And So it Begins...

So here we are – the start of another journey – Wainwright's Coast-to-Coast.  A bit of back story to all of this:  Alfred Wainwright was a curmudgeonly cat loving fell walker who wanted nothing more than to walk in places no other human being treads.  After tackling the Pennine Way and getting trapped in a bog he decided 1) Never ever doing that again, and 2) I’ll just make up my own damn long distance walk, thank you very much.  And so it was in 1971 “AW”, as he is affectionately known, set out from St. Bees with his pipe and sketchbook to walk across England from one coast to another.  Along the way he met a lighthouse keeper who was one of the few people EVER to be allowed to walk or even be near AW and he flirted A LOT with farmer’s wives and innkeepers.  He may have written a sonnet or two, composed an opera, and figured out cold fusion because if AW is known for anything else other than his walking obsession, it’s his enormous intellect and ability to think deeply.

Our journey in AW’s footsteps began in St. Bees.  A quiet little town on the west coast of England.  The train ride up from Lancaster was an experience in itself.  It was a 2-car train circa 1950 that for the first 45 minutes was packed with people who seemed to be heading to a party of epic proportions.  After that, the train was pretty much empty except for me, Ken, Professor Snape (Seriously – a retired prof with the last name “Snape” was heading to St. Bees for the walk) and a family straight out of “Deliverance.”   We spent the night at the Albert Hotel in a room done up in lovely 1973 décor sleeping in a bed with coil springs.  For those of you who remember beds like this, it’s pretty much like sleeping on bouncy rocks.  And then it was, the next day – TIME TO START WALKING!

Day 1 – St. Bees to Ennerdale Bridge – 26 km.

Coastal weather is notorious for being extremely good or extremely bad.  As luck would have it, we had an extremely good weather day to begin our trek.   First stop – the beach at St. Bees where you dip your toes in the Irish Sea and take a rock for good luck (and on completion, you toss said rock into the ocean at Robin Hood’s Bay.)  After an hour of distraction due to all the interesting rocks and just general giddiness we finally began to trek up the cliffs and into the fells.  For the most part, the walk was great – even terrain, a stop at a pub.  At this point, the only let down was the pie shop at Cleator was out of pies so no Steak and Kidney pasties to kill the bonk!  At around kilometer 20 we reached a small forest and promptly went the wrong way into the woods almost never to be seen again after being eaten by red squirrels.  This meant a half hour of bush whacking following the GPS signal until we met up with the trail again.  Yes, we COULD have back tracked and YES, Ken could have trusted me when I said “I’m pretty sure the trail is this well-manicured gravel path and not that deer run into oblivion” but then where would the fun be in all that?  Now back on the trail we are greeted by the most beautiful green fell bespeckled with sheep and black lambs.  Dent Hill lives up to its name – it really takes a Dent out of you.  Let me say that after 20 km of walking, a hill that NEVER ENDS is not how you want to end the day.  Every time we reached what we thought was the top we were greeted with “Shit.  It just keeps going.”  The descent was steep on scree and gravel.  My knees and ankles were not pleased.  Finally get done with the Fell from Hell and completed our last few kilometers in pastoral bliss.  Stayed the night at Thorntrees run by Rosaleen and Billy and I made a pig of myself eating lamb shanks and root vegetables at the Shepard’s Arms.

Day 2 – Ennerdale Bridge to Stonethwaite – 27 km.

