Secrets of the Road Less Travelled (pilot teaser)

I'm interrupting the usual flow of posts to introduce this trailer for a TV series my immensely talented brother has been working on. It's all about less well-known, but fascinating places in the UK. It's called Secrets of the Road Less Travelled and I think it's a great idea. My favourite in this trailer is 'The Lost Village of Dode' - just the name alone intrigues me. But when you see it... let's just say it doesn't disappoint!

2015: Struggle and Serendipity, Pomskizillious and Gromphiberous

Oh dear. I really wanted to blog more regularly in 2015. Things went OK until June when life sort of... took over. 2015 was a good year for me, more or less. The downside of it was a lack of time and money. Up until the middle of the year, I wasn't by any means feeling wealthy but I had just about enough and was even paying instalments towards a late-summer holiday. And then I was suddenly struggling. In a short period of time I lost two clients who no longer needed my services due to changes in their circumstances, and at the same time got hit by a couple of unexpected bills. All of a sudden I was no longer floating along serenely, I was struggling to keep my head above water, sinking lower and lower each month. Luckily, the story has a happy ending. My lovely sister (with whom I was going on holiday) lent me the money I still owed on the trip until such time as I could pay her back. And I managed to find a new job, working a couple of days a week in a jewellery shop (which I love). It was still a difficult few months as I was working three jobs over a six day week without much to show for it except exhaustion and a gradual easing of my debts. At the same time, IB was having employment dramas of his own and we were seeing very little of each other. I am happy to say though, that I am now solvent again, both job situations have settled and I have managed to re-jig my working week so that I get two whole days off. The storm has abated and we are back on an even keel - for now, anyway!

But those were the difficult times. In between them 2015 gave me many beautiful experiences and memories, lots of good times with the people dearest to my heart and also new and wonderful friendships. Which is really what I wanted to come here and write about...

Some of the highlights for me were finally reaching what has often seemed like the very distant shore of 'Acceptance' following years wading through the swamps of 'Denial', 'Bargaining', 'Anger', and (seemingly interminable) 'Grief' caused by my divorce. Yes, to anyone making this journey themselves, you will get there in the end. I promise. 

Then there was my magical trip to Glastonbury in the spring.

In June by pure chance I ended up making a visit to the beautiful Rheidol valley, which just happened to be one of the rivers featuring in the folktale we were due to work with at Dragonrise Witchcamp later in the summer. The weather was perfect, the river was beautiful, but more importantly what I learnt about the river that day ended up being an important part of the work we did at camp. Such wonderful serendipity!

Trip to the Rheidol Valley

Dragonrise itself was fabulous. I should have written a whole report as soon as I got back, but the notes I jotted down to recall the 'flavour' of camp after returning will have to suffice: 

Dragonrise

The sound of children laughing under the oak tree. 

The swell of grief for the rivers. 

Butterflies in the meadow by the stone circle. 

The serenely flowing brown Borle Brook. 

The fey whispering, bubbling in the woods. 

Talking, crying, laughing, dancing with Rheidol; picking wildflowers with Her. 

Making magic potions. 

Singing, singing, singing. 

The dance of the Salmon. 

The Rivers and the Mountain. 

Owls and woodpeckers and swallows and buzzards. 

A river of stars in the night sky. 

A circle of smiling faces in a fairy-lit yurt. 

Extraordinary magic. 

"The sun is shining... I'm so sexy! this is my tree!" (translation of birdsong!)

Holding space, drumming a heartbeat while the magic swirls around us. 

The moon through the trees.

"The journey doesn't end when the river meets the sea"

Brewing Magic Potions at Dragonrise

At the end of September, we took our much anticipated holiday to Gozo. I fell in love with the place. It's kind of wonky and quirky with a definite attitude of 'manana', but that fitted perfectly with my desire for a laid-back, relaxing holiday, which was exactly what we got. There is also a sense of timelessness from the ancient land beneath your feet, a sacred, magical place... I cannot put it into words. Victorian nonsense-poet Edward Lear also gave up, describing it as "pomskizillious and gromphiberous, being as no words can describe its magnificence". The Arabs named it 'Ghawdex' which means 'joy'. And I jotted down a few more notes which tried to capture the essence of the place: 

Gozo

Water reflects ripples on stone walls.

