To Fez

The ferry was packed. Lots of foot passengers, bus tours and returning Moroccans for the holiday (which we were unaware of at the time)I spied a MEC logo and spoke briefly with a fellow from Calgary traveling with his family. Elke stood in line and waited as it inched forward and the customs guys stamped passports.
All around me folks were snapping pictures through the salt sprayed windows, I figured I'd catch those sights on the return voyage... Apparently I'm a slow learner. Those opportunities when they arise need to be acted upon in the moment. There is only this moment.
A walk, a taxi ride and onto the train to Fez. More dirty windows not conducive to picture taking, I gaze out at the landscape. At one point some young boys heave rocks at the train breaking through the window in the next compartment and shattering the glass in the corridor. Yikes!

I see much garbage lining the tracks in every settlement, mostly plastic bags and bottles. Otherwise an amazing landscape, hills with folks herding sheep and goats, lots of rocks, triangular piles of hay covered in tarps or cob, donkeys loaded down with piles of hay or pulling carts loaded with people, kids playing kickball.
We follow a river up, the water a turgid brown. It winds around back and forth under the tracks, deeply etched into the grey and red soil. The vegetation marks it's passage; shrubby trees and grass, some olive orchards and occasionally citrus irrigated by the seasonal flood.
A fellow gets on and wants to know all about us, wants to help, calls ahead and arranges a place to stay, in a Riad including pick -up by the owners daughter!
He also shares with us the story of Eid Al-Kabir "The Festival of Sacrifice" One of the most holy days in the Muslim calendar. Actually three days, where family returns home, a sheep (mostly) goat or cow is slaughtered respectfully in accordance with Abraham's obedience to God.

In the morning our "friend" from the train sends around a fellow who brings us to the tannery where we are plied with mint tea and shown around.
Up on the roof we can see the piles of skins, bigger piles of drying wooland vats for soaking, dying and I'm not sure what else.


Working our way down we enter the showroom through a rainbow of bags, shoes and jackets.



How hard is it to resist this sales pitch? on our first day?
I do manage to stop myself from buying more than one pair of shoes.
Our guide then offers us a tour of the Medina. Moving quickly, luckily for me, past stalls loaded with jewelry, ceramics, spices, lamps, carpets, djbellahs, shirts and shoes, big baskets of live snails, chickens, goat heads


and everywhere they call out "Ali Baba, come see , the very best, cheap prices etc" A few stops to see carpets on the loom,



pottery painted, embroidery and a Riad being renovated.
After a few days of wandering we did manage to achieve some sense of where we were. Although frequently some young fellow tried to take us on a tour, his hand out at the end for payment.
I felt a compulsive energy around those Medina shops, the desire to purchase certainly encouraged by a mix of the exotic, colours, scent, and the insistent banter of the merchants. Unfamiliar to the process I found myself feeling both embarrassed at my "wealth" and offended by their assumption of it. Realistically we had enough "stuff"to carry around already and yet ... those beautiful plates, that exquisite jewelry, those mind blowing patterns painted on wooden panels or woven into the carpets...


I restricted myself to photographing as much as I dared, later regretting not being more insistent or pushy myself to record the beauty. Although, always in the back of my mind, I had a sense of taking away something that belonged there.
The preparation for the holiday celebrations impacted us dramatically when we went to the bus to arrange a tour south to the gorges and the desert. Suddenly it was not happening, all the buses were full.
A passerby overheard our conversation and dangled a carrot... A grand taxi (Mercedes) south with 4 others leaving that very night...Do I want to imagine, much less experience, myself jammed into a car for an 8 hour drive with 4 others PLUS the driver? And of course , all our "stuff"?
We had another pleasant evening with our host at the Riad

watching Turkish soap opera dubbed in Arabic drinking mint tea and in the morning took the train to Marrakech.

To Algecera

According to our map there were no roads or bridges west of the Guadalquivir river. We didn't trust the map and not wanting to drive through another urban area (Seville) we went looking, hoping there would be a bridge.
The town of Coria del Rio is quite a pleasant place, further south La Peubla del Rio has some interesting streets. But no bridge. Accepting the inevitable we took the highway to Seville, and did manage to avoid most of it continuing on to Utrera. Spent a good hour wandering around looking for a hotel. No one seemed to know if or where!
The church has an interesting tile roof though. Apparently not a lot of tourists stop here..
When we did find the hotel,it was wonderful, a private patio, no street noise and a fairly decent breakfast included.
Elke pilots us onto another green road into mountains past a castle...Another opportunity I wished I'd pursued. Oh Well! Next time?
Many great vistas then Ronda. No idea, no info, no directions, we enter the town. Following my intuition, randomly driving down typical narrow one way streets, I turn left down a promising looking passageway that leads us right into an amazing Moorish castle. Yes that is the road through the arch.
On the left side at the top opposite the castle, a park with gardens and pathways along the edge, on the right, farmland and orchards.


















Inside a "mine" that descends down many sets of stairs to an opening on the river in a fairly deep canyon. Wild!


Driving out was easier than I imagined. Now some serious mountains; switchbacks, great vistas, exposed rock and villages perched on the cliff edges.

If I ever return I'll definitely drive the other way to Ronda, from the south, and take waay more pictures. It was magnificent!


Closer to the coast we spied stork nests on the electrical towers.

In one nest a strange "dance", two storks, one astride the other.






