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Seatmate Roulette on the Way Home

Two hours to go to Hong Kong on the first leg of my flight back to Australia and now I have yet another person in the seat next to me: a big guy carefully dressed in neatly pressed jeans, jacket and sports shoes. He is wearing a cap labelled “Oxford University”. He was holding his lap top, a toppling pile of books and a large sports bag when he lowered himself heavily into the seat beside me. My latest seatmate is resting his right arm on my armrest. It doesn’t look like I’ll get any sleep at all on this first leg of a 22 hour flight back to Australia .

When I stood up to let this third person into the seat next to me, formally introduced by the sweet stewardess, he shook hands as if he were being presented to the hostess at a dinner party. I stood in the aisle on shaky legs trying to balance. He told me his name is Happy … “ and I want everyone to be happy. Are you happy?“ Now he is holding his phone up against the screen, presumably to magnify the movie, and creating flickering lights. He shifts in his seat and coughs intermittently while leaning heavily over my armrest.

My first seatmate, a forty something smartly dressed woman with sleek black hair reaching her waist, looked like she was Hong Kong Chinese. When I reached my allocated place after jostling down the narrow passageway on a crowded Boeing 707 plane, she was settled into my seat. She asked if I would swap with her seat in the middle of the row. I pretended I didn’t understand and she reluctantly moved to sit next to me scowling fiercely. Within half an hour she objected to a small child behind pushing her seat, then a baby crying. She requested another blanket, then demanded that the cabin lights be turned off and her priority meal served immediately. She sent it back and continued to press the attendance button. Eventually, after she’d summoned stewardesses countless times, she left the seat. Back again in twenty to collect all her shoes, makeup bag, eye mask, neck cushion, special blanket. Each exit and re-entry required me to get up from my seat. But at last I thought I could safely close my eyes, breathe rhythmically, and sleep. It was not to be.

Wrong! I was jerked from my doze by a flurry of movement and explanations. A young guy, a new seatmate.

I stood up a bit shakily. He handed me the beer he was holding and dropped his bag under his new seat, with a clatter of beer cans. He bent down to retrieve it, talking all the time. He fiddled around trying to plug in his computer, dropping the bag several times. The cans clanged loudly.

The guy in front leapt to his feet and yelled “ You … go back to your own seat. “ My guy went into a lengthy explanation again about how he was helping out the stewardesses by moving. The other guy flexed his muscles called him ars…. .. again , and threatened to take him on. My guy retaliated with a repeated explanation and a lecture about kindness and tolerance. The big guy flexed his muscles and raised his tattooed and beefy arm higher. The woman beside him then entered the fray , urging the big man to “ fix him.”’

At that moment 3 cabin crew arrived, (a sweet young stewardess had been back and forth talking quietly to each of the protagonists, unheard) . They quietened down, my guy retrieved his beer from my hand, thanking me profusely. He returned to whispering under his breath the same litany of explanation and listing the codes of good behaviour. I’d just closed my eyes again when my young seatmate got up and collected all his gear with a flurry of moves and spilt beer, saying he didn’t want to be near the shit in front, a person who was unkind and did not behave.The man in front started to twitch and my guy beat a quick retreat.

Peace. Then Happy came and sat down next to me. He’d swapped with the young guy. So I gave up trying to sleep as I’d been up and down constantly. Besides that, the sweet stewardess kept on coming by asking in a hushed voice if I was alright and apologising, then inquiring what I’d witnessed in the first confrontation. I looked vague, mindful of the tough guy in front pretending to be asleep .

So Happy was my last seatmate. Turning on my screen in an attempt to avoid conversation did not work. This man was a man with a mission. He was determined to do good, to spread good cheer.

Actually towards the end of my Absurdist – like flight when I couldn’t hold out any longer, I heard an interesting back story. Happy, he told me, and he showed me lots of photos, was a Ph.D student at Oxford (numerous graduation photos) where he lived with his 2 dogs (photos) researching Leadership, ( photo of a young looking Ph.D supervisor). He is a Christian with over 1, 000 students all over the world (photos of groups of clean living looking girls and boys smiling). He lived between HK, where his girlfriend lives ( photo, young woman) and Oxford University. He always travels with books he said , and had read .., ? Numbers . (photo of a pile). He distributed books on each flight. In fact, despite my declining, he presented me with one of them, together with a pen labelled The Landing (no photo) the expensive London Hotel where he always stays. Book is signed Br Bruce, with a dedication to my being happy .

He seemed a good chap, though I still can’t fathom if his story is truth or fabrication. But, whatever, his story makes an entertaining ending to my story of travelling home.

However, by the end of that flight it felt like the border between reality and invention were blurred. The last in – flight movie I watched in my attempt to discourage interaction was The Living and the Dead. Bad choice. As Tilda Swinton turned yellow and then pale , and finally became a fragile willow o’ whisp clothed in canary yellow with bright red lips, my eyes became grittier, my head lighter, my own body less substantial. I floated down the gateway at HK airport , gathering myself together for the next flight.

Oh well, the flight to HK it was entertaining, and I’ve got a story .

And I got back to the Banksias in my garden

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The Underbelly of Travel

It’s the journey not the destination is frequently quoted. But that journey is filled with hidden snags, anxieties, mishaps, potential disasters, and actual disasters as well. Travel is not entirely what it is lauded to be: fun, a broadening of the mind, the exposure to new experiences.

Just take this morning, catching a Skye flight to London Gatwick. Even most of yesterday was taken up in preparation for the the travel: Like checking times of train to airport, a practice walk from my accomodation to the airport train ( so not to take off in the wrong direction in the dark first thing), trying to check in on line ( countless attempts until I realise as a non EU citizen I have to check in at the airport with my brand new, expensive British Passport), messages to and fro about getting keys back into a recalcitrant lockbox when I leave ( ended up leaving them in the apartment), finding a place to eat near my stay so that I can return to the place easily and in time to do my third pack ….. Anyway the list goes on.

The customary food photo . Delicious mushroom soup.I ate it too fast .

I finally go to bed with the alarm set for 5.30 am. And am awake most of the night checking the alarm.

This morning: out of apartment by 6.30 am and wended my way in the dark to the train. Through the turnstile and wait at platform . Make sure I get the right train and off at the right stop. I know all this so why am I stressing ? Find the check in and show my non EU passport. Head to the security check and join others to be yelled at and herded through.

I find the gate in the depths of the bottom floor with hundreds of other people lined up at their gate for other flights. Two hours to go. Up back to cafe and a coffee. Watching the gate signs like a hawk.

Down I go to A26 and it’s wait/stand/wait/ stand stand stand. Dare I go to the loo? Am I in the right line ? Until whoever is being waited for arrives. Then it’s move/push/squeeze onto a bus.

We tumble out onto the tarmac like so many sardines spilling out of a can, and clamber up the steps to the plane to cram ourselves into an equally crowded plane.

It’s 10.41 am and we are still on the ground . But I don’t care. I’m in the correct seat, 6 hours after leaving accomodation. 4 more hours to go.

Phew. I may read Virginia Woolf Mrs Dalloway just to relax before the next leg of travel.

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Remembering : Russell Square Hotel, London,1968

An old one written from Melbourne 2 months ago. Now I’m in another place, and a completely unfamiliar culture: Athens, about to fly to London in a few days. London’s Russell Square at the tail end of the sixties and life in the late 60s has been written out of my mind. Nevertheless the subtext remains. I am putting this up resisting the temptation to change anything. Memoir is a rocky road .

Sitting, pausing, in a cafe Ardeer,Melbourne. A long way in time and place from that London hotel, whose name I cannot recall. A shabby hotel in an ungentrified Russell Square at the end of the sixties.

I’d just made it, just reached the enchanting land of freedom, music and hippiedom from a country that had just allowed the pill, where Bob Dylan was played in a few hidden bars, where T.V. was still a novelty.

In South Africa, Africans still supplied cheap labour and joined “ nie blankes” queues, sat on separate park benches, swam at designated beaches. Africans lived in segregated “townships”( a better term for locations) on the outskirts of cities and walked to work each day. Those women who were employed by people like my parents may have had a small pokey room in the backyard. They generally had to leave children at home cared for by grandmothers or older people and visited on the one day off. Men worked as in a variety of unskilled jobs and often supplied the large labour force needed in factories and mines. Mine workers lived on site.

Apartheid was still in force ( ended in 1994) Only when I left the country did I fully realise the inequity and absurdity of a policy which divided people on the basis of colour.

But this post is not about apartheid; I’m remembering a past long gone because I am thinking about belonging. Alongside all that is the related thought of the power to make decisions, the ability to act, the freedom to act. I have that now because of my education, money and the colour of my skin.

So here I am staring into the glass and suddenly those pictures of my life as a chambermaid in that hotel swirl up from the bottom.

Maybe I was thinking about glasses half full while the phrase “ through a glass darkly” runs through my head. Perhaps the women chattering next to me in Spanish or the recently viewed photos of beautiful Kortula are triggering the images of the past.

I’ve also just read here in this cafe about the lovely looking young man who has allegedly killed the old man in my now home town , Fremantle , Western Australia. Could I ? Could I even physically harm another person ?

Hence to the Russell Square Hotel. There I could have easily come close. Old Billy was the hotel drunk and long term renter and resident handy man ( and spy). We three worked at the hotel ; that is Edie the loud, funny, generous cook, Geraldine, Irish receptionist who had the driest and most cutting tongue, and me, a chambermaid . Billy was a thorn in all our sides . He lurked in dark corners and sprung out to catch one of us talking, snacking in the kitchen, chatting to a guest, and would repeat anything worthwhile to Mr Williams, the wishy washy owner/ manager.

Well that morning the three of us were sitting in what was euphemistically called a lounge telling stories and laughing. In came Billy. To be fair we probably turned our laughter and what we thought was wit, on him. I was the most conflictual. As I usually was. Couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “ Yes … do tell him , silly old man “ or something like that. I would have laughed in response to his warnings about wasting work time . He suddenly lunged towards me, fists raised, fast. I picked up a chair and flung it at him. It hit him hard . He came on towards me and this time I hit harder with the chair .

Billy fell to the floor holding his shoulder and moaning.

My blood was up. I ran to the phone and dialled 000 for police. That shut him up . They actually did arrive and cautioned him.

How does my story end ?

Mr Williams cautioned me: what would the guests think of his hotel, with police around?

I kept the job, my friends thought I was brave, and Billy kept away from all of us.

But looking back, I acted impetuously, escalated the conflict and could have seriously injured a silly old man. I was young .

And now I’m old I can peer into that glass, walk through a fairy-light lit door , and make a sort of sense of the past : write it into a story .

The full phrase is “ For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face”. ( 1 Corinthians 13:12)

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Hello Again and Goodbye Soon: Syntagma Square Athens

I am approaching the end of my Greece travel. I have 4 days left here in Athens . This morning I walked down to the square with my friend and said goodbye at the station. She is returning home. It feels like a looping of two ends: Syntagma Square is the first Athens landmark we both encountered as we moved down the steps from the metro after the long flight from Australia.

My first stop when I got off the train was the Infopoint. I didn’t really take in the square as I found my way to accomodation nearby. My head was full of directions and key codes, fighting that sense of unreality of stepping into an unknown space.

So here I am again after 3 weeks in this country which is still a bit of an enigma to me. Laureen and I have ferried to 4 islands, to Rhodes and then back to Athens. Maybe this pause is a chance to gather impressions together and chip away at that enigma?

I’ll start towards the end. This morning I looked around Syntagma Square.

Parliament in background . The Changing of the Guards is every hour

And here is Hermes , the messenger god ?

And I was carried away by the cheese , and bought too much

So I’m starting at the end of my trip: 3 days to go now, and it is a bit of a countdown. Here I am later today, at 6..30 pm on a Friday night in central Athens .

Not a very flattering photo but it’s hard to take a good selfie when your arms are short

The streets are filling up. While I am having a wine and heading back to my accommodation for the night, most of these guys are taking a break. There is lots of conversation over cups of tea or coffee before the serious dining. The night is just beginning .

So what have I done today since my wander around Syntagma Square and the Supermarket? Well, much as I do at home ; breakfast, a read, a walk and some food shopping. Then I visited one of the markets in Monastiraki. It is just like a market anywhere. Only the jewellery is very beautiful and seems to be made here with lots of different stones. But there are lots of cheap clothing stalls, numerous Greece momento shops selling evil eyes and pictures of Saints, crucifixes .

The religious momentos were gathered around a church, The door was open so I slippped inside.

Inside was a mass of shining gold and glittering hangings, numerous saints and martyrs , paintings and icons . No lights except the candles. Photos not allowed. But no photo could capture all that gold and light.So I just sat and prayed. I could not read the sign outside as the old woman sitting on a bench right underneath yelled and swore at anyone who approached.

I walked back through Monastiraki to Amerikis Street as the streets filled up. The musician I passed yesterday was at his same place, in front of the fountain. His skinny dog lay fast asleep, curled up in a basket .

So that’s my day and still haven’t got to my 3 weeks. I’m heading back now. Tomorrow maybe I’ll write some more, before I visit the Archeological museum .

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Chasing the Perfect Sunset and Avoiding Trips. Santorini.

Sunset at Fira (not the Oia spot) Santorini

Island of cars and stone, square flat roofs interspersed with blue domes and brilliant steely blue doors and windows.

I stumble out of the bus after the steep winding road down to Oia (Santorini) just in time before throwing up. I join lots of other people milling around the bus station at Oia. I am about to see the Santorini we see in photos,

We start off to the castle and the edge of town which promises views and sunset experiences. The views are spectacular. The people walking down and along the narrow twisty path with art shops and bars at the sides are slso enjoying the Santorini experience.

Just don’t trip. Steps are different widths and turn at strange angles . The trickiest are the small, narrow steps which lurk in the stone unseen. Suddenly a jolt as I step forward, and a sharp pain in my shoulder .

But yes, this Santorini is very very pretty . The small art shops, souvenir and clothing places, rooftop bars and eateries are colourful and organised. The narrow winding paths, interspersed with cacti and tall palms and well shaped olive trees in colourful pots, are gleamingly clean. The paintings on display are the quintessential Santorini portrayals ( minus us tourists shuffling around hip to hip). But the jewellery is exquisite.

I spent ages looking at one of the jewellery shops. The owner has made the puppets and small figures.The jewellery is from other craftspeople.

More views. I did not climb to the castle .

We walk the twisted path below back to the bus station. Not many people walking here, just buses and cars that wait patiently for us to squeeze to the side. A Banana smoothie at the restuarant and we join the queue for the bus back to Fira. Thankfully the driver goes around the bottom of the island so there is no steep winding and a lurching stomach.

