A Hike Along the Coastal Trail.

Whilst I was writing a comment on somebody else's blog on this website, my memory went back to 1996. Oh yes, that year. Having been on a trip to the USA a year previously, which included a hike down into the Grand Canyon, and then back up again on the following day, this time, I was at it again, hiking the West Coast Path from Bournemouth to Exeter via the Poole Harbour ferry, and taking in six overnight stops. 

The toughest part of the hike was between Swanage and Lulworth Cove, completed on Day 2. It was the most interesting leg of the hike and indeed, the most physically demanding. As such, I shall let my thoughts wander a little - the kind of thinking I might have indulged in whilst walking such a route.

The Foreland and Old Harry Rocks, Swanage.

As my feet trumped along the path, the ground so unyielding, the rock so hard under my feet, to fall could cause an injury, yea, even fracturing a bone upon contact with the solid rock. How could the surface be so unyielding, with not the slightest dent in the ground caused by the impact between my feet and solid hard rock? And yet, who would anyone realise that if our planet was the size of a golf ball - just over 4 cm across, the Earth would have the same constituency as toothpaste.

Or as I look at a lifesize mirror, or even down my own legs as I take one step after another as I headed west towards the Cove, I can't help thinking that like everything else in our Universe, both animate and inanimate, we are all made of atoms. Yea, those tiny particles, rather like miniature solar systems, the nucleus in the middle of each atom, with electrons whizzing in their orbits around the nucleus in a similar way that a planet orbits a star, or even the Moon orbiting the Earth. However, if I had a golf ball in my hand, which has a standard size of 4.268 cm, and assuming that this represents the nucleus of a hydrogen atom, then an electron would be represented as a slightly smaller ball, just over 25,804 metres, or nearly 26 km, 16 miles away!

This rather fascinating fact brings home the reality that everything in the Universe consists mainly of empty space. In other words, by using the hydrogen atom as a model, if every atom that makes up my physical height - all 1.80 metres of it - were to implode, so every electron is touching its nucleus, then I would be hardly any taller than a grain of salt in the kitchen. And if the same were to happen to our planet, the diameter of the Earth would be just a little more than 2.1 km, 1.3 miles, across.

I wonder whether if all this was to happen - every atom in the Universe - were to implode in such a manner - I would ask whether everything around me would look exactly the same, except that I'm a human the size of a grain of salt walking on a sphere just 1.3 miles in size, or would everything be vastly different, especially in the relationship between the rate of density, and gravity? And what would the condition of our atmosphere be like? And our oceans?

And so, such thoughts circulate in my mind as I pause to take in the scenery, especially passing Durlston Head, with its quaint restaurant housed in a small castle, and arriving at Anvil Point Lighthouse, which is on the other side of a small but deep ravine, known locally as a chine, with a steep descent followed by a steep climb to get to the lighthouse. As the chine has every resemblance of a dried river bed leading directly to the sea, I guess it wasn't hard to imagine water from an inland flood flowing through this chasm, cutting through the Purbeck Beds and then cascading over the hard Portland Stone cliff as a spectacular waterfall.

Oh, how I long to have gone back in time to when this chine was draining away fast-moving waters, at the same time, cutting out the ravine as the water flowed into the sea. I carried on walking along the reasonably level coastline, the trail forming an endless streak along the clifftop, and unlike with chalk that is prone to crumble into the sea, this is, in a geological sense, almost permanent, as Portland Stone making up the cliffs is so hard, that coastal erosion is minimal. A rather unusual geological phenomenon to my right, as I headed west towards the Dancing Ledge and St Alban's Head. That is the landscape slopes between ten to twenty degrees off the horizontal as it faces towards the sea, with the trail running along the lower edge of the sloping strip. A raised beach? Quite a point, that.

I can imagine this part of the coastline slowly rising from the sea as the Flood receded, with the waves lapping at the sloping beach, and where the trail is now, that particular zone still underwater, especially during high tide. Now it's well above sea level, the ancient beach having frozen in time, grass replacing bare sand, cows now grazing where jellyfish might have been left stranded by the receding tide, the vertical cliffs beneath the fossilised beach exposed whilst taking the full force of the waves crashing onto them on a windy day. Ah! That particular day was warm and sunny, being in the height of Summer.

And so, the trail rounds a bend which marks the tip of St Alban's Head, and the path leads to a spectacular sight: Chapman's Pool, although not knowing who this Chapman fellow could ever be, I'm reminded of our short-tempered Deputy Head during my schooldays. Bearing the same name as this natural inlet, Mr Chapman was reputed by all the students for wielding his cane too willingly. To continue on the trail, I had to descend the steep slope of the ravine where its mouth is directly above the cove. Having crossed the dried river bed, the rest of the hike all the way to Lulworth Cove will be strength-sapping, starting with a steep climb out of the ravine. 