To the left Gibraltar, to the right Algecera. A side trip to Gibraltar seemed too good to pass up, little did we realize what that might entail.
An easy pass through the border (We're in England now, right?) and into traffic, around and up, we pull into the parking for the Botanical Garden and Gondola to go onto the "rock". (unfortunately not running due to high winds)
Instead we walk about in the garden and take pictures. Beside the ticket booth fellows are flogging their taxi ride in place of the gondola. If they can drive up, so can I! A couple of wrong turns and we're onto the road around. It begins to rain in earnest as we approach the light house beyond the mosque.

The drive around goes through the rock and then past some fancy accommodation.
At the tunnel entrance, a sign indicating "vehicles only, danger" etc. Halfway through we met two joggers.
After a few minutes of driving in the dark emerging back into... traffic.
I try again, Elke has had enough but I persist and we do manage to make it up the correct road, although I chose not to pay the 10 euros to go all the way to "Upper Rock" missing the Barbary apes etc.
Thankfully a different road down but again all the way around through the tunnel and back into more traffic!

Slowly inching forward every 10 minutes as 4 lanes merge into one and then we're waved by the customs agent, to finally re-enter Spain.

The fun was not over by any means though.
It was time to return the rental car. We drove around in Algecera for a long time before we found the drop-off spot. Back and forth along the waterfront then up and down one way streets in the old town feeling quite lost.


I must have driven one road 3 times before Elke got out and spoke to a cab driver. He gave much better directions. I only made one more wrong turn and then we were free of the car.

Of course that meant we were now carrying our luggage on our backs and in our arms searching for a hostel. However, in Algecera, not a problem! They are everywhere. One night in one, another night in another.



Hard to sleep though when just below the window is the storage for all the market stalls. Deliveries, set up, take down and cleaning up the mess after, basically your 24 hour busyness.
It was great to walk up and down the streets I had driven, only now I knew where I was.
We checked out the market, someone tried to sell me hash, we tried more tapas, beer and wine. With the strong Arabic influence here, some of the grocery stores didn't sell beer and wine.
I couldn't believe how many shoe stores there were! And so many women in high heeled boots! They were quite something to watch strolling through the pedestrian zone while I munched roasted chestnuts over a thick hot chocolate, Elke with her cafe con leche... or was that beer we were drinking..?

Going to Morocco few people buy their tickets at the ferry. There are storefronts all along the boulevard selling them. A few options, we chose the bus ride to Tarifa, then a fast ferry to Tangier.
Up early the next morning, we dragged ourselves to the stop and were on our way.

Into Portugal, back to Spain

Onto the freeway. Turns out to be a toll road! We stop to buy a map, get off at the first opportunity to drive the secondaries and see the countryside.
I love driving winding roads. Elke pilots us up, down and around through more Eucalyptus forest at what seems to be an incredible pace (it is) after 3 weeks of walking. I spy mushrooms growing on the road edge!
There are a lot of Horreos in this part of Spain and so many differences in style and construction. I muse on making a collection (photographically of course!).... and let it go. I'll just enjoy them as I see them.


The villages in the valleys away from the main roads show evidence of old farming ways.
There is still time to access that information should any one want it and I wonder about setting up some kind of tour... or school...



Driving into A Caniza, we are challenged by the minimalist map. I spy some baskets so we stop and walk about and find the turn off sign for the next piece. We've made a commitment to drive the "green" roads, the scenic routes. I take pictures of bells and the baskets just before everything closes for the midday break.






Onward along narrow roads over mountains into valleys and (I imagine) forgotten little communities where grapes, olives, oranges, apples and the ubiquitous cabbage "trees" grow in every garden.

In the north a river separates Portugal from Spain. Citania de Santa Tegra sits at its mouth, a prehistoric village on a mountain. A series of switchbacks up and a wander around on top, the view somewhat limited by the weather.
With crosses, (a church), prehistoric ruins, microwave and hydro towers I find it a strange juxtaposition of ancient and modern, sacred and profane.




Imagine, 3000 people living that close together, why up here?







Into Portugal, no border crossing, many sculptures and a crazy driving scene in the first town. More winding roads, rural scenes, forest and farm. The roads seem a little wider, similar vegetation (the ever present Eucalyptus for instance) and we make good time stopping in Braga as dusk descends. First we find a hotel next to three churches (bells galore). Then check out the nearby restaurants for the Portuguese cuisine and watch folks promenading around the fountains and sculptures.
In the morning the bells are ringing (it's Sunday!) In spite of the rain we explore around the town. I love the variety and colours of tile work on all the apartments and details in plaster.
Porto is an even bigger city. Free parking on Sundays! Mosaics on churches, tile fronted apartments, funky staircases out back and occasionally a unique manhole cover (for my collection). We take the streetcar to explore. More mosaic in the train station and lotsa statues everywhere.



Without any prep we seem to pick some great locations. Aveiro has canals, boats and tiny tiled houses. Each boat has a story painted on it to do with man's pursuit of women, definitely a male's perspective.
We spent the night in an old hotel, where the concierge came out into the street and lowered the price after we checked out a few other places.



In the morning we get lost looking for the way south due to detours. It was entertaining to ask a policeman directions and have him send us down a one way road the wrong way.
Getting to the beach finally, it is awesome! Very windy and standing in the surf I am nearly sucked out to sea with the undertow.

Driving on at various times I spot, beside the highway, standing alone (or sitting) young women dressed kinda provocatively.... in the middle of nowhere so to speak... hmm?

