Leaving Goa and arriving in Kolkata is like finishing afternoon tea and biscuits with your elderly aunt and then finding yourself at an all-night dance party. We arrived in the “City of Joy” in the early evening and caught a taxi to our hotel in the New Market area, where we were to join the rest of our party with whom we would shortly be heading into India’s interior for a week of ashram experience. The drive from the airport was an experience in itself, the streets heaving with people, vehicles and noise. So much noise. It was hot in Kolkata with the evenings the busiest time, throngs of local people wandering and taking in the market stalls. The mornings were quieter and cooler, and so we decided to head out early for a wander in the streets. Entering one of the local market buildings we were immediately befriended by a growing group of hangers on. If we visited a shop, everyone else came in too and entered into the spirit of selling and haggling. I think their job was to act as commission agents for the market shop-keepers. We bought a small buddha statue and a few other necessaries for our upcoming ashram visit – things like meditation cushions which turned to be a god-send, but more on that later . . . Two days after our arrival our group boarded the Janshadabdti Express at Howrah Junction, reputedly one of the world's busiest train stations. Our coolies staggered manfully under our very western looking luggage and somehow got us all on the right carriage. It wasn’t flash but it was air-conditioned. India train travel is an experience in itself – we lazily passed through towns and villages with staff walking up and down the carriages every five minutes selling cups of tea, snacks and, curiously, nail clippers and inner soles for your shoes. One young albino man came through on all-fours sweeping the carriage and then came around for tips – amazingly he has been doing that same job since he was a child. Rikiapeeth Ashram is set in a small rural village, around twelve km from the temple town of Deoghar. Its beginnings are a story in itself. A swami called Satyananda arrived in the area in 1989 with the purpose of living a life of seclusion, but that changed two years later when he began a mission to look after the local people. It was an area with a dire state of poverty – no roads or basic infrastructure, no formal education for the children and people going hungry. The mandate for the Ashram is “serve, love, give” and today the local villagers have access to stuff like healthcare, education, farm implements and seeds. The area now has functioning roads, electricity and phone coverage. Its inspiring. Jolanda and I were booked to study the Yoga chakras – led by Karma Karuna who runs the Anahata Retreat, situated in a beautiful mountain setting overlooking Golden Bay at the top of the South Island. If there is a better teacher around than Karma Karuna, then I have yet to meet them. She is an extraordinarily knowledgeable and humble person – having dedicated herself to a yogic lifestyle while raising a daughter and building a major yoga centre from scratch. Our typical day started at 4:45 when we woke and got ready to walk from our accommodation to the main teaching hall. After 90 minutes of yoga asanas we enjoyed a simple breakfast (we took turns serving), sitting on a hard tile floor and maintaining a morning silence. Our next lesson started at 9:30 – each day being devoted to one of the chakras (sort of like energy points in the body). After class we began our morning “seva” which is basically working for the good of the ashram and the community. I was on morning cleaning duties – sweeping out our accommodation. Our third class, yoga nidra and meditation, began shortly after lunch and then in the mid-afternoon we went to our second seva session of the day. Jolanda, with her physio training, helped out at the medical centre while I bagged rice – obviously my lack of any useful or practical skills making me an obvious candidate for this job. The bags of rice were to form part of a large assortment of gifts to be given to thousands of local villagers at a ceremony in December. There is so much that the Ashram does for the local people. During our week we saw dozens of elderly men and women wearing identical pairs of dark glasses, having just been provided cataract operations. One of the philosophies of the Ashram is to avoid simply distributing “stuff” – there is a sense that if the villagers are helped to help themselves, their future will be more secure. One large group of elderly ladies were paid to sing at the health centre – they were all widowed and hence at an extreme financial disadvantage in Indian society. It may seem churlish to be critical of an organisation that does so much good – but I did feel a sense that the villagers were sometimes treated more like children than partners in the community. Maybe unfair and if it’s a criticism, it’s a small one. So how do I feel, after a week of ashram life ? Well I feel washed out, but at the same time refreshed. I found the first two days incredibly hard – in fact I ended up in bed, being overcome with the heat and the newness of the place. I learnt so much about what it really means to be a yogi – which is so much more than stretching on the mat. Having humility, living consciously, focusing on the breath, having compassion . . .
“Shanti, shanti shanti – hari om” is an invocation we chanted daily, representing a hope for peace for ourselves, our community and the world. Sort of sums it up really. We are now in the train on or way back to Kolkata where we will eventually connect with our flight to Singapore and then on to New Zealand. After six and a half months of travel covering Australia, Indonesia, Spain, Mallorca, Portugal, The Netherlands, England, Ireland, Wales and India – I feel ready to return. Although it will take me quite some time to digest what I have experienced on this journey. Over and out . . .
