A good traveller has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.
-Lao Tsu
Now comes the part where not having any money at all teaches me how to be alive.
Wednesday, August 27
Monday, August 25
Tuesday, August 19
PICTURES! Part I: The UK
I'll go ahead and apologize for the really stubborn bits of dust that managed to lodge themselves in my camera a few weeks in. I hope you enjoy. If you could when the slideshow starts, click "options" at top right and select both options so you get my comments. That's five blog posts in a few days!! Can't say I'm not trying.
http://flickr.com/photos/mjunes/sets/72157606824524404/show/
http://flickr.com/photos/mjunes/sets/72157606824524404/show/
Hebrides ....part ii
OK so I set out on the A87 not really bothering to poke out my thumb yet; even so, I was picked up by a decorated woman of 50 by the name of Rose. I guess she commiserated since her husband, a full Appalachian Trail vet, was at the moment hiking the Highlands and she said my road was shit for walking anyway. One of the first things I learned about Rose is that she's a big fan of anime...plush Totoros everywhere! What the hell was happening? Why were all the Skyedwellers so untraditional and brilliant and alive? She had a laughing personality laced with that British sarcasm and it was all tied up in a breathtaking mountain home named Katie's Cottage. It sits by the jagged Black Cuillin mountains and is pretty much perfect...hitchhiking 1, caution 0.
But before I get to that I must say that the original plan was for me to camp at the foot of the Black Cuillins and continue on in the morning. She drove me to the perfect spot and as soon as I stepped out of the car it happened. We were breathing midges. They whiz around you and begin to madly feast on any and every part of your body. It's said around here that a swarm of midges can actually kill you, because you begin to panic and actually lose your mind, and then who knows what precarious cliff or passing truck that fate could come up with for you. I began madly search for my bug spray...where the hell was it??? Rose just laughed and said she'd drive me to hers; she just "couldn't leave someone in the middle of a midgefest." As my aching body was covered with dead midge, I had a right steamy shower when we got to the Cottage. She showed me to the bathroom and asked, "You don't mind spiders, do you?" Um...of course not? The bathroom window is filled with a spectacular array of spiderwebs and a handful of spiders, all named by Rose. "I just love them! They live there and if you're lucky they might just come down for a wee chat!"
She offered to keep me for the night. I personally didn't ever want to leave. The Katie in Katie's cottage is actually an 81-year-old woman who lives in the second, "next-door" structure. She struggled over to see us. Frail, hard on hearing, stubborn, happy to live alone--Katie is what you could call "the real deal." Her first language is Gaelic. She comes from a crofting family. She's lived on Skye almost her whole life. Anyway after she left, I had some homemade beer from Rose. My meals there were all made with homemade this and local that...this really did seem like the perfect place. In the morning she loaded me up with water, bug spray, magical anti-itching beans, pain killers. My next stop was the quaint Portree, largest town on Skye. I wrote by the docks. I listened to some dreadful bagpiping in the village square. I washed my clothes at a laundrette and met an amiable Scot named Blair. Blair was on holiday and didn't have much to do, so I gladly accepted his offer to cruise around the north shores of the island. Enter some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. You really almost get used to it here. When we got to the port town Uig, he bought me chips and that Cuillin beer which was brewed on the other side of the car park. We chatted up some of the bartendresses (only time in my life a bartender has asked if I wanted a smoke) and talked about girls and life. I know I'm in Britain. I know Britain is basically just a more traditional, smaller, older America. I know there aren't any mud huts. But I don't think there's anywhere you can travel where people aren't just like you. We're defined by the times, not by the distances.
Haaaaaaaaaa-hahaha!!! I wound up on the isle of Harris and Lewis and couldn't be happier with life right now. Life is perfect. I am now a creature of chance. I take chances. I love chance and this trip can go to hell if it doesn't rely heavily on chances because my chances have been good. Just put up there the possibility of luck taking you and fate takes over. Trips take you, yes sir. I hitched only a few miles yesterday to go back to Rhenigidale since I'd forgotten my ukulele. A good-ol'-boy-if-they-can-be-called-that Scot, nearly midaged and balding and calling himself Brian picked me up in a white utility van. He was heading back to pick up his mates who were all finishing some plasterwork. Three true blue collar (labour party?) guys--they cussed like sailors, they put faith in one another, they lived fully. On the way out Mal showed me the nude model that appears on page three of every Scottish Sun. They said that since they'd finished ahead of schedule they were relaxing on the island for a couple days. I thought that these guys had pretty much mastered living.
