile. However, we caught this group of mothers with their babies in tow—and there is nothing more dangerous than a wild animal protecting the progeny. We walked into the field and got a funny feeling when the dead-eye stares began and the moos filled our ears. We were halfway through the field and thought we were doing well, when Lisa saw out of the corner of her eye udders jiggling and bouncing as a momma cow made her way a little too quickly toward. “Don’t look her in the eye!” I screamed back as our paced quickened to something short of a run. We stopped on the other edge of the field, hearts pounding and I crossed over the stile into a small river area where I expected Lisa to join me quite soon. Much to my chagrin, the only words I heard were “Gordon, can I see your camera? This cow has such a nice color.” I told her yes, but only if she came to the other side of the fence. She didn’t listen, so I gave here the camera, she took a coupld pictures, and we survived. We toured the Shap Abbey and then pounded our feet on the tarmac for another miles before arriving at New Ing Farm in Shap. A house where horses were used in the front lawn in lieu of lawn mowers. We showered, at some pub food, came back home and watched a little World Cup before falling asleep to nightmares of bovine madness.

Day 4: Grasmere to Patterdale, 8 miles (Lisa’s Version)

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For breakfast at the hostel we shared our English breakfasts in a cafeteria-style dining room from our red and blue lunch trays. It just wasn’t the same as a B&B. We ran into Al and Bill again (two retired teachers from Ohio) on our way out of town. We were all turned around and, as it turned out, so were they. We spotted them in someone’s driveway with furrowed brows studying maps, arms pointing, asking a resident for assistance. Once we all made it back to the path, our climb quickly turned steep. It was misty at first and by the top we were navigating through a dense fog. The heavy veil of fog made the whole hike feel like a dream. I was surprised when Gordon pointed out waves to our left and I realized we had been skirting along the shore of a lake. The lake and fog blended after a few feet and were barely indistinguishable. The land here is beautiful in all weather, it’s nice to have a little variety.

In Patterdale, we stayed at the Greenbank Farm, a 17th c. working farm. Our hostess Beverly, was telling us about their sheep, that they lambed 1800 (mothers) and are still in the process of counting and marking the lambs (potentially 3000, she said). She explained that if the weather is warm then the chemicals that they put on the sheep soaks into their skin too quickly and “they go all doo-lally in the head,” so it’s a slow process. One of the stripes on their back is to show who owns them and the other is a chemical to protect them from blue flies, a very nasty pest, I won’t go in to details. Gordon and I tried on all of the Herdwick wool hats (from their herds) that are knit by her friend. She also made a lovely cover for toilet paper rolls with a little lamb on top. Very cute. I would have bought five if not for our daily budget. We had dinner that evening at the White Lion pub, an impressive slim three-story building that stands alone on the side of a narrow street with expansive fields and mountains in the background, watched the England game, and shared a pot of tea. I’ve discovered that sharing a pot of tea with someone, namely Gordon, is delightful way to pass some time. There was a good crowd gathered around the T.V., a mixture of locals and some familiar faces – Al and Bill again, Melinda and Andrea from Washington state, and 2 of the Californians, Gary and Jeff. Earlier that day on the mountain, Jeff explained to Gordon and me that the 4 of them, Gary and Jen, Sarah and Jeff, were all implants, I mean, transplants, to California.

Day 3: Longthwaite to Grasmere, 8 miles (Gordon’s Version)