I almost have no words for this day’s trek because we are still traumatized.  You know its going to be tough when your B & B hostess packs you a lunch with enough sandwiches, chips and Snickers bars to feed a small army.  That said, the day started out much like the day before – sunny and the promise of no rain until late afternoon.  And let’s face it, we are still feeling a bit cocky about how we mastered Dent Hill the day before and did not, like another couple, end up wandering the ridges for an extra two hours before making our way down.  Even though this section is said to have the most rainfall of any place in England, we were certain we could manage.  How bad could it be?  It’s not like a monsoon.  No, it's not.  It’s worse than a monsoon.  We had no rain until we hit kilometer 16 at the Black Sails Youth Hostel.  By then the wind had really picked up and you see and feel a storm rolling in.  I was so looking forward to a cup of tea but the hostel snack shop isn’t open yet for the season.  I had to take solace in the Bollywood music blaring from the backpack of a group of mountain bikers who had stopped for a smoke break.  We ate lunch looking up at Honister Hause – an epic ascent of 1000 meters STRAIGHT UP on rocks.  Yep – we ate ALL THE SANDWICHES.  Then we started the climb.  And then the rains started.  And then the hurricane force winds started.  So imagine you are in a wind tunnel getting cold water from a fire hose blasted at you – that’s our life for the next 3 hrs.  Holy mother of god.  I have never been so wet and so cold in my life.  Ken said he was less wet and less cold when he did the Antarctic polar plunge.  Visibility was pretty much zero due to the pelting rain.  Neither of us had trekking poles – BIG MISTAKE.  We reached the “Haystacks” and understood exactly what AW meant when he said, “This is a desolate and lonely place.”  He also said “There is no such thing as bad weather just bad clothing.”  F you AW.  You could be in a full body condom survival suit and still get soaked to the gills.  Now at the top we were in gale force winds.  On the plus side the wind was at our back.  On the down side – you are going down that hill whether you want to or not.  Came to the slate quarry and seriously thought about hitchhiking into town.  Decided at this point we could take a short cut and save a whopping 1 km from the trek and get into our B & B.  Stopped to read map to figure out short cut.  Another BIG MISTAKE.  Stop moving and you stop generating body heat.  Stop generating heat you begin to go hypothermic.  The last 3 km was pure survival instincts and pretty much an out of body experience.  Finally made it to our B & B – Knotts View – a 450 yr. old inn run by the indomitable Mrs. Jackson.  Mrs. Jackson is like the matron of a posh girl’s boarding school – no nonsense and tender at the right moments.  “Right then!  Before you get in the house strip off ALL those wet things and get them on the hooks outside.  Once they stop dripping I’ll get them in the kitchen to dry.”  Everything we had on was water logged.  We were so cold we could not stop shaking.  We were told in no uncertain terms to not hang anything wet in our rooms – especially on the heater.  Then Mrs. Jackson yelled “ROBERT! GET OUT HERE AND MAKE YOURSELF USEFUL!”  Out came Jim Henson/Robert who is about as nonchalant and jovial as Mrs. Jackson is stern and commanding.  Robert took our bags to our room and then I stood in the shower for an hour and tried to regain feeling.  After that, Mrs. Jackson was AWESOME.  She was so kind and nice to me!  She would hug me and ask if I was OK or needed anything.  Wanted to make sure I had enough hot tea.  The next day all our clothes were warm and dry – even our boots that we literally poured water out of when we got there.  Ken was raving at breakfast at how with the simple use of a fireplace and newspaper (Robert kept restuffing our boots with newspaper to get the moisture out) our boots where dry as a bone.  This in turn pissed off the table of British walkers whose million-dollar leather boots were not so fortunate.  But you know, Mrs. Jackson is a red squirrel lover.  And squirrels take care of their own.

Kilometre 1 and I make you dip your toes in the Irish Sea. 310 to go and 27 until a lamb dinner and a warm bed. The start of 18 days of blisters and bliss on the Wainwright Coast to Coast trek. I never said life would be easy or boring with me!

The start of something big!

The coast along St. Bees

The land of lakes and sheep

No pies!  Just potatoes and ale!

When all else fails - pole dance

"Don't eat my baby!"

Remind me, why we are doing this...

WHY HAS THOU FORSAKEN ME?!?!?!?

Manchester (Re)United

Why do we travel?  We travel to see new place and to have novel experiences.  We travel to get out of our element and test our resolve.  We travel to connect – to come back to those we’ve met before or to forge something more than we already have.  Our hearts have space for infinite encounters and yet, all too often we never quite open ourselves to anything more than what we know.  There is often an unwillingness to be open to something surprising – to allow the place you think will bring you one thing provide you with something altogether outside your whim.  This is where we found ourselves as we left London and headed to Manchester.  We left a city we expected to dazzle us but instead left us exhausted and desperate to move on.  We came to Manchester to connect with old friends and got so much more than we ever imagined. 

Manchester is a city all Canadians readily admit we only know two things about – it is the home of Manchester United and Air Transat offers cheap direct flights from Calgary.  Manchester wasn’t a place we came to for the sites.  We came to reconnect with old friends.  The city was a waypoint in a journey.  It was a time for celebration and new beginnings.  Not the kind of new beginnings sought after in youth but the kind where what you are about to become is all the more significant.  You realize with age and wisdom, you are stronger than you really are and softer than you really are. 

We had no idea what to expect.  Our friend Derek had been battling cancer for almost 2 years.   What would this visit mean?  The day we arrived was also D-Day for Derek – the day he had his appointment with the oncologist to find out if the treatments had worked.  Never had I felt my timing to be so out of my control as it did now.  Whatever news he received it would be our news as well and all of us would have to weather a life time in 4 short days. 