The next day I had a restorative three hours on the internet free and did my three posts from the other day. Then caught the bus for Luskentyre on the other side of the island. I wanted to see these beautiful Harris beaches on the west coast. You walk up a grassy path dotted with the occasional rustic cottage. Slowly the path unfolds to you that behind this country hill scene between the ranges lies one of the most exquisite white on teal beaches you've ever seen. I've only just been initiated but all the locals and regulars there must just laugh with each other in the eternal inside joke about all the other beaches in the world. Nobody expects this to be here! In Scotland? But one of the locals reckons it's the third nicest beach in Europe, whatever that means. It's certainly the most magical place I've been in many years. I walked down the beach as the sun set, just free in life and alone for a month now. I returned and I hear some men laughing just over a dune. I looked up and see a youth, bald man, and scruffy beefy guy. My plasterer boys!! Small island, I guess. They were happy to see me too and enjoyed my company that night as we just manned it up, "bro'd hard," you could say. That night I camped on the deserted beach, one of the true high points of my life. The next day we all fished off the rocks and Brian caught a starfish and a Pollack.
My time on the Hebrides is over and now I'm in Edinburgh at my friend Maciek's for the week. We met in Stornoway and he said I absolutely had to see the city during the festival. That festival is the month-long Edinburgh International Festival, the largest art, music, and theater festival in Europe. My birthday is on Friday. Haha. Don't forget to um...think happy thoughts for me. I'll try to find some kind of button and find a pretty girl to kiss me.
But before I get to that I must say that the original plan was for me to camp at the foot of the Black Cuillins and continue on in the morning. She drove me to the perfect spot and as soon as I stepped out of the car it happened. We were breathing midges. They whiz around you and begin to madly feast on any and every part of your body. It's said around here that a swarm of midges can actually kill you, because you begin to panic and actually lose your mind, and then who knows what precarious cliff or passing truck that fate could come up with for you. I began madly search for my bug spray...where the hell was it??? Rose just laughed and said she'd drive me to hers; she just "couldn't leave someone in the middle of a midgefest." As my aching body was covered with dead midge, I had a right steamy shower when we got to the Cottage. She showed me to the bathroom and asked, "You don't mind spiders, do you?" Um...of course not? The bathroom window is filled with a spectacular array of spiderwebs and a handful of spiders, all named by Rose. "I just love them! They live there and if you're lucky they might just come down for a wee chat!"
She offered to keep me for the night. I personally didn't ever want to leave. The Katie in Katie's cottage is actually an 81-year-old woman who lives in the second, "next-door" structure. She struggled over to see us. Frail, hard on hearing, stubborn, happy to live alone--Katie is what you could call "the real deal." Her first language is Gaelic. She comes from a crofting family. She's lived on Skye almost her whole life. Anyway after she left, I had some homemade beer from Rose. My meals there were all made with homemade this and local that...this really did seem like the perfect place. In the morning she loaded me up with water, bug spray, magical anti-itching beans, pain killers. My next stop was the quaint Portree, largest town on Skye. I wrote by the docks. I listened to some dreadful bagpiping in the village square. I washed my clothes at a laundrette and met an amiable Scot named Blair. Blair was on holiday and didn't have much to do, so I gladly accepted his offer to cruise around the north shores of the island. Enter some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. You really almost get used to it here. When we got to the port town Uig, he bought me chips and that Cuillin beer which was brewed on the other side of the car park. We chatted up some of the bartendresses (only time in my life a bartender has asked if I wanted a smoke) and talked about girls and life. I know I'm in Britain. I know Britain is basically just a more traditional, smaller, older America. I know there aren't any mud huts. But I don't think there's anywhere you can travel where people aren't just like you. We're defined by the times, not by the distances.