Chapman's Pool, Dorset.

After Chapman's Pool, it's up and down, up and down. Some of these slopes were very steep, and with a heavy rucksack weighing me down, it had almost got to the point of crawling on all fours. There was hardly anyone around, the trail was deserted. Yet, I continued with this challenging hike. Although I felt tired, I couldn't help but admire the beautiful seascape, and how land meets sea through vertical cliffs of varying heights - especially after pushing myself up those slopes. 

For me, the hike symbolises the Christian life, more so than the Grand Canyon hike. Here in Dorset, the general height of the cliffs from sea level remains at an average level. But this section of the trail crosses some hills, many of them quite steep, but, as I always like saying, what goes up must come down - a true fact when considering that this particular hike will terminate (for the night) at Lulworth Cove beach - after starting that morning at Swanage beach.

The Christian life isn't easy. Jesus himself has once said, 

In the world, you will have tribulation, but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world - John 16:33.

Climbing those hills, one after another, with a heavy backpack strung across my shoulders wasn't easy. But after reaching the summit, I was rewarded with magnificent views, vistas of the fields and trees inland, a dramatic view of the neighbouring hills, the cliffs, and the sea. Furthermore, there is that sense of satisfaction in accomplishment, that feeling of exuberance in a quiet a peaceful setting, far from the road busy with traffic lights, crawling car queues, exhaust fumes, lorries, bad driving and foul tempers. Indeed, by car, you can get to your destination very quick and easy, such as on the Bournemouth-Exeter route. But you would also miss out on the sense of adventure, the pure air, lovely views to enjoy, the sea, good exercise, sleeping at different venues, meeting people, sharing your experiences...

I wonder how Paul the apostle took it all? Apparently, he too lived a fulfilled life in Christ, so much so that he compared his new way of living with his old, religious life as a Pharisee. Comparing one with the other, his new life in Christ has made his old life as a Pharisee seem like human defecation! Yet, according to a couple of his letters, he was suffering a physical ailment. He even called upon the Lord to have "the thorn in his flesh" removed, but the Lord refused to heed his request. Instead, God answered that his grace was sufficient for him (2 Corinthians 12:7.)

It does look as if Paul had an ailment with his eyes, according to Galatians 4:12-16, 6:11, which affected his eyesight. I personally believe that he suffered from conjunctivitis, a viral or bacterial eye infection that causes a mucus discharge and difficulty in opening the eyelids. Accompanied by soreness, the disease can be highly infectious. To the believers in Galatia, Paul must have looked a sorrowful, even a disgusting sight.

Yet, according to his letter to the Philippian church, he was running the race with joy, encouraging them to shine like stars and demonstrating how life with Christ is so much more fulfilling than his past life as a Pharisee, even if, as a Pharisee, he enjoyed better health. Yet, even after his conversion, God refused his request for healing. And that's not too difficult to understand why.

With so many visions he had, along with various revelations from God, his heart would have been good soil to sow the seeds of pride. His illness had not only kept the apostle humble but quite likely had generated a greater show of love and compassion from his followers. The Galatian believers were proof of this. This sense of greater compassion added further credit to his message, along with encouraging stronger faith among his listeners, and quite likely added a greater number of converts to the church. Furthermore, rather than seeing his pride and feeling put off, they were encouraged by the humility his illness had brought.

Both Alex, my wife and I have health problems. She suffered from cancer, still suffers from pain, is reliant on medicine and attend regular healthcare appointments. In turn, I'm living with heart failure, hence my need for blood thinners and a plethora of other medicines. But, as I can see, these struggles have kept us close to God, and no matter how serious or threatening our crisis can get, we both refuse to turn away from God, his love and saving power. Furthermore, we are both hoping that our weak health will strengthen our testimony about our faith in Jesus Christ and, like Paul, can edify others and, in turn, receive compassion and encouragement.

Hence why I had made a comparison between walking in Christ and hiking a tough trail. I can see the parallelism. Can you? Climbing those hills and then easing down the other side, one hill following another, some with rather steep sides - all that is hard work, tiring, even frustrating and with a temptation to give up. How I longed to see the end, the welcoming end of the hike, and an even warmer welcome of my bed awaiting me at the Lulworth Cove backpacker's hostel. Yet rewards of magnificent views and good photography, along with a sense of fulfilment accompanies the hike.

After passing Kimmeridge Bay, a beauty spot with a car park and a stopping point for hikers, the trail enters a restricted area, owned by the Ministry of Defence. The MoD opens the trail for public use only during school holidays. At all other times, the area is closed to the public and it's used as a shooting range. When I completed the hike, it was accomplished during the Summer school holidays, hence, I had no trouble with access. The restrictions cover the trail between Kimmeridge Bay and Lulworth Cove itself. 