I take a wrong turn and in order to return to the road we follow along behind a truck full of men (In the back) they're looking at us strangely as the truck turns off to enter ... a prison.
I get tired fast of driving around in circles in towns with narrow one way roads going up or down between old buildings looking for accommodation. Walking around is somewhat better, no one behind leaning on the horn and the choice of left, right, back or forward. With not many hotels to choose from we splurge on a 3 star establishment.
Wandering we find an inviting looking restaurant (not open) and the market which we visit in the morning. It was decorated with beautiful tile work, more examples of the North Line Tiles. Very few restaurants are open, we have Chinese food and drink too much wine.

The highway into Lisbon is confusing, many exits, all in Portuguese of course. Somehow we managed to pass through and around and around after only one false start.
A pleasant drive to Setubal where we had lunch on the waterfront near a large display of painted dolphins(ala whales and bears in Victoria) then onto a ferry across the river mouth.


The peninsula there has a large tourist resort which we avoided, instead stopping to photograph another stork nest.
Further south I shout out, "a coke ork!" on spotting my first Cork Oak. I'd been anticipating this for years! Since a school project on Portugal to be exact. Elke laughs hysterically.

Randomly Elke picks Albufeira for our last night in Portugal. The road in, down to the "beach" is narrow, steep and one way. When the hostel we are looking for turns out to be closed for the season, a nearby woman sends us to a restaurant where the owner rents out rooms, reasonably too.
This is totally a tourist town, pricey hotels, gift shops galore and most everyone speaks English.
Wandering we're accosted by men attempting to entice us in to each eating establishment. Elke is charmed by one fellow and we have dinner and drinks while watching the parade. A vigorous night scene, hearing live music, we work our way around the musicians set up between three or four bars and have another drink, while a constant stream of family vacationers negotiate the narrow passageway.


It was windy and raining in the morning, the beach deserted except for a hardy runner. A quick tour of the vistas and storefronts, some photographs and we exit the town following the coast
searching out one last glimpse of the sea before driving around in circles attempting to avoid Seville.

Santiago

I have fond memories of Santiago, where we stayed with a friend and had an opportunity to relax, stop moving and sight-see.
Still with backpacks I rebel and refuse to go to mass. Elke calls our contact who sends his housemate Jesus (pronounced Suso) to get us. We're sitting at a cafe. The German fellow I connected with stops to talk, he's flying out in the morning. I'm feeling a sense of loss when I walk away. No contact info, I feel dumb for not initiating it and wonder if this is how it is… We walk together, make "friends" then walk away back into our own lives.
Jesus takes us past the university then up the hillside to our temporary residence. Struggling with our limited Spanish we attempt to make conversation.
My 40 year old Spanish is still not coming back.
I'm happy when Jesus brings out a book on the local cogumelos (Gallician/Potuguese for mushrooms) and we have some laughs as I read out the descriptions of familiar fungi.
Cesar arrives and we go out on the town. That local music fest means some of his favourite haunts are unavailable due to the crowds. Wall to wall, a taxi inches through, the crowd parting then re-forming.
We sample tapas of many kinds,I pass on the fried pigs ears. Later hang out at a bar with a terrace/patio on a sloping street. I'm afraid to lean back or I'll tumble out of my chair down to the building below. The walls around create some interesting acoustic affects, what with roving bands and many conversations all around. It sounds like birds singing. I feel completely alone and removed from the scene. When I share, Elke is having a similar experience.

Cesar takes us on a tour of the old town, showing us the best examples of various forms of architecture including chimneys


More tapas, special hang-out spots and the town market;.
fish, meat, vegetables, fruit, home-brewed liquors, honey, potted plants, kitchenware and clothing.




Another day we drive into the country where his friends have bought land. They take us on a walk-about, among the eucalyptus, pines and oaks, sharing their visions for the future.
Later we walk down to an old mill site on the river. Jesus opens up a chestnut to eat raw, on the way back we fill our pockets.

We do laundry, collect our stuff at the post office, run into more peregrinos, get our certificate and go to mass in the Cathedral.













Outside and above Santiago, an architectural monument of epic proportions in stone and glass is under construction. Visible from almost everywhere it demands a visit.I am awed by the scale of it, although it seems less than people friendly, we explore what is finished and go away feeling somewhat stunned.





The final piece of pilgrimage includes a trip out to Fisterra. On the way a visit to Cesar's work place, a stone cutting establishment. Inside the owner has a spiral staircase with a sawblade for a door.It rains.

Sunshine at the coast, the tradition is to burn some item of clothing out on the rocks below the lighthouse. Instead we sit and contemplate the vast scene, trying not to inhale the smoke as folks are burning their socks, backpack or what have you, mostly synthetic. Yuck!
There are little blackened spots all over the bare rocks, evidence of fire burning the almost (now) non existent vegetation and "shrines" where folks have left behind their stuff.



Driving south along the shore to a favourite beach, another tradition is to strip down and jump in. I stand at the edge to check out the temperature, brrr! Hardly a soul here today, Cesar tells us in the summer it's packed with people.


A bit of car trouble, we head back and in the morning the car won't start. I go off with Cesar once it's running to look for parts. Eventually he determines he will need to drive to his home town 6 hours away. He leaves later that afternoon.
Time for us to move on as well, I go to the market buy fruit, cheese and bread for our trip south. In the morning we rent a car and I get to drive!