Haaaaaaaaaa-hahaha!!! I wound up on the isle of Harris and Lewis and couldn't be happier with life right now. Life is perfect. I am now a creature of chance. I take chances. I love chance and this trip can go to hell if it doesn't rely heavily on chances because my chances have been good. Just put up there the possibility of luck taking you and fate takes over. Trips take you, yes sir. I hitched only a few miles yesterday to go back to Rhenigidale since I'd forgotten my ukulele. A good-ol'-boy-if-they-can-be-called-that Scot, nearly midaged and balding and calling himself Brian picked me up in a white utility van. He was heading back to pick up his mates who were all finishing some plasterwork. Three true blue collar (labour party?) guys--they cussed like sailors, they put faith in one another, they lived fully. On the way out Mal showed me the nude model that appears on page three of every Scottish Sun. They said that since they'd finished ahead of schedule they were relaxing on the island for a couple days. I thought that these guys had pretty much mastered living.
The next day I had a restorative three hours on the internet free and did my three posts from the other day. Then caught the bus for Luskentyre on the other side of the island. I wanted to see these beautiful Harris beaches on the west coast. You walk up a grassy path dotted with the occasional rustic cottage. Slowly the path unfolds to you that behind this country hill scene between the ranges lies one of the most exquisite white on teal beaches you've ever seen. I've only just been initiated but all the locals and regulars there must just laugh with each other in the eternal inside joke about all the other beaches in the world. Nobody expects this to be here! In Scotland? But one of the locals reckons it's the third nicest beach in Europe, whatever that means. It's certainly the most magical place I've been in many years. I walked down the beach as the sun set, just free in life and alone for a month now. I returned and I hear some men laughing just over a dune. I looked up and see a youth, bald man, and scruffy beefy guy. My plasterer boys!! Small island, I guess. They were happy to see me too and enjoyed my company that night as we just manned it up, "bro'd hard," you could say. That night I camped on the deserted beach, one of the true high points of my life. The next day we all fished off the rocks and Brian caught a starfish and a Pollack.
My time on the Hebrides is over and now I'm in Edinburgh at my friend Maciek's for the week. We met in Stornoway and he said I absolutely had to see the city during the festival. That festival is the month-long Edinburgh International Festival, the largest art, music, and theater festival in Europe. My birthday is on Friday. Haha. Don't forget to um...think happy thoughts for me. I'll try to find some kind of button and find a pretty girl to kiss me.
Saturday, August 16
Time for some sandwiches
Another adventure, the last couple days were. Rode the West Highland Line (one of the most scenic train rides in the world, really) to the Scottish coast. I just barely caught the ferry across the Sound of Sleat and within a few minutes I was on the beautifully named Isle of Skye. I got there fast and so sick of that, so I was ready to take it slow. In a place like Skye you're in no hurry because you're ready for anything and anything is permissable. Who cares if the last bus has already run? If you feel like moving on, hitch; if you don't, pitch. Haha. Anyway I did in fact catch a bus with a jolly and difficult to understand Scot named Roy and I just kept telling him how overjoyed I was to be whizzing around Skye in a bus. We found ourselves at the connecting bus stop ten minutes after the last bus of the day, of course. A couple minutes later a black VW Golf drives up and out pops another Scot who proceeds to Officially Inspect the bus stop. It was about time to catch a ride from a stranger so we hopped in.
I wound up in the tiny fishing village of Kyleakin as the sun started setting. The hostel had a real restaurant below it so I treated myself to some local seafood and an ale brewed just up the road called Red Cuillin. A Swede who spoke six languages fluently (Swedes are good for that) named William and I talked about traveling for a while. I learned an important and fascinating thing from him. Turns out a thousand-some-odd years ago, the Vikings came over to Britain from Sweden on a ship and decided to drop off all the ugly women (there couldn't have been many), and therefore we have the difference between Swedish and British girls. I think he's probably right, too...Queen, where are all your pretty daughters? There just aren't many in this country.