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Our tired, beleaguered, unthanksful bodies rose with much difficulty this day. We had just done 21 miles and had what appeared to be a meagre 8 more for today. Things seemed to be going pretty well as we cruised quickly by the riverside from Longthwaite up to Rosthwaite and then headed back down toward what we thought was the third city in the trio of the Borrowdale valley, Stonethwaite. Much to our legs’ disappointment we ended up right back at the bed and breakfast where we had stayed the night before! Whoops! No problem though, in a little over half a mile we were back on the right track hiking next to the stunningly beautiful Stonethwaite Beck. A ‘beck’ is a common word used for river in parts of England and this was no ordinary beck. The river we followed descended quite rapidly from the mountains we were steadily climbing. There were a few ‘forces’ or waterfalls, along the way that splattered over the shallow rock bed as we ascended. This part of the journey was quite easy. Huge boulder-like outcrops of rock hung precariously on mountaintops across Stonethwaite Beck to our right as we scampered up the left side of the river, through stone walls, across tributary stream and finally to to top of the hill dotted with drumlins. Though this hill was not by any means the end of the climb. As we would find out quite frequently during our little expedition, one hill usually hides behind it a second, third, or fourth climb that is invisible on the ascent of the first hill. So standing there before us at the top of Stonethwaite Beck was a steep climb up to the top of Lining Crag. I, Gordon, was not very happy with the prospect of what lay before us, especially with yesterday’s immense tiredness still running through my jello legs. It was all I could do to keep up with Lisa as she scurried over the not-so-well-worn path to the tip top of the crag. But once we arrived, what a view to behold. Even in the mist we could get glimpses down all the way to the Borrowdale valley where we had stayed the night previous. Even more important than the views, were the people we ran into at the top. For the first time we met four friends from California, who we were to run into daily for the rest of the trip. They were Gary and his sister Jen, and the married couple Jeff and Sarah. They set out before us, Gary particularly noticeable hobbling away amicably with his walking sticks and knee problems. We passed by the four again on the descent from Lining Crag after a little break savoring the view. Our path from here led across a boggy, boggy field extra moist from the misty air. Attempting to dodge the hidden sink holes that ravenously bit at your feet (and probably had swallowed some walker’s dog at some point), we made our way to safer ground and a more clear cut path after a mile of plateau walking. The descent in to Grasmere was equally as beautiful as the ascent to Lining Crag, this time with a meandering beck to our left, instead of the right. Down, down, down we walked. By this time, Gary’s knee problems had apparently been caught by me, as for the first time on the trip I could feel a slight twinge of pain in my left knee. But, alas, the walk must continue and we made our way down the moutain town a Grasmere, one of the most touristy, yet most pleasing villages on our trip. We pulled into the YHA Butharlip Howe (don’t ask me for a pronunciation guide here) and rested a bit before replenishing our famished stomachs with sandwiches, ciabatta and gallons of hot tea. We shopped around a bit, attempted to wash clothes, showered and laid down to rest for the night, unaware that the ‘drying room’ at the hostel did little of which its name suggest, the moniker ‘mildew room’ being a bit more appropriate. So we awoke in the morning to wet clothes and another day of misty mountain climbing.

Day 2: Moor Row to Longthwaite, 21 miles (Lisa’s Version)

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We had 21 miles ahead of us in order to reach Longthwaite. It was a long and beautiful day and walk. After a morning hike up the hill of Dent, our highest point reached thus far at 1131 feet, we caught our last glimpse of the Irish Sea, before heading down a forest road to the valley of Nannycatch. We stopped for soup and sandwiches after 8 miles to Ennerdale Bridge, and bought a few extra snacks since we would have to go without dinner that night. We walked by our first lake in the Lakes District after lunch and then through a manmade forest on a gravel road for a strenuous four miles. That’s when our feet really started to ache. Eventually we reached the Youth Hostel (YHA) Black Sail, a lovely hostel nestled at the base Loft Beck. We sat on a bench out front because no one was around and shared some cereal and raisins, rested our feet briefly, took a photo and prepared for the final third of our day’s journey. We climbed up Loft Beck and continued through sheep herds at 1950 feet, until we were standing in the middle of a ruined pile of shale, formerly an old house. There was a gravel path running straight though it and we took that road straight down into the valley by an old mine trail and passed a shale museum where we saw a helicopter take off. The sun was shining at 7 pm and the light was beginning to get soft. We had to pass a restaurant in Seatoller, the Yew Tree, that smelled like heaven in a cozy building. But we kept walking. The countryside was incredibly tranquil now, everything was so green with more and more stone walls and the sound of a nearby stream. We finally rounded a corner where we found the Gillercombe and were greeted briefly by our hostess. It was 8:40 pm, a perfect 12 hour hike for the day. We crashed in the bed and only stood up to take a bath in the extra long tub down the hall.

