Aloof, humorless Brits; dingy gray cities and streets choked with tourists – that’s what I expected to find in the UK. But by the time I had toured Edinburgh, Scotland and visited lovely Newcastle, England, it was obvious how ridiculous those stereotypes were; not only had I found warm, welcoming people, the cities were filled with handsome stone architecture and the countryside was exquisitely green.

As with my previous two destinations, I had chosen York in order to visit a friend. For more than two years I had corresponded with the legendary Mike Sowden, otherwise known as “the guy with the big-ass trowel,” a York-based travel writer who blogs at Fevered Mutterings. There was no way I could leave England without meeting Mike in the flesh, especially since I was less than two hours away by train. The morning after my arrival we rendezvoused at York Minster, a great cathedral in the center of the old city that houses the world’s largest single expanse of medieval stained glass. Big-hearted Mike brought along two other visitors from Australia and the three of us spent the entire day and part of the night following Mike around as he peeled away layers of history and exposed York as only a trained archaeologist can. Mike worked for a few seasons on various digs, got his undergraduate degree in archaeology at the University of York in 2004, and promptly left archaeology behind, but not before becoming somewhat of an expert on York.

Filigreed towers of York Minster

The history of the city begins in 71 AD when Romans invaded and subdued what is today northern England. They built a fort between the rivers Ouse and Foss and within a few years ships were sailing up the Ouse with merchandise, attracting craftsmen and merchants who settled the town of Eboracum. By the 3rd century a protective stone wall had been built, wealthy people were constructing grand houses with mosaic floors, and public buildings such as a baths began to appear. One of these, a Romancaldarium (steam bath), was discovered during routine construction at the Roman Bath Pub in 1970. The resulting excavation uncovered a well-preserved semi-circular bath with steps at both ends and a nearby plunge pool. Actual footprints and an insignia of a Roman legion; believed to be that of the famous 9th legion that founded the town, are imprinted in the tiles surrounding the bath, which is preserved in a museum beneath the pub.

Ancient Roman baths were discovered in the cellar of the Roman Baths Pub

Roman civilization began to break down in the 4th century and York was all but abandoned. The town fell into ruins and was forgotten for more than three hundred years, until it was given a bishop who built a cathedral inside the old walls. It’s ideal location as a trading place attracted Saxons, who revived the town in the 8th century. By the mid-9th century the town, thought to be named Eofer’s wic (wic meant trading place), was once again flourishing.

The year 866 brought about another transition. Danish Vikings conquered northern England and made York the capital of their kingdom. The city (Jorvik to the Danes) grew rapidly and became a thriving industrial center for wool weaving, blacksmiths, potters, and the manufacture of items such as combs from bone and antler. By 1066 its population may have been as high as 10,000.

In 1068, two years after the Norman Conquest of England, the people of York rebelled. The revolt was put down by William the Conqueror, who immediately built two wooden fortresses on hillocks that are still visible on either side of the river Ouse. Present day Cliffords Tower was built in the mid-13th century to replace the keep of the main castle which burned in 1190. At the end of the day I gazed up at that stone monolith, outlined in sharp relief against the azure night sky by gleaming yellow spotlights, and wondered at the history encased within its ancient walls.

Spotlighted Clifford's Tower at night

As if we hadn’t abused him enough with our myriad questions, Mike invited the three of us to accompany him on a circumvention of the city’s medieval walls the following day. York has more miles of intact wall than any other city in England. Though many refer to them as the Roman walls, little of the original Roman stonework remains and the course has been considerably altered since Roman times. Most of the walls that still encircle the entire old city date from the 12th to the 14th century. We trod the ramparts for hours, descending to the road in spots where the old wall no longer exists or to have a better look at the four main bars (gatehouses) that punctuate the wall.

Coffee shop at Walmgate Bar, one of the old gatehouses that punctuate the city walls surrounding old York

Bootham Bar, Monk Bar, Walmgate Bar and Micklegate Bar were used in medieval times to restrict traffic and collect tolls, as well as providing stations for defense during times of war. We rested our weary feet on the second floor a coffee shop inside of the ancient Walmgate Bar, wondering at the crazy tilted staircase and not just a little worried that  the cantilevered structure attached to the city wall, supported only by two flimsy pillars, could pitch to the ground at any moment. The highlight of our trek was the final segment of the wall, which had no modern guardrails and afforded us spectacular views toward York Minster, an enormous filigreed wedding cake towering over the city.

Walking the city walls around medeival York, with York Minster in the background

Our final descent conveniently led to a pub where we had refreshments with locals winding down after their workday. We didn’t stay long; after the serenity of our wall walk, which was largely devoid of people, the crazed energy of the pub was too much to take. As Mike walked me back to my hostel he asked what other cities I had visited in the UK and I informed him that this had been my first visit to England and I’d only come to Newcastle and York. He literally stopped in his tracks and looked at me with astonishment.

“You mean you haven’t been to London?” he asked.

“Nope. And I won’t be going there, at least not on this trip.”