Castle Moil cuts through the ground like a big stone pair of scissors atop Kyleakin. There really isn't much left of it. I hiked along the coast up to the remains in the morning and that little castle was mine. Yet suddenly here's a Border Collie come up to see me. A minute behind her was a little girl named Ella Fitzgerald. I asked where she lived and she all but pointed. A Skylean in Kyleakin! We talked for at least an hour and she was the kind of twelve-year-old you could have an hour-plus conversation with--very well spoken, in love with life and dogs, and supremely intelligent. We talked about Hillary Clinton and rainforest deforestation and Buddhism and what it's like to live on a small island. Of course Ella Fitzgerald's not really her name, just her namesake. We both reminded each other that there's never a reason to grow up and we said our goodbyes--it was time to hitchhike north.
I'll finish the rest of this little story in a couple days, methinks. It's time to eat some sandwiches.
I wound up in the tiny fishing village of Kyleakin as the sun started setting. The hostel had a real restaurant below it so I treated myself to some local seafood and an ale brewed just up the road called Red Cuillin. A Swede who spoke six languages fluently (Swedes are good for that) named William and I talked about traveling for a while. I learned an important and fascinating thing from him. Turns out a thousand-some-odd years ago, the Vikings came over to Britain from Sweden on a ship and decided to drop off all the ugly women (there couldn't have been many), and therefore we have the difference between Swedish and British girls. I think he's probably right, too...Queen, where are all your pretty daughters? There just aren't many in this country.
Castle Moil cuts through the ground like a big stone pair of scissors atop Kyleakin. There really isn't much left of it. I hiked along the coast up to the remains in the morning and that little castle was mine. Yet suddenly here's a Border Collie come up to see me. A minute behind her was a little girl named Ella Fitzgerald. I asked where she lived and she all but pointed. A Skylean in Kyleakin! We talked for at least an hour and she was the kind of twelve-year-old you could have an hour-plus conversation with--very well spoken, in love with life and dogs, and supremely intelligent. We talked about Hillary Clinton and rainforest deforestation and Buddhism and what it's like to live on a small island. Of course Ella Fitzgerald's not really her name, just her namesake. We both reminded each other that there's never a reason to grow up and we said our goodbyes--it was time to hitchhike north.
I'll finish the rest of this little story in a couple days, methinks. It's time to eat some sandwiches.
Headin' for Another Joint
I have a whole lot of catching up to do!
The Wales family was great. Thank you thank you thank you. Simple people, incredibly generous people. They did everything for me all weekend, only because Steve found me on the street and couldn't let a nice guy find a makeshift campsite. Maybe Wales is the "South" of Britain. Or maybe it's that no matter where you go all over the world, if you find yourself in the valleys or the mountains or the plains or the forests, you'll also find simple people who haven't been redirected by the complexities of 21st century cities; those who haven't forgotten the simple things like love or brotherhood.
Wales->Birmingham
Stayed with Rory in his little flat--Rory is a cool cat. We made homemade pizza and listened to Arethra Franklin and David Bowie. Didn't really get to see much of my "sister city" except that Rory drove me around and showed me where Tolkien grew up and some pretty buildings. Birmingham isn't known as the prettiest city--as Rory said, the suburbs are actually more appealing than the city center. Hung out with his friend Liz who was super cool.
Birmingham->Manchester
I had to see if belligerent ghouls really run Manchester schools...Manchester, what a place!! I rolled into town to the sounds of The Queen Is Dead. The hostel was pretty cool and I got to know a bunch of great people really quick. My first group of friends, the Manchester crew is the greatest and I will miss them. Dorian the super cool German American and I sat on the street and pretended we were buskers. We sang songs like, "I need money because of privitized health care," and "I have no home, give me money, you jerk don't keep walking..." and so on.
Manchester->Glasgow
Just when I thought Glasgow wasn't going to be too memorable at all, I get invited by this bagpiping German named Johannes to go to some folk jam session at a pub. We invited along this girl Bethany from Nashville (!!!) and I flew out the door, with ukulele in hand, happy at last with company. The pub was brilliant. A roomful of people of all ages sat in a candlelit wooden den with instruments of all sort: guitars, ukuleles, mandolins, harmonicas, whistles, flutes, bodhrans, shakers, toms, fiddles, banjos. Directly after the clapping faded someone would start up a traditional Celtic melody or popular folk song, and slowly, subtly, his accompaniment would begin to grow from different corners of the room. Candlelight and song, man. Wax candles dripping onto Scotch bottle holders and dark wood in the arms and on the walls. And the most merry, uplifting group of music-makers. Occasionally the room would go silent for a solo performance...these people knew when not to join in. I made the distinction as well and so played along as best I could on songs I both knew and didn't. Behind our pints Johannes, Bethany, and I had an absolutely wonderful time. Thanks grand Glasgow for a truly Scottish experience.