At a point between Kimmeridge Bay and Lulworth Cove, the Portland Stone cliffs give way to Chalk cliffs, hence a change in character. This section of Chalk is actually the far end of a chalk ridge, known as the Purbeck Hills, with Ballard Down, just north of Swanage town, and famed for its stacks - the Foreland and Old Harry Rocks, along with Corfe Castle further inland. The ridge arches inland until it meets the sea further west at the Cove itself, but the coast does cut into the chalk ridge for some distance east of the Cove.

After arriving at Lulworth Cove, it was early evening. After a 24-mile slog, 39km, (including the bit from the Cove to the hostel) the sight of the bed was so welcoming! Packed away in my rucksack was the ingredients needed to cook a meal before relaxation and then, much later into the night, off to the welcoming bed. Ah! Heaven!

Lulworth Cove, with Stair Hole in the foreground, terminates the day's hike

A terrifyingly-loud electric storm greeted me as I prepared breakfast the next morning. By then, I had made friends with an Australian backpacker on the previous evening. This was one of the inspirations that led me to book a flight to Australia for the following year.

The thunderstorm was intense. Maybe being by the coast and surrounded by hills had intensified the booms and rumbles. But as long as it lasted, I stayed at the hostel until the storm had passed. But I needn't wait long. The storm soon cleared up and I was able to resume the hike, a much short stint from Lulworth Cove to Weymouth town, where I managed to find a hotel.

Hence, when I finally boarded the train at Exeter St David for the return journey home a few days later, the hike proved to be an adventure I won't easily forget - with a spiritual ring to it.

2020 - Another Year, A New Decade...

It's Boxing Day, and as I write this blog, with Christmas Day having fallen on a Friday this year, it still leaves another five days before we see this year out, much to the relief of a large majority of the UK population, apparently. But who knows what could happen within the next five days. Our Government making a sudden decision for the whole of the UK to remain a full member of the European Union? Dream on! Humpty Dumpty has already fallen off the wall he was sitting on, and his fractured skull cannot be repaired. So it was thought.

With all the King's horses and all the King's men couldn't be able to put him together again, it was unfortunate that the NHS wasn't able to either, despite its advance in medicine. Then again, our National Health Service wasn't around when Humpty fell off the wall, as I have heard that the fate of this egg-head was to do with the fall of the Roman Empire during the 5th Century AD, which may have had a connection with the advance of hedonism. Oh, how unfortunate! Yet, he shouldn't have gotten so drunk as to pass out without first getting down off the wall to sit or lie down to sleep off his intoxication.

Just as we were young children attending an infant's class at a junior school, we joined hands to form a rotating circle, singing to the tune of Ring a Ring of Roses, who would have thought that rhyme had to do with the Bubonic Plague back in the 13th Century, the result of a deadly pathogen wiping out much of Europe, including Britain? And so I ponder whether a new rhyme, poem or song will ever be written about our present Coronavirus pandemic - or some mournful dirge of an ode would ever be written and recited so that children of future generations can reflect on the UK leaving the EU during the early 21st Century.

Ah, the fantasy of Great Britain resurrecting itself into new sovereignty destined to parallel the days of Empire, enjoying its greatest height during the 1930s and even into the post-war fifties. It's just ideology, with as much realism as a little girl crawling into a rabbit hole to find a subterranean kingdom reigned over by a playing card and inhabited with talking flowers and grinning Chesire cats.

Yet the beat goes on. Just in the first couple of months of this year were centred on Brexit and the year-long transition period, something nasty was brewing in China, and thanks to the middle classes on their world travels, especially students out on a gap-year, this nastiness was brought by airlines into Britain, Europe, and the rest of the world, as far apart as Australia, New Zealand and the Americas.

And so Brexit was knocked off its headline news pedestal to be taken over by Covid-19. The virus had the power denied from either Leave or Remain, and that was to shut the country down in a near-complete lockdown, something I had never seen throughout my near-seven decades of daily living. And so, Brexit had to be swept under the carpet - for now at least, and concentrate on this new pathogen which posed a far, far greater threat to our livelihoods.

And especially to the vulnerable. Such as my beloved wife who also early this year had to go through a course of radiotherapy as part of her cancer treatment following chemotherapy in 2019. This meant a fifteen-mile daily trip to Royal Surrey Hospital in Guildford. Although it might just have been plausible to take the train - a mode of transportation almost certain had she had no further disabilities, but being confined to a wheelchair while out and about outdoors posed too many problems. And since the taxi daily for fifteen working days would have been too expensive, we resorted to the bookable daily pick-up, a free transport system arranged by the NHS.