Tria Castelo to Santiago

Another walk along a busy road in the dark of morning then down a narrow lane and we are in an amazing, rich and completely rural reality. We see our first or at least notice the horreos/corn cribs and corn drying in a barn.
Passing through forest and pasture. A pleasant time with hardly a soul seen. Up and down, through town and countryside to Samos and the big Monastery there. The age of some of these settlements is awe inspiring.
Onward ever forward. Along a stream in a park Elke spots a solitary Shaggy Mane mushroom, close by some unidentified white caps pushing up through the lawn and duff. After a short conversation I get funked up and stride off alone with my machinations. When I slow down and Elke catches up we sit on the grass, have bread and cheese and share our thoughts.
Up endless stairs to an albergue in Sarria. Turns out to be crowded and disgustingly dirty. We forfeit our money and move onto another which inadvertently gives us a "private" room! Excellent food and we meet more interesting peregrinos.
Walk along the tracks in the morning before the train goes by, stop with others to take a picture of a Chestnut tree.
Elke gives me a roadside back adjustment, we switch packs again. See horseback riders, folks without packs. Lots of horreos and an amazing dust devil winding across a ploughed field. By the time I thought of taking a picture…
A long narrow bridge, walking up stairs into Porto Marin. The town was moved up hill when they dammed the river, which when we walked by was almost non-existent. In the church the numbers on the stones still visible for reassembly.
Quince jelly with cheese,and calamari, the place is famous for it's Pulpe or Octopus restaurants. We are, how far from the ocean?
Full moon in the morning, forest fire smoking off to the right, grapes wild at the side of the road and then Palas de Rei where we splurged on a hotel. Dinner with a gang of familiar folks. In the morning send our packs ahead.
Over a Roman bridge and into Melide. We stop for refreshment. My city sense gone I'm overwhelmed and glad to find the Camino takes us up narrow lanes with no traffic. Away from the town down alleyways of big Eucalyptus, we get into a rhythm holding hands over a walking stick pulling us up the hills. Stopping to cool off I stuck my head under the water spewing from a fountain.
Castaneda, cannot find it in google maps! Most would hardly glance, a small albergue with a bar off to one side, 4 beds in one room 2 in the other. Our bags are here. A walk through town, not the Camino route, nets a beautiful shot of sunset over the cemetery, I pick apples, figs and kiwis. After dinner (with a glass of a digestive, local herbal liqueur as a bonus) we meet a Swiss fellow who walked 45km that day, making up for time lost due to a major blister…
Pedrouzo. We reconnect with many of our Camino family.Stay at a big albergue, like the pool below the falls where the salmon congregate before making the big jump. In the morning we follow Alberto with his flashlight through more Eucalyptus forest till dawn arrives. Stop beside a busy road and make a short video of the walls and ceiling of a small bar covered with comments and names.
A large statue/monument marks … something and there away in the distance is Santiago. Past the airport, planes roaring up and away as we walk under pergolas, grape arbors at the side of the road, under freeways around factories, gunshots in succession nearby.
Into the city over a freeway across busy streets. There are cyclists filming each other riding hands free past the Santiago sign. We stop to eat and watch as peregrinos stream past. I cheer them on.
Revitalized we walk on to the cafe where our bags are waiting. A music festival where bands roam from cafe to cafe is in full swing. Traditional Gallician, loud and boisterous, people are dancing in the streets. We work our way down then up and over the hump, towards the Cathedral.
The square is busy with arriving peregrinos talking pictures of themselves, congratulating each other and flaked out against the building walls.
We made it!

Astorga to Tri Castela

Walking, walking, walking. From Astorga down along sidewalks back into the countryside. We made good time after our rest, past many more stone walls and buildings. A break for beer and a tortilla at the "Cowboy bar" in El Ganso (recommended by a fellow from New Orleans).
It was hot and as the camino left the meseta we chose to stop early at the Benedictine Monastery at Rabanal del Camino, another recommendation.The albergue there is run/hosted by English volunteers who do a "fortnight" shift each after training back in England. Tea was served at 4.
We elected instead to sit in the bar up the road and do our writing, then returned to have a quiet intimate dinner in the garden. Later a tour around the village, climbing up to walk along the highest roads for the view. Lots of ripe fruit, nuts and derelict stone and brick buildings. Also some well kept attractive houses. At sunset we met a couple of fellows from Seattle on a tour, their bags transported daily. The following day they were expected to do 35km.
We are into the mountains. Cold in the mornings, the air filled with wonderful smells, heather blooming and a propolis/Cottonwood scent. A rest break and fresh squeezed orange juice at an alpine like village. We work our way up, following a winding road up to a large cross. It was suggested to bring a stone from home to leave on the pile.
We waited till all the buses had left then clambered up for the "pose".
The Camino here is 'under construction' workmen hauling gravel to make a path beside the road. We weren't allowed to walk on it yet so continued on beside the road. Switchbacks and a steep rocky slope down through another village into a beautiful little valley filled with ancient Chestnuts and Oaks. Wonderful to just walk with Elke, talk about whatever and admire the scenery.
Into another town, narrow Roman roads and arched bridges, figs and almonds, sheep with bells. Another albergue, another peregrino menu. Waking up to rustling and Velcro, zippers and whispers. Emerging at dawn to walk on… this time to the bus through to Cacabelos past orchards of apple and quince, through really old vineyards, up, down and around beside the road, along the back roads/farm access. Peregrinos passing and passed.
Into a not so compelling place. We continue following a roman wall, farms below, fig tree canopies at the road edge delivering sweet morsels. Then along and under a major highway, trudging. The Camino detours off the road into tiny villages past piles of sawn chestnut lumber eventually dropping us into a small albergue where we reconnect with Yvonne from Ireland.
In the morning along the highway then up a narrow winding road through more chestnut, walnuts and oaks. It turns to track getting rough, steep and rocky as we begin the climb to O Ceibreiro. Visually breath-taking views rounding each corner. Beside me the pasture stretches uphill my eyes at ground level. Hot and sweaty, off come the shoes when we stop for cerveca con limon. A kilometre to the end of Castille and the beginning of Galicia.
We spend that night in a room and bed for dwarves after watching a falcon fly through the church before a wedding… much folk music performed outside the church in traditional costume.
Down the other side through alpine pine forest along old roads, little villages, interesting stone churches, hazelnuts and holly along a walled road, Elke changes her shoes after doctoring her feet. The pasture dropping away below has me wondering how the cows can stay upright. We pick a few blackberries, taste different from home, small and not so sweet. Up another rocky trail, along another highway and down again passing returning peregrino's who don't look so happy…
Another descent past wild almond trees, then big farms, renovations on the stone buildings, along a road lined with old trees, their roots grasping the rocks. An old man stops me to say (I think) "walk slowly, Santiago isn't going anywhere…"
In Tria Castela I recommend the little restaurant bar, Estelle's, (was she the one woman show running the place?) just below and behind the second Albergue on the main road.