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We departed Snowdonia after 9 magic days and made our way to Heathrow via Stoke on Trent, where we stayed for two nights. Hmmm not quite sure what to say about Stoke on Trent. It’s famous for its pottery works but probably not much else. There was a bit of an argument and scuffle going on at the bus-stop outside our Airbnb, followed an hour later by a bang of cars colliding and few more choice words. The CBD is pretty dire – much concrete and a few homeless people hanging around – at least I got to hand out some spare change. Jo and I decided to go on a long walk up one of the canals where you definitely see the place in a much better light – a sort of arty grunge . . . Air India was a good airline – depositing us after nine hours in Mumbai where we transferred to our flight to Goa. There was much furious stamping of passports, a forensic examination of our e-visas and taking of fingerprints at customs control – after which we trotted off down the green channel, past a few bored looking officials and emerged to the wonderful cacophony of people and sounds that is India. Our taxi ride from the airport was a bit like being on a roller-coaster, but without the safety harnesses. Our driver seemed to enjoy sticking as close as possible to the back bumper of the car in front (until he found a micro moment to pass), all with a continual blasting of the horn and a running commentary of the sights we were passing. It was certainly clear he didn’t like the many cows that nonchalantly blocked the road every ten minutes or so. Having travelled a bit in Asia we were fairly used to this mode of travelling (I still think the tuk-tuk divers in Colombo are the scariest) – besides which we hadn’t slept in about 24-hours and so it all seemed a bit surreal. At our destination, our quote of 1600 rupees (about $34 for the 90-minute journey) seemed to have risen to 1750 which then became problematic when Lewis Hamilton didn’t seem to have any change for my 2000 note. Suffice to say he got a tip for which I received the broadest smile ever. That small amount of money probably doubled his wages for that day. Goa is on the west coast of India. Up until 1961 it was controlled by Portugal and hence you spot remnants of those days, including many Catholic churches. It is renowned as a beach destination for international travellers – that is when it is in season. We cleverly picked our time in the middle of the monsoon time - it rained most days but for no more than an hour or so which cooled things down considerably. We loved roaming the streets – there are no pavements and so we simply wandered along the side of the roads, calmly noting the toots as well-meaning drivers warned us of their presence. The people are very laid back – not effusive in their greetings like the people of Bali or the Phillipines – more circumspect and chilled. We stayed in an older and cheaper hotel In Morjim – Papa Jolly’s Eco Retreat - which favoured style over modernity. What the “eco” was all about, we had no idea, but our room was amazing. The downside was the restaurant - a little soulless and deserted for most of the day. We gave the staff a hell of a fright when we trooped in on the first morning and there was a quite a long discussion on what we might want. No matter – just 300m down the road were two excellent cafes where we seemed to find ourselves for about fifty percent of our waking hours. Morjim Beach was simply beautiful, but so disappointing to see so much plastic rubbish washed up. We made a decent walk one early evening – the beach dotted with local families coming out to paddle or, in the case of one couple, furiously snog. There wasn’t a European looking tourist to be seen. All the dogs in the area seemed to have deserted their lazing-around spots in the middle of the road to park themselves on the beach to admire the sunset. The odd cow would progress past along with its owner and there was an excellent game of cricket going on. Would I come back to Goa? Well maybe but I wouldn’t rush. It was beautiful laid-back place but with all the shops and cafes catering for tourists I felt we weren’t really experiencing the real India. That’s to come as head off for the last week of our big adventure to experience Ashram life in India’s north . . .