Conclusion ? I’m glad I had the Santorini experience. But am even more glad we watched the sunset from Fira (We are staying in Fira) last night and will do so again tonight before boarding the overnight ferry to Rhodes . Seasick tablets I reckon, for the steep winding path back down to the port as well as the boat.

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Cats Rule on Greek Islands.

They are everywhere, at least on the two Islands I have been on so far. Under trees on the main sidewalks, sleeping in the shade of grasses, on the edges of shop windowsills, and slinking between the large and colourful flowerpots in the streets of these beautiful picture postcard islands.

Yes, the two islands I have been on so far are just like the brochures. Whitewashed houses, sparkling white, clear blue doors and window frames in the central area around the ports where most people gather ….buildings like pretty maids all in a row.

Today on Milos , the windmill island, the wind is blowing hard and ferries have been cancelled. So it’s an extra day, and a walk through the small town center clustered around the port.

I’m almost blown off my feet as I stand above the little white houses and quaint well presented art and clothing places . Here , around this hill, there are houses half constructed , the usual pile of abandoned machinery, building materials and the odd attractive home set on the hill.

Way across is a bell tower of what looks like a large church . On the horizon mountains appear to be rising out of a shimmering Aegean Sea.

I walk down and around, and up steps to what I think is a church. Closed. Along the side, next to the No Parking sign , two cars are sitting in the courtyard.

More closed doors around the walls of the building, a bell tower, a few plastic sheeting covered tables and a man in a robe spraying the spotlessly clean tables and benches. A small room in a corner, an old lady with a bucket. Neither of them look at me . A couple of bright pots squashed into a corner. And a small spotted cat crouched in front of the rubbish bag .

That’s it. Down the steps I go , back to the port and a coffee. A few pottery places along the path; power still off and people sitting in harbour-side cafes looking a bit mournful. Next to my accomodation the small coffee shop is doing great business as locals order coffees and chat away .

“Greek coffee, please”.

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The Kindness of Strangers and Other Realisations. In Sifnos, Greece.

I haven’t blogged for a while.My last few blogs about re -membering in the sense of reassembling memories, lie waiting for the touch of a finger,

Here I am after my first full day in Sifnos after a mixed day of discovery, activity and the usual travel frustrations . But it took the gift of a small packet of pastries right out of the blue to jolt me out of that slightly off kilter mode of response of the newly arrived.

I was hanging up my washing in front of our accomodation when a lady came up the steps and gave me the small package, She said something in Greek, smiled and walked off down the path. An oldish woman dressed in black, a small gold crucifix on a chain around her neck. I burst out stupidly “ how much?”. She smiled and raised her hands in that universal gesture of goodwill.

As she walked away, I vaguely recalled two women sitting on their patios this morning as my friend and I set off confidently for our short walk through the hills to Apollonia , the next town. They smiled and gestured , how brave we were to tackle a steep climb, and indicated they did not know where the path started . They laughed and nodded again as we walked back :” wrong way “ we gaily called as we went past. They waved again as we returned a third time retracing our steps to find that elusive path.

Thank goodness they were no longer outside when we returned 3 hours later, defeated. Change of plan : a swim and a bus to Apollonia,

I think she was one of the women

So where is this leading? Kindness, yes. But for me also a reminder that words don’t always mean the same , that images are constructs determined by culture, experience and a host of other factors . Most embarrassingly, how deeply ingrained are my own expectations.

So yesterday and today, especially today, I still misinterpreted directions, swamped others’ input with my own knowing , expected routes and paths and times to be clearly displayed in recognisable signage.

I also made quick judgements about places , behaviours, labelling the center of Apollonia, when we did get there “ so touristy and fake”. Well it may be … but that’s not the point .

All in all this has been a great day. Thank you smiley woman .

Now for another swim in the clear water in front of our stay . A magic spot, And I’ll keep my opinion to myself, until next time.

The most important discovery is that travel is fun and this is a holiday in a country I have always wanted to visit. Here I am with my friend.

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I remember: Marina Gregorious

I haven’t thought about her for years. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m going to visit Greece, maybe I’m getting old. Perhaps it’s just walking along this path above Leighton beach in North Fremantle on one of the first days of summer. I notice the reminders of people who have walked along here before.

The name Marina Gregorious rolls off the tongue with its regular rhythm, connotations of the sea, spirituality and Ancient Greek meaning: “watchful/ alert”.

But there is also that long ago photo of the two of us, young girls in the East African sun; no hats, flimsy strapped sun dresses, already freckled faces, cuddling a cute rabbit.

I was going through old photos, arranging and culling. I found myself back in my African childhood, in small bush stations and then in the school room at a gold mining township in Tanganyika ( now Tanzania). I think she was one of my two friends in the small, isolated settlement in Geita, the administrative centre of Lake Province. The mine school was a long drive away. I travelled grumpily and unwillingly to school each day over bumpy, sandy roads.

It was also a place I looked forward to at weekends. My family were popular members of the Mine Club. The Club was the hub of social life, and for my brother and me that was Schweppes soda and Smiths crisps, weekend bribes. Jumping off the diving board into the swimming pool, our parents safely inside at the bar.

I think the photo was taken in her garden when I went to play at my friend’s house after school. On the back of the photo is written Neville found this in one of Buster’s drawers in the office. Neville was my father’s boss, the D.C (District Commissioner), and the message is from his wife. The date is unclear but I presume was found in the desk my father occupied during his last posting. That was in 1957/58 when we left East Africa and returned to England as Independence approached. Three years later, December 1961, Tanganyika gained independence.

In the garden with Marina and the rabbit

Now I look at the photo again, I see that Marina is holding the rabbit very firmly. I’m sitting next to our dog Dandy. Interesting that my memory is that it was me with that rabbit. ( Was I holding it before or after the photo was taken)?

Gregorious. A Greek root, and a German/ Dutch name. Not one of the British crowd who formed most of the Colonial Service world of 1950s East Africa. Perhaps her father was one of the skilled workers/bosses imported from South Africa. Perhaps a Dutch Afrikaner to manage the 2000 African workers in what was then the largest gold mine in the region. Geita mine in the late 1950s with its tight, white, social circle, school and hospital, is a whole other story.

It’s her name I remember. Marina Gregorious. The joy I felt that afternoon as I sat with her and the rabbit,

Now of course my parents are not around to ask about places and friendships. But it’s enough, surely, to recall the joy of having a friend, holding that rabbit and the music of her name .

So Marina Gregorious, wherever you are, you are remembered with joy.

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And Always Remember to Touch on your Myki at the Start of your Journey

But there is no announcement on the platform today, and no need to touch on. No trains today, or yesterday. An Outage.

Also Melbourne is freezing and walking the streets in this weather is unappealing,

So I am queuing for the replacement bus with all the other commuters on a Saturday late afternoon.

Actually I am surprised at the good humour. Maybe Melburnians are used to transport issues.They are certainly inured to the weather. The guys directing to the correct bus or coach are equally good humoured, answering each query patiently and pointing the way again and again. Rain ponchos are distributed. Rain is forecast and the sky is darkening. The icy wind though keeps the storm at bay.

We pile into the bus bound for, ironically, Sunshine. Then trouble strikes. But it’s mine really. Stupidly I sit in one of the few free seats. Next to a talker. A few minutes in, despite my non -committal responses, the young man launches into a full blown account of his brain injury. He corroborates his story with a U Tube video on his phone . Then he fills me in on the accident, the rehab, the state of his car that he loved as much as his girlfriend, how he catches a ball ( showed me a hand frozen into a clench), his life now. I’m not unsympathetic, but having just come from a hospital visit, and cold and moody, I really don’t want to hear anyone else’s story.

Sunshine has never seemed so far away .

Finally I reach the end of this line and look for the next bus. I make sure I look old and grumpy. And I sit up front on a single seat looking straight ahead

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Where are We Going?

Do you ever wonder sitting on a train, or a bus or plane, where people are going? Fellow passengers sitting alongside and opposite you, or hanging grimly onto straps if you’re in a big city at rush hour.Where do they come from ? Why are they here sharing your journey?

National Gallery , Melbourne. Off on a journey

Here on this train, unlike the birds above, we all have different destinations. We are on the same train from Perth to Terminal 2, a mixed bag of people each with a story. Sitting alongside me is a young guy, jeans and jacket and small backpack obviously heading for the airport. sitting opposite is an older male swathed in black : hoodie, dark glasses and several black bags. He emanates darkness. Scowling into his phone and flinging back his head, he empties a can of drink into his mouth.

Then there is a complete contrast: a much older man dressed neatly in tailored jeans, white shirt and a short sleeved red sweater. He’s carrying an equally neat bag and sits reading calmly. And he’s just getting up to leave at Bayswater station.

Other passengers include a middle aged woman, she’s tottered to the exit, a few young cool looking, booted young women on computers or phones, a child with his mother who is sitting in front of a pile of luggage – obviously going to the airport.

You get the idea.

And here’s my stop.Terminal 2. Off to Melbourne..

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Life is More than Measured Spoonfuls

Well, I hope it is. Life is more than T.S. Eliot’s measured coffee spoons. I mean a lot of what goes on around us and within us cannot be grasped and captured so easily. And actually most of the time, I believe, life consists of brimming tablespoons of enjoyment. It’s only some days one has to scrape up the small bits and pieces, and slowly and painfully fill those tiny, almost obsolete, teaspoons.

From my mothers collection of silver teaspoons

I’ve just been deleting the hundreds, thousands, of photos on my computer, spanning almost 20 years. Also sorting through my parents’ photos that have had several siftings already before being returned to a pile to languish for a few more years. I haven’t learnt to be ruthless in my culling. I mean 10 photos of one child on one occasion, taken by different people at various angles.

What do I want to recall? What does the photo say? How relevant is it now? Where do I place it? Who will look at it?

Just some very common questions facing all of us who are trying to organise a jumble of photos. Indeed we face many of those questions whenever we reluctantly sort through and cull our accumulated possessions.

The thrust of this blog is the underlying big question:

What is this life about?

Besides photos of children, now of course fully grown, grandchildren and even one great grandchild, my life seems to have been one of celebrations, garden, spaces, and walking, eating and travel. Life as encapsulated in those photos seems short.

My parents lives seem equally brief, perhaps more celebrations and less travel. Fewer photos and they are more posed, but still the procession of birth and marriages and children and, generally, smiling at each other or into the camera

Assorted. Top left great uncles, bottom my aunts wedding, top right grandma in E.Africa giving instructions, bottom right my dad and his two brothers, my uncles.

Grandparents, aunts and uncles are fewer, more solemn, darker, presenting a solid front of certainty. There is no hint of the sometimes sad sometimes funny stories that lie behind that respectable facade.

Preparing to travel to the country closest to my heart, Spain, there was the usual pre travel sorting, culling, arranging, reviewing present life. Before stepping into a different one, a different version. Stepping full of hope, and some trepidation.

Elliot’s “I grow old, I grow old” reverberates alongside Marvell’s “Time’s winged chariot on my heels”. The challenge is now no longer to keep running or shake off that pesky biter. The deeper concern is where am I running, do I want to and, more realistically, can I run fast enough?

I can show up and see what happens. My life is my life and it’s been all that the photos show. But more, and less. No one knows the depth of the individual life. Only now, years later, do I look at photos and read accounts in journals and letters of my parents; their lives are thicker and more complex than I ever recognised. Maybe only the individual knows their own life. Even that knowledge is shaky.

(Refs

Andrew Marvell . To his Coy Mistress

At my back I always feel

Times winged chariot at my heels

T.S.Elliot .The Love Song of Alfred Prufrock.

.” I grow old I grow old

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolld”

Just keep looking out through the glass and move as this funny twisted plant does towards the light

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A Lesson from Cactus

So this is my first blog for 2026. A belated piece that has sat languishing in my draft box for over a month. The title is borrowed from Athol Fugard’s (South African playwright) A Lesson from Aloes. Ok, I’ve replaced aloes with cactus just because I have some splendid plants in my garden. (well I did, a few months ago). Aloes or cactus, both are survivors with a rare, short lived beauty.

“Aloes are distinguished above all else for their capacity for survival in the harshest of possible environments” (Fugard, Introduction to Aloes,)

Whilst I’m not claiming to live in circumstances challenging our very life, as did Fugard’s characters in the apartheid era, I am fascinated by the cactus’ sudden, glorious flowering after a long period of ugly, fierce and prickly inactivity. Cactus, like the succulent but less prickly aloe, only flower once in a while. The flowering is spectacular.

Well. There were more flowers on this last week

Actually, right now the garden is regenerating in the few days of cooler weather after the intense heat. Plants can bide their time, survive with very little water and attention, and recover when circumstances are right.

Not sure where I’m going with this. I think it’s about the presence of beauty and gentleness in the midst of turmoil and ugliness. Nature prevails. I’m thinking, as many of us do at year beginnings: well it’s a clean sweep. Let’s get on with living. Prickles out to get us still but we’ve seen the flower. There’s grace.

I would like to share a photo of successful tomato growing, even though there are only a few. And a favourite flower, frangipani, rescued from the ground and placed in the blue bowl. May light and colour stream into my house.

So blessings on all of us for 2026.

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Birthdays and All That

My mother’s birthday was in July. Marie Therese Hanna ( née Tregarthen), and my oldest grandson, Jimmy Roe Thompson shared her birthday. So Happy Birthdays to the oldest and the younger.

I wrote this blog a while ago.

The morning of their birthdays I was looking for a photo in my studio and in amongst the piles of photos and documents waiting to be organised I found this photo of the 3 brothers: my dad and my two uncles.

Thoughts of age and time passing. More than that though, I looked at all three boys and glimpsed, albeit in hindsight, personalities and connections with those who followed them.

Left , the tallest ,uncle Michael, in the middle , uncle Bill and on right my dad , Arthur ( Buster)

My dad looks so much like my oldest son in this photo. Responsible, holding the youngest, looking out for his brother. Michael looks like life will always be fun and interesting, that even bad times will pass, Bill cheeky (very much like grandson Charlie).

Where were they ? Must have been on holiday somewhere.

Their lives are ahead. Mapped out ? Already on a path? Who knows. There was for all of them a war to come, separation as they were sent to different families, deaths of uncles, a move from Dulwich where they grew up to Bath and a house all together in the UK. Fun and school and then more war. More death : my dad ( Army and in Burma), Michael (Navy,) . Bill (Malaya).

Then a time of readjusting to peacetime and study, jobs,family. I could go on . But the point is that in this photo life stretches ahead and they are full of joy.

Is that “ time stretches ahead” a fabrication ? Because from this perspective it seems like life flashed along enveloping all three in the glow. Maybe they were never as close as this again ? Certainly their paths were different. Family stayed connected always but their paths were very different .

I think the point of thinking about this photo is to reflect that this instant captures their togetherness, their different personalities , and their happiness. And to wonder how much of the early personality influenced the rest of their life.