After a heartbeat or two, he complimented me on my choices. “So many tourists visit only London and then think that it represents all of England.” Due to the number of tourists that the city receives, Londoners can apparently be somewhat indifferent and unfriendly.

Can’t view the above slide show of York, England? Click here.

I will definitely visit London some day soon, but there’s no way it can alter my view of England as a delightful country filled with friendly people and fascinating history. People like my friend Mike Sowden.

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No visit to England is complete without a stop in a traditional English pub and in Newcastle the most famous of them all is the Crown Posada. My friend Val, who has lived in Newcastle all her life, dragged me in the front door and introduced me as a travel writer to the bartender, who immediately began talking about the history of the pub. Fortunately, I had my video camera rolling and captured his comments, however I must admit I had to listen to it about two dozen times before I could understand his brogue and there’s still some words I’m not sure about.
 

 Can’t view the above YouTube video about the Crown Posada Pub in Newcastle, England? Click here.

Newcastle Upon Tyne Vacations

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I met Valerie Jamieson almost a year ago, during a visit to Chitwan National Park in southern Nepal. Serendipitously, we had booked weekend safaris at the same lodge and ended up on the same bus back to Pokhara, where she was volunteering at an orphanage and elementary school. We bonded immediately and started meeting every morning for breakfast, where we compared notes on Nepal, shared life stories, and commiserated about getting older and not being able to do all the things we could when we were young. Eventually, Val’s volunteer stint came to an end; she headed for a tour of Tibet prior to returning to her home town of Newcastle, England, with a promise that she’d email me when she got home.

Valerie Jamieson with a teacher and teacher assistant at Annapurna Primary School in Pokhara, Nepal

Certain that we were the kind of friends that would last forever, I was surprised when that email never arrived. I thought about writing to her but didn’t want to push the issue if she had no interest in staying in touch. I just assumed she got busy with life or hadn’t really felt the same kind of kinship with me that I had with her. Then one day, months later, I received the following shocker of an email from Val:

“Remember me from Nepal? You might have wondered where I went when I promised to keep in touch by email or that I didn’t think we were friends after all. Well, neither is true! When I went home after Nepal I became more and more ill. You might remember that I had a problem with my eye. The investigations into that led to a CT scan and I was finally diagnosed with a benign brain tumour on 16th March this year. It was benign but very large and was pressing on my brain causing massive swelling and fluid on the brain. I had loads of symptoms (remember I had no sense of smell!) and in the weeks previous my balance went completely amongst a pile of other things but they were all disconnected and I never once thought of a brain tumour. By the time I was diagnosed it was an emergency and I was rushed into hospital that night and given massive doses of steroids etc. I had a full craniotomy on 25th March when the tumour was fully removed and I am home now recovering.”

I had one of those “life is short” moments that always accompanies that kind of news. My next thought was that I was scheduled to be in Edinburgh, Scotland soon, which is just over the border from Newcastle. I emailed Val back, offering to come if she felt well enough to have visitors. Not only did she feel well enough, she insisted I stay with her and even met me at the train station.

Can’t view the above YouTube video of Newcastle, England? Click here.

My goal in visiting Newcastle was to spend time with Val. I certainly didn’t expect her to be strong enough to show me her home town but not only did she look wonderful, she felt well enough to take me on a walking tour of the city center the following day. We listened to a musician play Irish Pipes in the Central Arcade, wandered through Black Gate and past Castle Keep, spent a couple of hours walking around Quayside on the Tyne River, and capped off the afternoon with a visit to the Baltic Centre for Contemporary Art, which occupies an old restored flour mill. Again I was surprised. As a child I had often heard my English grandmother remark that something was, “Like taking coals to Newcastle,” a reference to the extensive coal mining that had occurred in that part of England. I had expected a sooty industrial city that was somewhat run down; instead I discovered a delightful metropolis full of exquisite stone architecture and eager-to-please locals. Best of all, Newcastle hadn’t yet been discovered by tourists. We had the sites all to ourselves.

Can’t view the above slide show of Newcastle, England? Click here.

Prior to my arrival in Newcastle I had noted changes in my friend. She was still the same Val I had come to know in Nepal but she was also different: lighter, full of gratitude and welling with childlike joy over the simplest things. On one Facebook status she wrote, “I have just walked by myself to my local newsagent! A small step but a big one for me in the return to independence. It started raining on the way back and I got soaked. It was the most wonderful rain I have ever felt…”  I remember feeling like that when I abandoned corporate life to pursue my passions of travel, writing and photography. Everything was new and exciting. I couldn’t walk by a flower without sniffing it, I suddenly became aware that the air was filled with the sounds of birds twittering, even colors were more vibrant. I lived in the present moment at all times. After being with Val I realized that my childlike joy has grown just a bit tarnished. Another friend who almost lost his life in a hurricane some years ago told me that after surviving the ordeal he, too, was awed by the richness of life but it wasn’t long before the intensity faded. He sagely concluded that the challenge is to hold onto the joy.