Snowdonia is majestic with towering mountains, lakes, fast flowing streams and waterfalls – but you don’t come here for a tan. It was a short drive across from the Lake District to the village of Bethesda at the northern tip of Snowdonia National Park. Jolanda is booked into an Ayurveda course at the Snowdonia Mountain Lodge, owned and run by an organisation called Dru yoga. Dru was founded by a group of students at the nearby Bangor University around forty years ago and now has centres around the world. The Welsh centre in Snowdonia is set against a backdrop of towering mountains and is home to the UK's first peace flame monument. I have rented an Airbnb close by – an old miners cottage with heaps of character. After staying in so many holiday rentals around the world, I can definitely say my favourites are the quirky ones. It feels as though the owners of this place just popped out to the shops before I arrived – the rooms are filled with books and ornaments, cupboards and drawers packed full of personal possessions and family photos are everywhere. The result is somewhere that feels cosy and lived in . . . Snowdonia National Park is the largest of the three national parks in Wales, covers 2,100 square km and contains the highest peaks in the UK outside of Scotland. It’s an important conservation area. Interestingly one of major problems facing the park is the Rhododendron which has been increasingly taking over and stifling natural species. There are otters, polecats, and feral goat in the park – we saw a fair few goats. Danielle, in her usual high-flexibility style of travelling, turned up after a couple of days and so we have explored this beautiful part of Wales together. I have to admit becoming a bit of a charity shop fan. A few years ago you couldn’t get me in one, but with my new found enthusiasm for recycling I have come to actually enjoy the experience of “op” shopping. And Bangor (Wale’s oldest city and just a few km from our accommodation) is busting with them. British red Cross, Oxfam, Wales Air Ambulance, Cancer Research – they just go on and on up the High St. If I am an enthusiastic participant, Danielle is the undoubted Queen of charity shops – and so we spent a good morning checking out all the Bangor has to offer in terms of second hand clothing and other tat. Snowdonia is, of course, a mecca for tramping and hiking. We decided to travel to the Ogwen valley and walk up Mt Tryfan. We refrained from scrambling to the top due to high winds however the hike was simply stunning. From the Ogwen Visitors Centre (a visitors centre with strangely very little visitor information but with good sausage rolls) it is a steep ascent up to Llyn Bochlywd, “llyn” meaning lake in English. From the Llyn you can either head straight up to the summit of Tryfan, elevation of 918m, or skirt around the top which is what we did. An equally steep descent brought us down to the larger Llyn Ogwen where we made our way along a boggy track around the lake and back to the Visitors Centre. Our other walking highlight was the beautiful Aber Falls Valley. We started our walk in the picturesque village of Abergwyngregyn – heading on a well-formed path to the Aber Falls, a small but impressively high waterfall plunging into a deep pool surrounded by igneous rock. From the falls we returned to our car via a lesser travelled route along the other side of the valley which steadily rose to about 300m – at the end of which we were greeted with spectacular views of the North Wales coastline. The weather here has hovered around 16 degrees with a fair few showers and big cloud formations overhead. But it all lends to the atmosphere of Snowdonia where you can quickly leave the rest of the bustling UK behind and lose yourself in the stillness and majesty of this amazing countryside.
Our next stop, and last for the UK before leaving for India, will be a short two days in Stoke on Trent. Before this trip I had never been to Newcastle, albeit I did have an opportunity whilst working in London in the early 90s. The Insurance company I was working for underwrote risk in the business sector and my role was to accompany the underwriters to assess the credit worthiness of UK steel companies, large and small. One particular underwriter, Tim, was one of those typical London finance execs of the time – one who believed the secret to understanding risk was to take clients out for very long lunches. I was, of course, an enthusiastic party to a great many of these sessions – but alas I was only just getting over a hangover from one particularly momentous lunch when the offer came to travel to Newcastle. I had to decline. Jo and I flew direct to Newcastle from Dublin and stayed with very good old friends Claudia and Geoff. Claudia was one of the original members of the Wellington Dutch Mother and baby group set up by Jolanda in the mid 90s. Claudia and Geoff live in a gorgeous old farmhouse in a village called Prudhoe on the outskirts of Newcastle – with rolling hills and farmland as a backdrop. Claudia is an excellent artist and textile designer – Geoff a tutor, gardener and budding beekeeper. One of the reasons for visiting Newcastle was to delve a little into my family tree. My Granny, who I was very close to, grew up in a house at 94 Osborne Rd. She married a naval officer and so also ended up returning to the family home when my Grandfather was at sea on exercises. She wrote a fascinating commentary on life growing up in Newcastle which we re-read whilst in Newcastle. The family home had five bedrooms, two nurseries and housed the family of seven plus at least 3-4 servants. Incredibly, but not incredible for the time, there was only one bathroom. Granny had great memories of the window washer removing the coaly grime, organ grinders and their monkeys, the cullercoats fishwives delivering fish (most food was delivered in those days) and general goings-on in the household and on the street. Osborne Rd is now quite a trendy area of Newcastle with cafes, shops, bars and many small hotels. We visited the house which has been turned into apartments (we counted ten doorbells) and wandered around the neighbourhood – including of course a visit to yet another charity shop where we added to our burgeoning collection of clothes for travelling. From Osborne Rd we travelled to the village of Ryton where my Great Great Grandfather was the rector. We found the Rectory house which is simply enormous (Granny remembers there being twelve bedrooms) situated next to the picturesque Holy Cross Church. The house was built in the time of Henry VIII and added onto over the years. It’s now spilt into two adjoining residences - knocking at both doors we introduced ourselves and were welcomed in for a coffee. An elderly gentleman called Robert remembered my Granny coming to visit many years ago and knew a lot about the history of the building. Amazingly we were shown a window with the name “Ella Baily” scratched into the pane – we later found out this was Granny’s aunt. Obviously those windows were fitted to last in those days . . . By the way, the photo at the beginning of this blog is taken in front of Ryton Rectory. My Great Great Grandfather is the one with the impressive beard seated in the middle. My Granny is at the bottom left.
