Hey,
I write this, the final entry on this particular blog, from the comfort of my computer desk in my flat in London. On Saturday 29th September at about 11 am Greg and I reached our goal of walking from Westminster Cathedral, London to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, Spain. We managed to walk every step of the approximate 2000 kms and finally got to attend the special Pilgrims' mass in Santiago's famous Cathedral. It truly was a magical feeling reaching the Pilgrimage city having dreamt of this moment for over four months. There is so much I could write about the final day but I think I will instead leave you with some profound words I uttered to Greg upon completing our epic journey: "I told you it was a long way". Powerful stuff, I know, and something for us all to think about...
It is not too late to Sponsor me via donating money to Mental Fight Club and a massive thank you to those that already have.
Excuse me for repeating the details:
Some of you will know that I have been involved with an inspirational poetry group for several years now and it is this group I would like to raise some funds. The group is called "Mental Fight Club" - and their purpose is aptly summarised on their website:"Mental Fight Club has around 500 members, around half of whom have direct experience of mental illness either as sufferers or carers. Our aim is to hold creative events which explore some aspect of mental illness or well-being through any human discipline – the arts, science, philosophy, sport, religion".Check their website if you'd like to know more:
http://uk.geocities.com/gabrielejenkinson@btinternet.com/home.html
I am good friends with Sarah Wheeler, the founder and leader of Mental Fight Club and can only assure you that any money raised will be very well spent. Any money given will be very gratefully received but if you were to sponsor me 1p per kilometre that would be the princely sum of £20! The easiest way to get money to this organisation is to write a cheque made out to:
"Mental Fight Club"
c/o 21 Douglas Buildings,
Marshalsea Rd.,
London,SE1 1EJ.
Enough of the appeal already.
I would highly recommend checking our favourite 200 photos of the Pilgrimage by clicking the "Our Photos" link.
It has been a real pleasure writing this blog and thank you for your encouragement and tolerance at my attempts to give just a few highlights of this Pilgrim's random thoughts. Writing this blog often allowed me to feel like I was communicating with you, my friends and family, directly and it is a process I plan to engage in more of, in the future. It feels a bit strange writing on this blog now that I have finished the Pilgrimage and so I will keep this entry short. But it wouldn't be right if I didn't attempt to share just a few random thoughts with you for the final time:
- About 10 kms from Santiago we passed through a town called "Lavacolla". This name literally means "washing one's loins" and describes the medieval Pilgrims' pre-arrival ablutions. Fortunately for the inhabitants of Lavacolla, Greg and I had already showered and were both satisfied with our general state of hygiene, so we merely stopped for a hot chocolate and not to wash our bits.
- Greg and I started to make a list of all those people that had meant something to us on our way to Santiago. We originally planned to publish the list on our respective blogs. However, we both tended to remember people via colourful descriptions such as "Circus freaks of Lucon" and "Sweaty restaurant owner" and so I have omitted my list as I thought it more likely to insult than inspire.
- Several of you have asked whether we did in fact walk EVERY SINGLE STEP and also if we managed to avoid alcohol, caffeine (and Nicotine for Greg - I don't smoke). Yes, we did walk every kilometre of those (approximate) 2000 kms and yes we abstained from our poisons for over 7 weeks. More impressive to me is that as well as all this we remain very close friends. Greg, thanks so much for putting up with all that is me and it was a real honour to participate on such a magical journey with you. For the record, Greg "you are quite a nice fellow". Again, moving stuff.
- Evolution. On one balmy afternoon, Greg and I discussed Darwin and evolution. At one stage we marvelled at how a Zebra has stripes to make it more difficult for pursuing prey (such as a lion) to focus on it clearly and therefore allow it to have a better chance of survival. Apparently, the stripes confuse the prey. We both made appropriate noises at how "marvellous nature is" and that it is amazingly sophisticated. But then we got to thinking. You know what, if one of us were a Zebra you would might be forgiven for thinking: "I love the confusing stripes idea and everything and I don't want to appear ungrateful, but let's face-it, the stripes are not a total solution (lost a few mates to lions and that) and rather than spending all this evolutionary time on the stripes, couldn't I have something more effective, such as a poisonous snake for a tail or maybe just a metal arse." I wish Darwin were around to discuss our ideas.
- Well that's about all I have to write. This Pilgrimage truly has been a life inspiring journey for me and I hope that I can keep at least some of "The Pilgrim Glow" for the rest of my stay on this beautiful planet. I really do feel grateful to be allowed to wander this awe-inspiring globe, and from now on, hope to be the best possible guest I can be...
Wednesday, 10 October 2007
Monday, 17 September 2007
"Also Available In Slim"
Buenos Noches!
Me little feet have carried I to the city of Leon. Thus, we have walked over 1700 kms with about 300 km remaining. I´m currently enjoying resting-up in this beautiful city, telling myself that lying on my bed all day is not a sign of lethargy but is in fact preparation for a sprint finish. I really never have felt so fit in my life and no matter how often I practice the opportunity to be smug about my "no need for alcohol" status and belief in the merits of daily exercise, I still find plentiful reserves of self-congratulationary pride.
Enough of the obligatory introductory waffle, lets get random.
- I would like to make the following announcement, "Seth is now also available in slim". That´s right, having followed the simple life of the pilgrim for the past 14 weeks I am able to report some health benefits. I have so far lost 8 kgs of weight which is well over the stone I needed to lose to be within an "ideal" category. I always knew I was a skinny person trapped in a bloaters body. Needless to say, I celebrated today's weigh-in result by eating a large piece of chocolate cake.
- From personal vanity to matters of up most import. Having turned my mind to solving questions such as, "Which is the one true faith?", "Why exactly are we here?" and "Where do black holes come from?", I am proud to reveal to the public the answer to the following question that has alluded man for time immemorial; "Why does the shower curtain move toward the water?"
As you might imagine, showers, and how I experience them, is of central importance to a pilgrim with few other pleasures while on the road. And so, for several months now I have found myself wondering on a frequent basis, Why does the shower curtain move toward the shower? Because when it does, the curtain sticks to me and I find this a rather unsavoury sensation. Not least as I realise that if it sticks to me then it must stick to the thousands of other pilgrims that used this shower before me... And quite frankly, I don´t know where they´ve been. And so, I set about trying to find the answer to this, the ultimate question. It is only in the past few weeks that my research has really matured to the extent that I am happy to put it before you - the answer to the question that haunts the mind of every shower-curtain-wrestling-pilgrim.
I cannot claim full credit for the following genius, no let us all say a great big mental "thank you!" to our learned friend, David Schmidt, an assistant professor at the University of Massachusetts and his considerable studies on this elusive problem.
Let us first deal with the false theories.
Until now, explanations for the shower curtain's movements were theoretical. It was one person's opinion versus anther's, with most ideas drawing on the Bernoulli effect or on so-called buoyancy effects. The Bernoulli effect is the principle that explains how an airplane's wings produce lift. It says that as a fluid accelerates, the pressure drops. But the Bernoulli effect is based on a balance between pressure forces and acceleration, and does not allow for the presence of droplets. (Obviously!) Nor, according to Schmidt´s calculations, is it responsible for the curtain deflection.
The buoyancy theory supposes that the hot shower causes the temperature of the air in the shower to rise, reducing its density. In that case, the pressure on the shower side of the curtain will be lower than the pressure on the outside at the same height from the floor causing the curtain to move toward the lower pressure. A rather seductive theory I agree but think on. The problem with this explanation is that the curtain will suck inward toward a cold shower, too. You have no idea how many cold showers I suffered to convince myself this theory could not be the true explanation! But a true enquirer knows no limits as to what he will endure to arrive at the truth I told myself, while shivering under a freezing shower...
I eventually conceded that I would not find the answer to this profound problem while naked and cold. No, to solve this, I would need to be clothed and warm and with plentiful access to the Internet. To my joy, Schmidt clearly takes this issue very seriously to the extent that he invested considerable time and resources in creating modeling software to once and for all solve this vital scientific enquiry. Schmidt writes the following: (anything in brackets are my words)
"A modern way to study fluid-flow problems (as the shower scenario represents) is to use computers to solve the basic equations of fluid motion. These equations are based on conservation of mass and momentum. Because of the limitations of finite computer power and current mathematics, however, the solution process can be difficult and time-consuming. Also, spray simulations are a particularly difficult challenge because they involve two different phases of water: liquid and gas. (And so we see the enormity of the task before poor Schmidt. But thankfully he was not to be so easily deterred.)
To attack the shower curtain problem, I (Schmidt) added advanced spray models to some established software. I was able to include the effects of the drops breaking up. Even more important, the new spray models captured the distortion of the droplets, which tends to increase their aerodynamic drag. This drag is the force between the air and the water that imparts motion to the air and slows the droplets. (Naturally.)
To do the calculation, I drafted a model of a typical shower and divided the shower area into 50,000 minuscule cells. (I love this man!) The tub, the shower head, the curtain rod and the room outside of the shower were all included. I ran the modified Fluent software for two weeks on my home computer in the evening and on weekends (when my wife wasn't using the computer) (I must admit I was rather surprised to learn that Schmidt had a life let alone a wife...). The simulation revealed 30 seconds of actual shower time. (Bring it on!)
When the simulation was complete, it showed that the spray drove a vortex. The center of this vortex much like the center of a cyclone is a low-pressure region. This low-pressure region is what pulls the shower curtain in. (Eureka!) The vortex rotates around an axis that is perpendicular to the shower curtain. It is a bit like a sideways dust devil. But unlike a dust devil, this vortex doesn't die out because it is driven continuously by the shower."