Also to think how fleeting our life is and how fast it can change. So my mother would be nearly a hundred now , my oldest grandson is 23 and still at the beginning part of his life

His son Jamarlee, my great grandson, is just starting out.

Me, I’m at the tail end. In real years the youngest may have far to go. But in an unconstructed time, we all are nearer to the tail end than we think.

And while I was writing this my newest grandson was born.

A friend sent me this quote in response to my announcement of his birth:

“…… trailing clouds of glory do we come…..”

From Wordsworth‘s Ode to Immortality

May we keep our faces turned towards the sun.

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Sola no Longer. Lessons from a Camino

This is for you John Brierley. It was your Guide book I clutched ( regardless then of the weight added to my pack) on my very first Camino adventure. 18 years ago. The Camino everyone knows , the Camino Frances. Since then I’ve walked other Spanish Caminos. And I’ve always remembered your central message about being vigilant, kind and thankful.

It’s a long flat path sometimes and lots of time for thinking

Each time I walk a Camino I contemplate Brierley’s beliefs and each time I’m back at home I try and hold onto them.

So now I’m back again, this time from a very short , broken up , Camino . I’m struggling once more, and I’m not alone in this. I’m starting to topple into familiar patterns of annoyance, mourning, and anxiety.

You see, I have a little list I write during each Camino.

I’ll summarise as the list is always tedious and jumbled, a smorgasbord of repetition each return. There are resolutions about exercise, relaxing, spending time with friends, being kind, tackling the new and the difficult, and, always, writing .

About 3 weeks in the clarity fades. Maybe life takes over with all its demands, responsibilities, actual and self -imposed. I become reluctant to engage in conversation or go to new places, sleep in longer, start washing up and tidying instead of walking or writing. My energy and delight in life is being whittled away.

This started out to be a simple ‘resolutions/ life/ finding a way’ piece. However now I’ve started I’m into a bit of a meander. Around John Brierley, Caminos, and a very brief exploration of beliefs.

So if you’re not into meanderings, then go no further. Just skim read to the end.

J. B. believed we are all on a pilgrimage, a metaphorical Camino. You can read elsewhere how he went on his first camino pilgrimage, changed his life, began writing the Guides to the Spanish Caminos .His belief that we are all on a pilgrimage , a spiritual journey, is not new. What is new is his ability to merge this conviction with a very practical, concise guide to walking long distances along paths which have long histories of spirituality .

Pilgrims have followed the Francés since the 11C , the St James Way all the way to Santiago de Compostela. And while I’m at it , there are more than 11 Caminos in Spain, the term Camino refers to the various designated tracks that lead to the shrine of St James in Santiago de Compostela. The Francés is one of the oldest , most well known and most frequented.

J. B. Guides are practical , meticulously researched, contain directions for following the different routes, where to stay or eat, what to carry. but they are also filled with notes on what he called the “ inner” ( or mystical , spiritual, path) .

He said that we need to guard “ the hard won space which pilgrimage gives”. The busyness of our lives takes us away from its centre, Pilgrimage slows us down, opens us inwards, towards truth. I believe strongly in the power of the Camino to bring about a change in being **. The pilgrim is thrust into a strange country, amongst unknown people ,into a different culture with ,generally, an unfamiliar language.There are other ways of behaving . She has to let go of the familiar and there is a gap, not- knowingness and a space for new awareness. There is time to cement that new awareness and to work out how to bring that insight into the life one has. Because ultimately most people have to return to the life they live at home or recreate one. Even walking continuously needs a plan .

On the Camino Forum , a valuable resource for anyone who is planning to walk a Camino , there is some lamenting about a return to life as is. There is also gratitude expressed for an adventure and opportunity, and an intention to use that as a catalyst in the ordinariness of life, to walk both actually and metaphorically with interest and curiosity.

Curiosity is what lifts us out of the fairly routine existence of our ordinary lives. Even John Brierley’s focus on the Caminos and Guides must have required a routine of sorts.His curiosity kept that gap open for insight and allowed a little bit of grace to seep through ,

So this morning instead of stumbling out of bed to my coffee , I stumbled out of bed to the beach.

I overlooked the weed and the quite strong waves,and plunged in.

Frozen when I got out . But I do feel alive now.

** I know the argument that any walk , particularly a long one, offers the opportunity for contemplation. But the Caminos because of their long history of pilgrimage and spirituality have a special potential to link with the unexplored and inexplicable parts of our lives .

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Espana Sola. Letter to Elaine

Querida Amiga

I am back home now with my family, so this is my last Espana Sola.We said goodbye in Avila, the city of Santa Teresa, so I’m writing this for you.

I have just visited the Convento de Santa Teresa, 10 minutes walk from where we stayed in Avila. We spoke often about Teresa, her life, her writing and her struggles with her own demons on the way to faith, The visit raised many of the things we talked about while we walked together.

The Spanish word “ causas” conveys much more than “things”, and the Convento visit encapsulated a causa that has become increasingly persistent, with visits to Spanish churches and historical sites. This last week in Avila, Santa Teresa’s home encircled by its Medieval walls , one causa shouts out to me: where is the humour , the steadfastness, the uncertainty of the woman?Descriptions of the young Teresa mention her beauty and exuberant, extroverted personality. Where, also, in the recreation of parts of her life in the Cathedral and the museum, is the simplicity and directness ?

There is some simplicity. The restored Cathedral on the site of the family home has the original baptismal font where Teresa was christened in 1515 and a model of the sparsely furnished room she lived in while in her first Carmelite Convent. But 17C Church glitter and a somewhat one dimensional, stolid , safe Catholic narrative in the museum beneath threatens to overshadow the 16C persona of Teresa de Cepeda y Alumada. A makeover?

Teresa is celebrated for cutting through the excesses and strictures of the Catholic Convents of her day. She introduced the famous discalced ( sandled) feet covering: the practice of wearing sandals instead of shoes. Prominent 16C mystic and reformer , she founded San Jose Convent and the Discalced Carmelites. Copies of the rope sandals are displayed in the Convento museum.

They also peep out from beneath her robes in some of the more interesting statues and paintings in the museum devoted to her life .

In the display of the last part of her life some of her intelligence and diligence is evident : there are paintings of the saint quill in hand and book on lap, absorbed in writing. These images were produced quite a while after her death.

The depictions of Teresa , Doctor of tbe Church, date from 17C. She is one of the few females whose thoughts and writings are recognised by the Church whose practices she persistently and bravely tried to change in the last 20 years of her life.

As a 15 yr old Teresa read a lot, and wrote in the 15C when most people ,especially women , were illiterate.

Written when she was nearly 60 to the Bishop of Avila province. Under his jurisdiction she founded her first Convent, San Jose.

Most of the museum focuses on her early life as a young girl,(and holy from the start , which she wasn’t), her saintliness, and her ecstasies.

Where is Teresa de Cepeda y Alumada in all this? Born 1515, she entered the Carmelite Convent in Avila in her twenties following her father’s wishes. She struggled with faith and was unwell for a long time , until in 1555 she apparently had a spiritual awakening.

She was interrogated by the Inquisition, her writing examined, ordered to be silent. She lived and spoke out in dangerous times and her mysticism was viewed as of the devil.There were disputes with the Bishop , and the reports even went to Rome.

My pervading image of Teresa is of an older woman making her way steadily along the hot dusty path from Avilla to Tormes , wearing those cumbersome Carmelite robes, sandled feet. As she went she founded Convents ( total 30 in different parts of Spain) . She was unwell a lot of the time and died at 67 in Alba de Tormes.

Her last words , reportedly, were

“ After all I die as a child of the Church “

In the last section of the museum numerous saints surround Teresa, in various postures of ecstasy or martyrdom , and of course most of them are men. St John of the Cross was a good friend , and a supporter when she established new convents and monasteries. But here he intrudes in her story.

I went on to the Cathedral, built over the family home. As I said earlier, there was the original baptismal font and a model of the room she lived in when she first joined the Carmelites . However alongside right alongside is the splendid chapel. It feels like she has been lifted out of that plain room to glitter and money. I think Teresa would object, or at least chuckle at the absurdity ,

I managed to coincide with a mass being said and so the Cathedral was quiet.

In the silence and the age old ritual of the mass, I let go of cynicism and doubt. Grace found a way through. I recalled Santa Teresa’s words;

“Let nothing disturb you, nothing frighten you, all things are passing. God is unchanging”

Maybe it was the Saint , maybe … But I shared that grace with you my friend.

Ve con Dios , with grace. Buen Caminos to both of us on our home turf .

Con abrazos

Susana

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Espana Sola No Longer. Back in the Hood and a Letterbox Experience

This as not about Spain, or travel, or anything important really. Just about letter boxes: my neighbourhood’s letterboxes.

I have just spent the last two hours walking the streets putting invitation cards into peoples’ letterboxes. Small, pretty, well designed cards inviting the neighbourhood to a community event at the local Community Center. A group of local artists are exhibiting their work; a variety of artworks – paintings, sketches, ceramics, sculptures. There is a glass of champagne on arrival, music performances, and you can even have your portrait done. There is lots to look at and enjoy.

Opening 5 June , 6-8 pm . Artists of North Fremantle

Well it’s a lovely sunny beginning of winter day and I’m happy to be out and about. I walk quickly from letterbox to letterbox and drop in the invites. Sometimes I have to squeeze it past the accumulated newspapers or letters blocking the opening. That’s alright.

But what does surprise me a little is the quantity and diversity of messages which clearly indicate a reluctance to engage. Bald instructions are stuck, sometimes glued, to the front of boxes :

No Junk Mail. Thank you. Is the most common, in a variety of sizes, scripts and skill.

Actually there is not a wide range of language. Sometimes the No junk mail , has an addition of No newspapers or circulars or No Advertising material.

I wonder how long the newspaper has been here

Towards the end of the morning I am confronted by multi-layered letterboxes lined up at the back of apartment blocks. All with the labels. Decisions, decisions, do I put cards in them or not. I decide not.

I know some people will disagree) what constitutes junk mail? What is rubbish/junk for some may be of value for others. I wonder, too how much extraneous stuff or junk we all have within our walls and lives.

It is very quiet, almost deserted, few people walking or children playing and no one chatting to me or to anyone else over the fence. Small square houses take up the entire block interspersed with large apartment blocks with small balconies facing a green, silent landscape. So different from my last few weeks in Spain, no small shops or bars underneath here, and it’s difficult to hold a conversation with people passing by.

Anyway, it was interesting to see the variety of letterboxes from the ones making a stand out statement to the simple, easy to spot, one’s that didn’t catch my fingers or need two hands to operate. If you come I hope you enjoy the Art Exhibition .

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Espana Sola. Reflections from Hotel Window

Looking out the window into the courtyard/ pigeon sanctuary below. There are literally about two dozen pigeons living here , coming and going and cooing whatever messages pigeons coo to each other . But I have only captured one on camera . They disappear in a near silent flutter of wings each time I raise my phone.

Why , you may wonder, pigeons ? I don’t even particularly like them . But the last few days in this very lovely hotel with the odd name Antika Snoga( yes you may chuckle) I’ve lived with their constant cooing and whirring of wings. It’s a comforting sound that blends with the church bells constant ringing ( there’re a lot of churches here.)

My amiga has just left to continue her walk in the Levante and today in Avila is my last Espana Sola day . A change . A pause before returning home. I miss my companion although we were only together for a week,

There’s been a lot of reflection these last five weeks away . Right now though it’s about peace and grace . These birds,really scavengers and plump and relaxed and happy it seems just to fly around cooing,, lend a sort of assurance to life. A quietitude in the middle of a very peaceful, uneventful city.

Sure, there’s stuff to see. Here’s the Avila Cathedral, considered to be the first Gothic cathedral in Spain . Although in reality there has been a lot of rebuilding snd the most beautiful part is the gothic that remsins

This part is full of colour and curved ceilings decorated with intricate roses

And the walls that measure.2.5 km, with 87 turrets and 9 gates . Built between 11th and 14th century , they are a great example of Romanesque architecture . Built on the remains of Roman fortifications to defend against the Moors .

But yesterday the most remarkable thing was not the cathedral or the long walls surrounding this city, but some interactions; grace .

Yesterday afternoon we were walking towards the start of the Camino to Gottarendura . Way off the point and winding around hills and on the wrong side of the huge walls. Along comes a dapper looking man with a small black bag on shoulder , neat T shirt, clean walking pants and walking shoes . “ Donde va?” he asked as we pored over maps.

He walked with us for half an hour right round to the other side of the wall , talking along the way about the city and where to go , what to see. He’d worked for the post office and now retired was on a break in Avila . A sweet, quiet, interested man who shook our hand when we reached the Mirador viewing point , and the start of the path to Goturrendura .” Encantado de conocerlo” and he left .

There were other interactions yesterday: the old man strolling up to the mirador walking stick in hand who talked to us about his four grown up children who all live away from here,, how he spends his day living alone, and commented on the contemporary poor enunciation, by Spaniards, of the Spanish language. “Hasta luego “, the sweet woman in the bar where we stopped in the late afternoon sun . She came out with tapas and cold beers for E4 (. $8); the guy with 2 dogs sitting in another cafe who opened my water for me with “ necesitas comer mas “ and a chuckle.

These are small events but they brought light into the day. Moments of grace.

Like those quite ordinary pigeons , grace is just here, waiting to be seen

So now I’m off to explore Avila some more.

I’m aiming to go to Convento de Santa Teresa , the mystic and church doctor , who wrote

“Let nothing disturb you, nothing frighten you, all things are passing . God is unchanging…..”

Those pigeons are driving me crazy.

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Espana Sola.Girando y Girando***Forever, it Seems.

Well the last few days of our Camino Improvisado have been exactly that : a turning and turning. Girando y Girando. Physically as we search for paths and signs and wind around steep hills. Mentally as I am forced back on my own resources. Thoughts and emotions gather momentum as certainty diminishes and doubt creeps in.

We were so prepared. Yes a long day from Torrijos to Escalona, so taxi a short distance to Masqueda, leaving 17km on foot. A reasonable distance and an enjoyable walk.

It was exciting when we found the first Camino Levante sign.

The next few hours were all a Camino can be : fields and flowers, soft grass underfoot , a bit of mud.

Until the last bit. Bitumen and the inevitable slog uphill into Escalona.

All said and done an ok day. Tomorrow San Martin and a neat 22km.

The next day we were dropped off at Almorex, leaving 22 km of great walking , we thought.

So sure we were that I impatiently shrugged off a conversation with a fellow walker from Sydney, at our first coffee stop.( Poor guy had been walking solo for a good 2 weeks and was pleased to be able to talk. Sorry Sydney guy). If I’d engaged with him I would have known that the turn off was very near our coffee place. Instead, I strode off for a good 8 km , with hard bitumen underfoot and cars whizzing past on the N 420.