Bougainvillea petals on stone.

Lizard sunning on the wall.

Cooling breeze.

Turquoise pool, sand coloured stone.

Clouds drift over in the blue, blue sky.

Dragonfly darts.

Rustling palm fronds.

Coffee and olives and tomatoes.

Splashing, laughter.

Big yellow butterfly, hovering black bee.

Pomegranates and carob, prickly pear and loquats.

Azure sea, ancient land.

Slanting shadows and the sound of crickets in the fields.

Gozo

Other highlights this year have been lovely birthday celebrations with friends and family, a trip to Kent to stay with my sister, making new friends, a wonderful extended Christmas with the family and the addition of two kittens to the household, now taking the feline headcount to six. I am definitely becoming a mad cat lady!

Today, I'm counting my blessings again. Each year is different, some easier, some harder. On balance my 2015 was one of the good ones, the struggle outweighed by the serendipity. Thank you and farewell 2015, and welcome 2016. I wonder what you will bring?

On Finding Grace in Glastonbury

I first visited Glastonbury over 30 years ago, with my then boyfriend. On the way back from a holiday in Cornwall, we visited the Tor - he being a big fan of all things with an Arthurian connection. I was less enthused, especially when confronted with a large hill to climb. Nevertheless, climb it we did. It was a bright, beautiful day in May. When we reached the top of the Tor the landscape spread before us, stretching out in all directions. Swallows swooped low around our feet, chattering joyfully. As the wind whipped my hair I was filled with an ecstatic feeling - anything seemed possible. I wanted to launch myself off into the air and glide with the swallows. That was my introduction to the magic of Glastonbury.

*****

A few years later, my brother and sister, a couple of friends and I went on a camping trip to Glastonbury. The friends were also Pagans - I had in fact discovered the existence of neo-Paganism when I went to their wedding ceremony which (as they were Viking re-enactors) had been described to guests as a 'Viking wedding' but which actually turned out to be a handfasting performed by a member of their coven. I was fascinated and the rest, as they say is history. The camping trip was basically a chance to hang out, drink cider, visit the Tor/Chalice Well and, of course, shop. Back in those days - the late 1980's - it was hard to find Pagan books, magazines, paraphernalia or indeed fellow Pagans. Glastonbury was like a great cornucopia of Pagan goodies just waiting to be explored. We ate in hippy cafes, drank water from Chalice Well, sniffed incense, drooled over books, athames, jewellery, wands, crystals, cauldrons... On that trip I bought two books that made a huge impression on my early explorations of Paganism - 'The Spiral Dance' by Starhawk, and 'The Mists of Avalon' by Marion Zimmer Bradley.

The magic though, happened the first night we were there. After pitching our tents, cooking dinner and imbibing a few drinks, someone said 'Let's climb the Tor!'. Which we all agreed was a great idea. My memory is that we merely scrambled through a hedge and found ourselves at the foot of the Tor - although I'm sure it can't have been that simple. We began to climb in the gathering twilight. The climb was steep but relatively quick (then again I was a lot younger!). We arrived at the top breathless and exuberant, and turned to look back in the direction we had come. The most beautiful full moon, huge, yellow, was just rising. Dumbstruck by magic and beauty we stood in awed silence. We had not planned this, we hadn't even registered that it was a full moon that weekend. Serendipity had led us to this moment. The magic of Glastonbury, again.

*****

Later, Glastonbury became a place of pilgrimage for me. I visited alone and with friends, usually managing at least one trip a year. When our friends Kevin and Ann's children were younger, the group of us spent some memorable camping holidays there. Later, I discovered Avalon Witchcamp (later Avalon Spring) which was usually held a few miles from Glastonbury and my pilgrimages became tied in with an annual visit to Witchcamp.