And now we know why the shower curtain moves towards the shower. Do not thank me, thank Schmidt and his patient wife.
- Another Spanish Kitsch observation. While approaching a tiny Spanish town, Laure (the dancer from Belgium) remarked on hearing the church bells chime. However, I was convinced something was not right as they sounded more like the sound made by an electric doorbell than the peel of church bells. Upon reaching the church, to our amazement, it was evident that the bells inthe church tower, had been out of action for a long time and had instead been replaced with a large tannoy. This tannoy was used to play a recording of bells chiming and it sounded very, very unconvincing. I truly feel sorry for the people of this dwelling - they must be the source of jokes for many other rival villages.
- I´ve stopped snoring! Honestly. Not only Greg but several other pilgrims have confirmed this. I attribute this achievement to:
1) Weight loss
2) Not drinking alcohol.
3) Having learnt to lie on my side (not my back).
I wish some of my other fellow pilgrims (generally overweight middle-aged men that like a drink or nine) would make more of an effort. I am SO OVER dormitories!
- Lack of alcohol consumption leading to significant sense-of-humour-regression. I can only attribute some of the ridiculous things that amuse Greg and I in this period of abstinence as a consequence of not drinking booze and therefore enjoying childlike (i.e. pre-alcohol days) jokes. For example, I noticed that there were lots of storks in the sky and that they appeared to be following us. Seizing on this rich seam of comical potential I quipped, "I feel like we are being storked". To my dismay, we both found this funny and laughed. Get these boys a drink.
- I love watching the passion with which Spanish women talk when assembled in small groups. It is truly awe inspiring to watch them gesticulate and rant about topics which (so I am told) are generally rather trivial, yet are discussed as if it were a matter of extreme import. I feel a little sorry for any of their husbands. I suspect it would be very difficult to win an argument with any woman with the obvious ability to draw upon such ferosity of spirit. Though the men seem to be so alpha male it hurts, so I guess it just about balances out.
- The ministry of crap design (due respect accorded here to Ben Elton, in his pre-middle-class-comfortableness stage). Greg and I both own "Sporks". A "Spork" is a piece of plastic (mines a rather fetching yellow) that combines the functions of a knife, fork and spoon into one handy piece of plastic. Lightweight as well conveniently keeping "three" untensils together in one place - useful for the wandering pilgrim. However, within about 1 month of using our "Sporks" they both snapped in half meaning that they are now rubbish at all three of their designated tasks and it is also easier to lose a part. This annoys me considerably. Is it unreasonable to expext a product that markets itself as "3 in 1" to not snap and infact be "nothing very useful in 2"?! Again, answers on a postcard please.
- I have been eating a fairly healthy diet and at times choose to go vegetarian. Rather pathetically, I asscoiate the consumption of vegetarian food (especially by a whisky loving man) with a slight tendency towards effeminancy (I know this isn´t politically correct but then I have very little time for politics). While choosing beween two vegetarian pasta sauce products, to my amusement I noticed that this particular vegetarian range went under the brand name "Gayelord". You couldn´t make it up. Someone, somewhere is laughing at all you vegetarians while raking in your "right-on" cash.
- Know thyself. To my embarasement I have discovered for the first time at the age of 31, I have a roasted peanut allergy. How, I have survived thus far remains a miracle as I have spent many a top night in bars across the globe eating these things. See what happens when you start eating healthily? You get allergies.
- Greg on food. Greg bought some protein biscuits designed to give the elderly essential vitamins. He was convinced they would give him a competitive advantage over the other pilgrims. They were truly awful. They were supposed to be "lemon flavour" but to me they seemed like packaged cardboard that had once been in the presence of a lemon air freshner. Also, Greg has a theory that eating food in rest periods is detrimental to optimal walking. He thinks it, "weighs a pilgrim down". I suspect Greg too, has lost weight.
- I was asked by Dave, an Irish Pilgrim why I was on this Pilgrimage. I repsonded with my usual garb about "time to reflect...blah...blah...blah" and then added piously "I just want to be the best person I can possible be, you know?". He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment and having located the origin of this sentiment replied, "isn´t that Superman...?".
- We are due back 3rd October (yes, this year!) and I look forward to sharing with you many more anecdotes though I cannot promise they will all be as captivating as my collaboratve work on shower curtain physics... x
Me little feet have carried I to the city of Leon. Thus, we have walked over 1700 kms with about 300 km remaining. I´m currently enjoying resting-up in this beautiful city, telling myself that lying on my bed all day is not a sign of lethargy but is in fact preparation for a sprint finish. I really never have felt so fit in my life and no matter how often I practice the opportunity to be smug about my "no need for alcohol" status and belief in the merits of daily exercise, I still find plentiful reserves of self-congratulationary pride.
Enough of the obligatory introductory waffle, lets get random.
- I would like to make the following announcement, "Seth is now also available in slim". That´s right, having followed the simple life of the pilgrim for the past 14 weeks I am able to report some health benefits. I have so far lost 8 kgs of weight which is well over the stone I needed to lose to be within an "ideal" category. I always knew I was a skinny person trapped in a bloaters body. Needless to say, I celebrated today's weigh-in result by eating a large piece of chocolate cake.
- From personal vanity to matters of up most import. Having turned my mind to solving questions such as, "Which is the one true faith?", "Why exactly are we here?" and "Where do black holes come from?", I am proud to reveal to the public the answer to the following question that has alluded man for time immemorial; "Why does the shower curtain move toward the water?"
As you might imagine, showers, and how I experience them, is of central importance to a pilgrim with few other pleasures while on the road. And so, for several months now I have found myself wondering on a frequent basis, Why does the shower curtain move toward the shower? Because when it does, the curtain sticks to me and I find this a rather unsavoury sensation. Not least as I realise that if it sticks to me then it must stick to the thousands of other pilgrims that used this shower before me... And quite frankly, I don´t know where they´ve been. And so, I set about trying to find the answer to this, the ultimate question. It is only in the past few weeks that my research has really matured to the extent that I am happy to put it before you - the answer to the question that haunts the mind of every shower-curtain-wrestling-pilgrim.
I cannot claim full credit for the following genius, no let us all say a great big mental "thank you!" to our learned friend, David Schmidt, an assistant professor at the University of Massachusetts and his considerable studies on this elusive problem.
Let us first deal with the false theories.
Until now, explanations for the shower curtain's movements were theoretical. It was one person's opinion versus anther's, with most ideas drawing on the Bernoulli effect or on so-called buoyancy effects. The Bernoulli effect is the principle that explains how an airplane's wings produce lift. It says that as a fluid accelerates, the pressure drops. But the Bernoulli effect is based on a balance between pressure forces and acceleration, and does not allow for the presence of droplets. (Obviously!) Nor, according to Schmidt´s calculations, is it responsible for the curtain deflection.
The buoyancy theory supposes that the hot shower causes the temperature of the air in the shower to rise, reducing its density. In that case, the pressure on the shower side of the curtain will be lower than the pressure on the outside at the same height from the floor causing the curtain to move toward the lower pressure. A rather seductive theory I agree but think on. The problem with this explanation is that the curtain will suck inward toward a cold shower, too. You have no idea how many cold showers I suffered to convince myself this theory could not be the true explanation! But a true enquirer knows no limits as to what he will endure to arrive at the truth I told myself, while shivering under a freezing shower...
I eventually conceded that I would not find the answer to this profound problem while naked and cold. No, to solve this, I would need to be clothed and warm and with plentiful access to the Internet. To my joy, Schmidt clearly takes this issue very seriously to the extent that he invested considerable time and resources in creating modeling software to once and for all solve this vital scientific enquiry. Schmidt writes the following: (anything in brackets are my words)
"A modern way to study fluid-flow problems (as the shower scenario represents) is to use computers to solve the basic equations of fluid motion. These equations are based on conservation of mass and momentum. Because of the limitations of finite computer power and current mathematics, however, the solution process can be difficult and time-consuming. Also, spray simulations are a particularly difficult challenge because they involve two different phases of water: liquid and gas. (And so we see the enormity of the task before poor Schmidt. But thankfully he was not to be so easily deterred.)
To attack the shower curtain problem, I (Schmidt) added advanced spray models to some established software. I was able to include the effects of the drops breaking up. Even more important, the new spray models captured the distortion of the droplets, which tends to increase their aerodynamic drag. This drag is the force between the air and the water that imparts motion to the air and slows the droplets. (Naturally.)
To do the calculation, I drafted a model of a typical shower and divided the shower area into 50,000 minuscule cells. (I love this man!) The tub, the shower head, the curtain rod and the room outside of the shower were all included. I ran the modified Fluent software for two weeks on my home computer in the evening and on weekends (when my wife wasn't using the computer) (I must admit I was rather surprised to learn that Schmidt had a life let alone a wife...). The simulation revealed 30 seconds of actual shower time. (Bring it on!)
When the simulation was complete, it showed that the spray drove a vortex. The center of this vortex much like the center of a cyclone is a low-pressure region. This low-pressure region is what pulls the shower curtain in. (Eureka!) The vortex rotates around an axis that is perpendicular to the shower curtain. It is a bit like a sideways dust devil. But unlike a dust devil, this vortex doesn't die out because it is driven continuously by the shower."
And now we know why the shower curtain moves towards the shower. Do not thank me, thank Schmidt and his patient wife.