Elaine checking maps about 2 hours into our walk

So. 8 km on the boring, hard, dangerous highway. But fortune shines briefly. We find an alternative path that will connect us back to the Camino . Off we go: through a gap in the electric fence and along a muddy country path . No more traffic.

How clever. Lunch on a rock with a view of the valley beneath. It was a lively half hour or so. Until we no longer saw the Camino sign. Ever hopeful we ploughed on ; the path continued to wind on itself and we kept going. It was no longer fun ; just hard work as I walked and slid my way towards a destination that seemed to slip sideways as I approached. Actually the path was avoiding the private land fenced off with a clear message “ Privado “.

Finally met up with Eileen and then we’re into San Martin. 27 km of walking and my legs can feel it.

This is the Camino though. So we turn into the Hostal El Pilar in the uninspiring San Martin and plan tomorrow. To Cebreros.

Worse was to follow on our third day. Off we set, a bit stiffly after the long climb the day before. Up the hills we’d just torturously come down . Again we slogged up the bit of interminable bitumen and round and round the gyre . Surely the Levante sign to Cebrecos our destination today, was nearby ?

Well , we’d passed it miles down the path all the way back . So off we set. To repeat the slithering and slipping down and up and down to the bottom . In the hottest part of the day and water was nearly finished .

Resourceful we are, though. Elaine called a taxi . Half an hour and there we were in El Rondon hotel , Cebreros . From La Salve ( salvation) to El Rondon ( random/unexpected/ surprising). More of that later.

Now: Resolutions, again

Be kind and listen

Take time to check and look

Be alert

Start walking early

*** Ref. I WB Yeats.The Second Coming.

“Turning and turning in the widening gyre”

……….The gyre metaphor encapsulates the cyclical nature of history where periods of stability and order are followed by periods of chaos and decline. I’m borrowing the metaphor though to convey the frustration, confusion and sense of being swirled around in a circle without end. The fragile sense of order we cling to can disappear, and often does, while walking along unknown paths .

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Espana Sola. Un noche Magia .

Sometimes it just happens . Magic unfolds . Tonight in Escalona ( Central western Spain , North of Toledo. La Mancha. Cervantes country), after a meal in the bar opposite where I’m staying :

I went for a walk. Back to the castle at the entry to the town. We passed by as we staggered up the hill at the end of yesterday’s walk. But here it is this evening just as the sun is setting.

The best part of the evening : Two kids whose photos I took came by and wanted to see. After an involved conversation I got the photo to them. Cheeky lovely kids .

Then I walked past the place I’d photographed . I wished I could stay. This is La Mancha, Don Quixote country after all . I feel a bit of a failure ,

Looked like more magic. But maybe not , and maybe just as well I headed back to sleep . Tomorrow’s another walking day .

But this whole town is alive . I passed our bar , full of people now at 10.30 pm . They’re just starting up. I’m ending my day.

Isn’t that magic? Buenas Noches.

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Espana Sola.Well, My Bags Unpacked; Ready to Go…..Tomorrow

First day of NOT walking the Levante. I reckon for reasons unknown this Camino is an elusive one . Maybe it’s the Camino Improvisado? ( a makeshift, improvised walk?). Here we are, my camino mate Elaine and I in an hotel of faded grandeur in Torrijos, a 34 km walk from Toledo. A 20 minute bus ride.

After all that re-packing , after all that careful discarding of assorted heavy items in my pack: like running shoes ( an older pair to change into , but they weigh), squeezing out toiletery items , hurried read of the current detective story filched from a pile left in accomadation. All for the walk that never happened .

I’m not at all chastened or embarrassed. In fact it’s been an interesting day, visiting the Toledo Cathedral this morning and seeing the El Greco masterpiece in the sacristy, along with some of his other paintings.

An enormous, cavernous , dark Cathedral with lots to see .

My favourite . A tubby cherub holding up the huge altarpiece

Then we did the walk around back to our hotel …..,, it’s not a twisted ankle or a fall I have to avoid, it’s the traffic squeezing down the narrow streets and alleys, creeping up behind ; the odd motor bike and skateboard zooming past, while the next rush of people following determinedly behind the leader who wields an umbrella above his head. The path is blocked.

We collected our packs and made for the bus station , intending to get the bus as far as Rielves and then walk the remaining 15 km to Torrijos . The later bus we eventually found did not stop on the way. Express to Torrijos .

So here we are in this strange looking hotel. With the lovely name La Salve . 27 km tomorrow . We’re taxiing the first 5 km.

Look what we found walking around a town which seems a bit ghost-like. The gothic style church which is really beautiful. It has a softness and a worn beauty that the Toledo Cathedral did not have., for me anyway..

Built in the late 1500s, A beautiful example of Gothic . Sadly needs a lot of work

That’s life . That’s making it up as you go. Thats improvisado.That’s a sort of fun.

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Espana Sola: A New Day, a New Spirit

Alegria. think this is the Spanish term for lively, living life, joy. Well that’s me this morning after my double dose of cafe and the fatty, sugary churros, I’ve recovered my desire for the chase,

I make it all the way to my first stop, the Plaza de Los Naranjos of the Mesquita, without turning on my phone or pouring over my crumpled map. Lots of people, but not as many as there will be in a couple of hours, and, Oh ….. just sit in the plaza and look again at the stonework and imagine robed figures walking quietly over this ground, under these orange trees all those years ago.

I found most of the Christian additions quite bulky and ugly compared to the Muslim work ( King Boabil surrendered Granada in1492 and by 1614 all the Muslims who had converted to Christianity were expelled.Then, roll on on the Reconquiste.

But I deviate. I’m off to see the evidence of another group of people who lived harmoniously with Muslims and Christians in Spain for a few hundred years, until they too were expelled .

I remember how to get to the Jewish Synagogue, and I head down the squashy street, even stop to look in at a silver jewellery shop or two, and finger the linen pants hanging along the wall. Yes I know this is all touristy, but I don’t care.

My luck is holding . There are only a few people in the Synagogue, unlike a few days ago when the queue wound round the corner. It’s very peaceful in this small space.

One of the archways with the original stonework and inscriptions exposed

Back into the hustle and bustle of Calle Almanzar running alongside the old city wall ; it seems that everyone loves sitting here, yelling at lunch companions in a frenzy of eating and drinking .

I squeeze my way through and in a few minutes there is quiet. I see a small cafe on my right with only one person standing at the counter eating what looks like a very delicious bocadilla. Success. A gaseosa, a bocadilla of cheese, egg and salad and delicious sauces. All for for E5. Plus I have a long conversation with the jefa, who says I can have one of the exchange books on the shelf.

Very full, I walk further on and come to …. I’m beginning to tire now,and make rash moves into unknown territory until … I’m back where I was 2 days sgo and needed to go to the loo.

I sit on a park bench and finish my drink .

Then I make for the Alcazar. That’s a story for tomorrow.

(A few notes on Mesquita: dates from 784 -786 when a Umayyad ruler built over a Visigoth Basilica.Extensions in 9th and 20th century, However Muslims and Christians worshipped here, until 1236 when the Mesquita became a Christian Cathedral. The Moorish character altered a lot in 16th C with the huge, ornate high altar plunged into the centre, mumerous chapels constructed around the perimeter of the beautiful open space …… , and a huge choir )

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Espana Sola. Another Day in the Cordobian Hood

I’m back where I started my not very marvellous yesterday. But few then not every day can be wonderful, wherever. In my favourite coffee and churros spot in La Corredera, I contemplate the day ahead . San Basilio and Juderia; I know the way there without my phone or map gripped tightly in my hand .

But first, yesterday. I stopped at the market just opposite and bought some really yummy strawberries. Then I started what turned out to be a long, hot, uneventful slog to the University. It turns out that there are several buildings all over the place, but after a wild goose chase I found the main one. Told it is a wonderful modern building . But I was disappointed as it seemed as if the neo Mudejar style superimposed on the 1921- 1926 building was just stuck on to solid lines Even the area on the edges of the old city is pretty ordinary. But the University has 21 campuses throughout the city and many of them are world heritage from 1600s , so I simply viewed the newest building.

First glimpse of the Rectorado of Cordoba University

I went around to the front of the building but couldn’t go in further than the foyer .

So I made my way back to my neighbourhood. Actually it was a short way and I was annoyed with myself for the self imposed long walk.

A detour into Zara’s. I love looking at clothes shops in foreign places, and I found Aldi again ( pleasure of the familiar!). With a large salad for E3 and a few other items I repaired to my room in La Esparteria and the detective story that’s just concluding. In a better frame of mind.

I think I’m ready to move on though.

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España Sola: A Lone Australian in a Spanish Pueblo

I hesitated about blogging this. Partly because I don’t want to exaggerate my story of being nearly two days in a small Pueblo with 300 others in the school gym. It sounds like the Apocalypse .

Also I am still processing the experience. Emotions changed as the situation evolved. From an initial “ oh well this train is just stopped for a while” to , an hour later “ it’s still stopped and it’s getting warm “ to 3 hours later listening to threads of conversation, passengers all unsure :”it’s a cyberattack , maybe terrorists, power off all over Europe “… And the muttered responses from train staff . The eternal Spanish phrase when no one wants to commit or to tell : “ No se”, Don’t know, a shrug.

I did think, well refugees must feel like this: not understanding the language or what is happening, where they are, what might happen . All anchoring points abruptly cease to exist.

I got that there was no power and no communication and the train staff could not contact anyone. Finally we were told to leave our luggage in the static train and some buses would be coming. We exited the train and filed through the deserted countryside to waiting buses and a “safe house”. I took my backpack with me , thankful that I was not pulling large wheelie suitcases over the rough ground as some were.

Half an hour later we were deposited in a large room , I think a school gym, in the tiny village ( 83 inhabitants) of Tocon.

This is the beginning , still more people to come . But my last photo as no more charge .

Guardia Civil and Emergency services arrive. We’re handed out bottles of water and there are boxes of bananas and salami sandwiches . Apparently we’re not the only train that is stopped and all Spain is shut down, chaos in cities, airports, so I glean from the guy in charge of our rescue operation . They are now in radio contact and a generator is brought in late afternoon.

9.29pm . Still in Tocan, in the school. We’ve been given water and food, brought in by several cars and a truck. Small tables are lifted in, the food is placed there. Several women boil water on small gas stoves to provide tea and coffee. A lot of announcements on a megaphone and we gather round . Looks like we’re here for the night. Its going to be a long one on the chairs brought in and some gym mats and blankets . This is well organised. By now there is a woman interpreting , but I still don’t get it all , Apparently buses are coming tomorrow to take some of us back to Granada and some on to Sevilla.

We’re all trying to charge phones to let family know where we are. Some to cancel flights or bookings. Being so out of contact is the hardest thing for me. I’m so far away, and no one knows where I am.

It’s a bit like a party now. Kids are laid down on mats , and some people manage to get one while others arrange their chairs so legs are resting on another one. Some people are being annoyingly cheerful, others nodding off or looking bored or worried. I’ve been for a few walks around the dead town but scared to go for too long in case things suddenly change. Police say this is a category 3 emergency and we need to stay together , there is chaos in Granada snd Sevilla , that if we leave they cannot guarantee our safety . I think this is to curtail a minor revolt where individuals are negotiating with villagers with cars for lifts to Sevilla.

At Ipm we are entertained by a guitarist and a truly awful singer. Two women dance flamenco to claps and cheers. I’m tired and grumpy; if one more person makes a congratulatory speech to the Policia in charge of operations…..and there are claps and loud cheers each time he takes the mike and yells out the same messsge about staying calm .

Doze off and take a mat someone has abandoned , pull my jumper over my eyes to screen out the light which remains on all night and nod off in fits and starts. It’s like one of those absurdist dramas where nothing happens and the characters are in one room as the same scene, the same dialogue , repeats itself again and again. Wake at 5am bleary eyed and thankful for the coffee being brewed in saucepans . These women, and some men, have been working for 24 hours nonstop and smilingly answering the same questions flung at them.

So the morning goes and we’re told buses are arriving to take us to 2 destinations . Then there is a hiatus and the interpreter announces that people who want to go to Sevilla can form groups and each pay E 20 in cash . There’s a surge of people . Another hour and the Sevilla privately arranged transport arrives . A surge of people and the Policia stops everyone and appeals for calm .Families and old people first .

At last: the bus for Granada and one for Sevilla . We are warned that once in Granada or Sevilla we’re on our own . Renfe takes no responsibility . We queue up again and are escorted to the buses parked in the square. This purgatorial time is over.

And we’re off. After an hours drive we are dropped off at the bus station . Don’t know if trains are running but make my way to the train station , and quickly book on Trainline . 5 hours wait and it’s going to Cordoba. So I start off again from Granada after the unplanned sojourn in Tocan .

I am still reflecting on the fragility of our existence . How quickly can the structures we have built around us disappear. In the twinkling of an eye, the touch of a switch, the eye of a storm … All that really stays is the earth we walk on, and even that can sink into the sea or explode. We have built a world around us to feel safe. But it’s all temporary.

Leaving Quentar 2 days sgo. Confident of the planned onward journey to Cordoba

PS Thanks to one of my favourite Australian songwriters , Mick Thomas for the title ,the subtext of this story. Yes , it did feel odd as well as lonely. Real or imagined I felt completely detached from the group .

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Espana Sola.Half Sick of Patios.

The church bells are ringing in this plaza where I am slumped into a bench. Will this be my last patio ?

It’s like the arrow chase we played in childhood, except here in Cordoba the streets are narrow and twist in on themselves, deceptive in their sequence , wily in their naming. I found the Palacio de Viana, richly furnished 17C palace with numerous patios and gardens .

I had a brief peed off spell at the beginning of the visit. Feelings I recognised from earlier travel. For the first time in Cordoba I had to pay E8 for entry to palace and patios. I’ve got used to the minuscule entry charges. Then I was annoyed by the group of women who stood at the entrance and interrogated the guide about what was included in the fee and whether they could pay for 3 or 4 or whatever. The dialogue went on and on while others stood happily chatting away ; common in Spain, people just talk, everywhere and in all circumstances. The whole noisy group talked and talked, while others stood by happily.

Then I couldn’t lose them, every room I went into they were there already or followed me in. Still talking loudly to each other. Spaniards were no longer endearing.

But it was just a hitch. I had been walking around for hours and speaking Spanish all day. I wondered briefly why I’d been so adamant about my Espana Sola travel.

Then I left the Viana, got out my Patios map and started the patio hunt again. Just as I was about to give up in exasperation I hit on the right street and also a group of laughing women who chatted away to me and were also searching. We found 5 patios, all small and belonging to private homes . The owners have opened up their patios to us for the 2 weeks of the festival . Actually I liked them more than the grander ones.

Still, I’m going back to my patch and having a drink . No more patios or churches or palaces today.