Sahagun, Leon and Astorga

The Albergue in Sahagun is a Church somewhat restored with some impressive stairs and vaulted(!) ceiling. We managed to find some Camino family to have dinner with, more German lessons for me. Meanwhile a wedding was happening in the town , in fact at the hotel across from the Albergue… not much sleep this night.
Morning comes and we hang out at the patisserie, then wander the streets looking at the churches, stonework and old buildings walking up and down the narrow streets. Somehow we missed the Roman bridge, next time I'll buy a guide book!
We are taking the train to Leon. Apparently a long walk through an urban environment, not so attractive.The train ride is cheap and a treat to move so fast so far in so little time.
Leon is huge, a real city after so many villages. We jump into a hotel, a heritage building with minuscule balconies (just like all the apartments we've been walking under) shower (a real towel!) and go explore. Once a year first week of October the medieval fair takes place. Good timing. A visual and gustatory feast, sheep cheese, sausage/chorizo, baked potatoes, sweets…
These are rest days. We meet the German fellows who are heading home to return next year, sit drinking Cerveza con Limon watching the people. We explore taking many pictures, trying the local cuisine, finishing one evening with hot sweet mint tea and baklava at the arabic section of the fair. Earlier we get pressed as the crowd swells past shops with hand made marionettes, ancient texts in a bookstore window, hawks, owls and peregrine falcons next to old puzzles and games, soap makers and perfume distillers.
Gaudi designed a residence here, now a bank, we go looking and find it around the corner from our hotel! duh...
We take the bus out of Leon to Astorga, another Gaudi residence now a museum, fascinating stuff, side by side with the cathedrals, monasteries and convents. Amazing buildings everywhere, an excavation of a Roman home with some mosaic floor still intact, chocolate makers and second hand stores. We follow the stone wall around the old city and discover an amazing clock(to me anyways!)
Our Albergue has the squeakiest stairway ever imaginable.The bano//toilets downstairs get lots of visitors all night long. Everyone gets up early and heads out into the cold dark morning air. We follow the yellow arrows on a sidewalk through residential and commercial until we're walking beside the highway. Meet up and visit with a couple from Powell River. The ambulance drives by a few times.This section has little water, shade or bars! It feels good to have the backpack again and be moving forward.