- Another Spanish Kitsch observation. While approaching a tiny Spanish town, Laure (the dancer from Belgium) remarked on hearing the church bells chime. However, I was convinced something was not right as they sounded more like the sound made by an electric doorbell than the peel of church bells. Upon reaching the church, to our amazement, it was evident that the bells inthe church tower, had been out of action for a long time and had instead been replaced with a large tannoy. This tannoy was used to play a recording of bells chiming and it sounded very, very unconvincing. I truly feel sorry for the people of this dwelling - they must be the source of jokes for many other rival villages.
- I´ve stopped snoring! Honestly. Not only Greg but several other pilgrims have confirmed this. I attribute this achievement to:
1) Weight loss
2) Not drinking alcohol.
3) Having learnt to lie on my side (not my back).
I wish some of my other fellow pilgrims (generally overweight middle-aged men that like a drink or nine) would make more of an effort. I am SO OVER dormitories!
- Lack of alcohol consumption leading to significant sense-of-humour-regression. I can only attribute some of the ridiculous things that amuse Greg and I in this period of abstinence as a consequence of not drinking booze and therefore enjoying childlike (i.e. pre-alcohol days) jokes. For example, I noticed that there were lots of storks in the sky and that they appeared to be following us. Seizing on this rich seam of comical potential I quipped, "I feel like we are being storked". To my dismay, we both found this funny and laughed. Get these boys a drink.
- I love watching the passion with which Spanish women talk when assembled in small groups. It is truly awe inspiring to watch them gesticulate and rant about topics which (so I am told) are generally rather trivial, yet are discussed as if it were a matter of extreme import. I feel a little sorry for any of their husbands. I suspect it would be very difficult to win an argument with any woman with the obvious ability to draw upon such ferosity of spirit. Though the men seem to be so alpha male it hurts, so I guess it just about balances out.
- The ministry of crap design (due respect accorded here to Ben Elton, in his pre-middle-class-comfortableness stage). Greg and I both own "Sporks". A "Spork" is a piece of plastic (mines a rather fetching yellow) that combines the functions of a knife, fork and spoon into one handy piece of plastic. Lightweight as well conveniently keeping "three" untensils together in one place - useful for the wandering pilgrim. However, within about 1 month of using our "Sporks" they both snapped in half meaning that they are now rubbish at all three of their designated tasks and it is also easier to lose a part. This annoys me considerably. Is it unreasonable to expext a product that markets itself as "3 in 1" to not snap and infact be "nothing very useful in 2"?! Again, answers on a postcard please.
- I have been eating a fairly healthy diet and at times choose to go vegetarian. Rather pathetically, I asscoiate the consumption of vegetarian food (especially by a whisky loving man) with a slight tendency towards effeminancy (I know this isn´t politically correct but then I have very little time for politics). While choosing beween two vegetarian pasta sauce products, to my amusement I noticed that this particular vegetarian range went under the brand name "Gayelord". You couldn´t make it up. Someone, somewhere is laughing at all you vegetarians while raking in your "right-on" cash.
- Know thyself. To my embarasement I have discovered for the first time at the age of 31, I have a roasted peanut allergy. How, I have survived thus far remains a miracle as I have spent many a top night in bars across the globe eating these things. See what happens when you start eating healthily? You get allergies.
- Greg on food. Greg bought some protein biscuits designed to give the elderly essential vitamins. He was convinced they would give him a competitive advantage over the other pilgrims. They were truly awful. They were supposed to be "lemon flavour" but to me they seemed like packaged cardboard that had once been in the presence of a lemon air freshner. Also, Greg has a theory that eating food in rest periods is detrimental to optimal walking. He thinks it, "weighs a pilgrim down". I suspect Greg too, has lost weight.
- I was asked by Dave, an Irish Pilgrim why I was on this Pilgrimage. I repsonded with my usual garb about "time to reflect...blah...blah...blah" and then added piously "I just want to be the best person I can possible be, you know?". He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment and having located the origin of this sentiment replied, "isn´t that Superman...?".
- We are due back 3rd October (yes, this year!) and I look forward to sharing with you many more anecdotes though I cannot promise they will all be as captivating as my collaboratve work on shower curtain physics... x
Wednesday, 5 September 2007
I Feel Like Chicken Tonight...
Well hellooo there,
we are now in the beautiful Spanish city of Santo Domingo de la Calzada. So if I have my maths right this means we have walked over 1400 kms. This is good, ya? (Bet you didn´t know I also speak bad German).
Thanks for your feed-back about this blog. It seems you like to laugh at the French almost as much as I do. To be honest I´m a little nervous as to whether I will find such anecdotal treasures amongst the Spanish hills. The French made it just so easy for me - you would have to get up really early and practice NOT being funny not to be able to make the idea of pouting French men wearing tight spandex seem amusing. Merci beaucoup France et Vive la difference (especially with regards to national swim-wear choices)!
Here goes nothing - some thoughts that did occur to me while I was in the country commonly referred to as Spain:
- I think the true miracle of miracles, is that anyone can believe in them. The miracle that is believed to have occurred in the 14th century in Santo Domingo de la Calzada is particularly bizarre. The account goes something like this:
One day, a pilgrim family- father, mother, and son-arrived in Santo Domingo. At the inn where they stayed, the owner's daughter developed a crush on the boy or, in the words of the sixteenth-century Englishman Andrew Boorde, “for ther was a wenche the whych wolde haue had hym to medyll with her carnally.” But the boy's virtue could not be compromised while he walked. Angry at being scorned, the girl slipped a silver cup in the boy's rucksack. When the family was leaving town, she informed the local authorities of the apparent theft. Chased down, the boy proclaimed his innocence, but he was sentenced to death and hanged from a tree at the edge of town (interesting to see that they practised zero tolerance policing in those days... makes the previous New York Mayor, Giuliani seem a little soft...).
The grieving parents walked on to Santiago to fulfill their pledge. On their return trip, as they approached Santo Domingo, they could still see the silhouette of their son's body dangling from a branch. (In some parts of Europe, the indignity of a death sentence was rounded out by leaving the body to rot out of the rope.) As they neared the tree, though, they could see their son moving: He spoke, explaining that their dutiful journey to Santiago had won James's heart. The saint had returned the boy's life and then held him up by the arms until their return.
The parents ran to the town mayor and insisted that he come and see what had happened. The mayor was seated at his dinner table, ready to cut into two hot roasted chickens. He dismissed the parents as insane and complained that their crying was interrupting his meal. Annoyed at their persistence, he finally shouted, “Your boy can no more be alive than these chickens could get up and crow!” Immediately, the main course stirred. The roasters kicked away the garnishes and vegetables. They stretched their plucked brown wings. They squawked and danced across the table. The boy was cut down and the miracle proclaimed. The story of resurrected chickens had a profound tug on the medieval mind. Hundreds of versions of the miracle-dead and dancing fowl- can be found throughout Europe, and paintings of Santo Domingo's chickens can been seen as far east as Uberlingen and Rothenburg ob der Tauber. The motto of the town remains: "Donde la gallina canto despues de asasa", meaning "Where the hen crowed after being roasted". Today, they still keep a pair of live white chickens in a chicken coup near the cathedral´s south door in honour of the miracle.
Though it seems to me highly unlikely that a roasted chicken danced a jig (let alone the other stuff) I think it for the best that if anyone wants to cook for me post-completion of the Camino (hint, hint!), we avoid a sunday roast. (See what I mean about being funny about the Spanish. Look how much I had to research and write just to arrive at a rather weak punch-line. Give me men in Lycra any day.)
- I have a Lonely Planet guide to speaking Spanish. My favourite bit is the chapter on "Romance". There are many, many amusing phrases contained within this section (allowing the traveller to deal with amorous situations with imaginary Spanish lovers) but my favourite by far is: "No te preocupes, lo hago yo", meaning "Don´t bother, I´ll do it myself".
- Me-thinks the Spanish are guilty of liking Kitsch a bit too much. For example, in some churches they have replaced the option of being able to light a candle and make a prayer, with a big plastic box containing plastic replica candles. The would-be-devotee simply inserts 20 cents into a slot whereby a red light illuminates at the end of one of these "candles". No, no, no.
- I met a very interesting woman from Belgium whom is a dancer. Her name is Laure and she is confident she could beat me in an arm-wrestle. Yet again, I am guilty of bringing your attention to non-salient facts. The reason I mention our meeting is her telling me an anecdote that I think beautifully illustrates someone solving a "problem" that didn´t need to be solved. Laure is currently working on a film that requires dancing while in a swimming pool. This, as you might imagine, is fairly tricky as it is very difficult to dance for more than about 15 seconds under-water without coming-up for air. The dance sequence lasts several minutes and so lots of stopping and starting was required with lots of re-filming necessary.
To my amazement, the pool that Laure and her fellow dancers use, is fitted with underwater cameras that use motion detecting software. If they notice that a person has stopped moving for more than 30 seconds they sound alarm sirens and lights. This ruined at least one of their filming endeavours as the dance piece required one of the dancers to sink without moving for more than 30 seconds.
Now, I know these cameras are here as a safety precaution, but isn´t this what life-guards are for? I don´t know about you, but the last time I checked the guys and girls wearing red sitting on their high-chairs, they didn´t seem overly worked. I suspect they might like a chance to actually do something and could probably fit a rescue into their diaries... .