It proved to be very unreliable. A series of late arrivals and even no-shows meant that her appointments had to be rescheduled several times. And then the shaking of the vehicles as they traversed poorly-maintained roads meant that her back went into severe pain and she also experienced fits. And on several occasions, she was taken to A&E instead of the Radiotherapy department. This meant for me an apologetic phone call and an unscheduled trip to the station to board a train for Guildford. But in all cases, she managed a session, even late in the evening after a day spent at A&E, and then having to take a taxi home past midnight at an extortionate price, arriving home some twelve hours later than scheduled. 

Wasn't I relieved when her final Radiotherapy session came and went! And just in time. For soon after her discharge, the hospital had to adapt to accommodate Covid patients, with the likelihood of shutting down all daytime departments so the staff can concentrate on these infected new-arrivals.

And so from March onwards, the country went into lockdown, as as the weather got warmer, the sun began to shine, spirits were lifted and trips to the coast were made on a grand scale, thus defying lockdown rules. With such wisdom from the powers-that-be, it was decided that all public conveniences remained shut, thus the beaches were left contaminated with defecation, the stink and the pollution after everyone had gone home, those who had to clean up afterwards blamed just about everyone, with the resort Council bureaucrats taking quite a slice of the blame.

A crowded beach at Bournemouth, Summer 2020.

The summer months enjoyed a reprieve from the virus until the start of Autumn. As the weather cooled, and so the rate of infection began to rise again, as did hospital admissions and the death rate. Shortly after the end of a second month-long national lockdown, it was announced that our area is to go into a tough Tier 4 of restrictions which is again a lockdown but with another name.

What with Ascot Life Church no longer able to hold services, along with most other churches across the nation, this was the one thing I missed most of all: face-to-face church fellowship. Perhaps the hole left in my soul after church shutdown could be the reason why the New Testament is rather hot about advocating active interaction between Christians - not so much about coffee and doughnuts, although still a necessity - but rather to teach, to edify, to comfort and to encourage, even to discipline if such is called for, but more important of all, to love one another. There is something therapeutic about a physical handshake, a hug is better still. Too bad that here in England, the holy kiss is not a done thing. A pity. There must be something very beneficial a kiss can be, even physically.

And so it has been a year of social distance and wearing of facemasks. Or in other words, rather than the sweet fellowship experience described above, every person sees each other as a potential source of infection, a walking disease to stay well away from. Like the time I was standing on the escalator in readiness to exit Oxford Street Station. The mask I was wearing prompted me to cough, and the young lady directly in front of me took off. What surprised me was that she didn't scream. And churches were not exempt from this new culture, either.

The disease has also revealed the "chocolate Christian" mentality, who melt when the heat is on. That means panic arises if anyone comes too near them. Like I did at one alfresco Bible study group during the warm Summer. Upon arrival, I caused panic to ensue, followed by frayed tempers. And not a single virus among any one of us.

What a crying shame all this is - the ban on hospitality for one. To invite a friend is banned, nor would any Christian have me at their homes. By law. One can argue that I should be thankful for technology where "virtual services" are laid on. But really, staring at a pigeonhole on a computer screen does in no way holds a candle to a real face-to-face experience. What a contrast all this is to the Christians at Galatia, who were tempted to be put off by Paul's conjunctivitis, a very infectious viral disease to the eyes which brings unsightly mucus at the eyelids (Galatians 4:12-16.) The ancients were familiar with this eye condition, for apparently, it was common. They were also aware that conjunctivitis is contagious, but the believers in Galatia did not melt - running away screaming in panic. Instead, they have embraced him and invited them into their homes. 

This isolation, this alienation of brother from brother, house from house, church from church, town from town, and nation from nation - has made this year one of the most testing years in recent decades. Indeed, one can argue that going to war, as our grandparents had to, was worse, due to not knowing whether one would ever return. But camaraderie has always existed among troops, as this brings morale and encouragement when entering the battlefield. Instead, this pandemic has made every one of us suspicious, with the wearing of the mask compounding the situation to the point of each one seen as a threat.

However, out of God's tender mercy, I have one friend who has stuck closer to me than any brother. Enter Young-Earth Creationist Dr Andrew Milnthorpe, who accompanied me on many walks during lockdowns. Hence, I mention him quite frequently on these blogs. The friendship between us is unique since it transpires across all social class barriers, along with any national and political differences we have. Yet I treasure his friendship, it is worth greater than gold. And such a friendship as this one must be of high value in God's eyes, for King David once wrote:

Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity! It is like the precious oil upon the head, that ran down upon the beard, even Aaron's beard: that went down to the skirts of his garments; as the dew of Hermon and as the dew that descended the mountains of Zion; for there the Lord has commanded a blessing, even life forevermore.

Psalm 133 AV.

And it's God, his love, grace and mercy which has helped me through this year. And God's mercy can be shown through the affection of this friend of mine, who has over the years, accompanied us on day trips and even weekends away.