Visiting the undiscovered gem of Newcastle was wonderful but Val’s exuberance for life was an even greater gift. I’m hoping that she never loses her new-found wonderment and so far, so good. I checked her Facebook Page again the other day and found this comment about having to take the bus everywhere because she can’t yet drive:

“Spent 2.5 hours travelling to and from Cramlington on the bus today – would only take half an hour in the car. But…as I was waiting in the bus stop an electric blue bird flew up ahead. Being in the city could only have been a budgie I think but it was incredibly beautiful and it was magical moment. Wouldn’t have seen it if I had been in the car….maybe it’s true that every cloud has a silver lining”

Way to go Val. You’re an inspiration and my new hero. And Newcastle now ranks among my favorite cities in the world.

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From the moment I arrived in Scotland I was fascinated by kilts. My assumption that they were an ethnic costume worn only for historic reenactments or cultural shows could not have been more wrong. Ordinary men walked about the streets of Edinburgh in full kilt regalia and members of the Scottish Guard wear kilts. At Edinburgh Castle, tourists queued for a chance to have their photos taken with the cute young guards outfitted in elaborate, medal-pinned uniforms. I stepped to the side and posed with a cute older guard, telling him I wanted my photo taken with someone who, like me, had a bit of gray in his hair. He grinned from ear-to-ear.

Posing with a member of the Scottish Guard in front of Edinburgh Castle

My Scottish friends, Dorothy and Ricky, had already treated me to tours around Edinburgh and the Scottish Midlands but promised the best was yet to come. They had been invited to a wedding that just happened to fall during my visit and had asked and obtained permission for me to attend. We drove through the luscious green countryside to the hamlet of Blair Atholl and pulled onto a long driveway, at the end of which loomed Blair Castle, an imposing white, turreted citadel.

Blair Castle is host to many Scottish weddings

Wedding reception at Blair Castle, in Blair Atholl, Scotland

We quickly joined the reception underway in the Great Hall, where antlers from generations of hunters were mounted up to the ceiling. Beneath watchful eyes on portraits of Blair ancestors that lined the rich, wood-paneled walls, Ceilidh (pronounced kay-lee) dancing was soon underway. A Gaelic word for a casual party with music, dancing and entertainment, Ceilidh is the term commonly used to refer to Scottish country dancing. Many of the intricate steps were familiar; I recognized the do-si-do and swing-your-partner moves found in American square dancing. Though my friends cajoled and pleaded, I refrained from joining in. Knowing my two left feet would trip up the procession I instead concentrated on filming the fun.

Wedding of my cousin, Andy MacDonald, June 2011

A month later, back in the U.S. for the wedding of my cousin, Andy MacDonald, I was surprised to learn that his wedding party would also be decked out in kilts to honor our Scottish heritage. Kilts seem to be following me everywhere but alas, even though I watched my Scottish friends and MacDonald relatives fly around dance floors on separate continents, I still have no answer to the age-old mystery of what men wear under those kilts!

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When my Scottish friends, Dorothy and Ricky, invited me to visit them in Edinburgh on my way back from Laos and Thailand, I jumped at the chance. I am, after all, part Scottish. My mother was a MacDonald, a lineage that harkens back to the days of the famed MacDonald-Campbell feud. The clash between these two ancient Celtic houses lasted for hundreds of years and still evokes strong sentiments in the Scottish Highlands. According to the website Heart ‘o Scotland:

“Clan Donald traces its roots to the great 12th century Gaelic-Norse warrior king, Somerled. His name meant “summer wanderer” and was the name given to the Vikings, who at that time controlled much of the western Isles.”

That explains a lot. It seems I owe my vagabond nature to old king Somrled. Praise be to my Celtic genes.

My whirlwind tour of Scotland began with tickets to the cultural extravaganza, “Taste of Scotland,” an evening of Scottish music, costume, bagpipes, fiddles, dance and food in the historic Prestonfield House. Earlier in the day Dorothy had perused the contents of my backpack and shook her head. My raggedy khakis simply would not do for the gala evening. She dragged me into her closet and dolled me up from head to toe, right down to purse and shoes.

Me in a skirt, posing next to a Scottish bagpiper at the entrance to "Taste of Scotland"

For the next week I was treated to the sights of Scotland, beginning with Edinburgh. We walked the Royal Mile, visiting exquisite stone structures like St. Giles Church and Greyfriars. On a narrow side street Dorothy ran into Norrie Rowan, who graciously offered to give us a personal tour of The Caves, a bar carved from the rubble of underground caverns that once formed the sub-structure of the 18th Century South Bridge in Old Town Edinburgh. Lost for more than 100 years, the hidden vaults were rediscovered by Rowan and his son, who have been painstakingly restoring them. We groped our way through dark, narrow passageways with sloping stone floors, emerging into one cavern after another, each lit in dazzling jewel-tone neon lights. Every vault had a story to tell, from those that served as stables for the French Cavalry who were body guards to the Royal family to a recently discovered and as yet unrestored ancient well.

A restored cavern at The Caves, a bar carved out of the ancient vaults and passageways discovered beneath the Old City in Edinburgh, Scotland

Back outside, the dull light of overcast skies seemed a more fitting complement to the monolithic stone architecture that dominates Old Town, not the least of which was Edinburgh Castle, a colossal stone fort that hulks above the city on a high bluff. As luck would have it, we arrived just in time to witness a special changing of the guard ceremony in honor of the 90th birthday of Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh and husband of Queen Elizabeth II.

