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September 09, 2005Belfast: Unstoppable Redemption"Be prepared to be amazed by the fastest and most luxurious high speed ferry service in the world" the ferry PA cooed. Thank you, I will. It was just like being back on the QM2, sort of. It had all the glitz and none of the butt kissing for which my ego was truly sad. The Stena Voyager is well appointed with four restaurants, three lounges, and a casino. One of those restaurants is a Burger King where a burger, small fries and a coke will set your travel budget back £4.99 pounds or about $9.00 US. There are also five flat video monitors and they were all displaying dramatic vignettes of animals killing other animals for food. I'm sure subliminally this is make you feel better about dropping a small fortune on non-threatening anonymous chunks of cow (?) but I would have chosen gazelle tartare any day. There are no Rolls Royce stablizers on the Voyager so the crossing was three hours of gentle rocking that was just like the fetal days of being weightless in amniotic fluid. I know this for a fact because my Mom did not possess Rolls Royce stabilizers. There is no mistaking Belfast. When I was a child I remember watching the violence unfold here countless times on the news. Yesterday was the day of the White Rock Parade in West Belfast and the Parade Commission decided in the interest of safety to prevent the procession from marching in front of the very homes of the nationalists they despise. West Circular Road was turned into a war zone with two Army Land Rovers set ablaze by Molotov Cocktails. Six police officers were hurt during the rioting - reminiscent of the time that they call "The Troubles" around here. As is the case with mob mentality the nationalists were also out in full force taunting the loyalists and that only escalated the situation. The loyalist supporters then blocked all the streets in and out of Shaftsbury Square where I was staying at the YHA and that's what I walked into after my day of traversing the streets of benign central Belfast. Armored police carriers were blocking all the roads into Shaftsbury and the troops were ready to rumble, they were not amateurs. Overhead a police helicopter hovered taking in a God's eye view of the city because there was violence in many more places in the city. Violence much worse than this. I had seen enough.
I took a few pictures and some video and immediately went inside the YHA. Nothern Ireland is still a very dangerous place sometimes, but it is also a place of redemption. I decided to go to Carrick-a-Rede where you access the island by way of a rope and plank bridge. It is 60 feet in length and is suspended 80 feet above the crashing waves and jagged rocks. This proved an interesting and occasionally heart pounding experience as the bridge bucked all the while I was crossing it. The wind was very strong making you feel as if you were going to be blown away at any moment. The scenery was gorgeous with seagulls circling over steep, sheer chalky cliffs and turbulent whitecaps. I'm sure if someone more talented than I were describing it to you, you'd be thinking "What a great and dramatic place to die". That is until you heard the punchline: "Uh yeah,....well... umm... he fell off a rope and plank bridge". It's another heart pounding experience, one of a kinder nature, that I want to mention right now. Enroute to the bridge is a small protestant Church of Ireland with a dwindling congregation that could not afford to fix it's roof. The nearby Catholic church took it upon itself to raise money, and not only had the roof restored, but also renovated the whole place. The driver Patrick, a young, proud and likable young man said "Of course you never see this in the news". That brought to mind the Elvis Costello song "What's so funny about peace, love and understanding". He is right, peace sells and no one buys most of the time. Despite it's reputation for violence Belfast is changing for the better and I dare say I like it here. The rioting is an uncommon event and in no way represents modern Belfast. It doesn't even represent old Belfast. Nationalists and loyalists groups are shells of their former selves and are now nothing more than well dressed thugs carrying tattered flags that used to mean something. I have taken pains to not say unkind things in my dispatches, but this violence is senseless. I am a realist. Don't get me wrong, there is a time for violence and I know that sounds remarkably odd for a buddhist to say but I offer you this: it cuts down on Sylvester Stallone's dialogue. That is the ONE exception. Belfast is a safe city with a friendly people and a rich history, something the city wants you to understand. The Titanic was built here, something that leads residents to joke "It was okay when it left Belfast!". Elaborate murals, long a symbol of the sectarianism, now