The Wales family was great. Thank you thank you thank you. Simple people, incredibly generous people. They did everything for me all weekend, only because Steve found me on the street and couldn't let a nice guy find a makeshift campsite. Maybe Wales is the "South" of Britain. Or maybe it's that no matter where you go all over the world, if you find yourself in the valleys or the mountains or the plains or the forests, you'll also find simple people who haven't been redirected by the complexities of 21st century cities; those who haven't forgotten the simple things like love or brotherhood.
Wales->Birmingham
Stayed with Rory in his little flat--Rory is a cool cat. We made homemade pizza and listened to Arethra Franklin and David Bowie. Didn't really get to see much of my "sister city" except that Rory drove me around and showed me where Tolkien grew up and some pretty buildings. Birmingham isn't known as the prettiest city--as Rory said, the suburbs are actually more appealing than the city center. Hung out with his friend Liz who was super cool.
Birmingham->Manchester
I had to see if belligerent ghouls really run Manchester schools...Manchester, what a place!! I rolled into town to the sounds of The Queen Is Dead. The hostel was pretty cool and I got to know a bunch of great people really quick. My first group of friends, the Manchester crew is the greatest and I will miss them. Dorian the super cool German American and I sat on the street and pretended we were buskers. We sang songs like, "I need money because of privitized health care," and "I have no home, give me money, you jerk don't keep walking..." and so on.
Manchester->Glasgow
Just when I thought Glasgow wasn't going to be too memorable at all, I get invited by this bagpiping German named Johannes to go to some folk jam session at a pub. We invited along this girl Bethany from Nashville (!!!) and I flew out the door, with ukulele in hand, happy at last with company. The pub was brilliant. A roomful of people of all ages sat in a candlelit wooden den with instruments of all sort: guitars, ukuleles, mandolins, harmonicas, whistles, flutes, bodhrans, shakers, toms, fiddles, banjos. Directly after the clapping faded someone would start up a traditional Celtic melody or popular folk song, and slowly, subtly, his accompaniment would begin to grow from different corners of the room. Candlelight and song, man. Wax candles dripping onto Scotch bottle holders and dark wood in the arms and on the walls. And the most merry, uplifting group of music-makers. Occasionally the room would go silent for a solo performance...these people knew when not to join in. I made the distinction as well and so played along as best I could on songs I both knew and didn't. Behind our pints Johannes, Bethany, and I had an absolutely wonderful time. Thanks grand Glasgow for a truly Scottish experience.
When I was in Wales
Dan talked about how he and his musical friends would sit around in a room with their instruments, recorders, and a TV with a DVD player. They would mute the TV and begin a film they enjoyed. After watching a scene they'd pause it and start playing what they felt. They'd have it recorded and so compose their own version of the film's soundtrack. I thought that was beautiful.
Dan I still haven't gotten used to the sheep noises. Sometimes they sound like regular baas but sometimes they sound like a human making a poor attempt at a baa. Sometimes they just sound like they're burping. I just walk along the road pissing myself laughing because sheep make the most awesomely daft noises in the world.
I'm in the Outer Hebrides, which are the islands off the west coast of Scotland. I'm currently in the library in Stornoway on Lewis. It's very hard to find internet out here. I have another huge post and many pictures that I think I will be able to upload very soon.
Traveling for two months isn't always a vacation. I mean obviously; it's two months. Sometimes there are so many things flying around in my head competing with the views like how some people back home hate me, or what the hell am I doing here, or am I growing forwards or backwards, outwards or inwards, who do I love and who do I think I love, how can I enlighten myself today. And honestly what does it mean to be in love? I haven't the faintest idea. See you soon folks.