Camino installment 1

My feet hurt, my legs hurt, I am so hot dusty and tired… This Cervaca con Limon goes down good. It seems like time to catch y'all up on our/my adventures so far.
The idea I could write a daily travelogue went out the window long ago, relatively speaking. Ever experienced the time shift where the days go by rapidly and it seems like there is no time to get anything done? Well that's not happening here, let me tell you. Moments last and last, long days trudging for 20+ km through endless fields of harvested hay, up gentle rolling slopes with barely a tree in sight, pilgrims/perigrinos stretched ahead of us along the road/camino far off into the distance.
Yes! those black dots cresting the rise way ahead, those are perrigrinos… And yes we will be walking up that very steep hill.
I really thought I knew how to live in the moment… (2am writing sessions aside). Walking daily one step at a time, observing ahead, side to side,"beauty in front, beside, above, below, behind…" looking down is this reality. Stopping, smelling the dusty earth, hearing birdsong, multiple language conversations, sharing an orange, a quiet moment in the shade of trees beside a fountain that too, is this reality.
I am here. Right now in this place, it is/was hot, sweat running into my eyes stinging, I ache and I continue to put one foot in front of another, each dusty step after another bringing us closer to our next Albergue, our resting place for the night.
Oh and did I mention the beer? or the wine? An expensive bottle of red wine here in this town is 3 Euro's. Do the math folks $10=7Euro. We also saw 15 and 20 Euro bottles in the grocery along with "buy this 1.50 Euro bottle and get the second one for .20
So to bring everyone up to speed on our snails pace adventure, Burgos is on the mesata ; flat, dry and agribusiness agricultural. Big tractors, big bales of straw. Small abandoned villages surrounded by tilled land, cut off corn stalks or short sunflowers standing drying under the hot sun.
After the train, a taxi ride to the Cathedral. We wander, park our stuff, avail ourselves of lunch and dinner then promenade with the locals who all seem to come out after 8 to walk about, in and out of the plazas and squares. Spent the night in a giant Albergue, we were on the 5th floor…We expected to see a few walkers. There are many walkers, many pilgrims, many cyclists. Hundreds. What's it like in July or August? This year, many more I heard, and it was raining, there were a lot of peregrinos sleeping on the floor in the churches.
In the morning, early wake up and a mad rush out to find something open selling coffee. Then a visit to the Post Office/Correeos to send off our "extra" clothing to lighten the load.
Start walking, meet a couple of German fellows. Sue from Ontario quickly gave us an info session through the outskirts, over and under the highways and rail lines. Stop at a bar for breakfast, meet more peregrinos from Sue's Camino family. We walked 20 k that day and the next. We were introduced to Compede a second skin for the feet and toe socks to cover the blisters. Days later Elke gets a special treatment from Francesca.
I have seen more churches than I ever thought possible, old stone, mud bricks, derelict ruins, an abandoned pigeon roost, endless fields of stones and stubble, rolling hills and not a lot of shade.
In the clear air one day I saw distant mountains to the north. We descended into valleys where towns would appear. Further ahead on a hill, ruins of a castle with the town below. Roman roads and stone bridges, links to an older time and an unending stream of peregrinos from everywhere. This is a flowing, shifting bubble of walkers; together and apart united in our intention to walk. Peregrinos, individually motivated and without judgement mostly moving westerly towards Santiago and Finnisterre. Inspiring, encouraging and enlightening.
Each town or village a new flavour, regional soups, local variations of the pergrino menu. Bread from panederias, cheeses and hams, losing weight not happening. Getting fit though.
We create our own schedule, taking pictures, checking out each town, bell tower or fountain, splashing our heads, resting in the shade then eating together with a new group each night, often Germans. Strolling along beside rivers and canals as the sun rises behind us, trudging along the pavement following the yellow arrows, the tile shells and inviting signs. Cool dark mornings become hot dry, dusty afternoons. Stork nests, ruins, renovations, restorations and hillier country. Wine cellars, "Bodegas" burrowed into the hillside, cave houses and strange metal rebar sculptures,
After 5 days we give ourselves a break and send our bags ahead from Calzadilla de la Cueza to Sahagun. We walk through the western edge of Palencia, through Terradillos de los Templarios, Moratinos and San Nicolas del Real Camino then along the highway, a side trip to a Monastery under restoration and finally in through light industry and suburbs past the train station(!) to our Albergue where our bags are waiting.
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Blankenhain, Dresden, Leipzig

A few days rest makes a huge difference. We go exploring the "neighbourhood": walk into the nearest village (4 houses, all farm related and a church) then back along a designated trail system.
The following day we walk about 6 k further on the trail through beech, oak and ash forest. Then along a watercourse which at one time likely powered many different mills. The house we're staying in was once one of those mills, restored and renovated into an attractive, comfortable home for Eckhard and Hedda. He does this for a living all over Germany and maybe beyond:-). On the corner of the property his next project, three buildings sadly neglected (is there any other kind of neglect?). We have a tour with the former owner, a woodworker with a sense of humour or irony perhaps? Hard to tell from limited translations.
One room has been used by a local garage band, a large cardboard box is full to overflowing with bottle tops from beer consumed…
Eckhard and I go shopping, the beer stores here make the ones at home look pathetic! Choice and price. I restrain myself from purchasing the most amazing bottles, thinking "I'm returning before I head home"… or am I?
It's Fall Equinox, folks come over, we have a fire, eat, drink and celebrate late into the night.
Off to Dresden in the morning with Hedda, she has a meeting and drops us in front of the Railway office. Tickets to Spain arranged, we wander around, find and buy a phone, check out a massive outfitting store, manhole covers and look for a German phrase book. Then the market, some authentic cuisine and Lebkuchen! Yum, two versions of the real thing.
We walk all over, into massive churches/cathedrals, and malls, museums, promenades, artistic alley ways with major installations on the walls. Over bridges, sitting at cafes, in crowds of tourists. So many old buildings, restoration and reference to the bombing in 1945.
Later we meet Hedda and enjoy dinner next to the big cathedral in a large square, with many people milling about. I fall asleep on the drive home.
Off to Leipzig the next day. Elke and Hedda are listening to a German audio book about a psychiatrist and his patients, I study my phrase book. Another drop off at the old town inside the ring road. Churches, coffee shops from the 1600's, mosaics, and the train station.
Elaborate fountains and then lunch down in a restored/renovated area by the students of the university.
Later Hedda joins us, we have a drink an revisit the market where she insists on buying most of our lunch for the train the next day.
Our last night in Crimmitschau and a nice farewell dinner together, lots of cheeses, a variety of meats and bread, the Mead I bought for Eckhard, wine and beer.
I'm up late doing email, blogging and uploading photos. Then a packing frenzy.
Our train leaves at 11, a group photo and we're off…. whoops left our lunch in the fridge…

Jetlag

It's brutal.
At least for me, wide awake at 2 am local time. 5pm back home. Hi everyone! Waves....
Seems to be a major adjustment, in spite of the pills I was popping on the plane. And that was, how many days ago?
Leaving the Island was challenging; goodbye/farewell to friends, family, a van still to sell, stuff to store, loose ends and melancholy from the letting go. Time began to accelerate until we were standing beside a pile of luggage at Bjorn and Gabrielle's... then again at the airport in Vancouver.
Bill Reid's Jade Canoe is a powerful statement of the journey, bringing along all those characters...Recognize anyone? They're all here in me today, right now.

