The young man was so intent upon spray painting the brick wall that he didn’t notice me. He was tall and willowy, wearing baggy jeans and checked shirt, but with a respirator covering his nose and mouth it was hard to tell much more. His mural, on the other hand, screaming out in blood-red block letters, was anything but nondescript. I interrupted to ask why he was painting a mural on a brick wall when he knew it would likely be covered over within days.
He paused and swiped at beads of sweat running down into his eyes. “Just for the love of it. It’s the way I express myself,” he replied. He didn’t much care that other street artists would paint over it. “There’s sort of an unwritten agreement that we don’t paint over other work when it’s brand new, so at least I know it will be seen for a little while. And when it’s gone I’ll paint another one.”
Travel blogger Heather Cowper and I had embarked upon a walking tour earlier that day, specifically to view street art in her home town of Bristol, England. We’d begun on Nelson Street, home to See No Evil, the UK’s largest permanent street art project. Inspired by large-scale street installations in Melbourne, Australia and Lisbon, Portugal, street artist Tom Bingle, better known by his street name Inkie, began looking around for a location in Bristol that would be appropriate for such an installation. Read More
One of the first things I noticed upon arriving at the house of my friend, Heather Cowper, was the framed reproduction of a postage stamp hung in her family dining room. The illustration features a sea captain at the wheel of a ship passing beneath Bristol’s famous Clifton Suspension Bridge. Steering one-handed, the captain grips an unfurled banner in the other, upon which the words “Gert Lush” are prominently displayed. When I asked the meaning, Heather explained that it’s a term exclusive to Bristolians.
“It means very good or lovely,” she said. “As in, ‘That’s really Gert Lush!‘”
Her kids promptly made fun of her accent; Heather is a transplant from London and may not have quite mastered the local dialect, but in every other way she and her family are true Bristolians who are passionate about their city. After two weeks of wandering around Bristol, it was easy to see why.
Though archeologists have found evidence that the area was inhabited 60,000 years ago, the city of Bristol is believed to have been founded around the year 1000. It was known as Brycgstow in those days, an Old English word meaning ‘the place at the bridge.’ With its stone bridge and location at the confluence of the rivers Avon and Frome, by the 12th century it had become an important port city with a strong presence in shipbuilding and manufacturing. Because the River Avon was plagued by high tides that left the banks a muddy, nonnegotiable mess at low tide, the town built a “floating harbour” to remedy the problem, however despite their attempts to hold onto the number one position in shipping the industry gradually migrated to Liverpool where better port facilities were available. Fortunately, over time Bristol has become well established in other industries, including aerospace, defense, information technology, and financial services. Read More
“Oh my GOD! Look at that one,” I said, pointing to a dull grey stone lying at the bottom of a crumbling wall of limestone. Heather Cowper, who writes the ever popular travel blog Heather on her Travels, and I scrambled over the boulders that littered the beach to get a closer look.
“It’s the reverse impression of an Ammonite fossil,” I explained. It was huge and definitely not a specimen I was going to collect. Notwithstanding its size and weight, which would have cost me a fortune to ship, I no longer have a home in which to display it. This one was meant for a local who is as addicted to rockhounding as I am.
Heather and I were headed for the Ammonite Pavement, a geologic formation I had learned about the previous day from the friendly owner of a rock store in the town of Lyme Regis, in Dorset, England. Best seen at low tide, this flat shelf of dull grey limestone, located on the western reaches of Monmouth Beach, is famous for the thousands of fossils it contains. Most prevalent are Ammonites, an ancient sea creature related to our present-day squid. During some cataclysmic event, the details of which are unknown, there was a mass die-off of Ammonites. They sank to the sea floor and were embedded in the mud, where their tentacles and soft body parts decomposed, leaving only their coiled, Nautilus-like shell. Read More
I never know what will ignite my travel imagination. Sometimes it’s an overheard comment made by a fellow wanderer. Other times I read about a city or place of great natural beauty and think, “I have to go there.” In this case, it was a map that piqued my curiosity. Knowing that I like to hike and that I’m also nuts about rocks, my friend and fellow travel blogger Heather Cowper, suggested that I consider Dorset, England, also known as the Jurrassic Coast for the proliferation of fossils that can be found along its beaches. I promptly pulled it up on Google maps and began examining the southwest coast of England. Midway between Swanage and Portland, a perfectly circular cove caught my eye and I zoomed in. Just above the cove was the town of West Lulworth, gateway to the South Coast hiking path. I followed the map westward to Man O’ War beach and Durdle Door. Even the names were intriguing! And that was all it took. I was hooked; I simply had to visit Lulworth Cove and hike the trail.