Can’t view the above YouTube video of the changing of the guard at Edinburgh Castle? Click here.

Over the next couple of days I was treated to sights around Edinburgh that tourists rarely see. The lovely Almond River, just steps from my friends’ house, led to a serene waterfall, harbor, and causeway leading to Crammond Island in the Firth of Forth. Further upstream we watched the sun set one evening over the Firth of Forth bridge, famous with engineers the world over for its unique design. One afternoon was spent wandering through gardens at Lauriston House, which looked more like a castle to me, while some days I was content just to accompany Dorothy to one of the many Yoga classes she teaches.

Can’t view the above slide show of Edinburgh, Scotland? Click here.

As the weekend approached, I was in for another surprise. Ricky and Dorothy treated me to a tour of the romantic Scottish midlands, with its misty moors and drenched-green landscape. My tongue tripped over town names like Pitlochry and swooned over an ambrosial scone with raspberry jam and heavy cream in the enchanting village of Luss, located on the shores of famed Loch Lommond. In Killin, we rested on sun-warmed rock slabs that pocked the Falls of Dochart, warding off the mid-June chill.

Can’t view the above slide show of the midlands in Scotland? Click here.

Nothing compares with having a personal tour from locals who know all the secret spots! But the best was yet to come. Stay tuned for part two of my Scottish adventure.

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Ruth Pennebaker of Geezersisters.com fame

They say that virtual friends aren’t real friends, that people we meet online are a poor excuse for face-to-face social interaction. “They” are wrong. I met Ruth Pennebaker online perhaps a year and a half ago. I don’t even remember how I discovered her blog but I vividly recall being enamored with her self-deprecating, sugary-sarcastic writing style from the moment I read her first post. Her first adult novel, What Did I Do to Deserve This?, will be published in January 2011; the novel is about three generations of women living under one roof – so you could call it a horror story.

Ruth normally lives in Austin, where she blogs at Geezersisters.com and pens the Urban Cowgirl column for the Texas Observer, does yoga and frets. However, nearly a year ago she and her husband seized an opportunity to live in New York City for a year, which may have just whetted her appetite for travel writing. Although Ruth loves to travel, our styles are completely different. While I’m intrepid, she’s meek: “I always, always expect to die, even when I’m just going down the block. Miraculously, I’ve so far managed to make it in New York for almost a year, but am keeping my fingers crossed.” Since she has such a different viewpoint on travel, we thought it might be fun to publish her travel piece about little-visited Albania here on Hole In The Donut Travels. If you’d like to read more from Ruth, visit her blog, Geezersisters.com. So without further ado, here is “Albania and Me,” by Ruth Pennebaker.

My heart sank a couple of years ago when I saw the TV footage of one of George W. Bush’s recent trips. There he was – being cheered and embraced by a worshipful throng in the capital city of Tirana, Albania.

Oh, great, I thought. Just what I needed: Albania in the international spotlight. Next thing you know, the Bushes will be taking vacations there, basking in the sunlight and adulation, and Albania will be teeming with American tourists.

It wasn’t fair. Albania had been our country – my husband’s, son’s and mine.

No, I hadn’t been to China or Bali or Morocco. I wasn’t a big-time explorer. I didn’t like to rough it or take extreme trips. I was more the cringing, neurotic type.

But hold on, cowboy. I’ve been to Albania. Have you? No, I didn’t think so.

“You can’t go to Albania.”

“Albania? Are you crazy?”

It was the summer of 1998. My husband, son and I had spent three weeks in southern Italy, where my husband had been a visiting professor. Now, we needed to make our way to Greece for a conference.

Albania was east of Italy, across the Adriatic, and just north of Greece. As the crow flies, it made sense. My husband hated birds, but he’d found his guide for this trip.

The only problem was, every psychologist in Italy seemed intent on talking him out of it.

“Nobody goes to Albania.”

The more they objected, the more determined my husband became to go. He’s like that.

“Have you ever been to Albania?” my husband asked his detractors.

No, of course, they hadn’t been there.  But Albania was a hellhole.  Everybody knew that.  It was a wretched, dangerous place, they all insisted. Even our Belgian friend, Bernard, who’d be meeting us at the conference in Greece, suggested we might be foolish. My husband told him to call the American Embassy if we didn’t make it to Greece on time.

“Why are you going to Albania?” the waitress asked. Our boat had just left Bari, Italy – a Scandinavian ship that featured Willie Nelson crooning in the background. We had already been upgraded to VIP status, since we were the only passengers not being deported back to Albania.

“Americans don’t usually go to Albania,” the waitress added.

“Have you ever been there?” my husband asked.

She nodded. “I’ve lived there my whole life.”

“Oh,” my husband said.

I ordered a drink.

A couple of hours later, the boat docked in Durres, which is on the west coast of Albania. “Isn’t this nice?” my husband said, even though it was dark. All you could see was the water and a smattering of people who watched us closely. One, a taxi driver, took us to a hotel we’d seen on the internet. It was boarded-up and empty.