sport web site addresses proving that in the rising tide of progress that all boats must lift or perish. I was amazed by Belfast and it turned out to be much more than I expected. Beautiful Victorian buildings, a thriving cultural scene and the arts flourish at every turn. I think back to the ferry announcement and I certainly am amazed. I am amazed that Belfast is in most respects a normal place despite attempts by hoodlums to mar it with violence. Note: Since this dispatch was written the rioting went on for three more days resulting in more than 80 officers being injured by Orange rioters. It's amazing that no one was killed in violence that randomly and routinely used molotov cocktails and live gunfire. Orange Grand Master Robert Saulters refuses to denounce the rioting. And so the gang wars continue...... Posted by Julian Cook at 06:00 AM | Comments (12) August 25, 2005Snowdon Wales - The summit"A ewch chi adref heno?" That Welsh question ran through my mind more than once as I descended from the summit of Copa'r Wyddfa. Translated it asks "Will you go home tonight?" Five minutes after bagging England and Wales highest peak, Snowdon, I realized why Yr Wyddfa translates to "The tomb". North Wales is achingly beautiful country. This is where you find the area known as Snowdonia, a rugged range of several mountains, many over 3,000 feet. The north coast train ride to Bangor kept me thoroughly awestruck as the train chugged along sandwiched between rugged cliffs and the low tides of the Irish Sea. Bangor was the last stop before the train crossed over to the Isle of Anglesey and arrived at Llanfair, an abbreviation of the Welsh tongue twister Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllandysiliogogoch, the longest place name in Europe: (In case you're curious, the longest place name in the world is the full name of the city of Bangkok: Krungthepmahanakornamornratanakosinmahintarayutthayamahadilokphopnopparatrajathaniburiromudomrajaniwesmahasatharnamornphimarnavatarnsathitsakkattiyavisanukamprasit or simply Krung Thep). I decided to start from the town of Llanberis where it's a five mile climb to the summit of Snowdon. The weather was near perfect. It was sunny, very light wind and the thermometer read 79.6 degrees. The path up the mountain is primarily slate and volcanic scree and it's quite an exercise in mindful awareness dodging the ankle wrenching dangers. This potential for danger is what attracts me to hiking, climbing and trekking. It's a form of meditation to avoid injury and it's remarkably calming just like a sailor spending his day on the water negotiating sails to propel him forth. I saw my colleagues in the search for tranquility far below on Llyn Padarn as I ascended higher on the mount. Slow moving partners in their canvas and wind dance, they cut their rug on an impossibly blue and frigid ballroom floor. It was Astaire and Rogers interpreted at a glacial pace. It's impossible to merely climb Snowdon and come back down. The scenery is so enchanting that you are forced to stop, sit and admire. Snowden is what I would desire in a woman: quiet and possessing a stature of breathtaking beauty that overwhelms you constantly with admiration. Snowdon's pitch grew steeper as I climbed higher on the trail now flanked by the famously beautiful and fragrant Scottish heather. The beautiful plants blast forth a supernova of vivid pink-violent and brilliant yellow and this made me wonder how nature manages to dress herself in such audacious colors and there's never a clash. Off in the distance shadows of clouds were sliding down the green treeless mountainside like silken sheets slowly and smoothly. The wind started to pick up speed whipping my hair across my face like a Muslim woman's hijab. Climbing higher the pitch grew steeper and rockier. I briefly spoke with a climber descending and he confirmed what I already suspected: it was cold up there. "Real cold mate and the wind is pretty strong too" he added for further emphasis. I gave fleeting consideration to turning back, but giving up now meant defeat with 80% of Snowdon beneath me. Sometimes the siren's song is too strong to resist. The path became increasingly unreasonable and the cloud cover escalated to thicker and ominous levels at the summit. The temperature had dropped to 42 degrees and and worse, the wind blew even stronger making it feel much colder than that. Staring down at a small lake I noticed small waves from the wind that raked the surface with it's icy fingers. Freezing in my convertible pants and rain jacket, I was in no way prepared for this. Scrambling up a steep and rocky curve I came upon the narrow ridge leading to the summit. It felt as if I were on top of the world. Right beside me was an anxiety inducing sheer cliff that plunged at least 1,000 feet and above me, the fast moving cloud ceiling that I momentarily was concerned about