The rest of our time in Geordie Land was spent feeling a little under the weather – both of us still getting over the bug we had picked up in Ireland. My recovery of course wasn’t helped after an evening with Geoff on the whiskey. But we couldn’t have picked a nicer and more welcoming atmosphere to convalesce in – see you in New Zealand in the new year Claudia and Geoff . . . From Newcastle our next destination is North Wales via a short stop in the Lake District . . . From the Netherlands to Ireland. Despite living in the UK together for almost four years in the 90s Jo and I never visited Ireland, instead taking the opportunity to head east to the Continent during our time off. A short 75-minute hop from Schipol to Dublin reminded us how easy it is to travel and how relatively close everything is in Europe. Dublin is seriously cool. With a population of 1.2 million (fifty percent aged under 25 which makes it the youngest city in Europe), Dublin sits on Ireland’s east coast at the mouth of the River Liffey. And with ten million pints of Guinness produced daily, it’s easy to understand Dublin’s popularity as a place to live and visit. We stayed with Mary who we met on a yoga retreat at Takaka at the top of New Zealand’s South Island. We phoned Mary just a few days before arriving and got told to cancel our bookings and stay with her. So there you are . . . Mary lives in Ballsbridge in a gated community (there are many in Dublin). From there we strolled into the city centre where we headed to Trinity College, officially the “College of the Holy and Undivided Trinity of Queen Elizabeth near Dublin” but try saying that after a few Guinnesses . . . Trinity College is Ireland’s oldest university and was established in 1592, modelled on Oxford and Cambridge. The Book of Kells is the main drawcard for tourists – an illuminated gospel book created around 800 a.d and described by some as the world’s most important medieval manuscript. To be honest I found it hard to get excited about a book behind glass surrounded by a crammed multitude of tourists. What really made it for me though was the magnificent long room in the old library – towering shelves of bound books housed in an oak panelled room. It was sort of like one enormous man cave and I felt like finding a leather armchair to browse a few of the books with a decent accompanying snifter of whisky. Not that one was on offer . . . I celebrated my birthday in Dublin accompanied by Jo and Mary. I opted for a traditional pub called the Bridge, which, filled with a great selection of craft beer, was definitely my kind of place. Gaelic football was on the TV, volubly watched by a number of the patrons. The sport is very similar to Aussie rules but played with a round ball - similar to volleyball. And just as thuggish . . . From Dublin we drove across the country to Westport, on the west coast. I was looking forward to sampling some country town atmosphere with music and a bit of craic. But as often happens with expectations, they were curtailed when I fell ill – and so my recollection of five days in Westport was largely of our Airbnb, a cute little farm cottage on the outskirts of town. Oh well – if you have to fall sick, there are worse places to do so than in the beautiful green countryside of Ireland . . . From Westport it was back to Dublin for a night staying at All Hallows, a University hall of residence made available for tourists during the summer break. The place reminded me of Knox college in Dunedin – heaps of character with its oak panelling and architecture designed in a day when style counted over function. Strangely, to stay at this magnificent building was far cheaper than any of the available alternatives close to Dublin airport. We felt privileged. From Dublin our next stop is Newcastle - Geordie country . . .