The news was in fact good – the cancer was gone and now the process of healing could begin.  Its funny how we think good news should automatically equate with good feelings.  Even funnier when you think the news that one’s life has been saved should automatically suggest jubilation and glee.  What we never understand is the weight one bears leading up to that moment.  I don’t think we ever truly appreciate how hard it is to remain in a state of unknowing for an extended period of time.  There is no place for acceptance because there are no markers to fix your resolve.  It is always a constant battle between your body and your psyche.  I think how trite the words “Keep positive” are in times like this.  What are you to be positive about?  What keeps you going when every day you wonder, “Am I to live or am I to die?”  Which brings me back to the good news.  All of us breathed deeply hearing it and promptly went to the place of “See, Derek?  All is good!  Now we can all rejoice!” People like to remind you that good news is better than bad – which it is.  What everyone fails to understand is how for so long you balanced on a razor’s edge. Joy of any kind is a moot point.  It isn’t that you don’t want to grab onto it and sing.  It’s that it’s been so long you don’t remember how, anymore.  Joy is not like riding a bicycle.  It doesn’t just come back when the sun finally rises.   It’s a slow and painful process back to a place of knowing again.  Only this time you are not the same person. Which sucks because everyone around you thinks the all clear means in fact, you are.

In these moments we become aware of how deep our love is and how far into the well we will go to keep that love alive.  There is the other side of cancer – the side of the partner who bears witness to the pain.  They become all things while their other is not.  We expect them to be all things because isn’t that what we do for those we love?  Can any of us truly know sacrifice until we are called to make the ultimate sacrifice – that of ourselves for the sake of another?  On the outside looking in we forget that there is more than one person fighting the fight.  We often interpret the other’s caring and love as a sign of strength.  We rarely acknowledge it for what it really is – a desperate need to survive and carry on.  Those who take on the role of caring are often neglected by the rest.  We openly admire them for their sacrifice while we secretly hide behind our shame.  For truth be told, we rather they bear the burden so we can simply bear witness unshackled from grief.  We are grateful to caregivers who care so deeply for those who cannot.  But ask yourself: “Who fills their well once we have all watched it run dry?” Will it be you?

You come to a place and think in the beginning it is a place for a holiday and reprieve from your world.  You get there and you realize that you are the holiday and the reprieve from the world.  This is your reckoning – Life is not just about you.  It never has been and it never will.  For those of us with very large hearts this realization means all is right with the world.  For in these moments we expand and our love becomes infinite.  For those whose hearts are small or broken, it’s the realization you are not alone.

I am not entirely sure what we expected Manchester to be.    I had not expected it to be the place where I would truly comprehend the significance of a second chance.  It wasn’t the place I would have picked to learn the most about love.  Yet this is the place where friendships last forever.  This is the place where love is eternal and lives on and on at garden parties and karaoke nights.  Manchester United isn’t just the name of a team.  It is whom you become when surrounded by those you love – united forever because love never dies when there are show tunes to be sung, gin and tonics to be drank, and fairy lights flickering in the garden until dawn.

London Iconography

The Real Live Paper Mache Man

Don't be fooled - Pleasure was had in Manchester!

Don't let the Manchester Fun Police see this ;-)

It isn't a party until the Garden Fairy shows up!

Harry I hardly knew you but I know you're holding our spots on stage for us...

The Grand Dame of the Theatre - Bill - reflecting on his time with La Cage Aux Folles and how he and Sir Lawrence Olivier ended up in the basement of the Eagle one raining night.

Getting Well in the Village with my besties

Alan Turing knew where it was at...

Derek weighing in on Patrick's rendition of Some Enchanted Evening at the Roxbury

The Lion King

It's not Manchester until someone gets topless

National Portrait Gallery Fountain Experience

The Queen heading out to Whole Foods incognito

You need to Woman-Up if you want to be head of security at the Palace

Blending in with the masses at Piccadilly Square

Say hello to your new Prime Minister!