- The Spanish seem to like being creative in their toilets. One of the bars I went into had loads of portraits of the owners (in various pouty poses) pasted all around the urinals. Another helped you indentify which room was for men and for women by having life-sized naked pictures of the designated sex on the walls.
- I think I have already experienced what my life will be like post 60 years old. As you are aware I am currently on a stimulants ban. The consequence of this is that on several occasions I have sat down for a hot chocolate in a cafe only to promptly fall asleep. When I awake, I have inevitably dribbled down myself and I am confused as to where I am and as to why there is a cold "hot" chocolate in front of me. I miss my poisons.
- Snoring. As I have already confessed I am guilty of snoring. But a few nights ago I met my nemesis. He was a very muscly Italian man whose snore made the floor shake. It seems he kept most of the dormitory awake the majority of the night. After about an hour of hearing him growl I decided I had to move my mattress out of the room into the outside corridor, for some peace and quiet. I believe he was a cyclist and this explains why he had a spare cycle tire against the wall, near his head. He was sleeping right next to the door and had inadvertently moved the wheel so that it blocked the door and my exit. While attempting to leave the room, the opening door knocked the bicycle wheel over the snoring man´s head. The Italian immediately woke up to see me standing by his bed with a mattress while he had a tire around his body, pinning his arms to his side. Unfortunately, I did not know the Italian for, "Forgive me for treating you as a hoopla game my Italian friend, but it´s just that while attempting to leave the room I inadvertently knocked this-here tire around your torso..." so I pretended not to notice and quickly left the room. I then spent the rest of the night in fear for my life and wondering what the Italian man would do to me in the morning... . Note to self: in future avoid treating muscly sleeping Italian men as hoopla targets.
See ya. x
we are now in the beautiful Spanish city of Santo Domingo de la Calzada. So if I have my maths right this means we have walked over 1400 kms. This is good, ya? (Bet you didn´t know I also speak bad German).
Thanks for your feed-back about this blog. It seems you like to laugh at the French almost as much as I do. To be honest I´m a little nervous as to whether I will find such anecdotal treasures amongst the Spanish hills. The French made it just so easy for me - you would have to get up really early and practice NOT being funny not to be able to make the idea of pouting French men wearing tight spandex seem amusing. Merci beaucoup France et Vive la difference (especially with regards to national swim-wear choices)!
Here goes nothing - some thoughts that did occur to me while I was in the country commonly referred to as Spain:
- I think the true miracle of miracles, is that anyone can believe in them. The miracle that is believed to have occurred in the 14th century in Santo Domingo de la Calzada is particularly bizarre. The account goes something like this:
One day, a pilgrim family- father, mother, and son-arrived in Santo Domingo. At the inn where they stayed, the owner's daughter developed a crush on the boy or, in the words of the sixteenth-century Englishman Andrew Boorde, “for ther was a wenche the whych wolde haue had hym to medyll with her carnally.” But the boy's virtue could not be compromised while he walked. Angry at being scorned, the girl slipped a silver cup in the boy's rucksack. When the family was leaving town, she informed the local authorities of the apparent theft. Chased down, the boy proclaimed his innocence, but he was sentenced to death and hanged from a tree at the edge of town (interesting to see that they practised zero tolerance policing in those days... makes the previous New York Mayor, Giuliani seem a little soft...).
The grieving parents walked on to Santiago to fulfill their pledge. On their return trip, as they approached Santo Domingo, they could still see the silhouette of their son's body dangling from a branch. (In some parts of Europe, the indignity of a death sentence was rounded out by leaving the body to rot out of the rope.) As they neared the tree, though, they could see their son moving: He spoke, explaining that their dutiful journey to Santiago had won James's heart. The saint had returned the boy's life and then held him up by the arms until their return.
The parents ran to the town mayor and insisted that he come and see what had happened. The mayor was seated at his dinner table, ready to cut into two hot roasted chickens. He dismissed the parents as insane and complained that their crying was interrupting his meal. Annoyed at their persistence, he finally shouted, “Your boy can no more be alive than these chickens could get up and crow!” Immediately, the main course stirred. The roasters kicked away the garnishes and vegetables. They stretched their plucked brown wings. They squawked and danced across the table. The boy was cut down and the miracle proclaimed. The story of resurrected chickens had a profound tug on the medieval mind. Hundreds of versions of the miracle-dead and dancing fowl- can be found throughout Europe, and paintings of Santo Domingo's chickens can been seen as far east as Uberlingen and Rothenburg ob der Tauber. The motto of the town remains: "Donde la gallina canto despues de asasa", meaning "Where the hen crowed after being roasted". Today, they still keep a pair of live white chickens in a chicken coup near the cathedral´s south door in honour of the miracle.
Though it seems to me highly unlikely that a roasted chicken danced a jig (let alone the other stuff) I think it for the best that if anyone wants to cook for me post-completion of the Camino (hint, hint!), we avoid a sunday roast. (See what I mean about being funny about the Spanish. Look how much I had to research and write just to arrive at a rather weak punch-line. Give me men in Lycra any day.)
- I have a Lonely Planet guide to speaking Spanish. My favourite bit is the chapter on "Romance". There are many, many amusing phrases contained within this section (allowing the traveller to deal with amorous situations with imaginary Spanish lovers) but my favourite by far is: "No te preocupes, lo hago yo", meaning "Don´t bother, I´ll do it myself".
- Me-thinks the Spanish are guilty of liking Kitsch a bit too much. For example, in some churches they have replaced the option of being able to light a candle and make a prayer, with a big plastic box containing plastic replica candles. The would-be-devotee simply inserts 20 cents into a slot whereby a red light illuminates at the end of one of these "candles". No, no, no.
- I met a very interesting woman from Belgium whom is a dancer. Her name is Laure and she is confident she could beat me in an arm-wrestle. Yet again, I am guilty of bringing your attention to non-salient facts. The reason I mention our meeting is her telling me an anecdote that I think beautifully illustrates someone solving a "problem" that didn´t need to be solved. Laure is currently working on a film that requires dancing while in a swimming pool. This, as you might imagine, is fairly tricky as it is very difficult to dance for more than about 15 seconds under-water without coming-up for air. The dance sequence lasts several minutes and so lots of stopping and starting was required with lots of re-filming necessary.
To my amazement, the pool that Laure and her fellow dancers use, is fitted with underwater cameras that use motion detecting software. If they notice that a person has stopped moving for more than 30 seconds they sound alarm sirens and lights. This ruined at least one of their filming endeavours as the dance piece required one of the dancers to sink without moving for more than 30 seconds.
Now, I know these cameras are here as a safety precaution, but isn´t this what life-guards are for? I don´t know about you, but the last time I checked the guys and girls wearing red sitting on their high-chairs, they didn´t seem overly worked. I suspect they might like a chance to actually do something and could probably fit a rescue into their diaries... .
- The Spanish seem to like being creative in their toilets. One of the bars I went into had loads of portraits of the owners (in various pouty poses) pasted all around the urinals. Another helped you indentify which room was for men and for women by having life-sized naked pictures of the designated sex on the walls.
- I think I have already experienced what my life will be like post 60 years old. As you are aware I am currently on a stimulants ban. The consequence of this is that on several occasions I have sat down for a hot chocolate in a cafe only to promptly fall asleep. When I awake, I have inevitably dribbled down myself and I am confused as to where I am and as to why there is a cold "hot" chocolate in front of me. I miss my poisons.
- Snoring. As I have already confessed I am guilty of snoring. But a few nights ago I met my nemesis. He was a very muscly Italian man whose snore made the floor shake. It seems he kept most of the dormitory awake the majority of the night. After about an hour of hearing him growl I decided I had to move my mattress out of the room into the outside corridor, for some peace and quiet. I believe he was a cyclist and this explains why he had a spare cycle tire against the wall, near his head. He was sleeping right next to the door and had inadvertently moved the wheel so that it blocked the door and my exit. While attempting to leave the room, the opening door knocked the bicycle wheel over the snoring man´s head. The Italian immediately woke up to see me standing by his bed with a mattress while he had a tire around his body, pinning his arms to his side. Unfortunately, I did not know the Italian for, "Forgive me for treating you as a hoopla game my Italian friend, but it´s just that while attempting to leave the room I inadvertently knocked this-here tire around your torso..." so I pretended not to notice and quickly left the room. I then spent the rest of the night in fear for my life and wondering what the Italian man would do to me in the morning... . Note to self: in future avoid treating muscly sleeping Italian men as hoopla targets.
See ya. x
Wednesday, 29 August 2007
Postulating in Pamplona
Ola!
I hope this post finds you all well. I am writing this from the A/C comfort of an Internet cafe in Pamplona. That's right, Greg and I have walked from London to Spain. So now I go from speaking bad French to bad Spanish. To my utmost surprise I am still really enjoying the walking - I´d almost say I´m liking it more. Very strange. It seems we have walked over 1200 km to be here. As always, I am not short of random thoughts and I will now humbly lay them down before ye:
(I have updated the latest photos - these can be found in both the "Month 2" and "Camino Proper" sets. Unfortunately some of the earlier photos cannot be seen due to the limit on the free account).