The busiest and most densely populated area of Holland is known as the Randstad – a “megalopolis” as described by Wikipedia - containing the four largest cities of Amsterdam, Utrecht, Rotterdam and The Hague. While the area can at times resemble one large urban sprawl, it does have pockets of real beauty, one of which is the city of Weesp – our destination for four weeks. I say “city” because that is Weesp’s official designation (a “stad” in Dutch) but it really more resembles a town (population of around 18,000). Curiously, the Hague with a population of about half a million is designated a village (“dorp”) – there is much analysis of this matter on the web, but for the time being let’s just leave it there . . Situated just 15 minutes by train from Amsterdam Central and with a picturesque centre full of canals, shops and cafes, it’s a wonder tourists haven’t discovered Weesp in droves. We rented an Airbnb apartment for around 50 euro per night (about $NZ 80). It was admittedly tiny but in a great location, next to a canal and 2 minutes from the centre. There is no way we could have hired anything similar in Amsterdam for less than three times that amount. Within 24 hours we had two bikes – one second-hand from a bike shop (of which there are unbelievably five in the town) and one from Marktplaats – the Dutch equivalent to New Zealand’s Trademe. Weesp is adjacent to a number of “plassen” (small lakes), some of which originated from the extraction of peat many years ago, peat being once used for fuel and construction. Anyway the result today is an area well suited to walking and biking with many spots to stop and swim. I went through my usual nervous transition getting used to biking on the right . . . While in Weesp we made a side visit to the Hoge Veluwe National Park – 55 square km which, by Dutch standards, is big. At each of the three entry points you can take your pick of one of hundreds of white bikes, provided to visitors for free. The highlight of the park, for me anyway, was the Kröller Müller Museum which houses the second largest collection of Van Goghs outside of the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam. The art was purchased by Helene Kröller Müller, from a wealthy industrial family, who donated the entire collection to the Dutch people in 1935. The sculpture garden was my favourite. From Weesp to Amsterdam, gratefully house-sitting in an apartment of friends on holiday. We are in the Staatsliedenbuurt which is slightly north west of the main centre – sitting five stories high with views overlooking two intersecting canals. It’s a perfect location, just 10 minutes or so from the Jordaan (formerly a working-class area but now full of upscale shops and cafes) and a short bike ride to the Westerpark. I lived in Amsterdam with Jolanda about 29 years ago and back then it was far quieter, with less tourists and generally a nicer experience than it is now. The smell of marijuana is almost everywhere and, in some places, overpowering. There are complaints from Amsterdam residents – on matters such the predominance of shops catering to tourists but little in the way of basic necessities - hardware stores, chemists, post offices and the like. Airbnb has become so popular that investors have been buying Amsterdam houses and apartments to rent to tourists, thereby making it unaffordable for those wanting to buy a first home. A new law has come into place whereby you can only rent a holiday apartment for a maximum of 2 months per year. It's an interesting insight into the question of when does tourism turn from being an economic advantage to a social disadvantage?
I kicked off my return to London, after more than ten years, with something definitely new for me. I had been looking for a course and by accident spotted a conference hosted by the UK Feng Shui Society. At 80 GBP for the day I thought why not . . . A couple of the talks went completely over my head, however one by Simon Brown (president of the Society) was brilliant. Aimed at those new to Feng Shui, Simon talked about the harmony between humans and nature and how everything and everybody share the same energies. Maximising the use of energies in your home therefore seems to make sense. Making best use of the sun, (the largest source of energy), using mirrors, plants, colours and of course our own energy all combine to make a home feel right. Clutter disrupts energy flows – which pretty much makes sense. Except if it’s my clutter of course. My first two nights in London were based in the Euston area, a stones-throw from the conference venue, and which I also used as a base to reconnect with the area I sort of remembered when I was five. William Goodenough House (where we lived in a two bedroomed apartment) is still there with its gated park opposite. And so is my primary school – St George the Martyr which, funnily enough, I could retrace my steps. It was a sunny and clear Sunday and I realised, not for the first time, how many parks and open spaces London possesses. 25% of the city according to my mate Jane. I visited the newly-weds Jane and Andrew, and Monty the dog, in their apartment in Stepney. They have a fabulous view down Regents Canal in what is a more gentrified area in E1 than I had remembered. We drank far too much wine and had a great evening with Thai takeaways, reminiscing and planning. I also caught up with Stephen and Tracy - living in New York and in London for the week for Stephen’s Board meeting. I decided to bike over to their hotel in Park Lane using the Santander bike share service. Using your contactless credit card you can hire a bike (which you could describe as sturdy rather than sleek) for two pounds. So there I was weaving my way in and out of the London traffic down busy Oxford St – clutching my iphone and listening for Siri’s instructions. I have decided I need to change Siri’s accent from Australian by the way. My final catch-up was with Anna, a colleague from the Electricity Commission and EECA. A long Friday lunch in Chelsea . . . Anna worked with