Dr Andrew Milnthorpe.

2020 has been the year of infections, illness, social distancing, wearing masks, not visiting each other, closed churches, lacking interactive fellowship, isolation, being told what to do and what not to do in our own homes, closed shops, restaurants, bars and hotels, travel under restrictions if not banned, worry, fear, anxiety, loss of family contact, and lately, banned from visiting our family members for Christmas. I thank God that I'm not a singleton. It is those people whom I feel sorry for this Christmas.

And now, 2020, which ushered in a new decade, is about to end in a few days, hope for a vaccine - several vaccines, in fact, will for 2021, slowly restore everything back to normal and see the exit from this insane madness.

A Staycation Under a Pandemic

At last, schoolchildren don their uniforms once again after nearly six months of freedom in casual wear as they all return to the classroom. At the same time, employees return to their offices, well, at least some of them do anyway, whilst others see the pandemic as a good excuse to carry on working from home. After all, who wants to have a truculent boss breathing down the back of the neck with the words, Is that the best you can do? - thus raising stress, anxiety, even panic levels?

With one of my best friends away in Italy visiting I Scavi de Pompeii with Oak Hall, a Christian holiday group, and advising him not to dig his heel into the ground when addressing a hill with a hole at the top as Mount Vesuvius, but instead, address it as Monte Vesuvio whilst over there, Alex and I enjoyed a few days on the East Dorset coast. A staycation, one of those newly defined words which its true meaning remains unclear. Does it mean to go anywhere for more than 24 hours within the UK, or even just in England, or does it mean a respite from having to go to work yet not leaving home for more than twelve hours at a time?

Pompeii with Monte Vesuvio, visited 1973, 1982. Stock photo.

And such as the meaning of the word holidays as evolving in its original meaning from a day or a week of special religious observance to that of a week or two by the seaside, to a trip overseas to a foreign resort, usually at the Mediterranean, and lately, a long-haul international trip. At least in America, the word holiday means exactly that - a day of special religious observances such as Easter or Christmas. For trips away, they use the word vacation - to vacate the home for leisure purposes, and a word we nicked from them to use as a root word to mean to holiday in the UK.

And so the newspapers deliver one distressing news story after another. Such as today, when our Government announces with a very short notice that from tonight everyone who returns from Portugal must self-isolate for two weeks, whether anyone has the virus or not. And the amount of stress that alone inflicts. Many who have to return to work, now have to announce to their employer that they can't return on the agreed date, thus putting their jobs at greater risk. And yet, ministers from all parties, including the Tories, have cried out for our Prime Minister to have these quarantine issues replaced with individual testing at border entry, like with all other countries. Like that, everyone who is tested negative can live on as normal. But instead, our PM remains obstinate, despite the cries from the public and ministers alike.

Yet, despite the need for passports, tests for the virus, the likelihood of quarantine, the filling of entry forms and other border issues, there is nothing more exuberant than relaxing as the plane takes off and soars into the air, passing through thick cloud and emerging from above it, the clear sunshine overhead causing the cloud to reflect in brilliant eye-dazzling whiteness, thus quickly forgetting the grey dullness and drizzle underneath. Or on a clear day, watching the English coastline recede as the plane flies over the Dover Straits of the English Channel, only to watch the French coastline approach whilst the English side is still in view. That sensation that the UK is behind as a reminder that foreign soil is already beneath and the holiday is well underway.

I suppose it has all to do with our British cool temperate climate, which features cool wet Summers, particularly in August, in the midst of the English school holidays. Indeed, where resorts such as Morecambe, Blackpool, Filey, Brighton, Bognor Regis and many more traditional resorts were in their heyday thriving with holidaymakers as they flocked into penny-machine amusement arcades whenever it rained, the consumption of cod and chips wrapped in a couple of sheets of white paper, and the daily stroll along the windy beaches was at its heights during the fifties, the quest for sunshine opened up a world of package trips throughout the sixties.

And so the foreign holiday became less as a reserve for the well-to-do and became reachable to the common people. Ah! For the daily dose of uninterrupted sunshine! And the need for passports, visas (in some cases) the growing threat of airline strikes, watching travel companies rise and then fall (as one major aviation company, Court Line, which was also the parent company of Horizon and Clarkson Holidays, went bust in 1974) and the rise of tourist rip-offs which left many as victims of an unexpected expense, including those paid for the treatment of uninsured victims of accidents or illness whilst abroad, or not properly covered by their insurance policies, those wretched clauses found in the Small Print and easily overlooked by the holder.

At least with us, with a staycation, there are no worries about any of these border-control issues, rip-offs, airline strikes or health insurance, although it's my opinion that train travel will never hold a candle to the smoothness of a flight. I say this, although a recent change in the timetable has allowed the running of faster trains, with fewer stops and quicker journeys.