I put away my map and phone and just walk.

I did it. Followed my nose and I’m in a cheerful Cuban bar having a drink three minutes away from my room at La Esparteria .

I’ll leave the mojito for another time though .

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Espana Sola. Churros and Weekend Preparations at Plaza la Corredera

Plaza la Corredera .I’m just around the corner from here

It’s only Thursday but there’s already an air of expectation, and more movement in this plaza. I was woken this morning by what sounded like major demolition, but it was only two huge trucks, a large trolley staked high with crates and two men trying to manoeuvre the trucks in the narrow space while walkers squeezed past. The two men were issuing directions to each other.

My room looks down on the passage to the Plaza de la Corredera and actually I love it, and the sounds of people passing, buying ice creams in the place directly opposite or just talking, and arguing later at night.

But I suspect another level of activity is on its way for the weekend. There’s what could be a stage set up and the large TV outside where people watch soccer games will be on. Oh well.

They must have made it into the plaza as there are trucks here being unloaded.

A faint sun is showing and it’s a bit warmer. I’ve jobs to do today. In the meantime I’m drinking my cafe con leche and eating churros.

I’m also looking more closely at this bar .

Don’t know exactly but relates to story in the cutting about a past owner and poet

I started writing this as I am flooded with stories and photos from a full day yesterday . I’m still processing the Mesquita. But even what starts off as simple writing twists itself round, or maybe I twist it around as I take in more; so I’m stopping now and not exploring the stories here of Garcia Calvo and the churros ? that seduced him or “ with what Garcia portrays her.. “ ( the danger of only getting bits of the language). Enough that this Bar Maripaz was established in 1993 and the churros, I guess originally baked by Garcia Calvo, have been revived with this plaza ( which dates from 1600s).

Clapping in La Corredera. The music has started and the sun is bright. Off to do my jobs before exploring some more of this maze of a city, and the edges of the thickly layered stories.

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Espana Sola: An Evening in Cordoba

Well I’m breaking one of my rules . Just because I’m so excited to have found my dream Spanish accomodation, and it’s just 2 minutes away from here where I’m having a second, very good, red wine. One of my rules is only one drink at night. So I can find my way back to my room and work the many locks on the way.

But this tavern was appealing . I was returning from a long walk to the Puente Romana in Cordoba and tired of pan y queso in what look like cheaper bars ( hard being vegetarian in Spain). I thought well why not ? This will make a good blog. So here’s my food, red wine and two tapas:

A fish combination ( not fried) and ensaladilla Rusa

And delicious. No queso, not too much pan and even the potato salad with the exotic name is tasty. E12 in total for decent food, good red wine and the luxury of observing . The waiters are smiley and healthy looking, the clientele mainly Spanish speaking . It’s 10.30 now and the place has filled up fast .

On the way here I walked to the Puente de Romana and over the other side, back over the rather murky Guadalquivir river, around the Medquita area heaving with tourists and back to the Plaza de la Corredera where I’m staying for the rest of this week.

I looked in at a few of the patios. The Fiesta de la Patios Cordoba is on for a week. There are 6! routes to follow so I’ll be busy .

But this Taberna is full right now and it’s time for me to go. I pay the bill, grab a bottle of water from the place opposite, check out the jazz place next door, and walk to my place. Push the main door as instructed, insert key in lock of next door. Easy. Up the stairs to third floor. Remember the hidden step just in front of my door.

I’m into my room.

I can’t resist a look outside on the patio . People passing below and voices. But the moon is out and it’s time to sleep .

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Diario de Espana Sola:A Purple Haze Descending

I never ever want to see purple again. Maybe it’s lilac, or violet, but unfortunately my shirt and jacket hanging around this small but clean room match the decor. It’s a cloudy day in Ronda and no sun streaming through the window to lift the shadows. So I’m sinking into the haze.

I’m not really complaining? This is just one moment on my solo journey and, solo or not, rooms are a matter of a lottery. Hotel de Los Reyes has an 8 on Booking.com. and is comfortable, clean, has pleasant staff and only Las Llaves to ONE lock, my room . But that room makes a good photo for my blog.

My purple room in Hotel de Los Reyes Ronda

Later :

This set out to be a series of entries , recounting travel experiences from the perspective of a solo older female writer, in a country which she has always held close to her heart. Sola Espana. So I’m reflecting as I go .Not a real travelogue. Dear reader, if you’re reading this, your narrator is struggling at times .

But I’ve left that purple room this afternoon, metaphorically. I’ve stopped worrying about a message from the next accomodation and re -reading the reviews . I’ve successfully found a bank machine that didn’t chew up my travel card, bought lunch at the supermercado, found out how to share my posts on social media easily. And had cafe con leche and tostada at a very quiet Spanish bar away from this busy centre.

The only job I have left is to book my train back to Cordoba on Monday.

So this room is brightening and the sun is out, the cold wind has lessened. It’s still purple, or lilac, and I’m still me. But another fear gone. And I’m off to explore a 13 C to 17C palace, Palacio Mondragon and its gardens at the top of a cliff overlooking Ronda valley.

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Espana Sola. On the Road Again. But the Train Road; and Not a Kerouac Experience

Sitting in the train cafe gulping down a cafe con leche after a wended way from my accomodation the opposite side of Cordoba, I’m pondering again. My last blog was about fear and confronting change (On Being Brave….). More on this theme.

And thank you Pilar for your your kind welcome in your muy hermosa casa

This blog will not have many photos.I have been preoccupied with getting my rucksack down the steep stairs safely, unlocking doors, finding my way, and, now, watching for train times and sudden changes .

I just looked at other people in this station cafe and they seem as harassed as I feel. Only many of them have those wheelie suitcases they’ve dragged all the way along the cobbled streets of Cordoba. All tentatively ordering a coffee and eyes on the departures board glimpsed outside. All well dressed, mostly.

So has travelling changed or is it just that I’m older so find it more stressful/ difficult/ time consuming ? To begin at the beginning of my journey today : just to get to this platform no 5:

To return to my account of a typical morning departure. I won’t bother with the tale of negotiating the lethal staircase down from my otherwise quaint attic room with a backpack. I’m in good time ( allowing double expected time to walk the twisting disguised streets to the opposite end of Cordoba). There are now 3 doors to unlock before I head off. Not very good at this as I have to try each key in each lock.Yay, I’m out and now I’m finding my way with the help of Maps. A few wrong turns but I follow my nose. And there I am at Cordoba Train station. On time. Check board. On time. Check board. Delayed .Check board. Still same time. Check platform number again. Check ticket. Coffee.

And thats as far as I’ve got today. I’ve found the correct carriage. Some of them disguise their number behind an open sliding door. Correct seat. Ronda here I come.

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Diario de Espana Sola: Of Tiles and Fountains, Food and Mountains ( a week ago)

Only I’m not really solo this week. My cousin from UK has joined me for the week and it’s been lots of talking and eating and drinking wine. We’re sharing reminiscences of our families . Here in the Arabic town of Quentar in the Sierra Nevada mountains an hour by bus from Granada we are comparing stories , speculating about family secrets and laughing through a few glasses of wine.

So here we are in this really special town.

Walking the narrow streets between the whitewashed walls, every angle is a picture book illustration of the prettiest town wherever….. only there are not many tourists here. It seems some people work from home and others commute into Granada. This is a lived in place with 3 bars, a small supermercado, and a 13C church , which is yet to be opened .

We have also been walking . Everywhere is up. We went on a few circular walks, some better marked than others. I managed not to slither and fall on the way down .

Clare’s Revenge for a photo I took of her.

After a few short walks , we decided to walk most of Stage 9 of the Mozarabe. Bus to the small town of Dubar and we walked into Granada, about 15km. Thankfully we started early as it was a hot day and the last bit seemed interminable . Where is that splendid view of the Alhambra ?

And we walked straight into a bar at the bottom of Sacromonte, for a Coke zero.

More about Granada later,

PS :

And the Quentar church was opened for mass on Sunday. An impressive service with the small congregation speaking or singing all the responses.

As we were leaving Clare noticed a woman re/ lighting the lamp outside a small building with a cross. She showed us inside the what she said was originally a 13C hermitage. Saint Sebastian ( c263 BC) holds pride of place in the beautifully tended space, fresh flowers alongside a a simple altar. The martyr looks upward with a spear through his side . He is the patron Saint of Quentar and a group of women look after the hermitage all year. The big celebration is in September : the. Battle between the Moros and Christians and the saint is brought out for that re -enactment of an old , harsh event in Spain’s history.

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Diario de Espana Sola. On Being Brave. Las Llaves Again. And Heights and Fears.

Well, I’m usually asleep at this time of night. But this is Spain, Cordoba. More precisely it’s also the eve of May 1 and Cruces de Mayo de Córdoba is underway. *

After a salad at one of the plazas nearby and a wine (I have to drink near my accomodation – but coming to that later), I headed to the Plaza de la Corredera, the main, still beautiful but a bit neglected square. There in front of me was one of the many groups celebrating the May crosses.

So. That’s what I saw, just walking by. The church in all its glory, the candles, flowers, offerings, and the cross bedecked in a mass of pink flowers. BUT the dancers across the narrow street were such a joy. The dancing was so spontaneous and fluid. Just a part of the bar scene and people clapped while talking and drinking. Apparently the flamenco dancing is all over Cordoba during this celebration of a new spring.

Then I had to face my biggest fear: being unable to work the Las llaves. It’s cold tonight. There are 5 keys to this place. Each one opens a door and each lock requires calculation by one who is really really bad at matching shapes . Which key to which lock ? Shouldn’t be hard to remember.It is for me. But I did it.

Then another trial. The reason why I’m limiting my alcohol intake here :

The stairs leading up to my loft.

Well. I can hack the stairs, just pray and focus coming down. But looking down over the railings I feel queasy. Better today, my second night here .

It’s a real gem as they say on booking.com. Apart from the stairs ( and I was told about them before booking) .

Life’s a mix . Travel just pushes out that mix Flowers and dance on one hand and key and height challenges on the other. So I’m facing a few of my fears, and there are some I never knew I had .

*At the beginning of May Cordoba traditionally holds “ the battle of the flowers”. Huge crosses decorated with flowers , plants in pots and Manila shawls are put up in courtyards, plazas, in front of churches. Local clubs set up a bar alongside and there’s a week of Sevillanas music and dancing at night . I think there is also a parade and the best decorated cross wins . As with Semana Santa, brotherhoods of different parishes each prepare a cross.The festival marking the beginning of spring is also just after Easter.

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Espana Sola 20/4/25. Diario de Madrid.

So I’m at another La Gloria Bar in Madrid.

And I really don’t spend all my time in Spanish bars. I wish I could, but being solo it’s a matter of finding one close to accomodation, that’s not upmarket and overpriced, but not too seedy. Plus serves anything besides pan combination. One drink only.

So Easter Sunday, my last day in Madrid and the last of Semana Santa. I’ve just been at the close, a drumming performance, Tamborrada, at the Plaza Mayor.

I had plenty of time to really look at the building . Like lots of the architecture in Madrid just so beautiful with clear lines, colours and art on the walls .A lot of people to see this close of 4 days and nights of penitence, sadness and celebration. An hour of standing waiting is a good reminder of the time spent waiting in travel.

Also I remembered this morning on my way from Atocha to Plaza Mayor that it’s often not the place one reaches or the experience sought that is most significant. Sometimes the unexpected is the most interesting or thought provoking . At Anton Martin subway police cars screeched up and police lined the metro entrance taking emerging people aside until they grabbed one man .

Coincidentally I’d just recognised the sculpture modelled on a painting I saw yesterday in La Reina-Sophia; Juan Genoves The Embrace with its mixed message of solidarity post civil war. So it did make me think about the layers of life here in this traveler’s Madrid.

I guess one always sees connections with one’s home place. And certainly I see here in this vibrant and beautiful city the homelessness and disengagement that exists in Fremantle, the sleeping rough and asking for money, the arguing and, I guess, the drugs. Only here it’s less in your face as there are more people and the gap between the haves and have nots is less visible. And I’m just passing through.

So I’ve had my late lunch and I’m back to my accomodation around the corner for a siesta. Then it’s packing to move on. An early start to Atocha station for my train to Granada .

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Peaceful Scenes. And Birds

Peaceful ducks on pond photo. Well, they seem to be sleeping, diving for food and just thinking . But as I continue sitting on this stone beside the pond I see them chasing each other, competing for food and pecking, all the while pretending they’re just swimming around.

I came for a walk to feel relaxed and to enjoy a lovely autumnish day.I’m quite content to settle on the ducks on the pond, as busy as they are.

Not really so dull , Blue and green under -wings

And later I’m at Fremantle’s Gage Road , looking out at the harbour. A view of small fishing boats and the large cruiser on a sun beaten ocean. It’s very hot this afternoon. Again I’m watching birds.

The seagull on the table in front has its eye on the food and stands as if resting . Then makes brief sorties to the table, nonchalantly.

So there’s a lot one doesn’t see in the ordinary scheme of things. I guess that’s why I enjoy looking at photographs. A good photographer makes visible the slight, interesting and often significant segments that underlie our daily actions and thoughts.

Ducks are not just swimming peacefully around, seagulls are not just resting . But watching them is very restful, and entertaining .

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Confronting Old Age from Platform 2

Well. This morning I was standing on an escalator at Perth Train station. An unmoving escalator. Just standing contemplating whether to charge down and chance the thing starting up again suddenly and throwing me ‘arse over … ‘(as my father would say) or to look for stairs to Platform 2. I did think about other things too whilst I stood still for a while. Long enough for a man to appear beside me and inform me slowly that the stairs were “ just there”. He guided me towards them and urged me to hold onto the rails before he proceeded to Platform 2 , my platform.

Well.

In the past, a fairly distant past, offers of assistance have been a ploy. But in this case certainly not. I must have looked like an old lady teetering on the brink of a dangerous dive down the stairs. Maybe , he surmised, I was pondering the route to Platform 2, suffering from dementia or just plain memory loss. A bag lady. I had my usual back pack slung over both shoulders and another bag , a cloth one containing a book and a packed lunch, hanging off one shoulder. On my way to Kwinana via the Mandurah line to see my grandchild . That’s what old people do .

The guy who held my arm now sits opposite me in the train. He hasn’t made any attempt to talk to me again .

But I do think he’s a bit suspicious . He is darting short, expressionless glances my way. I have taken a few pics for this blog , and have my head down writing. Ha, hope he realises he misconstrued that thoughtful pose, and sees that I’m a lively, clever woman. Even if I’m only gathering data about railway station facilities, especially non functioning escalators.

He doesn’t know who I am , what I’m thinking about. I’ve got more important things on my mind than escalators and stations and helpful/ annoying people.