me in the same team as Jane - joining after Jane left. Great times. For the first time I found myself in London purely as a tourist. Not working or travelling on business – free as a bird with no agenda. Now that might seem ideal - but in London, with so much to see and do, you risk leaving with regrets. So aside from retracing my past, catching up with old mates and feng shui-ing I decided to focus on three things: the arts the west-end and historical stuff. For my arts binge I headed over to the Tate Modern – a simply enormous museum of contemporary art on the south bank of the River Thames. It’s based in the former Bankside power station with four floors ranging from the truly spectacular to downright weird. I also visited the Design Museum just off High Street Kensington – devoted to contemporary design and architecture. The exhibit on the design of London’s transport system was super interesting. I was so into it I even sat down for a geeky half hour with a book on fonts . . . Like the Tate Modern, this was yet another free museum in Central London. Honestly you don’t need to spend a lot of money in London to be royally entertained. And in keeping with my free art theme I decided to detour past Brick Lane, which not only boasts some of the UK’s best Indian restaurants but also graffiti street art. For my West End theme I headed off with Danielle and her mate Madi to see “Everybody’s Talking about Jamie” – a musical about a sixteen-year old living in Sheffield with designs to become a drag queen. It’s a sort of Billy Elliot plot with a drag twist – great music and dancing and a standing ovation at the end. And for my history binge, which sounds all a bit ho-hum after my Sheffield drag queen story, I went to the British Museum in Bloomsbury. I know the museum has been going for 200 years and reportedly houses some of the world’s greatest collections of antiquities – but I just couldn’t get into it. For one thing, many of the collections raise the question of whether it is appropriate to maintain ownership of items that have a cultural significance to another country. The Greek government, for example, has long been arguing for the return of the Elgin Marbles which once adorned the Parthenon. And another thing – the Museum was packed, and I couldn’t find a seat in the cafe. I had been in London for a week, and on a whim decided to go to Brighton for my last two nights. I remembered Brighton, from 29 years ago, as slightly dull with the most depressing beach front ever. Well the beach front has definitely not changed – but away from the beach tat Brighton is now one funky place. It’s the UK’s unofficial LGBT capital and has more vegan cafes than you can shake a stick at. I’m not into shopping – but I have to say, the Lanes in the historic quarter are jam packed with the quirkiest places – including one massive flea market. I rued the fact I only have about 1kg headroom in my luggage – there is so much daggy stuff I could easily have purchased - old maps, vintage cameras, overstuffed arm-chairs (well I was admittedly never going to fit one of those in my bag) and art. So for the time being (we may return later in August) it’s goodbye to the UK. Next stop the Netherlands where I reconnect with Jolanda.
I had been hankering to visit the Lake District as part of our trip. I was first there around 49 years ago - in Ullswater with my family, although at the age of 5 you don’t remember much. Roll on 20 years to 1990, when Jo had I had only just started going out - we were there with a bunch of our London friends at Christmas. Sharing our joint situation of being without family at a time when other people in the UK were partying with loved ones. And then again in late 1994 – with a very pregnant Jo, celebrating our last couple of months being childless. And so with Jo and Danielle booked on a three-week yoga and volunteering retreat in Portugal I found myself alone, touching down at Manchester airport and driving up the M6 to my first destination - the tiny village of Bouth in the southern Lake District. Places in the UK can be small, and depending on how small they are, there will be reduced numbers of services and shops, until you get to the very smallest, like Bouth. And that will be a place with just a pub. Aaah I like this country . . . Bouth is situated at the foot of Lake Windemere, in the midst of rolling green farmland and walking tracks. Cragg cottage is just your quintessential old country cottage with 200-year exposed beams, an open fire (yes in late May it’s still cold) and a tiny country garden. Oh and wifi which, while welcome, seems sort of out of place in this quiet and natural spot. My first week’s highlights included an awesome walk at Coniston Water. And by the way you don’t refer to “Lakes” here – everything is either a “Water”, “Mere” or “Tarn”. Excepting Bassenthwaite Lake just so we all clear on that point. Anyway, Coniston Water was on my list of must-dos supplied by Bob, my unofficial tour guide back in New Zealand. I walked up the Coppermine valley where quarrying is thought to have started back in Roman times. The weather was clear, cloudy and with the slightest hint of drizzle, which by the way summed up things for just about the majority of my stay. After reaching a lone youth hostel at the head of the valley I returned via the saddle of Coniston which provided stunning views back over the waters and with a glimpse of Windemere in the distance. Magic. During my time travelling on my own I was determined to see and do as much as possible. And so I developed a daily regiment of yoga, writing, studying and walking. The studying part refers to life coaching, something I have thought about for some time. My professional career to date has included a number of start-ups and change programmes. And it’s always been the people side of this work that I have gravitated to. Undertaking formal coaching training therefore might be a way I can do more of this – both potentially in paid and volunteer work . . . Other highlights of my first week