bumping my head against. Behind me were the tracks belonging to the Snowden mountain railway. I had never seen such a strange convergence of nature in this way and my mind couldn't process it all. I had to stop and take inventory of my surroundings and senses beginning with the cliff. Walking slowly towards the edge I felt a twinge of nervousness staring down at the lake below. The clouds were starting to sink and the chasm would fill with fog one minute and the wind would blow it away the next. The velvety movement of the fog was positively euphoric and I understood how people fall to their deaths in these circumstances. You're so entranced with the beauty of nature's ballet that you take a short leave of your senses and forget some basic, and most crucially, infallible physics concepts as you let your guard down and loosen your stance. Unbeknownst to you the Reaper has been looking for you and it's right then that he mutters to himself "Ah there you are" and uses the gentle fingers of wind to push you into the overjoyed and tyrannical arms of gravity. Very shortly you learn all the answers to all of those questions that previously only existed in the realm of philosophy. With only about 300 feet left, I decided to charge right into the mist. It's was all rocky and slick by this time and I occasionally had to lean forward and help my scrambling efforts along by grabbing the rocks in front of me. I was questioning my motives for the umpteenth time when I saw it, the monument that represented the pinnacle of Snowden. It was a large, square block of rock with a brass round plate on top detailing the distances to various places with most placenames containing a double F or a double D as is common in the Welsh language. First and foremost, it was uncomfortably cold on the summit. The thermometer showed 34 degrees but the howling wind made it feel much colder than that. I pulled out my small tripod and attached my digicam to take footage but the wind was so strong that it was jostling the camera! My fingers and jaws were stiff by this time and I had a hard time untangling my lavalier microphone cable which I needed to use to get at least a semi-intelligible audio track recorded. I managed to get small amounts of footage shot, some containing unprintable expletives, and then I was off with every intention of getting back to the bottom as soon as possible. That's when the real fun began. Five minutes into the descent and it began raining a fiercely cold deluge. Ped, my stuffed tiger companion, looked at me as if to say "I didn't sign on for ANY of this mister!!!!" and sensing his imagined pains I shoved him into my waterproof chest pocket. Thankfully I had taken to always carrying my Sugoi rain jacket and a waterproof pack cover everywhere I went in the Isles. The combination protected everything magnificently, especially the rain jacket which is now an indispensable part of my gear and will be for years to come. I had this rain jacket protecting me when I was cycling through the remnants of Hurricane Dennis in Kentucky and it protected my gear when I was on the low floating boat from St Michael's Mount in Marazion in Cornwall. The rain jacket has a pocket in front that can hold Ped in inclement weather, a longer back to cover more of your rear with a water proof pocket over that, vents under the arms to let in air, and rubberized zippers to keep everything nice and dry. Sugoi had donated this and two other rain jackets, leg warmers, socks and a full length padded cycling outfit to me before this trip and I cannot thank them enough for their kindness. You are going to hear much more about Sugoi throughout my travels and it still won't be enough thanks as far as Ped and I are concerned. Unfortunately all of the good intentions of the Sugoi folks would do me no good as round two began with a multi pronged stinging to my face as rain gave it's domineering deference to hail! It stung tremendously and continued to do so for about a mile down the footpath. I glanced at my watch to reassure myself that it was late August and then my heart sank further as I realized something else: it was my daughter Diana's birthday. That's the problem with traveling for any extended length of time, you lose track of the days. I immediately cheered up when I thought about previous birthdays with Diana and that made my descent of the mountain much easier. My pants were soaking wet and sticking to my legs as the wind kept up it's relentless pace and yet I had a warmth in my heart as I was thinking of a dinner that 10 year old Diana and I had in a French restaurant. "I'll try it if you try it" she dared pointing her finger to the half dozen escargot on the menu. The waiter brought the snails out in their shells, hot and bubbling in butter with a baguette of bread and we enjoyed them so much we ordered a dozen more. I love escargot and when I have them with my