I arrived late in the afternoon on a chill, blustery day. Too excited to wait for morning, I snuggled into my crushable down jacket and headed out for my first view of the cove. Tentacles of icy air crept down the back of my neck as I trudged down the hill past ancient stone cottages with two-foot thick thatch roofs, but I would not be deterred. Tugging the zipper up to my chin, I lowered my head into the wind and plodded on. Minutes later the cove spread before me. Low grey clouds spit fat drops of icy rain, but not even the abominable weather could dampen my wonder at the perfectly circular inlet, broken only by a narrow entry at the headland, where choppy seas poured in. Read More
The crowd assembled in Liberation Square gripped their small British flags, eagerly awaiting the moment when re-enactors would come pouring into the plaza, dressed in vintage WWII uniforms. As the last strains of “Beautiful Jersey” faded away, cadets from the Royal Jersey Militia Army mounted a rear wall and came rushing through the onlookers, handing out hard candy and apples. Joyful cheers and frenzied flag-waving egged the soldiers on to the second floor balcony of the Pomme d’Or Hotel, where they raised the Union Jack, just as they’d done 68 years earlier during the liberation of Jersey from German occupation.
Perhaps because of their location just a handful of miles off the coast of France, the Channel Islands, which include Jersey, Guernsey, Sark and eleven other small islands, were the only bits of British soil ever captured by the Germans during World War II. Early in the morning on July 1, 1940, a German ultimatum was dropped over the Isle of Jersey, the largest of the Channel Islands. Residents were commanded to show their surrender by flying white flags over all the buildings. They complied by hanging out sheets and pillowcases and painting a white cross in the middle of Royal Square. Bailiff Coutanche appealed to islanders to stay calm and follow German orders, then drove to the airport to meet the invaders, who promptly commandeered the Pomme d’Or Hotel as its headquarters and raised the detested swastika from its second floor balcony. Read More
Green and pink-haired teens clustered around the tattoo shops and clothing stores, pawing at leather dominatrix outfits and vintage hi-top sneakers imprinted with the Union Jack. I had come to Camden Markets to experience London’s alternative fashion scene but within minutes the seething crowds had frazzled my nerves. Abandoning my plan to be a pretend fashionista for a day, I headed instead for the locks on Regent’s Canal, the other site for which Camden is famous.
Minutes later I was standing on a quaint stone bridge, looking down on dozens of long, skinny boats painted in riotous colors and designs, lined up and waiting for their turn to pass through a series of three locks. Descending to canal level, I watched boats motor into the narrow locks two-by-two, with barely half a foot of clearance between them. After tying up securely, the captains clambered onto the shore, manually closed the rudimentary timber gates, and inserted metal cranks into a mechanism that allowed water to either flow in or be pumped out. Once the water level equalized, the gates were again opened and the process was reversed for boats going in the opposite direction. Fascinated, I sought out one of the captains as he waited for water in the lock to empty, and asked about his odd-looking vessel.
“They’re called narrowboats,” he explained. “They were originally built to haul goods up and down the canals of England, but nowadays they’re mostly used for pleasure cruises, though we live aboard ours year round.”
“There’s so many!” I exclaimed, noting the long line waiting to pass through the locks.
“It’s a bit of a traffic jam this weekend,” he laughed. “There was a festival this weekend in Little Venice and everyone is heading home.”
“Where’s home for you?”
“Ah, well, that’s an interesting question,” he said. It was a familiar response; as a nomad I use the exact same words whenever anyone asks me where I am from. “We just go from mooring to mooring most of the year. Sometimes we tie off in one place for the winter, when stoppages (repairs) make travel impossible.” Read More