- What did I make of France? Overall, I felt a bit like how I used to feel when a teenager and staying for a weekend at my granny's house. A pleasant enough experience with lots of politeness and respect but ultimately a bit dull. France just doesn´t seem to know how to have fun. Compared to the UK, pretty much every place I travelled through felt a bit quiet and under-populated and this was during their peek holiday season. Most bars and cafes would be lucky to have more than a dozen people in, and most of them would nurse a tiny glass of wine for the entire evening - that's IF they were feeling adventurous, otherwise it would most certainly be a soft-drink. Judging by the state of their economy, I would suspect that part of the reason for this phenomena is the low level of disposable income. The French, it appears, can´t afford to get their round in. I can´t remember seeing any significant evidence of 30 somethings having fun outside of their homes. Most venues seemed populated by young teenagers. I guess the 30+ are either in each others' homes or having clandestine meetings with one of their many lovers. Don´t get me wrong, France is a beautiful country with vast potential but it really does need Sarkozy to kick it´s socialist derriere into the 21st century.
French anecdotes continued...
- I still feel a little embarrassed when recalling that while in La Rochelle I mistook a piece of street "installation art" as a bin and duly placed my used kebab wrapper into the centre of the piece.
- In one of the campsites, Greg insisted on playing an arcade game called "Emergency Call Ambulance". Is it just me or is this a truly bizarre game concept? For a mere Euro you get to be the driver of an ambulance desperately trying to get various patients in a host of potentially life threatening states to hospital before both your time and their lives expire. Ostensibly a racing game, every time you hit the crash barrier or another vehicle you get to observe your patient going through a variety of life shortening seizures. If you crash badly enough or run out of time, so does your patient. Weird. Why does this game seem so wrong to me?
- Remarkably Greg and I have only have had one real disagreement. As you might expect, we have had lots of controversial conversations over the past three months. We have hotly debated topics including euthanasia, abortion, religion, politics, love, music, literature yet it wasn´t one of these debates that caused the final disagreement that resulted in us spending the day apart. The cause of our spat? The folding of a map. Or more accurately, the fact that I didn´t fold a map properly. Fortunately, our profound love and respect for one another, enabled us to heal the rift caused by this cartographic conflict.
- Greg and I walked past some French men having a bar-be-que about 3 metres away from where a petroleum lorry was pumping its cargo into a petrol storage facility. Despite our tired legs, we suddenly found the energy to significantly quicken our pace.
- While reading Aldous Huxley's "Island" (which is a truly badly written book but with some interesting ideas) I noticed two lines which I think are rather clever:
"We cannot reason ourselves out of our basic irrationality. All we can do is to learn the art of being irrational in a reasonable way." Indeed.
- On one particularly good day, Greg and I walked over 40 kilometres without really planning to. On kilometre 37 Greg turned to me and said, "Just think, if we were on a golf cart we could have covered what took us a complete day, in less than an hour." When all this is over, I´m gonna miss Greg´s motivational talks.
- Near Hasparren (in Basque part of France - hot-bed of Basque independence resistance) Greg and I spent two nights in a Benedictine Monastery with monks. We spent one day attending all 6 services (first one at 6.20am) and as most of the prayers were sung I rather enjoyed the experience. Not understanding French, I suspect, was an advantage. The monks make and drink their own wine. As Greg and I are abstaining from alcohol and caffeine (and nicotine for Greg) we refused. How often do I get to appear more well-living than a monk?! We also ate with the monks. They eat in silence while one of them recites parts of religious texts. My main observation was the incredible speed with which these guys eat. I kid you not, I reckon they eat 3 course in less than 7 minutes. The place definitely needs a woman´s calming touch I thought but fortunately I withheld such non-conformist thoughts.
- And now to Spain. To be honest it´s too early for many thoughts. I am however deeply concerned as to the haircuts most women seem to be sporting here. The mullet seems very much in. Oh dear.
- The "Camino Proper" starts from Saint-Jean-Pied-a-Port and finishes at Compestella. So for the past 4 days (and for the rest of our pilgrimage) we have joined the multitudes of pilgrims. Compared to the previous 1200 or so kms this final "leg" feels very simple and relatively easy. I never thought I´d regard walking almost 800km (remaining distance) as "easy".
- Last night we stayed in a horrible pension. The owner was a drunk and the rooms were claustrophobic and dirty. Greg was convinced the mirror in the bathroom was two-way and that there was a dead person in the room next to us. I don´t know if Greg´s suspicions were founded but am distressed that today I have started itching again. And so it seems I remain on the samsara circuit... .
Adios. x
I hope this post finds you all well. I am writing this from the A/C comfort of an Internet cafe in Pamplona. That's right, Greg and I have walked from London to Spain. So now I go from speaking bad French to bad Spanish. To my utmost surprise I am still really enjoying the walking - I´d almost say I´m liking it more. Very strange. It seems we have walked over 1200 km to be here. As always, I am not short of random thoughts and I will now humbly lay them down before ye:
(I have updated the latest photos - these can be found in both the "Month 2" and "Camino Proper" sets. Unfortunately some of the earlier photos cannot be seen due to the limit on the free account).
- What did I make of France? Overall, I felt a bit like how I used to feel when a teenager and staying for a weekend at my granny's house. A pleasant enough experience with lots of politeness and respect but ultimately a bit dull. France just doesn´t seem to know how to have fun. Compared to the UK, pretty much every place I travelled through felt a bit quiet and under-populated and this was during their peek holiday season. Most bars and cafes would be lucky to have more than a dozen people in, and most of them would nurse a tiny glass of wine for the entire evening - that's IF they were feeling adventurous, otherwise it would most certainly be a soft-drink. Judging by the state of their economy, I would suspect that part of the reason for this phenomena is the low level of disposable income. The French, it appears, can´t afford to get their round in. I can´t remember seeing any significant evidence of 30 somethings having fun outside of their homes. Most venues seemed populated by young teenagers. I guess the 30+ are either in each others' homes or having clandestine meetings with one of their many lovers. Don´t get me wrong, France is a beautiful country with vast potential but it really does need Sarkozy to kick it´s socialist derriere into the 21st century.
French anecdotes continued...
- I still feel a little embarrassed when recalling that while in La Rochelle I mistook a piece of street "installation art" as a bin and duly placed my used kebab wrapper into the centre of the piece.
- In one of the campsites, Greg insisted on playing an arcade game called "Emergency Call Ambulance". Is it just me or is this a truly bizarre game concept? For a mere Euro you get to be the driver of an ambulance desperately trying to get various patients in a host of potentially life threatening states to hospital before both your time and their lives expire. Ostensibly a racing game, every time you hit the crash barrier or another vehicle you get to observe your patient going through a variety of life shortening seizures. If you crash badly enough or run out of time, so does your patient. Weird. Why does this game seem so wrong to me?
- Remarkably Greg and I have only have had one real disagreement. As you might expect, we have had lots of controversial conversations over the past three months. We have hotly debated topics including euthanasia, abortion, religion, politics, love, music, literature yet it wasn´t one of these debates that caused the final disagreement that resulted in us spending the day apart. The cause of our spat? The folding of a map. Or more accurately, the fact that I didn´t fold a map properly. Fortunately, our profound love and respect for one another, enabled us to heal the rift caused by this cartographic conflict.
- Greg and I walked past some French men having a bar-be-que about 3 metres away from where a petroleum lorry was pumping its cargo into a petrol storage facility. Despite our tired legs, we suddenly found the energy to significantly quicken our pace.
- While reading Aldous Huxley's "Island" (which is a truly badly written book but with some interesting ideas) I noticed two lines which I think are rather clever:
"We cannot reason ourselves out of our basic irrationality. All we can do is to learn the art of being irrational in a reasonable way." Indeed.
- On one particularly good day, Greg and I walked over 40 kilometres without really planning to. On kilometre 37 Greg turned to me and said, "Just think, if we were on a golf cart we could have covered what took us a complete day, in less than an hour." When all this is over, I´m gonna miss Greg´s motivational talks.
- Near Hasparren (in Basque part of France - hot-bed of Basque independence resistance) Greg and I spent two nights in a Benedictine Monastery with monks. We spent one day attending all 6 services (first one at 6.20am) and as most of the prayers were sung I rather enjoyed the experience. Not understanding French, I suspect, was an advantage. The monks make and drink their own wine. As Greg and I are abstaining from alcohol and caffeine (and nicotine for Greg) we refused. How often do I get to appear more well-living than a monk?! We also ate with the monks. They eat in silence while one of them recites parts of religious texts. My main observation was the incredible speed with which these guys eat. I kid you not, I reckon they eat 3 course in less than 7 minutes. The place definitely needs a woman´s calming touch I thought but fortunately I withheld such non-conformist thoughts.
- And now to Spain. To be honest it´s too early for many thoughts. I am however deeply concerned as to the haircuts most women seem to be sporting here. The mullet seems very much in. Oh dear.
- The "Camino Proper" starts from Saint-Jean-Pied-a-Port and finishes at Compestella. So for the past 4 days (and for the rest of our pilgrimage) we have joined the multitudes of pilgrims. Compared to the previous 1200 or so kms this final "leg" feels very simple and relatively easy. I never thought I´d regard walking almost 800km (remaining distance) as "easy".
- Last night we stayed in a horrible pension. The owner was a drunk and the rooms were claustrophobic and dirty. Greg was convinced the mirror in the bathroom was two-way and that there was a dead person in the room next to us. I don´t know if Greg´s suspicions were founded but am distressed that today I have started itching again. And so it seems I remain on the samsara circuit... .