Then the kids grew up and the camping holidays petered out. Avalon Spring ran its course and came to an end. Life got in the way and trips to Glastonbury became less regular. Until this year, when my friend Suzanne suggested a trip together. And so we agreed to go to Glastonbury...

*****

Thursday, 9th April

From the outset, everything runs smoothly. The weather forecasters warn of changeable conditions, but we have glorious sunshine the whole time. I am delayed leaving home and worry that I'll be late picking Suzanne up from her train at Bristol, but somehow I arrive with 5 minutes to spare and find a parking space right by the station although the car-park is packed. On arrival in Glastonbury we head straight for the wonderful Rainbow's End and treat ourselves to a delicious lunch. Then a bit of retail therapy and on to our B'n'B which is delightful and conveniently located.

Fabulous mask spotted in a shop window

At the B'n'B I make use of the free Wifi to check in with the rest of the world, discovering via Facebook that our friend Naomi is also in town, although leaving tomorrow. We send her a message hoping we can meet up that evening, and also contact my brother Mike (who lives in Somerset) and my friend Becky who has recently moved to Glastonbury.

We don't hear back before going out for dinner to the Who'd a Thought It in Northload Street, but who should walk in just as we are finishing dinner than Naomi! It turns out she isn't leaving until the following afternoon, so we make arrangements to meet on the Tor for a picnic tomorrow.

Friday, 10th April

Up and out bright and early after breakfast to get some goodies for our picnic. Then on to the tranquillity of Chalice Well Gardens, a place that somehow draws me more these days than the Tor. I have visited the gardens more times than I can remember over the years, but today is special. We arrive just as the gardens are opening, and have the place completely to ourselves for a little while. We make straight for the Wellhead at the top of the gardens, often crowded with people. Today it is just the two of us, though posies and candles remain from previous visitors.

We sit in silence, listening to the threads of birdsong weaving around us and the timeless flow of water through the Well; ever constant, ever changing, eternally flowing. Relaxing, I close my eyes, feeling such a sense of peace and healing. Be here now, the place says to me. Healing is here for you, freely given. The source is constant. I often have a hard time accepting gifts, help, kindness, compliments, nurturing from others. I am more comfortable giving these things. But this time, at Chalice Well I am able to relax and accept what is being offered me, and I can feel it sinking into me, my heart, my blood, my bones. Deep healing, long overdue. I know it is OK to relax and accept this gift, so freely given.

After a little while more people begin to appear in the gardens, obviously wanting quiet time of their own at the Wellhead and we move along, back down through the gardens, following the flow of water. I pause at the Lion's Head spout to anoint my third eye, throat and heart with wellwater, then drink a glassful, consciously taking in healing. We sit for a little while under the yew trees by the waterfall, usually my favourite spot, but today I am restless and want to move on. I listen to my inner voice and follow its promptings, which lead me to the Vesica Pool at the bottom of the garden. Usually this is another busy place, but today it is just Suzanne and I sitting on the sun-warmed benches listening to the gentle splash of water, the birdsong and buzz of bees. I soak up the peace, drink in the tranquillity, allow the sense of being healed to pour into me. Time passes. I allow myself to not care, to drop the mantle of responsibility and anxiety and clock-watching and just be here now.  

*****

We climb the Tor by the long, slow, path. I'm not sure which path is hardest, this or the short, intense one further up the lane. Panting, sweating, we stop frequently for breaks. These bodies aren't as young as they once were. Even a little way up though, the views over the town and the Somerset Levels beyond are amazing on this bright spring day. We persist, and as we crest the hill, we are greeted by singing. A young girl with a guitar and a beautiful voice is singing in Spanish in the ruins of St Michael's tower, taking advantage of the acoustics. We sit and listen while we catch our breath, then find a spot on the grass outside for our picnic. The Tor is busy with a constant stream of visitors. Naomi joins us and we talk and laugh and eat and catch up on what we have all been doing. We think it must be at least three years since we were all last together, maybe more. By the time we are finished eating the wind is getting fierce. We gather up the leftovers before they can blow away and make our way back down, the wind lessening as we descend. Children pass us, running up the Tor like mountain goats, and we laugh at their exuberance contrasting with our own more genteel pace.