daughter they taste about a thousand times better. My happiness grew with each thought and the weather was getting much more agreeable as I descended. I was halfway down the mountain before I finally left the cloud bank. Looking off in the distance to Llyn Padarn it was becoming sunny again in the sky and in my mind. No, I was not going home tonight, but in my mind I was already there with my shoes off, smelling oddly reminiscent of a certain french cheese shop. Posted by Julian Cook at 09:37 AM | Comments (6) August 22, 2005Meeting Royalty"Would you like to hear a joke love?" Diana asked. "It's risque, I hope that doesn't bother you"...... I'm running to the truck now. "Oh no I'd LOVE to hear it!" This is a family web site so I'll just say that the joke involved prostitution and penguins with the added bonus of Diana acting it out. I laughed to the point of nearly unleashing a urinary tsunami. Diana is in her early seventies and I was listening to her stand up routine with her friends Sharon and Fay. We were waiting in the lounge area of a hilltop castle turned hostel named Fiesole in Bath. Sharon, Fay and Diana were traveling together and were waiting to catch a train later in the day. Lucky me. In between jokes I learned that Sharon and Diana had traveled to a great many places together. Sharon was the "straight man" of the two. She would say something simple and Diana would then capitalize on it completing the routine and the whole thing was topped with Diana wailing with infectious laughter. Good thing it wasn't Ebola. "Faggot is good meat it is" she said and then fakely apologized with a smile. "Oh that's right that means somethng else to you yanks doesn't it? I don't suppose you've ever eaten faggot have you?". Laughter again wailed forth and ricocheted off the 18th century walls, ceiling,fireplace and finally through the french doors in front. Never in my wildest dreams would I have expected to meet royalty but sure enough there she was: Diana Princess of Wails. Posted by Julian Cook at 07:01 AM | Comments (4) August 19, 2005The Penzance SeagullIt's nice being a Penzance Seagull.... Spreading my wings the wind carries me away, high up and away! Tilting to the right my wings are spread wide as a sail. I am pushed towards the sheer rocky cliffs of the bay. I never tire of the rush of being swept aloft. It is, for me, effortless. There'a a Coast Guard ship in the harbor, a white hulk with a red stripe and countless antennae transmitting and receiving who knows what in the ether. It carves the water like a rusty razor blade firmly and waits for violators. I remember flying by it one night and I saw a box inside with moving pictures. The box said "No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!!! I didn't get it. Adjusting my wings and turning to the right I see Porthcurno where people go to enjoy the water on beaches of finely crushed seashells polished to a smooth finish by the waves that pound the peninsula. The North Atlantic is NEVER warm and people wear stretchy suits that cover them almost completely. Just the other day I saw a handsome, young American chap and he was carrying a stuffed toy tiger for some reason. He went into the water and ran back almost immediately as fast as a swallow yelling about how he was freezing. You hairless monkeys are just not made for this water I'm afraid. It's a fool's pursuit, at least in mere swimming trunks. Twisting my frame slightly and turning left I see St Michael's Mount perched like one of my vulture friends awaiting a death. It's built on a rock that you can walk to during low tide. Sometimes when I am tired I rest upon the battlements and can see all the way to the Lizard peninsula, the Kingdom's most southerly point. There's another place like this, except it's MUCH bigger. It's called Mont St Michel and it's off the coast of France. I can see this place but I have to fly very high. You probably don't know this, but the pre-ordained plans of man describing their destiny are written on the undersides of clouds, including yours. I know, I have seen and read them. Don't bother to ask me, it isn't as if you would understand me anyway. When I tire of reading them I look to my left at the Mount and the right at the Mont and wonder why you apes don't speak the same language. Admittedly it's not as if pondering this issue will do me any good anyway. That's the beauty of being a bird, I really don't need many answers about much of anything. It's nice being a Penzance Seagull. Posted by Julian Cook at 04:19 AM | Comments (3) August 17, 2005Mama Mia!When the full moon in the sky hits your face through London's Eye, that's amore. Of all the things one could feel in London I was feeling oddly Italian. London becomes a known quantity fairly quickly. Visit it once and it's exciting. Visit it again and it's stimulating. Somewhere between the third and fifth visits it becomes just