Only this morning I lost one of the new pair of earrings I put on for the first time. I felt a surge of “ stop , just get into a fun life” and actually fastened on a brand new pair of earrings.Bright, cheerful, earrings. Loosing one of a pair is a symptom of age. especially a swinging, looped pair. I guess the loops got caught in a woollen jumper.One dresses excessively for the cold in old age.

(Hey , that guy is looking at me strangely as I take a pic of my remaining earring )

Now I’ve started , let me be honest about age recognition and BO ( being old).

And while were on train travel , here are some of the related symptoms of BO:

Gathering all one’s bags and paraphanelia like phone to get off. Slowly and carefully.

Getting to exit doors on time without falling over

Searching for the button to open door ( Do not press the emergency stop button)

Forgetting to tag off on exiting gate

Looking for a loo

These are just the train travel associated symptoms. Others are more subtle I guess and only us not wannabe BOs are attuned to them. But we’re getting to Kwinana. Don’t want to miss my stop ( a very common symptom of BO ), so I’ll be brief.

Poor hearing that goes under the rubric of accusing speakers of mumbling or maintaining that there is background noise, or the music is too loud . Whatever.

Rambling. It is called chatter and being attentive, engaging with others. But actually it is a particular kind of conversing that goes:

A b a b c d e b f g … etc , with no return to the Major A .

Bewildering for listener as they have to work hard at a response . But I feel no sympathy for some of my regular listeners as they need some practice in listening . In any case they switch off and nod….

As I do . Because one of the consequences of being slightly hearing challenged is that one gives up the fight and just nods (sprung when there’s a key question that requires a definite yes or no response, or, worse still, elaboration).

But this list is getting too long. As do many conversations, speeches and writings of BOs

So other symptoms to list quickly:

Stumbling on a tiny piece of leggo or anything not normally in one’s path

Tripping, especially when walking too fast to keep up appearances and talking at the same time

Tripping over the black cat , who deliberately rushes in front of one. Then picking up said cat and throwing him non too gently out of the back door ( there to freeze, one hopes)

Making UMPH sounds when getting up or sitting down

Grunting when trying once again to make running a part of fitness routine

( In fact grunting and groaning at each part of fitness routine)

Finally, looking at oneself in mirror and seeing a strange face looking back at one.Who is that person ?

And I’ve bought another pair of the same sparkling, dangling, swishing earrings. So I can lose one again and still have a pair.

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Crumbling Cookies, and God

Many times I heard my father say “well .. that’s the way the cookie crumbles.” The phrase was his mantra. The crumbling cookie accepted (or dismissed) disappointments, family arguments, missed opportunities, financial problems, unwelcome surprises, friendship endings, and sadnesses.

As a teenager I often wanted my father to DO something. As I stomped and sobbed, yelled and threatened, his passivity made me louder and probably more unlikable. But he rarely raised his voice and he always loved me.

I recall being wrapped in my father’s arms as I sobbed loudly because I didn’t win first place at some Drama festival, when I was not elected School Captain in my last year at school ( I don’t know why I was perturbed as I scoffed at the position anyway), when my mother, again, forbade me something or other (he rarely intervened in our constant yelling matches). My mother’s complaints, my brothers’ pleas, family illnesses and deaths, were all met with the phrase. In a range of tones.

My father was an optimist, and a man of strong faith.

Yesterday I came across the phrase ‘May God hold you in the palm of his hand.’ I’ve always grappled with the concept of free will and self determination alongside fate or destiny. Or is there a middle ground, a life sketched roughly where there are many twists and turns, but a a life held loosely together by a framework. Where is God in all this shuffling and struggle and joy? If they know the movement of each precious individual, if they care and love, if they are powerful beyond our human imagining, where is the reason for the shit stuff that happens? If we’re all metaphorically in the palm of a hand and protected, then: Why?

Now, as I struggle yet again to answer these questions, my father’s response is a useful crutch.

The only possibility I can come up with is related to that crumble. When the whole bit falls apart it loosens rather than separates. The crumbs are still part of the whole even if a few fall to the ground. The core is still safe.

So, dad again, I can’t say it like he did , quietly and passively. But I can contemplate at times the possibility that when cookies are crumbling there is a hand holding. Maybe, hopefully, life continues in an unexpected and different way.

Life goes on.

New baby River and his sister Ava Suzette

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A Writer’s View

So, here’s the view from my writing room. I’m looking out of the window, immersed in a lot of non-writerly thoughts.

My computer, pen, assorted notebooks, lists, scrawled notes, highlighter, stickers… The sunflower and two struggling cactus plants on the windowsill .

Through the window not a ‘splendid view’* but a busy one: lovely old brick, a courtyard with plants sort of surviving, a mop in the corner and the washing line. A patch of clear blue sky above the irregular line of roofs.

So why am I blogging this? Only because my writer’s mind is a swirling sea of words and thoughts and feelings, none of which stay long enough to grasp. Blogging is easier because it’s so immediate. Also I do wonder about the relationship between the space in which you write and the act of writing.

I’ve just been reading an old book , Iris Murdoch As I Knew Her ( 2003) in parallel with Zadie Smith’s recent, The Fraud (2023)

The writer is central in both, and I have been thinking about the spaces in which they write. William in late Victorian England has a comfortable study in which he churns out a series of bad novels in later life. Iris moves from a comfortable study in her old home to a small ‘ poky back bedroom’ in’a miserable little house’ (p235).

Although, according to the rather nasty friend who is writing her life, she writes anywhere. Always has her pad with her. Even at her husband’s bedside.

Also interesting is the fraud that runs through both works. In different ways, the most complex is the intentional and unintentional fraud of the writer. But that’s another story.

Which returns me to the start: becoming a writer and surroundings.

So a room of one’s own. Like many women I have always pondered the image of that single, cosy, ordered room. Inside I sit, a writer. Men retreat to a study or to work. Women jot down bits in between the cooking and putting a child to the breast. I realise this idea is an old one, and shows my age, but I have held to the idea of my own space through children, study, work and stabs at being a writer. I have had a room briefly, usually only briefly, as someone else usually finds a use for it.

Now I have that room again and I have to remember to use it. I’m discovering once more that writing is tough wherever one is and whatever the stage of life. Whatever the view. Here I am in a room of my own so – start writing .

* Jolley, My Father’s Moon. Her father loves to point out a ‘ splendid view’.

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What was the Best New Year of your Life?

New Years Day 2024 and walking along our local Leighton Beach. Of course I’m listening in to the scattered conversations . Like a lot of people, my age anyway, I’m thinking of past New Years and estimating how many more I might see.

“It was the best night of my life, ever. Oh my god,” exclaims a young woman to her companion. That so strongly stated phrase set me off wondering and questioning: Is there a best New Year?/ can I remember just one/how does one decide?

There is the usual muddle of memories. Every time I retrieve one remnant from my mind another one emerges to obscure the one I have.

Ok then I’ll just stick with one New Year which always comes to mind. One spent in Exeter, UK with my Aunt Gladys and cousins and assorted people. Gladys always gathered people around her, and she celebrated at every opportunity. But Christmas/ New Year was her favourite. Lights, tree, wrapped presents and lots of wonderful food. She was a great cook. The highlight of this celebration was the brew. For months leading up to the night bottles would be opened, sniffed, tasted and lids screwed back on. Finally on New Years Eve assorted bottles would be produced with the lethal cocktails prior to the meal.

I can’t remember a lot, probably the combination of baby, my 5 month first child was with me, and the alchohol. I don’t remember much noise from my breast fed baby. The memory is of stories, a warm room and fun. My Aunt, despite the many sadnesses that came her way, had always created this sense of joy.

Each New Year I remember that New Year in Exeter with Gladys, and remind myself to laugh more.

So I raise a glass of the best whisky to you Aunty Gladys.

And, reader,what was your best New Year?

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Down Memory Lane in Bath, UK

And this post is a memory too. I started it at the end of my travel to Spain and then UK, a few months ago now. But real life took over and I abandoned the blog.

Back in Bath, where I was born. Where I lived with my grandmother years later, and where I have returned over a number of years.

And here I am again. Grandmother long gone.

Sitting in the Pump Room having the traditional morning tea. The place in which ladies and gentlemen danced, flirted, gossiped and intrigued in 18C England. It was here to the mineral springs of Bath Spa where languishing women, and men I guess, came to take the waters. It was here that Jane Austen’s herioine Elizabeth Bennett met the taciturn Mr Darcy.

No longer can we sip the water from the fountain in the far corner or bathe in the warm baths as I used to do as a child. Some lurgy made its way into the water a while ago,

There in a corner I can see my grandmother holding my baby son so proudly. Her first great grandchild. There’s a photo at home that I’ll have to pull out when I return home, pull out of the mass of photos that have mushroomed and muddled themselves over a number of years.

I tried to capture the curve and decoration of the windows, and ceiling detail around the chandelier

So a warning, this blog is more for me than the reader (I guess most writers blogs are so ). I need to record those Bath memories now.

As I lift the cup of beautifully served coffee to my lips and grab the traditional bath bun ( a solid doughy sweet bread sprinkled in cinnamon and a little brown sugar and eaten with the real butter sitting neatly on a butter dish on this white tablecloth) I am glad that it’s still happening / the traditional morning tea in the pump room served in the grand manner

Outside the Roman Baths/Assembly Rooms is the Abbey and the churchyard. Full of the usual buskers and tourists. A sunny day at the beginning of winter

I listen and watch for a while and then walk around the corner to the square where musicians perform to tourists and Bathonians alike. Bath has a music school so the buskers/ performers are very accomplished. I can remember from the time I lived and worked in Bath doing exactly what I’m doing now, sitting around in the circle of benches in the ‘no sun’. Actually, I used to buy an ice cream cone from the place over the road. It’s still here, but all repainted, completely refurbished.

And I think it’s worth putting up, a blue contrast to the Bath Stone

Well I can’t hang around here all morning so I make my way up towards Widcombe where I have lived at various times, and visited to see my parents and family.

I walk over the River Avon, peering into Parade Gardens underneath. No, it’s not me and my brothers playing down there next to the music stand. If I close my eyes I can see back 46 years, my grandmother again proudly pushing her first great grandchild, in one of those old fashioned perambulators. The baby is swaddled in white woolies, the tip of his nose poking out from the firmly arranged blankets. It’s a crisp autumn morning.

The Convent school I went to briefly is long gone, but I cross over the road to St John’s . The primary school is no longer, but the church, much restored, is right ahead. I was baptised here. Inside it’s brighter and more attractive than I remember on other visits

Then it’s along … , much the same, past the spruced up train station, through the tunnel and over Hapenny Bridge to Widcombe. This is the bridge I walked over every morning , and back at 4pm to St John’s School, with my little brother. Only for a year or so. Freezing in the winter. The white swans are still swimming around, but I’m not scared of them now.

With my Bath rellies in the garden of Ring o Bells. A garden now .

Past the Ring o Bells and the White Hart to the crossroads. Ring o Bells, Rosie’s place, the bar lady my father and uncle spoke of with such affection: she stood behind the bar and managed everyone with a mix of sternness and humour. Up Widcombe Hill to Perrymead Cemetry. Dad there now with the brother I walked with to school.

Then it’s time to compete the circuit. Back along Church Lane where I walked with my grandmother. I don’t take the small path to the right where we used to go to feed Dobin the horse, on our way through to the exotic sounding Rainbow Woods. I can’t see any arrows on the walls, kids and I played Arrow Chase along here. At the end of the lane is 2 Widcombe Terrace. Spruced up, lots of cars parked in the lane. I squeeze behind the car and pose against the blue smartly painted door.

I’ve just got rid of the cars. 2 Widcombe Terrace ,

I turn off Widcombe Hill to the right and head down The Tyning to the canal. I’m now on one of the regular family walks, down and along the canal. When we were older it was a longer walk through Henrietta Gardens and tunnels with a stop at the closest pub.

Today I turn left back towards the city, pausing to enjoy the special canal sights

Soon enough I’m back where I started, past the pretty flower shop (always been there but sprucer now) and a charity shop and turn over Hapenny Bridge towards our very beautiful bedsit in the Royal Crescent.

The next day it’s Bath Spa station snd Goodbye.

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Sitting on a Fremantle’s South Terrace – In Spain

I couldn’t resist this. Sitting on Barajas Plaza Mayor, enjoying a very delicious paella on this, our last night in Spain. The Plaza is probably the last bit remaining of what was once a small town far from Madrid. The airport has grown quickly so that small villages have been incorporated into its area.

A view along the long passageways surrounding the central garden and fountain

There we were enjoying our food

The Restuarants span the plaza and by 10.30 pm as we were finishing our meal, the whole plaza was teaming with people eating and drinking.

All around there was activity. Cars coming along in front, cars entering via the side street, the bus on the hour driving around the plaza to the bus stop opposite, the occasional police car, an ambulance, even a motor bike. People crossed in front of cars to and fro, and I watched the guy from one of the restaurants wheel over a full bin to the line of bins lined up across the street.

I had to get up and take photos

I thought of Fremantle’s South Terrace . Quiet in comparison.

A fun night here in Barajas, though. Noisy but full of life. A beautiful space.

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The Kindness of Strangers : Gracias. Olvidado Gratitude

We have finished walking the Olvidado : A fairly remote, outstandingly beautiful, Camino in North Western Spain. You can read the many blogs I have written this last month:the Olvidado, starting in Bilbao Northern Spain and making its mostly mountainous way to Villa Franca, is the most interesting and constantly changing Camino I have walked. If you’re thinking of walking in Spain, want a challenge, spectacular vistas and not too many walkers, then get to it !

Just some of the views along the Olvidado

Most of the Spanish Caminos are looked after and sustained by people who love them and live on them, or around. A variety of people: hospitaleros of course and those who have mapped the different ways so we can follow the path, putting up the yellow flechas that guide us. Also, particularly on the Olvidado which is so solitary, the tienda people who are often the primary source of food in the small places, the small bars and camareras/os, who have helped us along the way and listened patiently to my Spanish; in fact just about all the Spaniards we met.

I haven’t got the names of all those who were kind to a stranger really, so I’m just naming those I can:

Adolfo in Nava de Ordunte Albergue

Sonia Fernandez, encouraging and cheerful hospitalera, Almuhey Albergue. Julia too, whom we met there .

Dulio and his wife in La Magdalena. They run the restaurant and look after the very modern Albergue. The most enormous tortilla and ensaladas we have had. So patient and good humoured.

Laura and Ana. La Magia de las Nubes in Riello.

Amazing place in the clouds, beautiful food and women.

Estella. Gracias for looking after the Old Monasterio Albergue in Vergarienza. It is obviously well loved; and for taking the time to tell me a little of its history.

Senor Antonio, Hostal Las Eras, Cubillos del Sil. I enjoyed so much our chat about the town and your family, and the ‘ tranquilidad’ we look for. Gracias tambien to Antonio’s friend who runs the bar in the town, and prepared a delicious salad and calamares for us, even though place was closed for food .