And the obligatory political protest moment

London Calling

Ah jolly olde England.  London calling and we answered.  Here we are!  So let’s begin at the beginning  - with a flight.  Until someone of immense intellect perfects teleportation, the only way to get anywhere significant is by plane – or as I like to call it – flying cattle cars.  We have yet to accumulate enough wealth or airline point to fly first class so like the other 99% of humanity, we travel “economy.”  Ken likes to rationalize that the money we save means we can stay in better accommodations.  I suppose one step up from a 6 to a room hostel is worth giving up a seat that can recline to a comfortable sleeping position.  We flew Air Transat.  It started out good.  The plane was new – even had “new airplane smell” and the seat back entertainment unit actually worked.  We also had the seat between us empty although I must admit; I have no idea how a person could fit there unless they were the size of a small child.  Things got a lot different once we were in the air.  There was a fair amount of turbulence so drink and food service was constantly interrupted.  On Ken’s side, the attendants made it up and down twice in the first hour hurling drinks left and right. Meanwhile on my side the other flight attendants never made it past row 12.  Eventually, a woman 2 rows behind me went up to ask what was going on and the 100-year-old flight attendant marched down the aisle and screamed “I’VE BEEN DOWN HERE!  WHAT IS THE HELL IS THE PROBLEM?”  To which we all said, “No you haven’t!  You’ve never made it past the first 6 rows which we’ve watched you serve 3 times in the last 3 hours.”  She argued for another 5 minutes and then went and got the cart.  Started serving the family beside me and realized she was out of apple juice.  Reaches up above my seat to press the “call button” and proceeds to press it over and over and over again until finally, the purser from first class runs down the aisle in a panic thinking someone had just gone into cardiac arrest.  Turns out, there was plenty of apple juice in her cart if she actually opened any of the drawers.  When it came time to serve dinner, she kept forgetting where she left off which meant some people were served twice while others not at all (I got 3 breakfasts).  Meanwhile, her 150-year-old counterpart spent the bulk of the flight aimlessly wandering the aisles and falling into anyone sitting in an aisle seat (not due to turbulence btw). Quite a few people ended up wearing their beverages and meal for the duration of the flight.  Now before you get offended and call me out on ageism – let me be clear:  I don’t care how old you are if you want to be a flight attendant!  But I draw the line at being able to walk a straight line without falling every 10 feet and it helps if you are not suffering from dementia. 

(Now is the time where I provide my in 140 characters or less in-fight movie reviews)

“Exodus: Gods and Kings” – Christian Bale goes 6 years without a bath, has deep meaningful conversations with a rock and essentially becomes the Jewish version of the Taliban all because he met Ben Kingsley at a pyramid building site.

“The Hobbit” Battle of Five Armies” – WTF Peter Jackson.  All that build up in the last movie about Smaug and finally getting some dragon Benedict Cumberbatch only to have it all crash and burn within the first 5 minutes of the movie.  PS.  Total overkill on Bilbo’s hobbit feet.

“Night at the Museum 3” – Ben Stiller has a primal cave man thing for Rebel Wilson.  Ben Kingsley shows up, there is a reference to pyramids, and Sir Lancelot tries to dance a lot with Hugh Jackman.  Everyone get’s peed on by a monkey.

Arrived in London around 9 am local.  We figured we would get to our hotel, sleep for 3 or 4 hrs. and then hit the streets.  Lay down for a nap and the next thing we knew it was 7:30 at night.  Jet lag – it will do that to you.  We needed food so Ken found a Sainsbury’s a few blocks up that had sandwiches marked down to 99p. Ate.  Showered.  Passed out again.  Didn’t wake up until 7 am Monday morning. 

After a breakfast of cheap sandwiches and instant Starbucks coffee we were off to the Imperial War Museum. Even as a peace-loving beatnik I found the museum to be a great way to “kill a day.”  It has been seriously overhauled since my last visit but the big guns where everyone poses showing off their “big guns” still remain, as do all the planes and tanks in the main foyer.  Sadly, one can no longer climb on them and recreate famous scenes from Inglorious Basterds or Patton.  One of the more interesting pieces on display was what we thought was a rather interesting sculpture of scrap metal neatly folded like origami and stained a lovely hue of burnt umber.  Turns out it was a van that was at ground zero for a massive car bombing in Afghanistan).  Never had something look so beautiful and painfully barbaric all at the same time. 