At the bottom we notice that the White Spring opposite Chalice Well has opened its doors to visitors - an irregular occurrence. We enter the dim chamber, filled with the sound of running water and voices echoing in the dark. Altars have been set up in alcoves, and candles lit. I especially like the altars for Brigid and Gwyn ap Nudd who is said to live under the Tor, and with whom I once had  strange encounter in this very place.

Altar to Gwyn ap Nudd in The White Spring, Glastonbury

We emerge from the subterranean gloom back into dazzling sunlight. It is time to say our goodbyes to Naomi and drag ourselves from the magic of windswept hills and flowing water.

Later that evening we enjoy a lovely meal at La Terre in Glastonbury High Street, and arrange to meet Michael and Becky the next day.

*****

Saturday, 11th April

We have arranged to meet my brother Michael in Crewkerne this morning. The drive down is lovely, winding our way through pretty Somerset villages and open countryside. We get a little lost in Crewkerne itself, but manage to find the car park where we are to meet Michael just as he drives in behind us. We wander through the town to Bilby's coffee shop, where my brother recommends the Somerset Apple Cake with clotted cream. Although it's not that long since breakfast, Suzanne and I give in to temptation and are not disappointed; the cake is delicious and the clotted cream goes with it perfectly. Although we don't have long in Crewkerne - as we are due back in Glastonbury at lunchtime to meet Becky - time seems to stretch to accommodate us and we have a lovely, relaxed visit with Michael and still arrive back in Glastonbury in time to meet Becky and her new baby daughter, Berry.

We meet in Rainbow's End where somehow - Somerset Apple Cake notwithstanding - Suzanne and I manage to eat another yummy lunch. I get to hold Berry, a delightful, happy, relaxed little soul who snoozes happily in my arms while we chat. Becky tells us about her move to Glastonbury and how everything seemed to fall into place once they decided to make the move - I feel a little envious and mentally flirt with the idea of moving to Glastonbury. Would the place still be so magical if it was my everyday? A strange coincidence occurs when we realise the caravan Becky (who does not know Naomi) is telling us about selling as part of her move is the very same caravan Naomi has told us about buying.

After lunch we say our goodbyes to Becky and Berry, and Suzanne and I make a visit to the Glastonbury Goddess Temple. This is another oasis of calm, somewhere I always try to visit when I'm in the town. From the courtyard below, we climb the wooden stairs to the Temple. Inside, there is the smell of incense, soft music and the glow of candles. There are altars and artwork, chairs and soft cushions and rugs to sit on. A temple 'Melissa' is in attendance, sitting quietly and holding the space. I find a place against the lilac coloured wall and sink back into the cushions. Again I feel the sense of being nurtured, healed, held. I relax into it again, and initially tears well up - the tears that come when someone offers unexpected kindness in a time of hardship. But the tears soon dry - perhaps they are the last shred of my resistance to accepting the Grace that is being offered me here in Glastonbury. I sit in contented peace, sometimes with eyes closed, soaking in the calm; sometimes gazing at the flickering candles, the beautiful altar, the other people in the temple (including a crawling baby quietly exploring the world at floor level and a little girl, very intently making a drawing which she later presents as a gift to the Melissa). When we leave, the atmosphere of quiet calm comes with us. 

*****

Sunday, 12th April

On our last morning in Glastonbury, we have a few last visits to make before we begin the return journey home. Firstly, we drive the car up Well House Lane to take one last look at the Tor and say our goodbyes.