He took us to another hotel that, unfortunately, was open. It was kind of like a sprawling concrete bunker without the room service. The toilets shut down at midnight. A barbed wire fence surrounded the hotel. I could see it gleaming in the moonlight as I drank and smoked heavily on the little porch outside our room.

It occurred to me, not for the first time, that I lacked the adventure gene. How had my ancestors settled in America – sailing rickety ships across the Atlantic, huddled in steerage, building sod huts? If it had been up to the likes of me, we’d all still be in the Old Country, complaining, but unmoving. After only a few hours in a new and exciting country, I was already in a state of nervous collapse and incipient alcoholism. Where was my spirit of adventure?

The next morning, a new taxi driver, Robert, was waiting for us.

“We want to see your Albania, Robert,” my husband said grandly. I wanted to kill him. I stopped blaming myself and started blaming him. It was his fault we were here in this dangerous country all the Italians had warned us about. The Italians had been right, I thought bitterly.

Worse, with Robert at the wheel – swiveling toward the backseat so he could practice his English on us – we were veering toward certain death. We ploughed into mammoth potholes and narrowly missed looming trucks, while Robert polished his language skills. Gravel and dust flew, horns bleated and every other car was a Mercedes.

Navigating from one near-collision to another, Robert drove us to Tirana. There, the hotel we checked into was like a decayed wedding cake, trailing shabby whiffs of ancient glamour and better days. My husband and son set off to find a travel agency to make arrangements about getting us to Greece.

“No flight out till next week,” my husband reported half an hour later. “No buses or trains, either.”

“You know, it was funny,” he added. “I asked them for a map of the country and they didn’t have one. Wouldn’t you think a travel agency would have a map?”

Worried – finally! – about my deteriorating mental condition, my husband called an Albanian psychologist whose name and number had been given us by one of the protesting Italian psychologists. He arrived an hour later, in a cold summer rain, wheeling his bicycle into the lobby of the hotel. He didn’t speak much English, so he and I spoke bad French and ordered Italian wine while we plotted our exit. He had a friend, he said, who was a taxi driver who could be hired to take us to the Greek border.

The next day, the psychologist’s friend drove us south. He pointed out the shrines of flowers along the highway, where drivers had been pulled from their cars and summarily executed after the nationwide pyramid scheme had failed. He showed us the hillside bunkers built to protect the country against invaders. He waved at us fervently as we made our way across the border, past glowering youths with machine guns.

“Aren’t you glad I insisted we go to Albania?” my husband’s asked again and again. As the years passed, I’ve come to agree. Who else has been to Albania? Not much of anyone. Till now.

But in 1998, we still had our good times. When we got to our hotel in Thessaloniki, we left a message for our Belgian friend, Bernard: Please to call the American Embassy about Pennebaker family.

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Twenty years ago today, the wall that divided Berlin fell, signaling the death of the Cold War. To mark the anniversary, the city will host a Festival of Freedom with a very different kind of wall. Under the direction of British artist and curator Martin Butler nearly 50,000 people will form a human chain along the exact 47 km route of where the Berlin Wall once stood. This unique living art installation is entitled: “Mauer Mob 2009: Recreating the Berlin Wall.” In addition to the human wall, an art installation of dominoes along the route will be toppled to symbolize the falling of the Berlin Wall. The final domino tile will signal the launch of a stupendous firework display.

People stand atop the Brandenburg Gate the day before the wall came down

Back in 1989, in order to witness the historic event, you would have had to travel to Germany. But today, courtesy of the power of the Internet and earthTV.com, the anniversary celebration can be viewed on your computer screen in broadcast quality streaming video. Throughout the day of the festival the earthTV camera will also showfamous Berlin landmarks such as the Brandenburg Gate where the festival will take place, Berlin Cathedral, the television tower on Alexanderplatz and the cupola of the Reichstag.

Watch the event LIVE today from 1 to 3 p.m. Eastern Standard Time at earthTV.com

Day Long Coverage can be seen on the earthTV special event site and on the earthTV location site in Berlin

Photo credit: Wikipedia

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It’s happened again! A group of seemingly innocuous passengers at the Central Railway Station in Antwerp, Belgium suddenly break out into a dance when Julie Andrews’ “Do-Re-Mi” begins playing over the public address system. This is such fun – watch the video, and watch the reactions of the ‘real’ passengers.

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Who says Brits are straight laced? At 11 a.m. on January 15, 2009, hundreds of people who had trained for eight weeks showed up at London’s Liverpool Street train station and unexpectedly broke out into dance. The event was organized by T-Mobile as part of its “Life’s For Sharing” campaign. And if the number of people who filmed the event on their cell phones, texted, and called others as it was happening is any indication, it certainly was an event that was shared. Frankly I think T-Mobile is on to something. Through music, we can change the world. Take a look at the video:

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The synchronicity of the world constantly amazes me. Yesterday I wrote about traveling to India, and today I receive an email from my friend, Dorothy, who hails from Edinburgh, Scotland. Dorothy and I became fast friends when we both attended a very special Yoga retreat in a remote area of central India a few years ago.