Dan I still haven't gotten used to the sheep noises. Sometimes they sound like regular baas but sometimes they sound like a human making a poor attempt at a baa. Sometimes they just sound like they're burping. I just walk along the road pissing myself laughing because sheep make the most awesomely daft noises in the world.
I'm in the Outer Hebrides, which are the islands off the west coast of Scotland. I'm currently in the library in Stornoway on Lewis. It's very hard to find internet out here. I have another huge post and many pictures that I think I will be able to upload very soon.
Traveling for two months isn't always a vacation. I mean obviously; it's two months. Sometimes there are so many things flying around in my head competing with the views like how some people back home hate me, or what the hell am I doing here, or am I growing forwards or backwards, outwards or inwards, who do I love and who do I think I love, how can I enlighten myself today. And honestly what does it mean to be in love? I haven't the faintest idea. See you soon folks.
Sunday, August 3
More like a chapter than a post. Get comfy
Wales has been an absolute adventure and now I'm going to tell you all about it. One thing leads to another on journeys like this...you don't take trips, they take you, as my dear Ali reminded me. I hopped a coach (bus) from London to Cardiff and felt like a real traveler, just hopping a ride to the next town for the hell of it. I took a seat by a friendly young guy from the States named Dan and we chatted the whole way. Even though he's 30, lives in Cardiff, and works as a programmer, we're very similar and I knew it too, that's why I sat by him. Turns out he bikes to the Brecon Beacons so I asked if he wanted to come along in a few days and he was totally down.
Cardiff for two days was a nice break from London...it's a mini-London with nice shops and bustling people on St. Mary Street but it's also on the ocean. I accompanied two cute blondes from Germany down to Cardiff Bay and we sipped drinks at the coffeeshop in the morning sun. I love Wales...everyone is naturally friendly and they call people "love" and "dear," even total strangers (tried it on a gorgeous girl working in the market, I did). Anyway, I met up with Dan and we watched Batman, went to a pub, and ate curry at his place. We planned our trip and Dan told me how he'd hiked such humorously named mountains as Fan y Big and (Somebody's) Knob...he'll have to help me out on that one. The next morning at the bottom of Corn Du and Pen y Fan (two tallest in south Wales) we were greeted with miserable stinking British rain. It was too much. We decided to have a hike to my hostel instead which was actually a gorgeous walk. This is sheep country out here in the Brecon Beacons--or shit country if you like; the two ideas are entirely synonymous. We dodged around the most profoundly defecated countryside I've ever seen and got a real kick out of one sheep scratching his backside on a fallen tree limb.
Llwyn-y-celyn Youth Hostel is literally in the middle of some woods and sheep pastures, a good ways from any road. It was like an abandoned farm when Dan and I found it, with no signs of life at all. I tried the door and it opened. I even yelled "hullo" inside...nothing except a warm mountain lodge. You could cozy by the fire, take a shower, and sleep on a couch and no one would care because the staff doesn't arrive until five. Dan and I said our goodbyes and life started buzzing at the hostel. You couldn't really call it a youth hostel...I seemed to be the youngest patron by twenty years. They serve a Beacons original ale there called Breconshire Brewery, and over a pint I got to know a charming Birminghamian (!!!) named Rory. He's in his forties but very much alive with the wonder of youth and can really see the natural art of the world around us. We decided we'd tackle the two mountains I'd failed.
Pen y Fan and Corn Du are twin peaks and a formidable climb for anyone. It was a real challenge of thighs and will but somehow we found ourselves with our eyes set on the final stony ascent. I felt like Frodo so I pushed on, and in dramatic fashion, we reached the shorter peak only minutes before the long-threatening hazy storm rolled in. Pen y Fan was within our grasp but our total satisfaction and the now surrounding cloud turned us back. So we hiked the second tallest moutain in south Wales, and it was a bloody accomplishment. I decided two days in the hostel was enough--I was ready to pitch my tent in some sheep field and forge for myself. I equipped my pack with canned food, Mars Bars, and a butane mini-stove and Rory dropped me off at a trailhead in a tiny settlement called Penderyn. He'd be rolling through town three days later to take me to Birmingham and the next adventure but for now I was on my own like I'd never been in my whole life.