And so we arrive at Bournemouth Station after a fast and flawless journey. When we arrive at our hotel, a Whitbread-owned Premier Inn pile right in the town centre and with clear views of the coast, there were alterations which I have found to be annoying, yet realising that such is necessary during this COVID-19 pandemic. And one of these alterations was for compulsory booking for breakfast, already paid for, when checking in at reception.

A view of Bournemouth Beach from East Cliff.

Since all the more popular timeslots were already taken, we booked for 08.15 for each morning. Which means we had to wait to be seated at the entrance like at any Pizza Hut restaurant. When we were seated, it was no longer the well-cherished self-serve system characterised with this major hotel chain. Instead, it was waitress service, for which to order the food was a prerequisite. And confusion.

For two mornings in a row, due to a mix-up with another customer, the food failed to arrive. And on one of the mornings when again we had to re-order, Alex's serving arrived but not mine. When I asked about my order, I received an apology and soon after, it, at last, arrived, only it wasn't quite what I asked for. However, I just smiled and thanked the young lady for her efforts, as I have found out, the hotel restaurant had only recently re-opened after a long lockdown and the staff was barely trained. However, mornings are not the best times of the day and to one man I estimated to be in his late twenties or thirties, I had a bit of a moan.

After breakfast, I apologised for being so grumpy, just as my beloved had said recently, that I tend to be moodier in my old age than I was in the past. He turned out to be the hotel manager, and I showed interest by asking various things about running a hotel, particularly when facing extra but unnecessary expenses such as loss of keys, door lock replacements and so on. The way the conversation went, I got the impression that I was the first customer ever to see him as a human being and not as merely an object of convenience. In the end, we weren't that far from becoming friends.

But the difference between waitress service for breakfast and the normal self-service is as wide as the Grand Canyon. For me, there is something special, indeed, even romantic, about walking towards the large array of choice to fetch breakfast for my beloved, who prefers to remain at the table in her wheelchair. If there was a queue, the waiting was only momentary, for the choice was wide and easy to access. However, going back to my backpacking days, nothing was so adventurous and thrilling than to buy my own groceries to take back to the member's kitchen, then cook my own meals while at the same time talk to and make friends with a fellow traveller who is also cooking at the next stove. 

Or going back to the seventies, when all the hotels I was staying did not serve breakfast. It was easy for me to find a nearby coffee bar and bought and ate what I liked and needed. Plenty of those coffee bars in both Italy and in the USA, although back in the seventies, in America I found Greyhound Bus terminal cafeterias were great places for meals at any time of the day. Both in 1977 and 1978, no matter which city I stayed at, each morning it was straight out of the hotel, to the nearby Greyhound Bus self-service cafeteria. It was heaven!

Oh, those days. Indeed, those were the days, my friend, I thought would never end. That is, until the onset of the Coronavirus pandemic. 

This new world of facemask-wearing in enclosed spaces including all shops, trains and buses, social distancing, to be reminded not to get too close to a stranger (as I did in neighbouring Swanage) the fixed bookings for breakfast, can't shake hands (as I would have done with the hotel manager when checking out) along with the inability to hug, all makes this beautiful world of humanity a mere shadow to what it was and which I'm so used to.

As someone recently wrote in a newspaper, encouraging us to pray hard that no world war would break out, as this generation of snowflakes, so he says, would not be able to handle it. Personally, I'm extremely fortunate to live in a war-free era of British history, and grew up to take for granted all the niceties I described above, therefore I have much to be thankful to God for. I guess much is to do with personality or temperament. The vast majority of my brothers in Christ I have ever known seem to prefer escorted or group travel, Oak Hall being on top of their list. If that is what they desire most, then may God bless them richly. For me, I prefer lone travel, which can have its own pitfalls, which are left for me to resolve.

Like the day Alex and I took a bus to Swanage. The 66-minute bus journey included the chain ferry crossing to Studland Bay, a very different scenery to Sandbanks on the other side of Poole Harbour, the world's second-largest natural harbour after Sydney Harbour. Sometime after arrival, Alex agreed to remain at the harbour for an afternoon kip while I set upon a dayhike around Peveril Point, that part of the geological phenomena I have been familiar with since I was a schoolboy.

Peveril Point, Swanage. Stock photo.

This involved going all the way around the peninsula instead of staying on the official footpath which cuts across it, in order to maximise the rewarding views across the bay. Therefore I was confronted with a challenge to scramble over some large boulders which, with a bit of calculation plus a good dollop of agility, I manage to scramble up successfully without hurting myself. The views across the fully-inhabited Swanage Bay on one side of the Point and the view of the uninhabitable Durlston Bay on the other is for me, breathtaking scenery.