included a visit to Blackwell – an Arts and Crafts House close to Windemere. I know that term conjures up images of teapot snugs and dolls clothes however nothing could be further from the truth. The Arts and Crafts movement, beginning in Britain in the early 1900s, was essentially a bridge between more traditional furnishings considered overly ornate and those that were beginning to be mass produced in factories. The outcome was a new style which was more modernist, simple and functional – but not at the expense of quality. And above all, everything had to synch – with the rest of the house and the environment within which the house sat. The outcome was just superb. I stayed far longer than I had intended – seduced by the cosiness and simplicity of the place. I could have lived there . . . After a week in the Lake District I decided I wasn’t yet ready to leave, and so moved to the village of Ings – close to Windemere and Ambleside but still with that country feel. I stayed at another cottage – they do cottages well over here . . . I had been warned by Bob to avoid Bowness on Windemere, and so purely being curious, and a bit obstinate, I decided to pop over to take a look. The Lake District’s most popular tourist destination is quite a shock to the system when you first arrive. Coming from walking deserted fells to experiencing clogged pavements with trains of overseas tourists following flag-bearing guides takes some getting used to. There is obviously a love affair here with Beatrix Potter (or Beatrix f**king Potter as Bob refers to her) who lived and wrote here. I resisted the temptation to purchase a Beatrix Potter tea towel and instead used my time to do some practical things such as getting my hair cut and posting my wedding suit back to New Zealand. The rest of my second week passed much like the first. The undoubted highlight however was my trekking in the Langdale Pikes. The walk begins about 20 minutes from Ambleside near the Stickle Barn pub (oh yes I had my eye on that place for after) and heads up a step gradient to a beautiful Tarn. I noticed most other walkers armed with maps and compasses at this stage – but, not to worry, I had my iphone. I dutifully followed Siri’s directions until I became a little concerned to find myself in the middle of an amazing mountain vista with none of my fellow hikers in sight. The remainder of my walk/climb consisted of studying my environment, spying other hikers, scaling and scrambling up bare rock, navigating great boggy expanses and finally slip/sliding down a mountain stream to re-join the road – about 3km from the best beer ever. The most awesome, thrilling and challenging hike I have ever attempted. 201 floors and 17km according to Siri. From the Lake District I head back to Manchester in the car and then on the train to London for my last week before catching up again with Jo in NL.
From the Sera de Estrela mountains to a wedding at Amarante to the night life of Porto . . .5/27/2019 From the Fishermen’s Trail we headed north again – back past Lisbon and up into the Sera de Estrela mountains to a small village called Sabugueiro. Not content with being Portugal’s highest village, we somehow ended up in an Airbnb at the village’s highest point, accessible by a single cobbled track which seemed almost vertical. I decided to give it a go in the rental car and, accompanied by some sharp intakes of breath from my less than trusting passengers, we made it. Casa Alcina is an awesome two-bedroom apartment with a long balcony designed for sitting, viewing the mountains and blissfully not much else. If you ever want to visit a place where time virtually stands still, visit Sabugueiro. The goat herder brought his charges down our lane each evening, elderly couples worked their vegetable patches and others basically just sat and stared. Staring is a national pastime in Portugal by the way . . . Our host, Alcina invited us on a trek the following day in the mountains. We drove to an old hydro-electric dam and from there hiked around 10 km through the most awesome mountain scenery to a place called Cavão Dos Conchos. When the dam was being constructed, the engineers decided to connect the main lake with a second via an underground tunnel. And at that second lake, a sink-hole was built to provide nearby communities with fresh water. It really was the most surreal sight, with plants growing around the edges and no external infrastructure in sight. I have to say there was also an absence of health and safety barriers and signage. Maybe it’s sort of obvious you shouldn’t swim next to a sink hole where one risks getting sucked into a labyrinth of underground pipes. Interestingly, the place was virtually unknown until about 2016 when the first photos hit the internet. From Sabugueiro it was an easy drive to our next destination, Amarante, a town of around 60,000 where Jo spent a year in 1988 as a volunteer physiotherapist at Cerci Amarante, a school for kids with development difficulties. I briefly visited Amarante back in 1990 with Jo, and so 29 years later, here we were again. My memory of Amarante was of a sleepy, yet picturesque little town with the river Tâmega running through its middle. It has certainly changed since then with a new toll-motorway linking Porto, making what was once a two-hour grind now just a 40-minute drive. There are certainly signs of commercial activity – new apartment blocks, shops and a beautiful hotel on the river-front resurrected from an abandoned sixteenth century manor building. Yet for all that, Amarante still retains its former charm and laid-backness. It really is a beautiful place. We stayed in quite a grand Airbnb house – formerly the home of a Portuguese diplomat. The estate once stretched many hectares but has since been reduced to around an acre which is planted out in grapes, fruit trees and veges. Portugal is so much cheaper than Spain – this beautiful house cost us not much more than our hostel room in Palma de Mallorca. We felt like Amarante royalty. In one of those quirks of travel