I walked into a stunningly pastoral world of sheep grazing on rocky hills, horses standing under pathside trees, and compact evergreen forests patching the endless rolling hills. And I was soon lost. Bloody hell it's so disappointing being frustrated in such a picturesque setting. It literally took me hours to find my bearings...nothing was making any sense. The sun was setting and the nearest public campground was miles away. I lay exhausted on a rock and pointed my new cheapo compass at the setting sun...East. Now I'm no geographist, but I'm pretty damn sure that in no place on Earth does the sun set in the East. So on top of having an admittedly poor sense of orientation, I had a compass all day telling me the perfectly wrong bit of information. I left my bag in some tall grass in a thicket and hurried back to Penderyn for some water. I don't think I've ever challenged myself more than those final two miles, but I arrived back at my pack as the sun set. I was able to pitch the tent and eat (O glory) just as true darkness fell and the midges began eating my forehead. As I stumbled into the tent the rain came down and I fell back, finally at rest. I was on someone's land but I'd snuck there, and I'd gotten away with it, I knew. The lovely rain came and went and an occasional upset baa cleared the fields. The sound outside that I would so often take for the ambience of tire on distant pavement was only wind through miles of pines and bracken. I fell asleep.
The next morning was my own to take at my own pace. I surveyed my new private countryside, did some Chi Gung in the woods, and finally left. My idea now was to hike the miles to Merthyr Tydfil where I had the luxuries of a cash machine (ATM) and coach stop (bus stop). Perhaps then I could make it north to Hay on Wye which, besides sounding vaguely like some sort of sandwich, is the second-hand bookstore capital of the world and a true mountain village. I set off and this was roadside hiking. This was Kerouac and Dylan and it was an experience, folks. Curse it all but I ended up making bad time and planned on camping somewhere in a town called Hirwaun. I passed a middle aged man and his Jack Russel, and the man quite kindly gave me advice on where to grab a bite and where to pitch my tent. The dog and the way he talked reminded me of Pip's dad back in Birmingham. A few seconds later I heard a "hey" from behind me. I walked back and the man called Steven in his thick Welsh accent said I should come back home with him and he could take me somewhere cheaper to eat, so I turned to the dog and said, "Well come on then!" Trips take you.
As it was I wound up eating food and drinking Orangina and coffee prepared by Steven's wife Celia. Simply the most hospitable people in the world. Having offered their yard for me to pitch my tent, they drove me around a bit with the pretense of showing me a hostel I could stay in the next night. Now I'm sleeping in their house tonight and tomorrow night. The openness of the British people knows no bounds as far as I'm concerned, and that's my story. Monday is Birmingham and eventually I'll be in Scotland and to the Scottish islands known as the Hebrides.
Cardiff for two days was a nice break from London...it's a mini-London with nice shops and bustling people on St. Mary Street but it's also on the ocean. I accompanied two cute blondes from Germany down to Cardiff Bay and we sipped drinks at the coffeeshop in the morning sun. I love Wales...everyone is naturally friendly and they call people "love" and "dear," even total strangers (tried it on a gorgeous girl working in the market, I did). Anyway, I met up with Dan and we watched Batman, went to a pub, and ate curry at his place. We planned our trip and Dan told me how he'd hiked such humorously named mountains as Fan y Big and (Somebody's) Knob...he'll have to help me out on that one. The next morning at the bottom of Corn Du and Pen y Fan (two tallest in south Wales) we were greeted with miserable stinking British rain. It was too much. We decided to have a hike to my hostel instead which was actually a gorgeous walk. This is sheep country out here in the Brecon Beacons--or shit country if you like; the two ideas are entirely synonymous. We dodged around the most profoundly defecated countryside I've ever seen and got a real kick out of one sheep scratching his backside on a fallen tree limb.