Time blurs, cramped into an airline seat via Air Berlin, I read, doze, stand, watch inane movies with no sound. We taxi in and step out of the plane into Dusseldorf. No one asks me if I have a return ticket. Collect that pile of baggage again and schlepp it onto the skytrain, the real train and into a locker so we can explore Dusseldorf.
Early morning, not much action. Elke and I walk along cobblestone streets, crossing the canal looking at the buildings.
We make a big loop get some food and haul the suitcases and pack sacks back onto the platform. Watch people, lots of smokers, sharply dressed women, an occasional shabbily dressed man, folks with dogs, bicycles. A multicultural assortment. The trains and passengers come and go. Ours is late, Elke's worried her record of making every connection will be broken. Even the ticket taker is concerned as they figure out another connection. The view is spectacular, we race along beside the Rhein river, castle ruins on the promontories, barges in the river, ancient (well really old) towns, villages and wall to wall 6 story apartment blocks in the cities. Gardens along the railroad verge, a massive array of solar collectors, wind farms, endless fields of corn, the ubiquitous church spires marking crossroads every one, individual.
The train makes up the time, we step off one and onto another across the platform. Seamless if one ignores the bruised toes and wrenched shoulders from hauling close to 200lbs of (do we really need all this sh..stuff?) luggage. Elke crashes onto her suitcase propped in front of her as business men work their strategies, write their letters or whatever on mini laptops. I watch the (miles) kilometres go by, fishermen at rivers edge, sheep, cattle, corn, plowed fields, forest, brick houses and factories lining the rails edge.

Our destination today is Eisenach.
We take a taxi through this old, old town up and up through the beech, oak, hazel and ash forest to Wartburg castle and hotel overlooking an almost endless vista of forest, the town in the valley below, wind farm in the distance.
We are here for a family celebration, the 50th birthdays of Martin and Gudrun (belated) Elke's sister. Sabine her youngest sister is here with her son, Martin's brothers and their children.
The view from our room is amazing, Dinner.... also amazing. I do my best to tune my ear to the German language, I'm rescued by Raphaela sitting next to me who speaks English quite well. We talk about travel and opportunities. Much effort is made by the party to include me, occasional translations of jokes and quick synopsis of speeches. White wine, red wine... it all helps make me feel welcome.
We're the first to leave as the time zone catches up to us.

The Container

What a great idea , save the rent and then I'll have a resaleable metal box that has multiple applications. However. Transient vagabond nomads might deposit their ancestors in some unnamed locale but I need to know where to put my stuff. I want it sitting on land I trust will still be owned by a friend when I return. I'm likely incurring a debt: social investment favour wise.
I make some calls and head over to Vancouver where I enlist the help of Tero who drives me out to Surrey to look at various choices. None of which I wanted to bring home although they would have easily done the job.
The ones on the Island just became more reasonable.














More searching. I take the Mill Bay ferry to Brentwood and the Saanich peninsula. Instead of calling first I use google and find myself at another obscure address, outside Vanisle containers dispatch. Carla the dispatcher talks me through the intersections till I find the well hidden location where Tom greets me, shows me in and out, up and around. After inspection, walking on the roof, reviewing the choices, I buy one. I also get a rack for the wall, a fancy new lock and the delivery arranged, coordinating with the land owner. That was easy!
Now where exactly did you say it could go Gabriele?
With a neighbour's backhoe an old house site hidden in the trees is scraped clean of blackberries, light bulbs and various other things. A few branches trimmed, some pier blocks, six 18 ft 2x10's and we are ready.
On delivery day the driver cannot get up Bjorns driveway. He knocks on the door at 6am, not happy. He has a series of jobs following this one.
Elke greets me as I emerge from shower. On the phone Gabriele suggests I might need to be there.
By the time I arrive the container is sitting in plain view out in the field.

I call a few crane truck companies. It is likely we may need a new site. The backhoe is arranged again and a nice garden spot is carved out of the blackberries. It has issues though, can still be seen probably seasonally from the house and it seems to resemble a stream bed or potential pond site. Not looking too level.
I arrive early on the appointed day, place the pier blocks. I ask if it's possible to place it in the first spot. The operator says "yes" if we cut some branches. Get the chainsaw! and a ladder. And more branches are dragged aside.
The metal box slides around the corner sinking slowly, shifting onto the blocks and shims are placed appropriately. The trucker backs out and away. We hang up the shelves, slide in the 2x10s and we're ready to load. I lie down on the shelf, enough room to stretch out and sleep if need be. Let's see, tomatoes would grow well along the south wall here, Maybe a peach tree?
A couple days later it seems to have settled. The pier blocks, somewhat askew. Alan helps me unload more stuff from our storage and fire it into my big box.
We return with a jack and as it lifts, it slides so I stop it right there. Yikes.
It must be twisted, I secure a rope from the topside to a plum tree.
After some big concern, my expert team assures me... no danger, no problem and no worries. Do nothing. Except of course continue filling it.
Another load, then I unload all the camping gear after our trip to Pachena, neatly sandwiched in between.
I deliver most of my wall art to Moni, she 's happy! All the family pictures hidden away, although we have some great laughs reviewing stacks of photos of siblings at various stages of development.
A last load from the storage facility. Elke helps and while I sweep out the cat litter and eucalyptus leaves, she picks blackberries. As we exit the fellow at the gate remarks he will "miss my smile." Why is it I never got his name?