Then we turn back into town and make our way to St Margaret's Chapel and the Magdalene Almshouses. Neither of us have visited the Chapel before now, but Becky recommended it to us and we are curious. We arrive before opening and wait in the sunshine for the key holder to arrive. The Chapel and Almshouses are tucked away behind a building at one end of the High Street - easy to miss unless you are looking for them. The Chapel stands at one end of a small, but beautiful garden along one side of which run the Almshouses. As we enter the garden, my eyes are immediately drawn to a beautiful carved wooden finger labyrinth. I drop my bag and begin tracing the winding paths with my index finger.

Halfway round, I become self-conscious. Does the key-holder who has just let us in think I am being disrespectful by ignoring the Chapel and rushing to play with the labyrinth? Should I have stood back and asked Suzanne if she wanted to trace the labyrinth first? Another part of me is saying that this too is sacred, a sacred journey that I should perform mindfully, that I should respect the magic of the labyrinth. But ignoring those thoughts I rush to complete my tracing of the paths. I have reached the centre, no time to pause and reflect, to listen to the labyrinth's message - hurry to trace the return journey, get out of the labyrinth. And then something strange happens. As I wind around the paths, I expect to be led back out of the labyrinth again. After all, labyrinths have only one path which leads into the centre and back out again. And yet... I find my finger has traced me back to the centre again. I wasn't aware of losing my way and yet somehow I have. I smile to myself. I should have listened to the voice telling me to slow down and do this properly, respectfully. I was taught to treat labyrinths with respect and I have failed to do so. The labyrinth is letting me know there is no point in rushing, it is done when it is done - and it is not done yet. I lift my finger from the centre, but consciously accept that I am still 'in' the labyrinth, it is working on me, within me. I surrender to it, accepting what it has to teach me.

Suzanne traces the labyrinth, we wander the garden, explore the Almshouses (one of which has been restored to its original condition - tiny yet serene in its simplicity), and I think what a haven this place must have been to the poor and needy in the days when there was no Welfare safety net for them. We sit for a while in the Chapel, which like Chalice Well Gardens and the Goddess Temple is another place of serenity and I feel the touch of Grace again. I light a candle as an act of gratitude.

And then, sadly it is time to go. I do not want to leave this calm sanctuary, I do not want to leave Glastonbury. And as I am thinking these thoughts, I see - very briefly - two swallows fly overhead and disappear. The first swallows I have seen this year. The sight I have been waiting for so impatiently. The swallows I wrote about wanting to see (strangely enough) on our first night in Glastonbury. To me it is a sign of hope and promise, and a sign that our trip is at an end. It is definitely time to go.

 

Well, almost... there is one final thing to do before I can leave Glastonbury. I take my place back in front of the finger labyrinth. This time, I do it properly. I relax, breathe, and place my finger back in the centre of the labyrinth, where - I notice - a heart is carved. I listen. Do not rush the journey. It is not about reaching the goal, the centre, the prize. It is about the journey. Experience the journey, let it take as long as it takes. Take the time you need for yourself. Accept the gifts that are offered to you. Accept that you are loved and no more or less deserving than anyone else. Learn to accept what is offered. Remember the heart at the centre of the labyrinth. I take another deep breath and trace my way back out of the labyrinth. This time it is easy, effortless, and I find myself exiting more quickly than seems possible. I have left the labyrinth, but I take its message and its spirit with me.

We leave Glastonbury then, and begin our return journeys home, me to Wales, Suzanne to South London. There is much to ponder as I drive back along the motorways that lead me westward. I feel I have been given so much, I have healed wounds I didn't even realise were still sore. Such unexpected magic and serendipity. So much Grace, unlooked for yet gratefully received. 

I think of the heart at the centre of the labyrinth and smile.     

   

*****

If you would like to know more about Glastonbury and its sacred places, this is a great resource. 

Quick Update in Photos

As I mentioned in my last post, I was unable to post new photos to the blog for a while. So here are a few that I would have posted, had I been able to. It also serves as a quick round up of what IB and I have been up to.