Dorothy strikes a Yoga pose on a deserted beach

We ended up in adjacent bunks but we shared more than a bedroom – we both came down with a case of Delhi Belly and kept each other company from our sickbeds. Here’s what she sent me as a reminder:

“In case you have not heard of him Robert Burns is much celebrated Scottish Poet and we have Burns suppers on 25th January where we eat haggis and neeps (turnip). This is a rip off of the poem ‘To a Mouse.‘ I can do a translation of the Scottish language for you if you like!

The day after the Burns supper….

TAE A FART

…..oh whit a sleekit horrible beastie
lurks in yer belly efter the feastie
nae maiter whit yae dae
abodys gona hiv tae pay
even if yae try tae stifle
its lyk a bullet oot a rifle
hawd yer bum tight tae the chair
tae try n stop the leakin air
shimmy yersel fae cheek tae cheek
‘n pray tae god it disnae reek
oot it cums lyk a clap o thunder
ricochets aroon the room
michty me a sonic boom!
God al michty it fairly reeks
hope I huvnae shit my break

Dorothy x”

This photo, taken on the occasion of her son's wedding, is proof that Dorothy really could do a translation from the Scottish! In fact, she speak with a brogue so thick that sometimes I can't understand her, which sends us into gales of laughter!

But Even without the English translation, I think you probably get the gist of the poem. Good memories, Dorothy! I still say it was providence that led us to choose the two beds closest to the bathroom in the first place. Miss you and love you a bunch!

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I am sitting at the airport in Lisbon, Portugal, waiting to board my plane. This trip has been a wonderful adventure for me over the past six months. I don’t know why I was so driven to do it; I only know that it was extremely important for me. Perhaps I was feeling my mortality and wanted to make this trip while I thought I still was capable of doing so. Perhaps I just needed to go look for my true path in life. I can’t say that I’ve found my path along the way – yet. But I feel I am close.

I’m embarrassed to admit that I never made it back into Lisbon, nor did I get to the UNESCO World Heritage town of Sintra, just 30 minutes from where I was staying. Frankly, I needed a rest, so I gave myself permission to just lie on the beach for nine days instead of playing tourist right up to the last possible moment and wearing myself to a frazzle. I did, however, have an amazing experience in Portugal. Several days ago I was lying on a beach chair in that state of consciousness that is just between being asleep and being awake and I experienced a moment of the most pure peace and contentment I have ever felt in my life. It felt as if I was floating and that I did not have a care in the world – that all the mundane worldly things we worry about o n a daily basis are truly insignificant and not worthy of the least bit of our attention. It is hard to put this feeling into words, but I suspect that it is close to true bliss. I don’t know how long it lasted, because the moment I realized I was feeling it and began to think about it – to analyze it – the feeling vanished. Try as I might, I just couldn’t get it back, until two days later when it happened again.

I feel as if I’ve been granted a glimpse into true happiness. Being happy is not about being ecstatic or high as a kite. It’s about being even, balanced, and contented. If we’re really on a high or a low, we’re out of balance. I’m hoping that now I can be contented – I believe I can be. At the very least, I feel blessed to have experienced those few moments of pure bliss. So I’m headed home – grateful for the trip but (and perhaps for the first time in my adult life) grateful to be coming back to live in the USA.

Thank you all so much for following me these last six months, but do stay tuned, because I am sure this won’t be my last trip, as I am now addicted. Travel is a wonderful thing, if only to make one better appreciate home.

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It may be unfair of me to pick three words that define all of Portugal, since I only visited a tiny part of the northern coast, so I’ll say that the following three words define the coastal resort areas of Portugal:

Sunny: Practically perfect weather, mid-eighties during the day with gentle breezes and in the 70′s at night. Sleeping with the doors and windows flung open.

Seafood: Best I ever had

Easy: Very laid back, comfortable, relaxing

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I’ve got packing down to an exact science. For this six month trip I carried only a small backpack and a carry-on size (22″) rolling suitcase. So I had to choose every article with great care. One of the most difficult decisions when traveling light is what shoes to pack, simply because they take up so much room. I opted for two pair – one a really good (and really expensive) pair of Mephisto sandals that can even be worn into the water as well as my good old reliable tennis shoes. And when I say old, I mean really decrepit. These tennis shoes have seen better days – the laces are frayed and the soles were already cracked when I started this trip. With the amount of walking I’ve been doing, well, you can just imagine the condition they were in. But the plain and simple fact is that they are comfortable. They are well broken-in. They fit my feet like they were molded around them. For all those reasons I have been fighting the idea of new shoes but when I got to Pisa, Italy a week ago and it started to rain, I discovered that the seams between the soles and the upper fabric had come unglued and by the end of the day, my feet were soaking wet.

Still, I figured they would last to the end of this trip. And they would have, if not for the SMELL that erupted from them after they got thoroughly soaked, inside and out.

