It took some convincing after weeks of sub-par temps and chilling rain to finally accept that spring was winding down. After an extra-long and extra-warm Memorial Day weekend, I was ready to face June by shedding clothes and lathering on the sun screen.
Here are some Hipsatmatic pics from the weekend:
Our first excursion to the taboo lands of sandinistas and epicenter of the Iran–Contra affair. With the Cold War long fizzled, we found welcoming people, untouristed cities and empty beaches. And all with an ease and sense of security not often felt in Central America.
Paul and I completed a week-long circuit from colonial Granada, to the volcanoes on Ometepe Island in Lake Nicaragua and finally to the chill Pacific coast town of San Juan del Sur, surfing capital of the world. Sad to leave the sultry tropics, we arrived home to a blizzard in wintry Maine — vowing to return again to explore more of Nicaragua.
For our first visit to Cornwall, we decided on a gentleman’s ramble (Paul, Mark and myself) on the South West Coast Path, which stretches an impressive 630 miles (1014 km) through Devon, Cornwall and Dorset. We decided on a 69 mile (110 km) westbound section starting at The Lizard peninsula and ending in the charming town of St Ives.
Continue reading “South West Coastal Path, Cornwall — England, 2004”
In September the Five Musketeers (Paul, Mark and Amy, teenage Bart and myself) hoofed the 84-mile (135 km) Long Distance Footpath in Northern England from Ilkley in West Yorkshire to Bowness-on-Windermere at the edge of the Lake District.
Not a strenuous walk but gorgeous vistas and perfect weather — a great time for family bonding. At pub stops, underage Bart managed to progress from Half Shandies (half pint beer/lemonade mix) to multiple pints of ale in a mere five days! No doubt he’s one of the family.
Our third long-distance ramble in the United Kingdom, the Cumbria Way drew Paul and I forth from the southern Lakes District north to Carlisle on the Scottish border. Our journey began with uncharacteristically fine weather during our overnight stay in the friendly seaside community of Ulverston on Morecomb Bay.
Continue reading “Cumbria Way — England &
Snowdonia — Wales, 2002″
In the surreal and tense wake of the 9/11 al-Qaeda terrorist attacks in the United States, we headed off to England on the first flights out after a week of quiet skies due to the air travel ban. We needed to get away, stretch our lungs and legs in the English countryside.
In the waning days of the Clinton administration, we threw caution to the wind and booked flights from Toronto to Havana, realizing a lifelong dream of mine to visit Cuba and taste firsthand the spicy history, politics and culture of this proud island nation. Although illegal for US citizens to spend money in Cuba without authorization, we decided to buck this restriction and Trade with the Enemy. We are Americans after all and Freedom is our established right and responsibility.
A circuit through the al-Gharb (Algarve, Portugal), across the Strait of Gibraltar to al-Magrib (Morocco), then back to the Iberian Peninsula through al-Andalus (Andalucia, Spain) — a journey through Arabic lands! We met in Madrid having traveled from London via different means: I arrived fresh via 1.5 hr British Midlands flight, and Paul weary and worn from a 36 hr slow train odyssey through France and half of Spain.
The next night we took the sleek and shiny Ferrol “Rias Gallegas” train to Galicia where at dawn we crossed into Portugal and arrived in Porto for a seaside lunch, then onto Lisbon. We made a side trip to visit the Castelo dos Mouros, an Arabic hilltop castle dating from the 8th century, and to taste the queijadas, or delectable cheese and spice pastries I has “discovered” on my first trip to the area in 1990 and had since enjoyed at Chave d’Ouro (“Golden Key”) Portuguese bakery across the street from my East Cambridge apartment where I lived after university.
From the seaward capital we headed to southern Portugal, the Algarve to enjoy a couple days of beachy R&R then to hip Tarifa, Spain. The hills around this town were dotted with wind turbines, symbol of Spain’s emergence as a green energy superpower. We then departed Europe from Algeciras en route to Tangiers, gateway to the great African continent.
To celebrate Dad’s retirement from a long and distinguished career as a British Literature teacher, the family (Erik, Paul, Kelly and Dad) flew from the Midwest to Glasgow where I met them. After a quick tour of the School of Arts and other Charles Rennie Mackintosh architectural gems, we departed urban, proletariat Glasgow and drove south to the English Lake District. We rented the pleasing self-catering Fairfield Cottage on the outskirts of Grasmere village. We enjoyed great views of the surrounding fells and fields, full of green splendor and pastures of bleating sheep.
Our first long distance footpath in the United Kingdom, Paul and I succeeded in walking all 192 miles from St Bees in the Lake District on the Irish Sea to Robin Hood’s Bay on the North Sea.
It was an amazing accomplishment, hard days pounding the trail but passing stunning landscapes through three spectacular National Parks: the Lake District, the Yorkshire Dales and the North York Moors. Each dramatic and unique in character, offering new challenges each day.
Despite the physical effort, it was largely a meditative experience for me. We quickly fell into a simple routine of eat–walk–sleep, with satisfying conversation with Paul and other ramblers, and ample time for quiet thought. Each day my mind grew calmer, my body strengthening, and my senses consumed with sunlight and clouds, the colors of farms and fells, smells and sounds of everything we passed.
We quickly developed a community with other walkers: a group of strapping Belgian soldiers on holiday leave equipped with massive packs and GPS gear; the two chatty retired schoolteachers who somehow always managed to beat us to every tea shop and over-night village but barely seemed to exert themselves; the group of old pals, one of whom always exclaimed “crackers!” (as in the English Christmas crackers which make a firecracker sound when pulled); the young vegan university gals from Essex (which they jokingly referred to as “Es-SEX” due to its unfavorable reputation in Britain) who ate only rice and chips (refusing even pub ale which purportedly contains fish-based emulsifiers). The other walkers were an assortment of all types, itinerants with different motivations and stories; we found ourselves among fast friends. The evening conversations in the pubs were always a highlight of our day.
Exhausted yet exhilarated, we arrived with blistered feet and sore legs at the North Sea 11 days after leaving the Irish Sea, faster than the suggested 14 days. Next time we will take more time, the fine market towns of Richmond and Reeth deserve more attention, and a couple days of padding to recover our strength and break up the daily rigors of foot travel. It was an incredible learning experience and an achievement we were eager to repeat. Fortunately the United Kingdom is rife with footpaths, we have endless choices in front of us.
I still remember the disorienting feeling of riding a bus leaving Robin Hood’s Bay, how quick and easy powered transport is! After 12 days riding my own two feet, I was ready to sit back and let the countryside slip by effortlessly as we made our way to London.