 

In the spring, during a visit to a nearby farm I unexpectedly found myself helping deliver a calf  as the cow was in difficulty and an extra pair of hands was needed. Luckily all went well and the photo shows both mother and baby both fit and well a short while afterwards.

 

IB and I spent an idyllic afternoon in May wandering in gorgeous bluebell woods. I could hardly bear to leave.

 

 

We have had many lovely times with friends in our local Pagan community - there have been Moots (monthly social gatherings), seasonal rituals, meals out to celebrate birthdays, and workshops - this photo is from a wand-making workshop.

 

 

There have been lots of interesting places to visit - to Brecon with my parents to meet up with my sister and brother-in-law...

 

...to Castell Henllys in Pembrokeshire to see Robin Williamson perform (a magical bardic evening in an Iron Age roundhouse by firelight)...

 

...to the beautiful Aberglasney Gardens to wander in beauty and enjoy a delicious meal on the lakeside terrace...

 

...and another trip to Madrid...

 

...to see the ever-wonderful Rubinoos...

 

...and a Winter Solstice visit to see the Mari Lwyd at the National Botanic Garden of Wales (where we also enjoyed a fabulous exhibition of Jackie Morris' paintings).

 

 

Madrid: Living it Up and Flaking Out

Not having had the chance to get away for over two years, IB and I were in definite need of a holiday. When we saw that my favourite band, the Rubinoos, were going to be playing in Spain, we decided this was our chance.

Work constraints (I don't get paid holidays, and IB had just started a new job) meant we could only make a long weekend of it, but as we were both tired and stressed even that seemed like a luxury! Our stress levels were compounded by ongoing computer problems, which made researching and booking the trip a hard slog. Luckily my Mum and Dad were wonderful and did a lot of the legwork for us on their computer, so that all I had to do was deploy the credit card and sort out some Euros! My friend Lizzi agreed to housesit and mind the chickens and goose, and as she was bringing her dog with her the cats went on a holiday of their own to Mum and Dad's.

Despite horrendous fog, our flight on Friday afternoon took off in time and we had a smooth journey to Madrid. We negotiated the Madrid Metro system to the stop nearest our hotel, only to find my Dad had done a fantastic job of research. Not only was our hotel right by the Metro station, but it was also just round the corner from the concert venue. Impressive!

Unfortunately, the slightly sore throat I had put down to recirculated air on the plane developed into a full-blown headcold overnight. I awoke Saturday morning feeling dreadful and worrying about how I'd manage the concert that evening. We spent the morning on a gentle wander around the area to get our bearings, and were delighted to find 'Artemisia', an excellent vegetarian restaurant virtually on our doorstep - IB is vegetarian, and we had been a little concerned about how easy it would be to find vegetarian food. Particularly as I wasn't feeling great it was a real boon to find good veggie food so close by!

We spent the afternoon reading and dozing in the hotel as I wanted to save my strength for the evening's entertainment. As I wrote in my blogpost about our San Francisco trip, IB and I had become friends with the bass player of the Rubinoos, Al Chan. When he heard we were coming to Madrid, Al had kindly invited us to come along early to the soundcheck - we felt very privileged! We turned up at the allotted time, only to find the venue in quiet darkness, so we retreated to a nearby bar and sat outside nursing beers and munching tapas while we waited. After a little while we noticed people carrying musical instruments and amplifiers along the street; not long after that we spotted Al and the other members of the band, and followed them inside the club.

Al is a wonderfully wam and friendly person and even though we hadn't seen him since San Francisco, we were soon chatting away with him and lead guitarist Tommy Dunbar. Just then some more British fans turned up - Peter, Matt and Mike who had made the pilgrimage from Stoke-on-Trent - and we moved our little group to a nearby bar so the band could do their soundcheck in peace!