another city. You walk around envious of people who are here the first time and wish you could feel their enthusiasm. London is a worn out favorite song. Needing dinner, I went to Picadilly to score a decent price at one of the several restaurants near Charing Cross. Ruling out Indian, Chinese and Vietnamese I settled on a restaurant that dished out Italian cuisine at a set menu price of nine pounds. Unbelievable in London. Things were looking up and the meal to come made me happy to be in this place. The waitress brought me several slices of fresh baguette bread, a cup of black and green olives and best of all, beer! Next came two sardines sliced lengthwise and grilled to perfection in oil and herbs followed by a four cheese pizza topped with mushrooms, ham and peppers. The meal was capped off with a dessert of homemade teramisu that was flawless. It was amore. The service was as amazing as the food. Whenever my plate or glass was empty not more than 30 seconds would pass before I was asked if I needed something else. There was always a smile from the staff and they clearly were working their booties off. They were unflappable. I spoke with the owner Oliver for a few minutes and he said "It's all about the customer". It was a dedication that you don't expect to find in the bustling city. He loved what he was doing. The pulsating, epilepsy inducing disco ball that was Picadilly growed tiresome and I craved familiar London. I rode the Tube to Embankment and walked to the center of the Thames on the new Golden Jubilee footbridge. To the left, a full moon was starng at me almost dead center through the London Eye observation wheel. To my right on the other side of the river was Big Ben lit up in all his glory. Like a magnet I walked along the muddy Thames shoreline walkway to pay my respects to the old man. Big Ben doesn't make demands. It just is and that's all it needs to be. It has nothing to prove and that was reassuring. Big, imposing and standing above the London skyline Big Ben is most definitely a man. In time with my walk my head rotated upwards with mathematic regularity. 20, 40, 60 and finally 80 degrees as I stared at his face from far below. He was wearing a green head band of light with his small spires illuminated against the dark, hazy sky. It was ten p.m. and he spoke with ten booming, authoritative chimes. I started at the hands and thought about that Charlie Chaplin movie where he was hanging from giant clock hands almost ready to fall off. I felt as if I was going to fall too but into what I didn't know. What was I still doing here in London? It was time to move further in Dolce Vita: my good life. Cornwall was calling and that's where I decided to go next. It was a place that promised excitement with it's red sandstone cliff faces and rocky coastlines. All I could think of while entering the Westminster Tube Station was "Mama Mia"! Posted by Julian Cook at 09:00 AM | Comments (0) August 15, 2005The smell of landThe first thing I noticed was the smell and it overpowered my olfactory senses. It's the scent you get when you have been on the ocean for a week and awaken to find find yourself moored to dirt, rock and vegetation in such great quantity that only therotical approximations can calculate it. Dirt has never smelled so good. Crusoe and I now share the same fate, castaways on an island. Peering over the railing to the dock far below I observed crates of pineapples, tomatoes and other produce being unloaded from the bowels of the ship. The crates had my sympathy for although I was not in the bowels, I was at least in the spleen with my inside room. What made that strange was that there was no referential horizon which created a peculiar feeling when the ship would jerk occasionally. The cruise was what you expected, a ridiculous amount of service for a ridiculous amount of money. I would do it again. One should always subscribe to moderation, including moderation. Instead of checking our bags, Kerri and I chose to schlep them to the taxi. We could have been in any English port city, Southampton was not particularly distinctive or enthralling. I got an electric tingle out of the new driving rules and strange road signs. I saw a red rectangular sign that exclaimed "Changed Priorities Ahead" and I had to laugh to myself because that took my memory back to when I realized that I was not going to be able to conquer the world via bicycle. It all seems like ancient history now. These signs were now declarations to my foreignness that screamed that God's priorities had changed too. No longer was he blessing America but he was now saving the Queen. It was scary and exhilerating simultaenously. The international part of my journey had finallyy begun. Posted by Julian Cook at 08:49 AM | Comments (0) EarthKora Archives | EarthKora Gallery | Legal and Copyright Info |
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