Dos Condes De Castro Guimares Museum and Library

At first I figured it was more the socks than the shoes, so I washed all my socks and continued to wear the shoes. By the time I got to Portugal I could smell them when they were on my feet. I was certain that people standing near me were wrinkling up their noses in disgust and looking around, trying to identify the source of the smell, while I stood by, trying to look innocent. The odor was so rank that I couldn’t leave the shoes inside the bedroom once I arrived in Portugal – I had to put them outside the door or the stink would have driven me out. Needless to say I had to buy a new pair of shoes a couple of days ago. They’re nice, these new shoes. They’re blue. They fit pretty well. And they’re fairly comfortable. So this morning I set off on a four hour walk, destined for Guincho Beach.

Gardens at Dos Condes De Castro Guimares Museum and Library

Along the way I visited some interesting old mansions, parks, lighthouses, forts, and scenic overlooks along the coast north of Cascais, beginning with the Dos Condes De Castro Guimares Museum and Library, an old mansion that was originally built by an Irishman who painted shamrocks on the ceilings and plastered interior walls with Azulejo tiles. Some years later he sold it to a Portuguese royal couple, who lived in it for years and left it to the town when they died – today it serves as a museum that faithfully represents the architecture and furnishings of those days. Behind the house, the lovely gardens incorporate jogging paths, picnic areas, playgrounds and much more, but I particularly liked the giant blue, pink, and purple hydrangeas that bordered the paths and surrounded the fountains. Best of all, entrance was free – they wouldn’t even accept a donation from me.

Gardens at Dos Condes De Castro Guimares Museum and Library

Just down the road from the mansion was the Santa Marta Lighthouse which had been closed when I came across it on a previous stroll, but this time it was open so I spent a bit of time exploring its museum, which featured a nice display of operating Fresnel lights at eye level.

These are the lights normally found at the top of lighthouses and it was fascinating to see them up close, although also blinding, as the light they put out is intense. I must say that the lighthouses in Portugal are exceptionally pretty – I can’t remember ever seeing a blue one before.

Santa Marta Lighthouse

Fresnel lights in Santa Marta Lighthouse

Boca De Inferno (Mouth of Hell)

A bit further on was Boca De Inferno (Mouth of Hell), a rocky escarpment of razor sharp lava where, on days when the seas are heavy, waves crash furiously upon the rocks. Just not today – the water was placid and gently lapping at the base of the cliff.

Da Guia Lighthouse

Yet further north I discovered the Da Guia Lighthouse, with its pretty ocean view of sailboats competing in a regatta just off the coast:

View from Da Guia Lighthouse

and the Jorge De Oitavos Fort, with its ancient cannons poised and ready to do battle, just as they were in times past:

Jorge De Oitavos Fort

Jorge De Oitavos Fort

About that time my feet – especially my left big toe – started to scream at me. When I finally couldn’t take another step I stopped for lunch and then caught a bus back to town. I didn’t get to Guincho Beach, but I also I don’t have any blisters on my feet. And that’s pretty good trade-off, if you ask me.

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My incredible luck has not failed me as I near the end of my six month around-the-world journey. For my last ten days I have chosen Portugal because I have long wanted to come here, and Cascais specifically for its beaches. Somehow, I just knew I would be tired at this point and badly in need of a rest. And I was. Any one of a hundred beach destinations around Portugal would have provided me with the rest I needed before plunging headlong back into life in the States, but in Cascais I was fortunate to locate a family that has a studio apartment attached to their home, which they gladly rented to me, even though the family was out-of-town when I was scheduled to arrive, had never met me, and knew next to nothing about me. On the evening of my arrival, a family friend met me at the house, handed me a key, gave me a brief tour, and told me to make myself welcome.

Houses and cobblestone streets of Cascais

I slept until 10 AM the next morning (a luxury I have not allowed myself on this trip very often because there was always so much to see and do that I didn’t want to waste even ten minutes of daylight) and woke to delicious sunlight streaming into the courtyard between the main house and my apartment. I jumped into a bathing suit, shorts, and a top and headed out to explore. The street in front of the house leading down to the town square and beach was paved in chunks of white marble about three inches square, flat on top and rough on the sides, each piece laboriously hand-placed and butted up against its neighbor to create a relatively flat road surface. Thousands of cars and pedestrians over the years have polished the marble to a high sheen and I stepped out cautiously from the threshold of the house, expecting the surface to be slippery. For about a block I walked gingerly – like a Geisha wearing a tight kimono – afraid I would lose my footing any moment and tumble down the road. But to my surprise, the stone is not at all slippery, although I wouldn’t want to try negotiating it in the rain.

Houses and cobblestone streets of Cascais

Azulejo tiles on houses

Houses line these narrow curvy streets, hugging each other like one big, happy family. Huge Bougainvillas, covered in purple, lavender and peach blossoms, overhang fences and balconies and provide some little privacy between the structures. Everything is sun-splashed and the quality of the light here gives the impression of row after row of whitewashed houses with red tile roofs, although many are actually painted in pastel hues.

At the foot of the hill, a mere three blocks from the house, the street opened out onto the main square, with its black and white marble paved surface, bronze statue, and ancient buildings. The town hall stands here, perhaps best known for the blue Azulejo tiles decorating its facade for which Portugal is so famous.