Madrid has a reputation as a party city, and even at what was a relatively early hour for Madrilenos, the bar was packed with an exuberant crowd. We were quickly befriended by a Spanish techo-DJ who spoke almost no English yet was soon declaring his undying friendship and inviting us all to his next gig in Belgium! It turned out the Stoke-on-Trent posse could have taught Keith Moon a thing or two about hedonism, and meanwhile a passionate argument about 'cerveza' between a waiter and one of the patrons was almost coming to blows, beer was being poured in vast quantities, and there was much merriment all round. As a natural introvert this is the kind of environment that would normally leave me feeling out of my comfort zone but the atmosphere was of such good-natured, bubbling, insanity I found myself carried along with it.

After the soundcheck, Al rejoined us and we all went for dinner in the Artemisia vegetarian restaurant, along with another fan, Mercedes. The waiter who had served us at lunchtime was very pleased to see us return with such a large party! By now it had gone 10pm and we returned to the club in time to see the support band, Suzi & los Quattros, who were excellent. By the time the Rubinoos came on, the Madrid audience was a joyous riot, dancing, drinking, singing, applauding, pogo-ing, crowd-surfing and beer spilling. Fuelled myself by the wonder combination of Rioja, paracetamols and adrenaline, I enjoyed every moment, including two encores, yet almost the moment it ended my cold kicked back in with a vengeance. We said our goodbyes to friends old and new and made our way back to the hotel - I was so glad it was just around the corner! We fell into bed at about 2am.

On Sunday morning we slept in late, and poor IB awoke with The Cold. We had planned to spend the day sightseeing, but both felt so wiped out that in the end we spent the morning vegging out in a coffee shop and then going for lunch at - you guessed it - Artemisia. The staff looked a little bemused to see us yet again! We spent the afternoon back at the hotel dozing, and felt too ill to seek out an alternative food source, so rather shamefacedly made our way back to Artemisia, joking that we'd have to wear false beards if we went back again!

On Monday we packed and checked out of our hotel. We had most of the day at leisure and had planned to visit some of the city's amazing art galleries, but once again found ourselves coughing and snuffling, unwilling to stir from the cosy coffee shop we had settled in. We bestirred ourselves enough to seek out another vegetarian venue for lunch (El Estragon), as we were just too embarrassed to go back to Artemisia yet again! From there we wandered down to La Latina Metro stop, where exhaustion overcame us and we admitted defeat and headed back to the airport earlier than necessary.

Flying home I felt guilty that we hadn't really done any sightseeing and had missed out on the opportunity to visit such internationally reknowned art galleries as the Prado, but we were both too ill, too exhausted and too wiped out. I guess we both really did need a break...

A Tale of Two Turnovers

Driving home from work today, I was ravenous, not having had time for lunch. On a whim, I stopped by the local shop. I had an insistent, out of the blue craving for a fresh cream apple turnover.

More than 25 years ago, I was backpacking around New Zealand. I had spent a few days in Rotorua, sightseeing the geysers and thermal pools. My trip - which had already taken me to Hong Kong, Malaysia and Australia - was nearing its end and money was becoming tight. Waiting for the bus to take me back towards Auckland, I hadn't eaten any breakfast and was starving. There was a bakery just by the bus stop, and through the window I glimpsed a tray of fresh cream apple turnovers. My stomach growled and my resolve to save money by not eating  until lunchtime crumbled. I bought one, and stood at the bus stop enjoying every glorious mouthful. It is amazing how much better food tastes when you are really, really hungry. It was just a simple pastry, but the memory of that turnover has stayed in my mind when memories of other, far grander meals have long since faded into oblivion.

I was musing on this today as I made my way to the chiller cabinet, where rows of eclairs, doughnuts and cream slices were displayed. And one - just one - fresh cream apple turnover. I had heard it calling my name!