Adios. x
Tuesday, 14 August 2007
A Lycra Lament
Bonsoir,
before I begin this post proper, I feel an overwhelming need to raise the issue of Speedos. Now as I'm sure those of you that have been to France are aware, French men seem to have a per chant for the wearing of tight-fitting Lycra swimwear. Fair enough, you might think. Why interfere in a man's need to wear spandex while strolling around the pool-side? Under normal circumstances, I too would be tolerant of such poor taste and vanity-gone-badly-wrong. But I'm afraid recently, I have moved from the camp of neutral observer to outright critic. The reason? In many pools, if you are male, you are not allowed to enter UNLESS you are wearing these fashion disasters. Personally, if I was a life-guard I would make the wearing of these Lycra garments (that leave very little to the imagination) a reason NOT to allow a man near a swimming pool. The world is indeed upside down.
O.K. got that off my chest. We are now in a small town called Parentis-en-Born. This means we have walked about 850 kms. Très bien, non? To increase the challenge further, starting Saturday 11th August Greg and I made the pact to complete the rest of the pilgrimage without consuming any alcohol or caffeine and Greg is also forgoing his nicotine hits. For those of you that know me well, I'm sure you will appreciate the scale of this personal challenge but we are both determined to prove we are masters of our vices (and not their slaves) and that we truly get the most out of this pilgrimage by living as well as possible.
After much deliberation, I have decided to ask for sponsorship for this pilgrimage. Some of you will know that I have been involved with an inspirational poetry group for several years now and it is this group I would like to raise some funds. The group is called "Mental Fight Club" - and their purpose is aptly summarised on their website:
"Mental Fight Club has around 500 members, around half of whom have direct experience of mental illness either as sufferers or carers. Our aim is to hold creative events which explore some aspect of mental illness or well-being through any human discipline – the arts, science, philosophy, sport, religion".
Check their website if you'd like to know more:
http://uk.geocities.com/gabrielejenkinson@btinternet.com/home.html
I am good friends with Sarah Wheeler, the founder and leader of Mental Fight Club and can only assure you that any money raised will be very well spent. Any money given will be very gratefully received but if you were to sponsor me 1p per kilometre that would be the princely sum of £20! The easiest way to get money to this organisation is to write a cheque made out to:
"Mental Fight Club"
c/o 21 Douglas Buildings,
Marshalsea Rd.,
London,
SE1 1EJ.
Enough of the appeal already.
And so to thoughts de la Seth in no particular order:
- Yesterday, I identified a sign on the map that we weren't able to find on the map's key and therefore decode. The road hugging the west coast, that we planned to travel down, had red lines through it for about 20 kilometres. Being generally the more cautious of the two, I suggested to Greg that perhaps these lines meant we couldn't use this road. Greg assured me that it would be fine and creatively suggested that perhaps the lines suggested that it was an access route for the fire service. Easily persuaded (especially when Greg's interpretation stood to save us lots of extra walking if correct) I agreed to "suck-it-and-see". It was only when we happened upon a more detailed map (courtesy of the tourist office) that we realised that our "short-cut" was actually a road straight through the French Land Armies HQ. Interestingly they also test missiles here. The detour around this site has put about 35km on our journey which is frustrating but infinitely better than being hounded by the French Foreign Legion.
- We often walk at night. It's very cool and eerily beautiful. However, sometimes we walk along paths where the tress are close enough for large spiders to make webs. Having my head enveloped in a large web with the possibility of its owner being on my body helps keep me awake.
- More recently, we have taken to camping "Au Sauvage" (in the wild). This is to save money (campsites can be ridiculously expensive) and gives us the freedom to tailor our routes to our own needs. Only once have we been woken by the gendame (police) and he was driving a quod bike and very happy so that's good.
- We stayed in a church garden for two nights. At night, one of the monks led a punk rock band in a gig in front of the church. He even did a Neal Young number. I am impressed by any man that can make the wearing of a brown robe and sandals look cool. A truly funky monk.
- We met a woman called Katrina. She was from Germany. She worked in a book shop. She wore glasses. These details are only incidental as to why I'm mentioning this encounter. Katrina had an experience, that before hearing of it, I was convinced only occurred in people's bad dreams. Katrina was a nudist (she was wearing clothes when I met her - I'm not not that sort of pilgrim don't you know!) One afternoon, Katrina left all her clothes and valuables on the sand and went for a long (naked) swim. When she returned to the place she thought she had left her possessions, she could find nothing but sand. Without her glasses, Katrina could barely see and so stumbled for nearly an hour along the tourist-packed beach looking for her belongings. All her lotion had been washed off so Katrina was also getting progressively burnt. Eventually, a kind sole took pity on her plight and helped her locate her possessions. I think Katrina should reconsider the merits of nudism in a largely clothes orientated society.
- Security guards in campsites often have batons, mace and attack dogs. What ever happened to the "happy camper" ideal such that camping patrons might cause difficulty requiring their temporary blinding and possible beating/dog savaging to be subdued?
- The other day, while talking to Greg I found myself saying, "I prefer purple madness to gentle sadness". Could this be the start of my song-writing career? Or was this just a flash-in-the-pan one hit wonder?
- I needed to see a doctor a few days ago to have my back looked at. Unfortunately my alarm failed but yet I still got up in time (unusual for me). How? Well as we were sleeping in the church garden I was initially awoken by the peel of bells. But then I fell back to sleep again. 30 minutes later I was woken again by the sound of singing as part of mass. Yet again I managed to fall back to sleep. Finally a group of enthusiastic students held a heated discussion (in French) about the bible right next to my tent. And I was well and truly awake for the day. Indeed, he works in mysterious ways.
Tonight we plan to "camp wild" with the added excitement of knowing that it will be within the vicinity of the military barracks. This is adrenaline Pilgrimaging at it's finest... x
(I haven't been able to upload the latest photos yet and will let you know when I have updated them.)
before I begin this post proper, I feel an overwhelming need to raise the issue of Speedos. Now as I'm sure those of you that have been to France are aware, French men seem to have a per chant for the wearing of tight-fitting Lycra swimwear. Fair enough, you might think. Why interfere in a man's need to wear spandex while strolling around the pool-side? Under normal circumstances, I too would be tolerant of such poor taste and vanity-gone-badly-wrong. But I'm afraid recently, I have moved from the camp of neutral observer to outright critic. The reason? In many pools, if you are male, you are not allowed to enter UNLESS you are wearing these fashion disasters. Personally, if I was a life-guard I would make the wearing of these Lycra garments (that leave very little to the imagination) a reason NOT to allow a man near a swimming pool. The world is indeed upside down.
O.K. got that off my chest. We are now in a small town called Parentis-en-Born. This means we have walked about 850 kms. Très bien, non? To increase the challenge further, starting Saturday 11th August Greg and I made the pact to complete the rest of the pilgrimage without consuming any alcohol or caffeine and Greg is also forgoing his nicotine hits. For those of you that know me well, I'm sure you will appreciate the scale of this personal challenge but we are both determined to prove we are masters of our vices (and not their slaves) and that we truly get the most out of this pilgrimage by living as well as possible.
After much deliberation, I have decided to ask for sponsorship for this pilgrimage. Some of you will know that I have been involved with an inspirational poetry group for several years now and it is this group I would like to raise some funds. The group is called "Mental Fight Club" - and their purpose is aptly summarised on their website:
"Mental Fight Club has around 500 members, around half of whom have direct experience of mental illness either as sufferers or carers. Our aim is to hold creative events which explore some aspect of mental illness or well-being through any human discipline – the arts, science, philosophy, sport, religion".
Check their website if you'd like to know more:
http://uk.geocities.com/gabrielejenkinson@btinternet.com/home.html
I am good friends with Sarah Wheeler, the founder and leader of Mental Fight Club and can only assure you that any money raised will be very well spent. Any money given will be very gratefully received but if you were to sponsor me 1p per kilometre that would be the princely sum of £20! The easiest way to get money to this organisation is to write a cheque made out to:
"Mental Fight Club"
c/o 21 Douglas Buildings,
Marshalsea Rd.,
London,
SE1 1EJ.
Enough of the appeal already.
And so to thoughts de la Seth in no particular order:
- Yesterday, I identified a sign on the map that we weren't able to find on the map's key and therefore decode. The road hugging the west coast, that we planned to travel down, had red lines through it for about 20 kilometres. Being generally the more cautious of the two, I suggested to Greg that perhaps these lines meant we couldn't use this road. Greg assured me that it would be fine and creatively suggested that perhaps the lines suggested that it was an access route for the fire service. Easily persuaded (especially when Greg's interpretation stood to save us lots of extra walking if correct) I agreed to "suck-it-and-see". It was only when we happened upon a more detailed map (courtesy of the tourist office) that we realised that our "short-cut" was actually a road straight through the French Land Armies HQ. Interestingly they also test missiles here. The detour around this site has put about 35km on our journey which is frustrating but infinitely better than being hounded by the French Foreign Legion.
- We often walk at night. It's very cool and eerily beautiful. However, sometimes we walk along paths where the tress are close enough for large spiders to make webs. Having my head enveloped in a large web with the possibility of its owner being on my body helps keep me awake.
- More recently, we have taken to camping "Au Sauvage" (in the wild). This is to save money (campsites can be ridiculously expensive) and gives us the freedom to tailor our routes to our own needs. Only once have we been woken by the gendame (police) and he was driving a quod bike and very happy so that's good.
- We stayed in a church garden for two nights. At night, one of the monks led a punk rock band in a gig in front of the church. He even did a Neal Young number. I am impressed by any man that can make the wearing of a brown robe and sandals look cool. A truly funky monk.