Cascais main square

Cascais Town Hall, decorated with Azulejo tiles

Cascais Town Hall, decorated with Azulejo tiles

Across the main road is the old fort that guarded the harbor entrance in olden days and just beyond is the still active Santa Maria lighthouse.

Old fort at harbor entrance in Cascais

Santa Maria lighthouse, Cascais

Ribeira Beach, Cascais

Looking back at Ribiera Beach

Here also lies tiny Ribeira Beach, snugged into a pocket between the main square and the Atlantic Ocean and lined on both sides by regal old mansions owned wealthy Portuguese who have been coming to Cascais for summer vacations since its inception. Ribeira Beach, more commonly known as Pescaderos (fisherman’s) beach, is not considered good for swimming, as it fronts the harbor that is still actively used by fishermen. It is, however, a wonderful place to lie in the sun and watch people, which is exactly what I have been doing for the past five days.

Cascais is still an active commercial fishing town

Cobblestone streets of Cascais

Other than being lazy and lying at the beach, I have taken a couple of walks around town, done some shopping, stuffed myself with some of the most delicious fresh seafood I have ever tasted (an entire dinner of fresh-caught sea-bass was only 15 Euros – about $20 US), checked out a couple of the other beaches scattered around the waterfront of Cascais, and delighted in discovering as many different designs of Azulejos on the buildings as possible.

Tiny pocket beaches are scattered around Cascais

Conceicao Beach, Cascais

Azulejo tiles

Azulejo tiles

Azulejo tiles

Azulejo tiles

Azulejo tiles framing window

Azulejo tiles

Even the street signs, which are inset into the sides of houses, are done in Azulejos:

Azulejo tile street signs

Today the plan is to walk a couple of hours to Guinchos Beach, a famous surfer and sailboard site up the coast. If my energy doesn’t run out, I may make it to the historic town of Estoril as well during my remaining time here, but I’m not promising anything. I’m happy as a clam just lying on a beach – any beach – for the duration of this trip.

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I arrived in Portugal following a nightmare 13 hour travel day where everything that could go wrong did go wrong, including nearly being throw off an Italian train over a seat assignment, a flight that was an hour late, and getting lost at night between the airport and the rail station in Lisbon because the woman at the information desk at the airport told me to take the wrong bus. But hey, my luggage made it though; gotta be grateful for the little things.

Anyway, I took a day and a half to regroup – get money from the ATM, get my laundry done (really, I was beginning to smell), shop for groceries (I am renting a studio apartment in Cascais, a suburb of Lisbon with a series of great little beaches), and write, write, write. I didn’t even go out to see Cascais the first day because I had to get the Cinque Terre, Italy stories out of my head before I saw a new place. So now I’m all caught up and have even uploaded all my Italy photos to the photo library. I hope you’ll want to look at them because I think they are incredible (especially the Venice and Cinque Terre photos). Just click on the above button labeled “Photos” and follow the directions on the resulting page.

My trip is winding down now – only 9 more days. I am sad (I really think I could stay on the road pretty much full time) but I’m also looking forward to getting home to the good old USA where everything is so familiar. There were times during this trip that were very stressful – never knowing what I was going to find from day to day, or even where I was going to be the next day was a constant challenge. In the beginning, I was often “mired in the muck” and had to MAKE myself leave a place. I resisted leaving because, after a few days in a place it became somewhat familiar and as human beings we all seek the comfort of familiarity. It was difficult at first to deal with the constant change and fear of the unknown.

At some point during the trip, though, I really began to relax. I realized I had taken every precaution to ensure I would be safe, so I stopped worrying about negative possibilities like having my credit credit card stolen or my backpack slashed. I did what my Dad reminded me to do in every email – I kept my eyes open and stayed aware of what was happening around me at all times. As a result I soon had the opposite problem – sometimes I was really anxious to leave a place. There is an art to travel – something about leaving just before you are ready to go rather than staying too long and becoming bored. I find there are few places in this world I would like to stay long term (although Thailand; Cinque Terre, Italy; and the Costa del Sol in Spain DO make that list of potential long term places).

Perhaps my introspective side is emerging as the end of this journey nears. I’ve learned many lessons, not least of which is to be thankful that I live in the good ‘ole USA. Really, we don’t know how good we have it. I might grumble about an administration with which I have little agreement, but we live in a wonderful country and we have so much – TOO much – WAY TOO MUCH! We need to sit back and take a look at the things in life that we value and ask ourselves if they really make us happy. I, for one, will make some significant life changes as a result of this trip. I will find a way to do someting in life that brings me joy, regardless of what I have to give up to do so. I will be less judgmental, critical, hard on myself. I will try to show my friends and family how much I love them and will find a meaningful way to help others so that I feel my life is worth something.

Whew! I hadn’t intended to write such a philosophical post, but it just sort of poured out of me. So I guess it was meant to be. I will now go back to “staying in the moment” and remember there are nine days left in this trip, rather than focusing on the end. Stay tuned – I’ll be telling you all about Portugal over the next few days.

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