I carried my prize back to the car. There, in the sunny car park, unembarrassed by the glances of other shoppers, I savoured every last bite. It's quite impossible to eat a fresh cream apple turnover without making a mess. Icing sugar powdering my nose, flakes of pastry on my shirt, sticky fingered, I licked my lips, enjoying it every bit as much as that other treat, long ago and far, far away. Different, but the same. Simple, but so, so delicious.

Sometimes the small pleasures in life achieve true greatness. This was just such an occasion.

La Dia de los Muertos

  

Our final day in San Francisco was La Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead (2nd November). In the UK, it is 'All Souls Day' and passes by pretty much unnoticed, but in Mexico and amongst some Mexican Americans in the US it is the occasion for a big celebration.

In San Francisco, in the Mexican Mission district of the city, the weeks leading up to the date see shops and houses decorated with altars to the dead, intricately-cut tissue paper bunting depicting skulls, skeletons, flowers etc., and decorated sugar skulls and 'pain de muertos' or 'bread of the dead' are for sale in bakeries. Marigolds are another traditional decoration at this time of year, and along with all the Hallowe'en pumpkins, witches, ghosts, etc, the Dead are a definite presence within the city.

The Day of the Dead skeletons are usually depicted dressed in clothes and/or carrying the tools of their trade. Traditional ones would be dressed as farm workers for example, or fancily-decked out Victorian ladies, but I also saw more modern ones such as the skeleton dressed as a career woman with power-dressing suit and briefcase, or a skateboarding skeleton complete with backwards-facing baseball cap. The point is that the Dead are like us - they are us, and we shouldn't be afraid of them, or of death, nor should we take life too seriously. I must say I like the idea of continuing a relationship with our Beloved Dead after they have left us, and in many ways the Day of the Dead celebrations are like a big party to which the ancestors and the living are both invited to hang out with each other.

There is a big parade through the streets of the Mission District on the evening of la Dia de los Muertos, so that evening, IB, Deborah and I and several of her friends painted our faces to look like skulls, and carrying a lit votive candle each, made our way to the gathering point for the parade.

There were already many people assembled, and some of the costumes were amazing, putting my own skull-bedecked T-shirt and jeans ensemble to shame. As well as all the people dressed as the dead like us, there were drummers, Aztec dancers, stiltwalkers and an amazing covered wagon pulled by a team of cyclists, with a kind of 'ringmaster' figure perched on top calling through a megaphone for people to 'bring out your dead!'.

We followed the parade from its start on Bryant Street, turned onto 24th Street (which was thronging with onlookers) and followed it for several blocks before leaving the crowds and cutting down Balmy Alley to the quieter part of the celebrations, where beautiful altars to the Dead had been set out in Garfield Park.

The park was a mixture of people, some in 'Dead' costumes, others conventionally dressed, wandering thoughtfully amongst the altars. Yet at the same time, in a nearby part of the park a brightly-floodlit kid's baseball game was taking place complete with picnicking families. It was, for me, the perfect juxtaposition of the living and the dead; a reminder that life and death are inextricably linked. The dead are always with us. And life goes on.

P.S. Beautiful photos of some of the costumes and altars may be found here.

San Francisco Photos Part 2

It's hard to believe it's less than a week since we left...

The lovely City by the Bay 

Coit Tower 

Amoeba Records, Berkeley

Go Giants!

There are amazing murals everywhere in the Mission District

More murals...

Beautiful altars at the Spiral Dance. This one is for water.

Another lovely altar at the Spiral Dance.

Walking across the Golden Gate Bridge

San Francisco from Coit Tower by night.

San Francisco Photos Part 1

Well, we are back in Wales, the computer is fixed - finally!! - and I have a few photos to share with you...

 The Rubinoos 40th Anniversary Concert 23/10/10

Mel's Diner

Alcatraz

Sea lions at Pier 39

The Ferry Building, Embarcadero

Day of the Dead Altar in our favourite Mexican Restaurant (El Metate on Bryant Street)

Giant Redwoods in Muir Woods

They're really tall!

Golden Gate Bridge

Just too photogenic!