So the saga never ends, as the container sits hidden in the trees frequently visited. We tie up the loose ends; the nightmarish events that create themselves, as entropy and chaos intersecting with intention.

Education

For the past 20 years I've defined myself as an educator, working with challenged/special needs children as well as providing support for the teachers with discipline and behaviour . I loved my job (if you can call it a job!) the pleasure of connecting, establishing relationship and communication. Supporting and enhancing a child's growth through learning is/was more of a calling than work. However at the end of the school year I submitted a letter of retirement for September. And I have some opinions!
I see the teaching of children as rich and deeply rewarding when I engage fully . Unfortunately the politics and agendas of some mostly well meaning people along with an antiquated premise continue to sabotage many children's creativity and personal expression. We need to spend more time engaging with our future citizens in their interests and providing imaginative responses to their encouraged questions. What is our intention for these potential leaders, teachers and entrepreneurs?
I hope they will also be growers of food, ideas and new life enhancing technologies. That they will want to learn from the past, lessons our generation has rejected as irrelevant: connection to the natural world, growing our own food, making our own clothes and adding sums in their heads.
I am worried about a generation of children so reliant on electronic technology they are challenged to entertain themselves without it. I worked with children unwilling to write or print or do any mathematical operations without enhanced support. Call me what you will, there are still places, thank goodness, where the cell networks don't reach. Where wi-fi is just a misspelled combination of letters. Our environment is being degraded and we act as if it is not. A society in denial. Our most vulnerable members have no choice in whether or not they wish to partake .
I believe in the importance of a classic education. Knowing how to express oneself allows us all to communicate efficiently.
"It takes a village to raise a child" is not just a cute phrase. The value of community is lost when we herd our children into anonymous cohorts separating the challenged from the gifted instead of having them teach each other.
I am now perched on the edge of my own flight away from the nest. A voyage of discovery and exploration as I continue my commitment to life-long learning. I'm embarking into new environments and possibilities for learning and sharing, expanding the opportunity to be the best I can be. Sadly I do not have any magic solutions. There are many choices when it comes to education, I have chosen to embrace the multiversity of life as a classroom, the libraries of the world, the land itself. I will continue to create and question my reality.

Woven

Basketry
I'm self taught, although I've taken some workshops. Weaving is like that. A little bit can go a long way. I've collected examples for years fascinated by the combinations, the effort and simple (or complex) beauty of handmade.
Walking through the fields on the farm I got acquainted with Blackberry. Occasional times in the forest a group of branches along a path would encourage me to wind them together creating an arch or holding back the encroaching vines.
After one workshop I learned how and when to harvest tule. With a friend and a canoe I pulled the reed from Quamichan Lake. I planned to make and create hats. Unfortunately after drying it in the barn a few years passed and no weaving took place. The rats got into it and into the compost it went.
On the way to Pachena 2 years ago, the cedar tree I harvested for a tipi pole invited me to save the branches along with the bark and as I sat near the beach, I felt her grandmother presence behind me guiding my hands as I attempted to assemble a cradle.
That was inspiring, all the books I've read never gave me anything like that. I revisited some of those books and got more inspired as I began to get the context of their lessons. All around me I see potential materials for creating.
I took a Backstrap weaving course in Vancouver from a master weaver from Peru, the basics. Here she is with an example of her work.
My journey "of a lifetime" begins with 3 months in New Zealand.
Phormium or New Zealand Flax has a tough fiberous leaf and it is everwhere.
I get first hand experience weaving it at the Permaculture Design Course from Hiroko. There are books in the museums...workshops... I get how important culturally weaving is for maintaining connection to ancestors, the day to day, creative expression, determination, resilience and imagination.
Elke goes off to Africa to Tanzania.
I'm on my way to see her.
Driving out of Arusha passing displays of round woven mats and baskets hanging in trees, at the side of the road in what seems to be the middle of nowhere. Sometimes a woman or a group sitting close by, working on more. I want to stop and check them out thinking "how will I get that one home?" And Damn! Can't we stop so I can take pictures?
In Dar Es Salaam we visit a museum where many examples of traditional designs are displayed, in this case a cover for food to keep the flies off. Later passing a group of basket vendors we stop and admire the variety, sizes, shapes and colours.
At the Shamba a fellow shows up with a hat that folds into itself. He doesn't speak English, I don't speak Swahili. Somehow it gets communicated and I learn the basket maker is away at the moment...
On Zanzibar I find a book that explains the process, some cultural references and pages of patterns for plaiting date palm. We visit a Spice farm and one fellow spends the entire time plaiting up a; frog, bracelet, hat, headband, turtle, crown, necktie and wallet to carry it all in,all out of Date Palm
Is this obsessive compulsive?
Luckily I am able to convince Elke to ship home her gifts in a coiled basket, she already has some plaited shopping bags. I restrain myself to one, for Elke in the market in Stone Town.
Back home I take
more workshops, practice with Maria Curtis and more collecting materials, including books. I take Maria onto the lake for tule, the neighbour at the house sit, cuts some trees and I find some long pieces of holly, I form them into loops and wands.
Another cedar tree falls to the saw, again I collect the branches strip the bark and wind it up. I soak it and with guidance begin to create another basket.
A few mistakes some innovation and creative license. I learn and recall circles I've created playing with branches. I feel resilience, resistance, temper and limits. Yes, I broke a few branches.
I read about willow, the quintessential weaving plant, check out the addresses for weaving schools and museums in Europe ...