- We met a woman called Katrina. She was from Germany. She worked in a book shop. She wore glasses. These details are only incidental as to why I'm mentioning this encounter. Katrina had an experience, that before hearing of it, I was convinced only occurred in people's bad dreams. Katrina was a nudist (she was wearing clothes when I met her - I'm not not that sort of pilgrim don't you know!) One afternoon, Katrina left all her clothes and valuables on the sand and went for a long (naked) swim. When she returned to the place she thought she had left her possessions, she could find nothing but sand. Without her glasses, Katrina could barely see and so stumbled for nearly an hour along the tourist-packed beach looking for her belongings. All her lotion had been washed off so Katrina was also getting progressively burnt. Eventually, a kind sole took pity on her plight and helped her locate her possessions. I think Katrina should reconsider the merits of nudism in a largely clothes orientated society.
- Security guards in campsites often have batons, mace and attack dogs. What ever happened to the "happy camper" ideal such that camping patrons might cause difficulty requiring their temporary blinding and possible beating/dog savaging to be subdued?
- The other day, while talking to Greg I found myself saying, "I prefer purple madness to gentle sadness". Could this be the start of my song-writing career? Or was this just a flash-in-the-pan one hit wonder?
- I needed to see a doctor a few days ago to have my back looked at. Unfortunately my alarm failed but yet I still got up in time (unusual for me). How? Well as we were sleeping in the church garden I was initially awoken by the peel of bells. But then I fell back to sleep again. 30 minutes later I was woken again by the sound of singing as part of mass. Yet again I managed to fall back to sleep. Finally a group of enthusiastic students held a heated discussion (in French) about the bible right next to my tent. And I was well and truly awake for the day. Indeed, he works in mysterious ways.
Tonight we plan to "camp wild" with the added excitement of knowing that it will be within the vicinity of the military barracks. This is adrenaline Pilgrimaging at it's finest... x
(I haven't been able to upload the latest photos yet and will let you know when I have updated them.)
Friday, 27 July 2007
To Wick or Not to Wick..? (answers on a postcard..)
Well hello there strangers,
"where dost thou dwell Seth?", thoust hears thee ask. Are you ready for it... drum-roll please... La Rochelle, no less! Being here, means Greg and I have stumbled about 600 kms (more if you include walking on "days off"). Not bad, methinks, for two humble pilgrims. I am in a tip-top mood and very much look forward to seeing what "thoughts de la randome" (as I'm confident they say in France) I will now set before ye: (don't forget to check the latest snaps - there are some good ones)
- Several of you (I will not mention any names) have suggested via various form of communication that the French (and I quote) are "Cheese eating surrender monkeys". Now, as an enlightened man of wisdom and culture I would like to distance myself from this viewpoint. They also eat ham.
- While in Nantes I decided that this was where I was going to fall in love and write "that novel". While in La Rochelle I decided that I was a fantasist.
- Before I started this pilgrimage I believed that clean was an absolute concept. I now realise that it is most definitely a relative one.
- When eating in restaurants/tabacs it is common to re-use your knives and forks for each course. I think this is a fantastic system and I plan to lead the campaign in the UK for us to adopt the same practice.
- Clothes. It says something about the state of your wardrobe when your best "Friday night" outfit is actually the same trousers you have been wearing and sweating in all week and your top is thermal underwear. Greg assures me that I look French in my black thermal top and encourages me to work on my pout to really blend-in. I'm rubbish at looking moody/clever/aloof so I have to constantly lip the first part of the word "prune" to ensure I look suitably disinterested and therefore desirable.
- The art of being quieter. It is absolutely essential to speak quietly when in public in France if you want to be liked. Why don't they teach us this stuff in schools? Instead they fill our heads with useless skills such as solving quadratic equations while failing to tell us stuff that would really help one get-on in the world. Anyhow, having been in France a wee while it is immediately obvious to me what tourists are just here for a two week vacation (as opposed to those that understand French culture a little more) simply by the volume of their conversation, regardless of their ability to speak French. Foreigners in France my message to you is "sssshhh!"
- The French are quite a rule abiding, well behaved lot, especially when compared to the English. The children, in particular, respect their elders in ways that I have rarely witnessed in the UK. The more I think about it the less I would want to bring-up children in the UK. This makes me sad. Not least because I'd finally have to learn another language.
- Greg and I now average a comfortable 25 kms on a walking day. On several occasions we walk significantly more but then strange things happen to our bodies like my elbows falling-off.
- Just as sure as a French person will smoke, so too will they own a dog. I don't really like dogs (unless they are very well trained) so find getting barked at by dogs all day rather tiresome. I did see a dog that I really liked. It was an "attack dog" being rigorously drilled/trained by some professionals. They got a man to dress-up in special protective clothing (a seriously thick jumpsuit) and then got the dog to do all sorts of exercises. The relationship between the dog and the trainer and the discipline the dog had developed were truly impressive. On one exercise, the man in the suit came at the dog's "owner" with a stick yet despite the dogs obvious instinct, it was only at the blow of a whistle that the dog jumped into the air and bit the aggressors arm. They fought for about 30 seconds (the dog very much winning!) until in mid-fight the whistle blew again and the dog immediately let go of the man's arm and sat on the ground. Now I can't decide whether to buy one of those dogs or one of those suits.
- When a French person says "lets have a drink" they mean just that. One, small drink. Me no understand. Me no like.
- Greg and I went to a free outdoor concert. Two things stuck in my mind:
1) The poster promoting the band simply described them as "from Africa". Like specifying the actual county would be too much information? Can you imagine a French band being happy being promoted in Africa with a poster saying "from Europe"?
2) No-one, and I mean no-one, was drinking alcohol. Now I know that you don't always have to drink alcohol to enjoy yourself but come on this was an outdoor gig! That's just plain wrong.
- Young French men love driving around and around in circles on mopeds. To me, these mopeds are little more than upside down hair-dryers with ambition, yet the French girls seem to be very impressed. Is this why I was never described as "cool" as a younger man?
- I used to consider "wick" the thing you light on a candle, I now consider it a verb. This is because all my favourite items of clothing have "wicking action!" Even my pants. Believe you me, "to wick" is a beautiful thing. It keeps you cool and relatively smell free. Incidentally, my black thermal top has silver in it. Apparently this prevents the build-up of bacteria. How cool is it that my underwear has real silver in it?
- A week ago, I lost my passport, credit card and about £200. We had already walked 20 kms before I realised my loss and so popped into the tourist office in the next town, Lucon. The two women staffing the desk were incredibly kind and helpful and made numerous phone calls on my behalf to try and locate my possessions. They eventually reunited me with my valuables and so I have decided that I will definitely fall in love with a French person. Even if it doesn't work out, I can then use the inevitable sense of existential anxiety and pointlessness to fuel the writing of "that novel". Or I could write bad poetry. I reckon by then I should have perfected my moody pout so as long as I wear black and drink espresso's I should be a hit. Trouble is I'd also have to start smoking... . Anyhow, for those of you that would like any evidence that this pilgrimage has changed me here it is: I bought flowers for the two women that helped me. And I faced the embarrassment of giving them them in front of a room full of tourists. And so it is official, Seth does have a romantic side.
- I've stopped itching. And this confirms what I have always known to be true. If you have a significant problem or issue to deal with, just ignore it and do nothing until eventually it goes away... !
- I really, really, really miss you my friends and family. So please do come and join us for a stroll. Apart from anything else, Greg has heard all my jokes so now we just sit and walk in embarrassing silence. Please, for Greg's sake (there just aren't enough Guardian newspapers in the world for him to hide behind!), join us! If you want to be able to approximate where we will be at any one time I reckon we average 125 kms per week (assuming no serious injuries!) and are heading due South along France's West coast. Heading for Biarritz, and then the Pyrannes into Spain. We walk past many destinations served by Ryannair/Easyjet and trains/buses here are very cheap to get you to exactly where we are. We will of course walk at whatever pace is comfortable for you - any excuse to go easy is often a welcome one! Failing that, let me know what's going on in your life via e-mail. I know I'm rubbish at replying personally but I really do appreciate the news... .
Well I can't sit here all day typing, I've got bad French to speak... x
"where dost thou dwell Seth?", thoust hears thee ask. Are you ready for it... drum-roll please... La Rochelle, no less! Being here, means Greg and I have stumbled about 600 kms (more if you include walking on "days off"). Not bad, methinks, for two humble pilgrims. I am in a tip-top mood and very much look forward to seeing what "thoughts de la randome" (as I'm confident they say in France) I will now set before ye: (don't forget to check the latest snaps - there are some good ones)
- Several of you (I will not mention any names) have suggested via various form of communication that the French (and I quote) are "Cheese eating surrender monkeys". Now, as an enlightened man of wisdom and culture I would like to distance myself from this viewpoint. They also eat ham.
- While in Nantes I decided that this was where I was going to fall in love and write "that novel". While in La Rochelle I decided that I was a fantasist.
- Before I started this pilgrimage I believed that clean was an absolute concept. I now realise that it is most definitely a relative one.
- When eating in restaurants/tabacs it is common to re-use your knives and forks for each course. I think this is a fantastic system and I plan to lead the campaign in the UK for us to adopt the same practice.
- Clothes. It says something about the state of your wardrobe when your best "Friday night" outfit is actually the same trousers you have been wearing and sweating in all week and your top is thermal underwear. Greg assures me that I look French in my black thermal top and encourages me to work on my pout to really blend-in. I'm rubbish at looking moody/clever/aloof so I have to constantly lip the first part of the word "prune" to ensure I look suitably disinterested and therefore desirable.