And I had my video camera. For the first time ever, I hope to post the video onto YouTube. But I may need some advice from those with the experience to show me the right way to do it.

All these scenic coastlines witness of God's love for aesthetics when creating this dramatically beautiful world. And even if the pandemic has made the day-to-day living that little bit awkward, slightly less comfortable, and an apparent curtailing of our precious freedoms, yet it goes to show that God still holds the reigns, his sovereignty is fully trustworthy, and his salvation is offered to everybody who wants it. Indeed, I can be thankful in every way for our dear Lord to allow us to have a staycation in the first place, and to reveal his goodness towards us regardless of the pandemic restrictions.

The Cliff, the Beach, and the TV.

Perhaps as any married couple would agree, that taking a break and going somewhere for a few days, a week, or even a fortnight, is a nuptial booster and a marriage refresher. So it was with us. And what better place for us was at that part of the world well known for its geological magnificence and uniqueness, together with beautiful people. And that is at the length of coastline stretching from Christchurch, through to Boscombe, Bournemouth, and Swanage. Of the four place names, only the resort of Swanage can be regarded as part of the true historic Dorset, as I recalled the other three resorts as being in Hampshire, and therefore sharing the same county as the heavy shipping docks of Southampton, and the naval centre of Portsmouth, before the boundary change which occurred on April 1st, 1974 which took in Bournemouth, Boscombe, and Christchurch as the three towns of the new East Dorset.

Thus, in 1962, when I was a nine-year-old London schoolboy, our primary school took us to Swanage for a two-week educational trip shortly before the Summer closure. Immediately I was impressed with both the chalk cliff of Ballard Down to our left as we looked out to sea, and the smaller, more built-on Purbeck limestone promontory of Peveril Point to our right, which were actually to the north and to the south of Swanage respectively, as this particular stretch of English coastline faced east rather than south, with the far-away outline of the chalk cliffs of West Wight appearing on the horizon on any clear day.

It was when our strict teachers got us all in twos, making a neat double line, that we began walking along Peveril Point that as I glanced towards Ballard Point on the other side of the bay, that this unique phenomenon occurred. And that was the gradual appearing of the Foreland and Old Harry Rock, very much like a telescope slowly extending from behind the main cliff. Then when we returned to town, the cliff slowly telescoped back behind Ballard Point, as if it was never there. This unique geological phenomenon has stuck with me ever since, with memories of such a view remaining with me throughout my childhood, extending into adulthood. Rather surprisingly though, our teachers, who were pretty good in smacking our bottoms, did not explain anything to us when I asked, maybe due to their lack of local knowledge of the area to fill this curious young mind. Either that, or we were perceived by them as too immature to understand a little of geology combined with vectorisation.

Ballard Down Cliff, viewed from the town and from Peveril Point.

This geological curiosity has enabled me to visit this area many times over, and staying at Swanage Youth Hostel, I took walks along the chalk Down and followed the trail running along the edge to Old Harry Rock, then onwards into Studland Bay, north of Ballard Down. In the other direction from Swanage, the trail winds around Peveril Point, over the grey Purbeck cliffs of Durlston Bay until reaching Durlston Head with its castle-like restaurant and coffee bar perched on the clifftop, then the trail swings left as the coast, from this point remaining preserved by the hard and resistant Portland Stone cliffs, resumes in facing south over the Channel, eventually towards the resort and harbour of Weymouth, passing along spectacular but strenuous rises and dips which makes up the Jurassic Coast, now a World Heritage Site.

Just a little past Durlston Head the loud fog-horn of Anvil Point Lighthouse wails across the sea on one foggy morning back in the 1980's. And I can interpret this as a wail of mourning - after all, the whole of the Jurassic coast, stretching from Studland Bay, taking in Old Harry Rocks, Swanage itself, all the way past Weymouth towards Lyme Regis which borders with Devon - is one huge graveyard. Fossils of dead marine life tells me of a long-forgotten world which was drowned by a global Flood. It is throughout my life as a Christian who believes in the historicity of the Bible, that the whole of the Jurassic coastline held a fascination over me, combined with a sense of universal mourning, and a deep feeling of curiosity on how that forgotten world must have looked, once so fresh from initial Creation.

This Flood which wiped out the first world, all because of human wickedness which came dangerously close to eliminating the Messianic Line from Adam to Christ. Had that line been cut, then the initial Promise would have been broken, and we would all be left in our sins to face Judgement. And that would have included Abraham, Moses, David, all the prophets, and every saint recorded in the New Testament ending up in Hell, neither would churches exist to this day. Indeed, the Flood and the Holy Spirit working through Noah's faithfulness had played an important role towards our redemption. Yet the fog-horn wails, one mighty blast following another, an endless chain of loud blasts echoing across the landscape and sea alike, as if weeping over the huge graveyard that was once such a beautiful antediluvian world.