Monday, July 10, 2006

Day 1: June 22, St. Bees Head to Moor Row, 8 miles

It was rainy and the sea was choppy as our train pulled into the St. Bees station at about 11:30. This meant waiting around in a lifeless town until the pubs opened at noon. It was a cozy village and the weather seemed to have kept most people indoors as we dined in the quiet pub on sandwiches and soup. We set out at about 1:30pm for the 8 mile trek uninspired by exhaustion and the cold, wet weather. The first hill was a stark realization to how difficult the journey ahead was going to be as we huffed and puffed our way to to top of a mere 300 foot climb. But this day’s journey was level for the rest of the way and our dispositions improved considerably when we saw the sheep-filled pastures to our right (east) and we skirted the sea below to our left (west). A few miles in, we dipped down to the Irish sea again at a place called Feswick Bay where we gingerly dropped our toes into the icy water. The rest of the journey was stunningly gorgeous, although disrupted by gale force winds which consistently tested our balance on the treacherous, narrow path along the cliff line. The coastline turned eastward and we began to walk along it as a myriad of wild ferns surrounded our path. We left the coast behind after 5 miles to follow old farm roads, dip under a railroad track, and through a town to Moor Row, where we stayed in the Jasmine House. Lisa didn’t last until dinner time, collapsing on the bed at 7:30 pm while Gordon was taken into town by the property owners for fish and chips. The nights rest was peaceful and needed and as Lisa rose from hibernation we began day number two with a “full english breakfast” of grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, fried eggs, ham, black pudding, sausages, and beans, with toast, cereal, coffee, and tea to start. A proper meal with which to start a 21 mile journey.

**Note: After taking an hour to finish the preamble and first day, Lisa and I realized that perhaps it is best to write individual synopses of days. This would take the inherent frustration out of trying to combine two very different voices with very different writing styles. We are happy with this arrangement and hope you are too—after all, how many times did Truman Capote and Harper Lee work together? Yet they still maintained a fast friendship….enter Lisa:

A Coast-to-Coast Walk: 14 Days Trekking Across England

Pre-"”amble"”:

We arrived at the start of the walk exhausted from late nights antravelingng. We had been in Birmingham, England at a Ray LaMontagne/David Gray concert the night before and were up at 5:45 am to catch a train to St. Bees on the west coast of England on the Irish Sea. The concert was absolutely splendid. We arrived two hours before the show and stood on the very front row in the very center of the stage, no more than a few arm's lengths from Ray and David. Indeed, Ray'’s beard was actually within reach (see photos). We even got the set list from a feisty friend that we met who ripped it from the hands of one of the stewards. Thus we can reveal to you below the order of songs played by David Gray (encore included a rendition of Van Morrison'’s Brown Eyed Girl not originally included in the set list).

  • Alibi
  • Sail Away
  • Hospital Food
  • My Oh My
  • Now and Always
  • Life in Slow Motion
  • Please Forgive Me
  • Long Distance Call
  • Disappearing World
  • The One I Love
  • Nos Da Cariad
  • This Year's Love
  • Freedom
Encore!
  • Shine (Acoustic)
  • Brown Eyed Girl
  • Silver Lining
  • Lately
  • Babylon

Anyway, let'’s start walking!…

Friday, July 07, 2006

Home again....

Well with 192ish miles completed on our coast-to-coast walk, Lisa and I have happily and with great relief laid our bags down for the next few days. We'll update you with a day-by-day log of our 14 day odyssey. More to come......with pictures too!