- The art of being quieter. It is absolutely essential to speak quietly when in public in France if you want to be liked. Why don't they teach us this stuff in schools? Instead they fill our heads with useless skills such as solving quadratic equations while failing to tell us stuff that would really help one get-on in the world. Anyhow, having been in France a wee while it is immediately obvious to me what tourists are just here for a two week vacation (as opposed to those that understand French culture a little more) simply by the volume of their conversation, regardless of their ability to speak French. Foreigners in France my message to you is "sssshhh!"
- The French are quite a rule abiding, well behaved lot, especially when compared to the English. The children, in particular, respect their elders in ways that I have rarely witnessed in the UK. The more I think about it the less I would want to bring-up children in the UK. This makes me sad. Not least because I'd finally have to learn another language.
- Greg and I now average a comfortable 25 kms on a walking day. On several occasions we walk significantly more but then strange things happen to our bodies like my elbows falling-off.
- Just as sure as a French person will smoke, so too will they own a dog. I don't really like dogs (unless they are very well trained) so find getting barked at by dogs all day rather tiresome. I did see a dog that I really liked. It was an "attack dog" being rigorously drilled/trained by some professionals. They got a man to dress-up in special protective clothing (a seriously thick jumpsuit) and then got the dog to do all sorts of exercises. The relationship between the dog and the trainer and the discipline the dog had developed were truly impressive. On one exercise, the man in the suit came at the dog's "owner" with a stick yet despite the dogs obvious instinct, it was only at the blow of a whistle that the dog jumped into the air and bit the aggressors arm. They fought for about 30 seconds (the dog very much winning!) until in mid-fight the whistle blew again and the dog immediately let go of the man's arm and sat on the ground. Now I can't decide whether to buy one of those dogs or one of those suits.
- When a French person says "lets have a drink" they mean just that. One, small drink. Me no understand. Me no like.
- Greg and I went to a free outdoor concert. Two things stuck in my mind:
1) The poster promoting the band simply described them as "from Africa". Like specifying the actual county would be too much information? Can you imagine a French band being happy being promoted in Africa with a poster saying "from Europe"?
2) No-one, and I mean no-one, was drinking alcohol. Now I know that you don't always have to drink alcohol to enjoy yourself but come on this was an outdoor gig! That's just plain wrong.
- Young French men love driving around and around in circles on mopeds. To me, these mopeds are little more than upside down hair-dryers with ambition, yet the French girls seem to be very impressed. Is this why I was never described as "cool" as a younger man?
- I used to consider "wick" the thing you light on a candle, I now consider it a verb. This is because all my favourite items of clothing have "wicking action!" Even my pants. Believe you me, "to wick" is a beautiful thing. It keeps you cool and relatively smell free. Incidentally, my black thermal top has silver in it. Apparently this prevents the build-up of bacteria. How cool is it that my underwear has real silver in it?
- A week ago, I lost my passport, credit card and about £200. We had already walked 20 kms before I realised my loss and so popped into the tourist office in the next town, Lucon. The two women staffing the desk were incredibly kind and helpful and made numerous phone calls on my behalf to try and locate my possessions. They eventually reunited me with my valuables and so I have decided that I will definitely fall in love with a French person. Even if it doesn't work out, I can then use the inevitable sense of existential anxiety and pointlessness to fuel the writing of "that novel". Or I could write bad poetry. I reckon by then I should have perfected my moody pout so as long as I wear black and drink espresso's I should be a hit. Trouble is I'd also have to start smoking... . Anyhow, for those of you that would like any evidence that this pilgrimage has changed me here it is: I bought flowers for the two women that helped me. And I faced the embarrassment of giving them them in front of a room full of tourists. And so it is official, Seth does have a romantic side.
- I've stopped itching. And this confirms what I have always known to be true. If you have a significant problem or issue to deal with, just ignore it and do nothing until eventually it goes away... !
- I really, really, really miss you my friends and family. So please do come and join us for a stroll. Apart from anything else, Greg has heard all my jokes so now we just sit and walk in embarrassing silence. Please, for Greg's sake (there just aren't enough Guardian newspapers in the world for him to hide behind!), join us! If you want to be able to approximate where we will be at any one time I reckon we average 125 kms per week (assuming no serious injuries!) and are heading due South along France's West coast. Heading for Biarritz, and then the Pyrannes into Spain. We walk past many destinations served by Ryannair/Easyjet and trains/buses here are very cheap to get you to exactly where we are. We will of course walk at whatever pace is comfortable for you - any excuse to go easy is often a welcome one! Failing that, let me know what's going on in your life via e-mail. I know I'm rubbish at replying personally but I really do appreciate the news... .
Well I can't sit here all day typing, I've got bad French to speak... x
Thursday, 12 July 2007
On The Road (again)...
Hello,
well Greg's feet have finally recovered enough for us to get walking again and so it is once again time for us to hit the road. We both were truly surprised that a blister (albeit a massive one with apparent ambitions to take-over most of Greg's leg) could ground us for 17 days. We have had beaucoup des fun in Nantes but it is definitely time to be more like pilgrims and less like tourists. I have updated a few new photos though they really don't do Nantes justice - I just have a great resistance to confirming my out-of-town status by walking around everywhere taking photos shouting loudly "geez, ain't that cute. They just got so much history here..." in my bright orange, day-glow waterproof.
In truth, I don't feel overly inspired to write too much at the mo but for the sake of tradition I will jot-down a few random thoughts:
- I propose that the French are happier than the English. Difficult to prove but they just seem of a generally more sunny disposition. The women in particular often greet people with beautifully sincere smiles.
- The French seem to have a very different concept of time to the English. Quite simply, they don't act as if "time is money". This, as you might imagine, can be both a good and a bad thing, depending on what it is you seek. I have really noticed that once I have bought a coffee and sat for half-an-hour people-watching, I have an in-built sense that either I should buy something else or leave my chair to allow another paying customer to use it. This appears a totally alien concept in the French psyche. They appear to think nothing of purchasing a 1 euro drink and then sitting with their friends, chatting lazily for the entire afternoon. I like this. I suspect my mind-set has been conditioned by the pervasiveness of capitalist culture in the UK where all transactions (social as much as commerce) are based on someone, somewhere making money. On the less positive side, the French could do with improving their customer service ethos. Being in some french establishments (Tabac's, Pensions, Restaurants) you can almost read the proprietor's thoughts "If only it weren't for those demanding customers, I would have a great business".
- The French favour the taking of medication as suppositories. Mmm.
- I saw a very elegantly dressed woman carrying a tiny dog in a very expensive looking hand-bag. I am not known for my strong beliefs on animal welfare but I do not think dogs should be forced to suffer the indignity of living in a woman's handbag. Even if she is rich. Or sophisticated. I suspect that poor dog's mates laugh at him. A lot.
- I think it should be made illegal to have Irish bars in any place but Ireland. Otherwise, people like me that should know better, end-up in them. Drinking Guinness and talking with ex-pats while in France, is not how I want my life to be. It makes me sad.
- I'm still itching.
Well, I've got a rucksack to put-on...
well Greg's feet have finally recovered enough for us to get walking again and so it is once again time for us to hit the road. We both were truly surprised that a blister (albeit a massive one with apparent ambitions to take-over most of Greg's leg) could ground us for 17 days. We have had beaucoup des fun in Nantes but it is definitely time to be more like pilgrims and less like tourists. I have updated a few new photos though they really don't do Nantes justice - I just have a great resistance to confirming my out-of-town status by walking around everywhere taking photos shouting loudly "geez, ain't that cute. They just got so much history here..." in my bright orange, day-glow waterproof.
In truth, I don't feel overly inspired to write too much at the mo but for the sake of tradition I will jot-down a few random thoughts:
- I propose that the French are happier than the English. Difficult to prove but they just seem of a generally more sunny disposition. The women in particular often greet people with beautifully sincere smiles.
- The French seem to have a very different concept of time to the English. Quite simply, they don't act as if "time is money". This, as you might imagine, can be both a good and a bad thing, depending on what it is you seek. I have really noticed that once I have bought a coffee and sat for half-an-hour people-watching, I have an in-built sense that either I should buy something else or leave my chair to allow another paying customer to use it. This appears a totally alien concept in the French psyche. They appear to think nothing of purchasing a 1 euro drink and then sitting with their friends, chatting lazily for the entire afternoon. I like this. I suspect my mind-set has been conditioned by the pervasiveness of capitalist culture in the UK where all transactions (social as much as commerce) are based on someone, somewhere making money. On the less positive side, the French could do with improving their customer service ethos. Being in some french establishments (Tabac's, Pensions, Restaurants) you can almost read the proprietor's thoughts "If only it weren't for those demanding customers, I would have a great business".
- The French favour the taking of medication as suppositories. Mmm.
- I saw a very elegantly dressed woman carrying a tiny dog in a very expensive looking hand-bag. I am not known for my strong beliefs on animal welfare but I do not think dogs should be forced to suffer the indignity of living in a woman's handbag. Even if she is rich. Or sophisticated. I suspect that poor dog's mates laugh at him. A lot.
- I think it should be made illegal to have Irish bars in any place but Ireland. Otherwise, people like me that should know better, end-up in them. Drinking Guinness and talking with ex-pats while in France, is not how I want my life to be. It makes me sad.
- I'm still itching.
Well, I've got a rucksack to put-on...
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