The big draw for the museum is the World War I exhibit.  This is a definite must see unless you have PTSD in which case you are going to want to avoid it at all costs.  You spend around 2 hours wandering through amazing displays of the war while being bombarded with the sounds of machine gun fire, artillery explosions and the screams of dying men.  It’s about as immersive as you can get without actually fighting the war itself.  Add to that the throngs of screaming school children and you will need therapy and a stiff drink before you head up to the next level for the “Ration Fashions of World War II” exhibit.    Ken kind of poo-poo’d the idea of checking out a “fashion” exhibit (he has never let me live it down about the V & A and how “All it had was a bunch of clothes and tea sets”) but we both enjoyed this display very much.  It is amazing what people could make when they had to recycle material due to rationing.  Because so many of the images we see of the Second World War are black and white you never get to appreciate how much colour there really was.  I would fit right in!  Not sure I would want to knit my own panties.  It just seems wrong to have raw wool “down there.”  We also got a kick out of all the morale posters about how as a woman, no matter how ratty your clothes were you should ALWAYS wear lip stick and do your hair.  You know – do your bit to remind the boys what they are fighting for.  One poster said, “Just because a war is on doesn’t mean a lady leaves home without lipstick!  Don’t be the reason our boy’s won’t fight!  Keep your face pretty and your hair tidy!”  Right next to that poster was one about “Secrets lose wars.  Don’t tell her anything other than you love her.” 

After a $400 museum latte the size of a thimble we made the afternoon trek to the Tate Modern.  We were both super pumped to see one of our favourite museums only to arrive and find it in the throws of deconstruction.  There is a new Tate Modern slated for opening in the next year so the current one looks like someone ransacked it and no one bothered to clean up afterwards.  God what a disappointment.  I love modern art and the more obscure the better.  But the crap that was in the Tate Modern wasn’t even decent enough to be called crap.  It was beyond insulting.  We actually wondered if the entire museum was set up as a giant installation piece where gullible humans wander through filthy rooms looking at pieces of news paper with paint splotches and photos of a man’s uncircumcised penis pressed between glass slides murmuring to each other  “This is ART!?!?” while someone in a back room films and giggles maniacally.   The Rothko meditation gallery is still there although it was hard to get meditative with the Lucien Freud massive scrotum and dong painting blinding you just before you went in.  Ken is scarred for life.

London Tourist Tip:  Do not eat at a museum.  Museums are free to get in and there are “picnic” areas to eat your own packed lunch, which you want to do.  Museum food will cost you your first-born child’s college fund for a burger.  As a matter of fact, just don’t even bother to eat out in London.  It is beyond expensive.  As in, plan to mortgage your house for a sit down dinner.  On the plus side, lots of super markets sell cheap take away.  I already mentioned to sandwiches.  You can also get cheap 3 dish Indian food with naan bread for 5 pounds or less.  I have not given up my Starbucks Lattes but I may switch to crack cocaine because it will save us a ton of money in this city.

Day Two had us walking through Hyde Park to find the ranting podium (aka Speaker's Corner) and Princess Diana’s memorial.  We found neither although we did find the ostentatious memorial to Prince Albert (who looks kind of like a drag queen in this one) and I got attacked by pigeons while trying to feed the wild parakeets and red squirrels.  Hyde Park is a birder’s paradise with a plethora of songbirds tame enough to eat out of your hand.  A welcome sight after the Natural History Museum with its cases of songbirds stuffed and pinned into ghoulish Victorian dioramas.  (The hummingbird display case screams “Serial Killer in the Making.”)

We then took the bus to North London/Camden.  Wow – you are so not in Kansas once you get to Camden.  Five minutes off the bus and some homeless guy cycles past two women and yells “FUCKING BITCHES” for no apparent reason and then tries to run them over.  Every second shop is tattoo parlour.  Every first shop is a bar of questionable repute.  There is a famous street market in what was once the old stables and blacksmith shops of old London.  Now it is rows and rows of Goth clothing, incense sellers and palm readers.  The whole place smells like weed. There is Amy Winehouse graffiti everywhere.  My kind of place!  We walked along the canal and chatted with the junkies.  Wandered through the market stalls and bought some creepy Star Wars t-shirts.  Amidst all the squalor you begin to see the seeds of gentrification sprout – an old warehouse district being remodelled into luxury lofts, a Whole Foods market wedged between the curry shop and a piercing and branding studio.  And then – holy of holies – STARBUCKS!  Time for my ridiculously expensive caffeine fix.

Go ask Alice where to score in Camden

Houseboat living on the canals of Camden

Waterfront luxury - Camden

Self explanatory blue collar

Shit gets real when there are cupcakes!

If your ever in need of a disco suit that can survive a volcanic eruption...

Birds of a feather...

If I were a duck,  I would be this duck

Watch out for the monkeys!

I don't even want to know what the Tate paid for this.

Me not even giving a s**t anymore at the Tate

Ken trying (and failing) to understand modern art

"Blank stare - Blank Canvas" - Tate Modern

"Wasting" time at the Imperial War Museum

Ken flexing his guns

Soldier Boy