and circumstance, my old friend Jane Boardman had invited us to her wedding in Monverde Vineyard – just 15 minutes from Amarante. I had worked with Jane at the Electricity Commission in a team set up to drive electricity efficiency across New Zealand homes and businesses. We had kept in touch, including tackling the 160km Lake Taupo bike challenge, and it was so nice to be invited to celebrate her marriage to Andrew Imlach. Monverde is jaw-dropping. It’s kind of out of place in this rural area with its swimming pools, spa, restaurants and luxury accommodation. Not that we were complaining of course. The wedding lasted three days – drinks and dinner in the vineyard on the first night, the wedding ceremony and formal dinner on day two with the traditional barbecue after-match on day three. It was just amazing, and we felt grateful to be invited. The remainder of our time in Amarante was spent wandering the streets, walking an abandoned railway track in the country, going to the market and catching up with old friends. Thirty years ago, Jolanda worked at Cerci with a lady called Suzy and so it was special they could re-connect. The three of us joined Suzy’s family for dinner at their place – which we later found out was also a birthday party for Suzy’s twenty-five-year-old son. After nine days in Amarante we journeyed to the city of Porto, located on the Douro River and home to many of Portugal’s port wine companies. We organised a basic but nice Airbnb apartment overlooking the river – only to find out that a major concert was planned for both evenings of our stay - about 500m away. Well that was an experience . . . Porto is a magical city. Full of history and quirkiness. We visited the São Bento railway station which boasts some 20,000 azulejos (tiles) depicting Portugal’s past. Jo showed us the coffee shop and hotel she once frequented – the former now having turned into a MacDonalds. The highlight though was a visit to Lavaria Lello – Porto’s famous bookshop which was supposedly used as inspiration by JK Rowling when developing the Harry Potter stories. The shop was sumptuous (I can’t think of a better word) with a very Harry Potter like staircase ascending to the second floor. The shop is so popular it costs five euros just to visit – imagine having a queue of people outside your business all day willing to pay for the privilege of simply looking . . . ! My time in Portugal has come to an end and for the next three weeks, Jo, Danielle and I part ways. Jo and Danielle staying in Portugal to attend and volunteer at a yoga retreat while I head off to the Lake District to write and continue my online studies to hopefully become a life coach . . .
Despite telling everyone our 2019 travels would be free from pre-planning, we did decide in advance to walk the Fisherman’s Trail in south west Portugal with our daughter Danielle. And so on Saturday May 4th Jo and I were at Lisbon Airport eagerly awaiting Danielle’s arrival from the Philippines. Being a frugal traveller, Danielle had chosen an itinerary which lasted nearly two days and included three stopovers - our expectation therefore was to be greeting a slightly grumpy, tired traveller (it’s happened before, believe me). In fact it was quite the reverse . . . We picked up our rental car which turned out to be a brand new 5 series BMW. OMG I have never driven such a beautiful car. European cars are so expensive in New Zealand whereas everyone here seems to be driving around in a Merc or something else exotic. I have no idea what all the buttons do – but I am very happy they are all there, gleaming in quite a self-important manner. OK, yes we could have got something cheaper but what the hell – you only live once . . . From Lisbon to Porto Covo, the start of the Fisherman’s trail, is around 170km which takes surprisingly little time on the excellent Portuguese toll roads. The speed limit is 120 km/hr and, if you happen to be so diligent as to actually travel at that speed, everyone else simply roars past you. Porto Covo is an old fisherman’s village (“covo” referring to a fishing net) and our Airbnb apartment had a great view over the small natural inlet where a few fishing boats still anchor. There are only around 1,000 people living in the village, but there are signs that tourism is a big thing here, judging by the number of restaurants and shops. Surprisingly there were very few tourists to be seen – both in Porto Covo and on the trail – given the almost perfect temperatures for walking. In mid-summer it apparently gets blisteringly hot. The Fisherman’s Trail runs for 80km from Porto Covo in the north to Odeceixe in the south and is actually part of the longer Rota Vicentina trail. The Fisherman’s trail section is popular as it runs virtually all the way along the sea front, taking in some spectacular views of Portugal’s wild Atlantic coast. It runs through a number of small villages and towns, has a reasonable amount of climbing and is, for the most part, sandy. Walking on sand all day is actually tough and so we were constantly searching for firmer ground. One surprising aspect of the walk was the number of abandoned buildings decorated with the most amazing murals. Danielle, that fit little bugger, walked the whole length of the trail in five days with Jo and I tag teaming. We would drive each day to the start of the section and whoever wasn’t walking that day would pick up the others at the end. After five nights in Porto Covo we moved to the village of Odeceixe at the end of the trail. It was great to relax out on the town after our last day of walking – we all had a bit too much of the Port wine that night . . . Next stage of our journey takes us 400km from the coast to the mountainous region of Sera da Estrala.
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AuthorHi - I'm Richard Norris. Jolanda and I are heading off overseas for another adventure in 2019. No real formal plans - but definitely a desire to seek something different . . . Archives
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