The lady in the tienda where we bought such fresh fruit in La Robla. Also for her interest in out lives.

The guy who ran the bar underneath the Fasjar Albergue and went off to get milk for our breakfast in the morning . Had a great night there talking away to our peregrina friend, Irish Eileen .

And: Enders and others, for all their research and writing. We followed the guides and wikiloc.

These are only some of the people, and some of the albergues along the way. Without the ‘kindness of strangers ‘ we would not be able to enjoy this Camino Olvidado, nor others in Spain. I know that on the path there’s a camaraderie, a hotch potch creation of a peregrino family. But still: Thank you .

The four weeks of walking the Olvidado is a strange, mirrored tapestry of shifting reflections at this moment, a week after. Rather like the patterns on this wall plate I looked at this morning. It was hanging in the tiny courtyard beneath our apartmento in Avila.

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Hola Susana ‘What did you See’? Spanish Doors and Windows looking at me!

So I am fascinated by doors and windows. They are wonderful photographic subjects with curves, carvings, different textures and shadows. Here in Spain, especially on the Olvidado path I have just walked, past lives are etched into surfaces gifting the meandering walker, (in this case a slow peregrina), a glimpse into another world.

Of course some of the photographs also show life now, especially of the larger towns where I stayed on the way, sometimes for a few nights. And the cities , Madrid, Salamanca, Ourense …visited after the walking .

Windows and doors look out as well as inwards. I spent quite a bit of time looking out from living spaces, gazing over roof tops at houses, churches and fields, peering into next door yards and small streets, watching people walk past. All part of a larger Camino which we travel each day in our different cultures.

‘ Doors and Windows : Imagine ‘

First window, from Hotel Artistic in Madrid . Yay we’re here in Spain . Light on curtains, light in my life

And it’s a tall door, Day in Madrid getting ready to start the Olvidado

Se Vende. Said the notice . A pause on our way to Ordunte. Old monastery. First day walking

More from ‘Doors and Windows:Imagine’

The front door of. Albergue in Quintanilla, Old house

So I may have left out some doors or windows or, alternatively, given the reader door fever. But this collection shows all that I cannot put into words: the joy, the colour, the life, the history, of Spain.

And some of my story as I gazed with curiosity at this country. Hola ! This is a little of what Susanna saw .

Espana te amo .

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Journeying in Spain.The After-Story

After the Olvidado, and walking an interesting, solitary, often challenging and always surprising Camino in North West Spain –

So the twists and turns continue, but another sort of moving through. Organising where to sleep and eat is easier and there is no arrow chase ( following the path). Communication is easier. But now there are different discoveries.

Train and bus travel, for example, has its own set of learnings:

Book early

Get onto the right platform and into the correct carriage (or you may find yourself somewhere unplanned )

Move on and off very fast ( Spanish trains do not wait).

Carefully navigate the steep, wide gap between train and platform.

Yesterday in Ourense we sauntered to the train station to book the train to Salamanca for the following day. Surprise. Nothing for another 2 days. Off to bus station. Yes said the grumpy guy behind the one office open on a Saturday afternoon “ Diez y Cinco “

A la noche ? Just a sort of what else and a mutter back ( four and a half hours arriving at 3.am)

Anyway after more discussion with the much nicer train woman we managed to get the train this morning as far as Zamora and bussed from there. So here we are in another beautiful city just about to go and find one of the many plazas, and a wine, or beer. And watch,

In the meantime there is lots to keep me engaged:

The unexpected: last night in Ourense I opened the door of a small church just off the main plaza to hear sweet pure voices chanting and there in front of the altar was a mass of whiteness, the nuns in prayer. After a while one of them came forward, veil over her face, and unlocked the fence separating nuns from the rest of the church. She resumed her seat and in walked the priest. He moved to the altar and took out the gold monstrance (a vessel in which the concentrated host is displayed during certain ceremonies, in this case an Exposition of the Sacrament). A short ceremony while nuns chanted and sang. Then off the priest went and the gate was locked again. So young, such sweet voices.

A host of white garbed silent young women in prayer at the front of the church They are a cloistered congregation Madre M Rosario Del Espiritu Santo. A life of silence and solitude spent in prayerful meditation of the Sacred Heart

Gives a better view, from brochure of their congregation

We had drinks on the the small plaza next door, and they were still there later.

Thermal springs in Ourense. All along the Mino river are the Termas, most of them free. You can fling yourself into the cold water and then make your way back to one of the warm baths in the rocks.

At least some people can fling. I had to watch my feet over the stones ! Still great though

Market on Sunday morning in the Plaza. The books are the same as in any second hand book stall: Grisham, Cornwell,Travel and Memoir, the Lucy Walker type Romances, the Twilight trilogy, Kama Sutra, Self help books and classics: Dickens, Austen, Hemingway. Just all in Spanish.Some interesting poetry, but one I fancied was an old book and €20. So I ended buying a €2 title. First paper book have had for 5 weeks

“Constellations on opening the fridge” Great title but just started reading the poems

The Bike Rally we walked into the same morning , next to the Sunday Market.The Main Street was closed off and the area was packed with families on their bikes. There was a long build up to a family cycle circuit it seemed while toddlers walked their small bikes towards stairs and older children did wheelies, Much falling off and crying and laughing from adults. Finally everyone up took off led by guys in motor bikes,

Lots of getting ready and everyone out to cheer on

It’s the daily life that is most interesting , and maybe that’s always the case: churches and rituals, markets, bike rally. And , of course, Food. Last night in Ourense I had grilled vegetables and pulpo

Most of all I love sitting with a coffee or glass of wine and watching and listening to this Spanish world go by. How lucky I am to be here, now.

Underneath all this, though, an underlying life is reassembling . We’re speaking to family at home more now as the phone connection is better, off the mountains, and I find myself looking at family photos. I try to hold the home stories at a bit of a distance, where they actually are, I cannot rush in physically. But I still nearly move in emotionally. The walking keeps all this at bay. But maybe it’s time to get back into that familiar world .

Thank you Adelle for sending me the photos of our house with flowers blooming. I left at the end of winter,

The After – Story: it’s a winding down from the main adventure. Gradually life at home sifts through the layer of doing and seeing and experiencing; the quietude becomes less steady.

There’s a different sort of holding on now. A consciousness of a goodbye and a letting go . I feel rather like Max in my favourite children’s story Where the Wild Things Are

After his magic journey, home called and he

“…. sailed back over a year

and in and out of week

and through a day

and into the night of his very.own room “

I will need my own room soon.

Spanish speak about ‘otra causas’, other things, vague. My vague other is slowly assuming shape and I think I’ll be wanting to return. Only not just yet.

Here I am Salamanca! Plaza Mayor,recognised as one of the most beautiful plazas in Spain. Salamanca, El Dorado, the golden city because of the golden tinted sandstone of its buildings. The Plaza glows.

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A Day in Ponferrada

Well…..First impressions are not always right. We got off the bus at the Estacion de Autobus. Well

Then it was a long walk through high rise not especially architecturally beautiful but part of Ponferrada. Doug, walking with me, says it is a good example of what you get when you build only for functionality.

The old town at the top of the hill is completely different.

We walked up the steps, through narrowing streets, past small bars, old houses and still sturdy Roman built walls to the Plaza Mayor.

The Basilica Nuestra Signora de Encina dominates this pleasant square. Renaissance church with a 17 C bell tower.

It’s always much hotter in the afternoon and the sun reflects from the stonework underfoot. We were happy to reach our Hostal right in the Centro Historico, our balcony window facing the enormous Castle. The buildings here are big and square and the Medieval castle is the largest I have seen. It has moats and drawbridge and houses a large Knight’s Templar library.

Happy to reach our room. This photo shows only a tiny bit of the castle opposite.

And there we were. Comfortable and cool. We sat outside late afternoon and evening sipping our wines and watching the passing parade of tourists and perigrinos. Ponferrada is on the Santiago route and peregrinos enter the city just down from the castle.

We did look around later and found the chapel of the Convento de la Purisma Conception. A non intrusive, small space in contrast to the towering castle and Basilica. I loved it. It seems the Convent was once the home of the Franciscan nuns and this is their chapel.

And the Basilica at night. The sculpture in front represents the Story of the Virgin of the Live Oak (Virgen de la Encina). ****

And now I’m going back to the beginning, revisiting Ponferrada City, although it may have had no historical or artistic merit, it’s the place where people shop and live. Also I quite enjoyed the other part of our day in Ponferrada: a visit to Carrefor, recharging my Orange phone no, and buying 3€ flip flops.

So purchases complete we made our way back through the older part to the far more picturesque, historical precinct where we were staying, I actually felt most comfortable in this “midway” part of the city. Just is. Not especially heritage, not especially beautiful, not built on or over. Pretty grotty in parts but people here going about their day. No tourists or peregrinos.

BUT the most exciting part of my day in Ponferrada: I have some sort of shoes to wear instead of my boots, so no need to walk around on cold or sticky floors, or dirty my socks .

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Down from the Clouds

So made it through a couple of electric fences. And fended off two dogs who looked like wolf hounds. I’m told that they are some innocuous sounding breed .But I like a dramatic story.

Dramatic?, Did this with 2 , but others had handles you could hold to open the wire

A while ago, a century ago it seems , we were floating in La Magia de las Nubes, one of the most, yes magic, places to stay on this Camino Olvidado..

In this beautifully creative and loved house live Ana and Laura. As kind and creative as their home. Yes, houses can be kind too. I guess they become part of the people who live in them.

We arrived at the edge of Riello, after 5 hours walk, a bit wet and very weary. We waited as prearranged at a restaurant until Laura and Ana finished work, then they drove us a short way to the place in the clouds. Literally.

The following morning we looked out the windows to the early mist hanging over the mountains.

Caught one of the four cats in this photo !

We’ve completed the Olvidado.This pretty and comfortable enough town is on the peregrino trail towards Santiago. We’re here because this is where the Olvidado ends. Pleasant, easy, people, with lots of peregrinos passing through. More in five minutes here than we have seen on all of the Olvidado. How one part of me still longs for the Olvidado’s solitariness and silence. And La Magia de las Nubes is a memorable part of our journey in North Western Spain.

Look, it’s so far from those dogs , and even further from where I am now about a week later.

There we had a comfortable bed, great food (the best ensalada I have had on the path) and interesting conversations: About our families, about the area (7 houses occupied at the moment, 32 churches in the area, and a number of major historical buildings in need of restoration). We spoke also, of course, of our separate countries.

In the morning after breakfast Laura dropped us off on the road out of Riello. We were back on the road. A still lovely road but definitely down from the clouds. Electric fences are one thing, I could just crawl under them, but Spanish dogs are another. These ones just wanted to walk with us, but so big.

They shadowed us all the way to the next village. They waited for us at each bend, and leapt out as we reached them! But they were friendly, just big and playful.

We arrived at the albergue minus our escorts, the old Benedictine Monastery. Very different from the night before. But I guess that’s what makes this Olvidado so special. It is so changing, so unexpected, and challenging. From warm bed and good food, simpatica hosts, to welcome beds in what used to be part of an historical monastery, Cooked some pasta and beans bought from the bar/ tienda down the road. It’s all in a days walk. It’s all part of choosing to walk this way.

Fabada beans, noodles and remains of tortilla. Albergue has kitchen . Yum

Es la vida

BUT do stay at La Magia de las Nubes

You’ll love it .

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Trying to Walk in a Relaxed Manner.More Camino Musings

I started writing this a week ago while I was trying to follow the late John Brierley‘s wise words.This piece is, in part, a thanks to the gentle and generous man who walked many Camino kilometres in Spain and shared not just directions but his humour and joyous approach to life with others. He died a few months ago just after completing another Camino.

The first Camino I walked, the Frances, many years ago and I really didn’t have a clue. I just thought I’d get on the road from St Jean Pied de Port and walk. Of course the very first day I took the “alternative” route, the Napoleon way, and got horribly lost. I had little Spanish, but of course thought I knew a lot, and wondered why the few villagers I passed kept on waving their hands at me, and why there was no one else behind or in front. Even 14 odd years ago there were heaps of peregrinos like me, all setting off to find or rediscover or sort out their lives. Even then I was half cynical and half a believer – only not sure in what.

Anyway I eventually made my way back down to the main route and started again. But I’d already done 20km or so, and had 20:25 to get to the first albergue. I made it, just, and collapsed into a bunk shivering. It turned out that the Napoleon route was not safe at that time of year because of the possibility of sudden snow storms. The mountain pass is high and just the day before a pilgrim had died on the Napoleon from exposure.

The caution about walking was in Brierley’s book, I think maybe his first guide. I met a woman who was following his guide.

I dismissed some of the contemplations then but not the two nuggets: walk in a relaxed manner and be vigilant. In those days there was no wikiloc and if you missed a flecha, the yellow arrow that marks the route, you could walk a long way off course.

And now, so long after that first Camino, I’m still struggling with the advice. I either walk along in a dream world, a writing/ photo world – looking for my story, or tear along trying to keep up with my companion. When I’m moving faster I’m also often full of emotions that are not really conducive to any contemplation, or composing.

The other day we started off early from Fasgar, a great little spot on the Olivado Camino in North West Spain. Me, my long suffering compadre and Elaine, an Irish peregrina we met a few days ago – a fast walker. Up the hill and early morning and a faint breeze. Some trees covered in red berries alongside. Then an absolutely magnificent view over the top of the summit. A once in a lifetime sight.

The site of battle in 981 with the Moors. Campo de Santiago. Santiago appeared to help the Spaniards defeat the Moors. 70,000 lost their lives .

A stroll down in the soft grass underfoot to the Ermita built to commemorate the battle that took place in this peaceful spot.

Then, after looking for a while, and I swear you could feel a sort of resolution of that long ago struggle and and the many deaths, well then it seemed like full speed ahead.

Down from the soft curve in the mountains, leaving the valley on a steep path with slippery, moving rocks underfoot, still very beautiful with rain forest type vegetation, clear running river underneath, small bridges. But here I had to be mindful . Of stones underfoot, of not tripping and turning an ankle, losing balance. All those ‘be careful be careful!’ messages that resonate in an older head! I was slow.

Meanwhile my walking companions were moving at a good pace (my nasty mind was thinking, to get to the food before the Restuarante closed at 2 pm. Ha he’s upped his pace to keep level with her/ hope he trips ). Then, inevitably – Why am I so slow? Why am I last ? Again.

Only one I have took of the descent as too busy keeping on my feet and keeping up ! ( see how far behind I am )

The last 4 kilometres were the worst, always the last few are the worst. Seemed an endless pushing through without any stops at all, down a fairly easy path, to Igüeña,

Yes. We made the food. Great meal. Great cervesa. Albergue well looked after and only us three there.