Llwyn-y-celyn Youth Hostel is literally in the middle of some woods and sheep pastures, a good ways from any road. It was like an abandoned farm when Dan and I found it, with no signs of life at all. I tried the door and it opened. I even yelled "hullo" inside...nothing except a warm mountain lodge. You could cozy by the fire, take a shower, and sleep on a couch and no one would care because the staff doesn't arrive until five. Dan and I said our goodbyes and life started buzzing at the hostel. You couldn't really call it a youth hostel...I seemed to be the youngest patron by twenty years. They serve a Beacons original ale there called Breconshire Brewery, and over a pint I got to know a charming Birminghamian (!!!) named Rory. He's in his forties but very much alive with the wonder of youth and can really see the natural art of the world around us. We decided we'd tackle the two mountains I'd failed.
Pen y Fan and Corn Du are twin peaks and a formidable climb for anyone. It was a real challenge of thighs and will but somehow we found ourselves with our eyes set on the final stony ascent. I felt like Frodo so I pushed on, and in dramatic fashion, we reached the shorter peak only minutes before the long-threatening hazy storm rolled in. Pen y Fan was within our grasp but our total satisfaction and the now surrounding cloud turned us back. So we hiked the second tallest moutain in south Wales, and it was a bloody accomplishment. I decided two days in the hostel was enough--I was ready to pitch my tent in some sheep field and forge for myself. I equipped my pack with canned food, Mars Bars, and a butane mini-stove and Rory dropped me off at a trailhead in a tiny settlement called Penderyn. He'd be rolling through town three days later to take me to Birmingham and the next adventure but for now I was on my own like I'd never been in my whole life.
I walked into a stunningly pastoral world of sheep grazing on rocky hills, horses standing under pathside trees, and compact evergreen forests patching the endless rolling hills. And I was soon lost. Bloody hell it's so disappointing being frustrated in such a picturesque setting. It literally took me hours to find my bearings...nothing was making any sense. The sun was setting and the nearest public campground was miles away. I lay exhausted on a rock and pointed my new cheapo compass at the setting sun...East. Now I'm no geographist, but I'm pretty damn sure that in no place on Earth does the sun set in the East. So on top of having an admittedly poor sense of orientation, I had a compass all day telling me the perfectly wrong bit of information. I left my bag in some tall grass in a thicket and hurried back to Penderyn for some water. I don't think I've ever challenged myself more than those final two miles, but I arrived back at my pack as the sun set. I was able to pitch the tent and eat (O glory) just as true darkness fell and the midges began eating my forehead. As I stumbled into the tent the rain came down and I fell back, finally at rest. I was on someone's land but I'd snuck there, and I'd gotten away with it, I knew. The lovely rain came and went and an occasional upset baa cleared the fields. The sound outside that I would so often take for the ambience of tire on distant pavement was only wind through miles of pines and bracken. I fell asleep.
The next morning was my own to take at my own pace. I surveyed my new private countryside, did some Chi Gung in the woods, and finally left. My idea now was to hike the miles to Merthyr Tydfil where I had the luxuries of a cash machine (ATM) and coach stop (bus stop). Perhaps then I could make it north to Hay on Wye which, besides sounding vaguely like some sort of sandwich, is the second-hand bookstore capital of the world and a true mountain village. I set off and this was roadside hiking. This was Kerouac and Dylan and it was an experience, folks. Curse it all but I ended up making bad time and planned on camping somewhere in a town called Hirwaun. I passed a middle aged man and his Jack Russel, and the man quite kindly gave me advice on where to grab a bite and where to pitch my tent. The dog and the way he talked reminded me of Pip's dad back in Birmingham. A few seconds later I heard a "hey" from behind me. I walked back and the man called Steven in his thick Welsh accent said I should come back home with him and he could take me somewhere cheaper to eat, so I turned to the dog and said, "Well come on then!" Trips take you.
As it was I wound up eating food and drinking Orangina and coffee prepared by Steven's wife Celia. Simply the most hospitable people in the world. Having offered their yard for me to pitch my tent, they drove me around a bit with the pretense of showing me a hostel I could stay in the next night. Now I'm sleeping in their house tonight and tomorrow night. The openness of the British people knows no bounds as far as I'm concerned, and that's my story. Monday is Birmingham and eventually I'll be in Scotland and to the Scottish islands known as the Hebrides.
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