But didn’t travel the second bit in a relaxed manner. Tried.

I hazard a guess that this is how my life is anyway: a struggle to find the balance between moving in a relaxed manner and just leaping in. Also that there are others like me. There you are : Caminoing is a training for life!

And many thanks John Brierley because you have inspired, helped, challenged kindly so many of us walking Caminos. You are truly “the father of the Camino family” (Irish Times Obituary).

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Underneath the Spreading Chest Nut Tree……And??

Chestnut tree forests near Noceda del Bierzo

I started writing this 2 months ago while walking the Olvidado in Spain . I was trailing behind on the path which wound through a chestnut plantation . I looked ahead : two figures in front of me consulting the wikiloc to check directions, partly obscured by a huge chestnut tree. I stood in the shade and the words of the rhyme just kept repeating in my head .

Do you remember the rhyme? My grandmother loved chanting nursery rhymes with a clear moral, my mother French songs and ditties . But it was my father who performed all the action rhymes. Ride a Cockhorse, This Little Pig Went to Market, and the other pig one where the little pig “ ran to save his bacon “ as the lightening flashed and the thunder roared.

Most of those rhymes ended with tails chopped off, being boiled alive or captured. So the Chestnut one was a favourite with the actions : chest / nut /tree and then the romance of the baby on his/ her knee. In those days sure as eggs the baby was on a her knee.

Only now walking under this chestnut on a path in Northern Spain do I think of the ramifications of the song and the possible people that could sit on that knee. Or who might have sat on mine through the years, or whose knees I could have been on !

The spreading tree of my childhood, the tree of the rhyme, provided shelter and certainty. Now of course I sense an intimation of possession and control . Also, I’m reading Orwell’s 1984 again, with the voice from the telescreen singing about selling each other : ‘ There lie they, and here lie we/Under the spreading chestnut tree’. Betrayal again. But that is now, not then. Ambiguity, and subtext did not figure in my childhood .

Far from that childhood of laughter and straightforward meanings, I walk along the narrow, shaded path under the chestnut , looking at the other chestnuts spread across the immediate landscape and wonder about narrow escapes . I can’t be specific here but there are brief flashes in my mind of an Irishman with piercing blue eyes and a beautiful voice (and a drinker), the Spaniard during Franco’s time who took me to cell meetings ( so exciting to a 22yr old) , the English guy so kind ( boring) , the rugby hero at University who took me to the ball ( and dropped me because I wore my silly heart in a sleeve and in those days was not witty enough ) … I could go on with the list but you get the idea .

But dragging my heels now and walking slowly again . He’s waiting for me, underneath a chestnut tree on the path ahead . So I did find someone under that metaphorical Chestnut tree of my childhood rhyme . Someone who stuck around . Or rather , we both stuck around.

The rhyme ends:

There she said she’d marry me

And we’re as happy as can be

Underneath the spreading chest nut tree

Shelter,longetivity, shade

As much certainty as one can hope for, The older me is aware of the dead and chopped trees here too .

But I’m walking under the sturdy one .

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Who Lived Here? Walking, Seeing and Remembering.

So we’ve reached the town with the beautiful name: La Magdalena. Lots of Magdalenas and Marias and Nuestra Senoras (Churches, sanctuaries, caves) dedicated to the mother of Jesus on this Olvidado.

And this sanctuary way back up a steep hill from Almuhey is one of the most beautiful. Santuario Nuestra Senora De La Velilla overlooking the valley

I wonder about the people who walked here so long ago, who lived and worked in these villages, and also, of course, those who are passing through now. Including us. How will we be remembered? Who will remember us? Who do we remember?

Beautiful old house on Main Street La Magdalena.Closed up and empty but still holding together. A well loved house it seems

Church at top of hill. Look at the stonework on floor. Such craftsmanship

There’s a linking of the past and present, the known and the unknown on these caminos. A Re- membering, the term used by the Australian therapist, Michael White. Re -membering, the core of White’s Narrative therapy, is a special kind of recollection which gathers together the people who belong or belonged to one’s life: their stories, their influences are reorganised to strengthen a view of oneself (White describes the”thickening “of “ preferred identity”).

There’s a lot of “ones”there, a lot of self. But walking for a longish time, each day, is about self. Me Me Me. Or I wouldn’t be writing this.

But this is not entirely a remembering. It’s also an imagining and inventing. Because I often don’t know who once lived in the houses and buildings I pass. I only catch a glimpse of the present inhabitants as I walk anyway. But it’s fascinating to interpret their stories from my present identity, sometimes merging them with my own.

So life is re examined; memories emerge from the mass of stored information we carry with us in our heads. Images flash before us, some stay awhile, others are pushed aside again and covered over.But many, phoenix-like, burst momentarily , vividly, into life.

And for what purpose ? I’m not clear about that. Only for myself, me again, there’s a renewal of sorts, a celebratory tinge to life as lived, and a re purposing . Maybe its the sense of all those people not so very different to me – they made shelter and food, worked, formed friendships, loved and created. Maybe, just maybe, something of their lives lingers here on this Forgotten Path. They are remembered .

Remember them too. Now, A noisy bar in La Magdalena. Fun

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Views and Vistas and Staying on My feet. Just Staying the Course.

A pause after the mountain path up to the mountain path past Bonar in Northern Spain. The alternative route to La Robla, the next small town on this Camino Olvidado.

I mean PAUSE as in stay here in Bonar another night. Yesterday was a wonderful day on a Camino with which I have sometimes struggled these past two weeks.

Today was hard too but I did it! Got to the summit of one of the mountains and down again. Upwards via a steep 2 hour climb over loose stones,gravel, a drop over a river (I didn’t look down as my balance is not that good) and narrow slippery sections of path.

Reach the top and vistas stretch out all around this gasping body: purple mountain tops mingle with their shorter more muted brothers or sisters. The white craggy rock frontages are etched deeply by weather and streaked spasmodically with a pale yellow chalky pattern. From one vantage point I can see a minuscule village huddled in the valley. Further around there are several winding paths leading away to other mountain tops.

It is autumn here but so much water and all is green, remnants of yellow flowering bushes and scraggly mulberries hanging in with splashes of colour. The tiny purple daisy flowers that have cheered me on hot days just squeezing their petals through the ground are numerous here where the earth is soft.

. …….a harder, very taxing slide/creep/stumble ascent back down to the world left behind for a while.

From exaltation

To downslide.

Was the cake worth the candle ?

I’m still considering.

Last night I thought about backtracking. Train or bus to those towns we’ve enjoyed but passed through in the blink of an eye. The peregrina life is up with the alarm, packed the night before, coffee if we’re lucky, and hit the road. Cover the kilometres as best one can while hoping for a coffee stop or just a cold water during the day and the arrival at destination. Then find your hostal ( on this route not many). Then it’s the ritual of feet up, shower, washing clothes in sink, tend to feet, a short siesta and out to find food and a drink. Depending on the time, day or town this can be simple, or require a little exploring.

But I’m not complaining, just explaining. This morning the idea of staying here another day and just exploring the town seems as attractive as continuing. But why does the idea seem strange?

Simple really. It’s just that I’ve been stuck in the Camino mould for the last 10 years or so, since I walked that first Camino, the Frances. I’ve gone on walking in Spain because I love exploring this country by walking. I love Spain, it’s people and culture and it’s language. Caminos are a wonderful window into this life.

I have clung on to the idea that the real peregrina walks each step with her pack, learning about herself and life as she goes. A serious business. I guess a little bit of the belief that suffering is good for the soul. A peregrina I met up with again today reminded me that God has a sense of humour. My Camino doesn’t have to be an endurance race and I don’t have to push myself up each mountain, There are vistas down here which I haven’t looked at, really looked at. There are sweeping vistas at ground level and smaller, less obvious views. I haven’t always looked at the light which touches “causas”/ things as I pass with my eyes directly ahead or watching my feet.

So today is about light, noticing light snd recognising that light which exists everywhere.

Light streaming through this very ordinary window of our hostsl room

Spirits lifted we unpacked, strolled out to a late coffee and replanned our Camino. Actually this town of Bonar looks different this crisp clear morning and well worth enjoying. So we walked out along the river and part of the way to the next village , without our packs. I walked along curious, and gently placing one taped up foot in front of the other.

Along the river the light sparkles on the water

Up a slight rise at the end of the path, but I’m not following the yellow ‘flechas’ today and I’m staying on my feet. We turn back to the bridge and return to Bonar

So. Bonar- Enjoy it :Bonar Disfrutalo.

Yes we will. The light is shining and the cake is worth the candle today.

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Un vino mas, por favor. And tomorrow a bit off kilter

After a glorious day’s walking in the mountains of the Olvidado near Cistierna, and entering a town which seemed welcoming and navigable, the smooth Rioja just slid down my throat.

We walked from Puente Almuhey to Cistierna, about 20 km mostly over steep mountain paths. Paused at the sanctuary of Our Lady of Velilla .Watching the sun rays streaming through the clouds to touch the multicoloured mountain tops and curves, I can believe that this is a place of miracles.

Mary appeared here, the story goes, to Don Diego de Pedro in 1470. He built an ermita , a hermitage. The present monastery dates from the late 1600s. It continues to be a place of pilgrimage.

Then we hit the track again, uphill. And as we walked the views just absorbed my whole being. Miracles could happen here in this silence and early light. There were just views and views and more views as each time it seemed we’d reached a summit there was another climb and another perfect frame.

These photos just don’t do justice to the colours and shapes

We stopped for a drink of water and the remains of some cake from yesterday’s breakfast and I wished I could paint or sketch the landscape.

Then it was down. Ah, we’re on that ridge and will walk along a level path. But no. The path suddenly changed direction and we almost miss a flecha. Then the surface becomes a dicey mix of loose gravel and slippery mud, and goes down steeply so I have to watch my footing. And so it goes, up and down with unexpected twists and turns. Surely that group of houses way below is Cistierna, our endpoint today?. No, another turn, away from the expected direction. The views are diminishing now as we enter a forest which obscures the shortening mountains. Then a long, sharp descent and I catch my foot just in time. There is Cistierna below. A mix of photos now as I was too breathless to take more.

And then a FaceTime call to Matilda, my granddaughter. Happy Birthday lovely girl. Find a room, shower, head back to the street and food: a good Rioja here we are.

So the morning after is hard. Up late, can’t find my toothpaste or dry socks, stiff as a board but too late for stretches. A bit off kilter.

But, it was worth it. Just to sit and watch and feel “Hey I’m here in Spain” Tomorrow is tomorrow.

Hasta manana .

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Looking Backwards through this Guardo Window

Missed the tormento early this morning ,

And a tiny bit of gratitude

Late morning for us. Usually we’ve walked for 2 hours by now. But this morning we’re training. Busogrinos yesterday, trainegrinos today.

A new day and hopeful once again.

THANKS

Thanks for a good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed

Thanks for not being out in that storm over the mountain

Thanks for the options we have.

I could go on, but you get the idea. Yesterday we were organising to jump the Olvidado path and head back to Bilbao.Various reasons, but in a nutshell the joy of moving and exploring, the connection to people and landscape comes in tiny splinters of light. We’re isolated metaphorically. The distances are long; long patches of dry, flat earth interspersed with intervals of climbs and impressive mountain views . Only problem, often too anxious and weary to absorb them, and too busy chasing the yellow flechas that point the way or following a wikiloc. The organisation: how far can we walk, is there anything between for food or rest, where can we stay tonight? When we finally reach a place it is sometimes away from the heart of the town with limited connection with the people or life here.

Leaving Aguilar yesterday . Still quite pretty

…. Some of this has been a part of every Camino we’ve walked. But here what we see and experience is, at times, only partially balanced by the organisation and the slog.

So this is about looking back on yesterday

Yes , started off well leaving Aguilar and walking through attractive landscape , Here’s the rainbow promising a bright day.

Past a couple of farm houses next to the fields. Silent as it’s getting hot. A necropolis on a hill top and a few crumbling churches. No coffee/bars.

First break an Irish peregrina walks towards us and the next 10 km pass quickly as we talk and walk. Reach a bar at the river

Elaine is walking the next 20 km. We say goodbye and head to the bus stop

We’ve done 20 and that’s enough.

The next half hour, it would have been three hours walking, we are busegrinos.

And the world goes swirling by from the comfort of our Alsa bus. Look at the climbing we’ve missed.

Arrival at destination and another round of finding somewhere to stay. Of course right across the opposite end of this town of Guardo. We have to settle for the Hotel who answered the phone. It’s on the edges of this sprawling town.

Train to Bilbao tomorrow maybe ? Right now we’re in two minds.

Then 2 hours later we walk the 2 km back to the centre and after couple of wines in a fairly busy bar next to the plaza, we’re going to give the Olvidado another shot.

So this morning we’re resuming the Camino Olvidado:part train today and all walk tomorrow.

A mix of bus/train/feet, for us peregrinos now, mixed journeying to break each stage into a manageable proportion. The mountains ahead we are told are the most memorable part of the Olvidado.

“Life is a journey not a destination “

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Why? Why? Why?; This Time I Don’t Know.

A worn , chipped century old door. But it’s still faintly coloured and working .

I’m often asked “why do you walk in Spain? What about the Bibulman, that’s right here in Western Australia and so accessible.”

The only answer I usually give is rather a cliched one of “Because I can” (and for a more detailed answer see blog of :Porque Caminando?,26/5/2018).

Today though by my answer is “because I’m able to right now and I might not be around to do it later”…..etc. This late morning though, slogging out km through a not especially attractive countryside, with small hamlets without bars so no coffee, hitting bitumen at times, avoiding cow pats and stones with my poles, I answer with no real conviction. In fact the dark realisation taking shape in this heat and sparseness is: “well I can’t do it“

And the other related question: do I want to do it ?

The most interesting landmarks, or walk marks today apart from the faded wooden door heading this post have been the herds of cows crossing a small stream in front of us or staring immobile as we passed ( probably the only interesting thing they have seen for weeks), and the large sheepdog sitting quietly watching as we passed.

There you are I am so done in I’ve forgotten the Menhir we viewed a few km back. Medieval. There are 42 of them in Cantabria I think the notice said. So others trekked across this landscape thousands of years ago, and I bet they were not as ungrateful as I am. The Olvidado should have stayed forgotten, in my view right now.

Past 5 o’clock we limped into this large town of Aguilar de Campoo and my first, not very nice thought, was to do with a mix of poo and eagles at sight of the industrial edge. But … ..BAR . Coca-Cola Zero and cerveza. It’s starting to seem a smidgen better already as I plonk my stiff thighs onto the stool. Next up to find a bed .

And here we are this morning. I can feel the ground. I can move my legs. A day off today and life is ok again. After a few coffees we’re off to explore this town.

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