As such a combination of a fascinating coastal landscape combined with Biblical revelation has always attracted me to this part of the world, and therefore it's no surprise that we have been visiting as a married couple more than once. Even right up to this week. We stayed at a hotel accessible for wheelchair users which was close to the shore on the East Cliff of Bournemouth. From there we spent a full day at Swanage under glorious sunshine, and once again for the umpteenth time I watched the Foreland and Old Harry Rocks telescope out from the end of Ballard cliff as we walked along towards Peveril Point. 

But it was on the next day when we took a stroll eastwards towards Boscombe that we came across a large crowd of what appears to be foreign students, some of them engaged in beach volleyball. Although many spoke English, I can tell by their accents that these were not home-born. There was a very cheerful atmosphere as they all enjoyed each other's company. I could not help but feel my heart warm towards them. Among them there was no sign of aggression, no disputes, apparently no drugs or even alcohol, just joy shared among them, with a few cooking food over a small bonfire on the sandy beach. There was not a cloud in the sky, the sun was preparing to set, the distant view of the Isle of Wight on the horizon looked more stunning than ever.

I thought, Wouldn't it be wonderful if all the churches had that same joyous contentment. No theological disputes between denominations, no judging over other members, non of this Pharisaic behavioural attitude constantly pouring over us every time I walk into church, no peering with condemnation out of the corner of the eye, no fussy dress codes, no hatred, no division. Just joy and sweet fellowship. If only every one of these beautiful people knew Jesus Christ as their Saviour! All each has to do is to believe that the crucified Jesus is the risen Christ, and to trust in him. It is that easy. And each one would be forever saved, being eternally adopted as a child of God.

These people on the beach were not hippies, I assume they were students. But they represent an international unity, including any of the British among them. And I have no reason to doubt whether there were any English students or by-passers among them. It was a very happy atmosphere. Furthermore, there was not a single shirt-and-tie to be seen among them. Many wore tee-shirts, others singlets or tank-tops, others were topless altogether. But those who were engaged in the volleyball looked be be quite committed to the game. Then I made a mental comparison with the reputation the English have while abroad. Unfortunately not so much with beach volleyball or backpacking as drunken revelry which is a quick lead into violence and hospital visits. And with such a stinking reputation, many, if not most of them, would be Brexit voters who "despise foreigners".  

Boscombe - Overseas students enjoy an evening on the beach.

And so we began to make our way back to our hotel, we passed some elderly Jews.

Alex then asked, What can I say to the Jews that would please them?

I answered, Greet them with "Shalom" - which means "Peace".

There must be a Jewish community east of Bournemouth, because we encountered several more Jews as we headed back.

"Shalom." Alex greeted.

"Shalom." was their reply.

I was pushing Alex's wheelchair up a cliff face switchback walk. As I was struggling a little, a couple of gentlemen in red tee-shirts approached us, offering their help with the wheelchair. Although I turned down their offer, whilst sitting on a bench to rest, we struck up a conversation, with them admitting they were Christians.

"Yes, we are Christian believers too." I replied.

We already knew that. One of the men answered. When we first saw you, our spirits testified that you are both believers. God bless you, God indeed bless you both!

We arrived back at our hotel and turned on the TV in time for the 10.00 News. After the end of the bulletins, David Dimbleby's Question Time followed. Among those on the panel was Conservative Jacob Rees-Mogg, a startlingly handsome youngish Etonian who was smartly dressed in suit and tie, constantly repeating his defence that "We will be stronger out of Europe." Despite so many different questions thrown at him by the audience, the MP kept on repeating the same words like a drugged up mantra. And whenever he kept on repeating the same words, he received a greater applause from his supporters in the audience. The subject was about how our economy would fare after leaving the European Union. And all he could answer was, We will be stronger out of Europe. He then insists that We will fulfil the will of the people. The will of the people?

No, at 52/48% to leave the EU - that, in my opinion, is not "the will of the people." 52% over 48% is too narrow a margin to be called "The will of the people." Now if the result was more like 65% over 35%, or dare say 75% over 25%, then that would be more akin to "the will of the people" - not merely a margin of just 4%. 

But Rees-Mogg continues to use this statistic to defend his point. But he would not bring himself to the real reason why we must leave. And that is pride in national sovereignty and xenophobic nationalism as a whole. Rees-Mogg knows that such a reason given to leave the EU would stir angry debate from the opposition. Rather than face such hostility, this member of Parliament ducks out of the debate during the TV programme. 

I sat on the bed feeling despondent, if not actually angry. Because, after reaching the dizzying heights of the joys of holiday spirit, including the Bible's revelation of Creation and Noah's Flood in the stunningly beautiful coastline of Southern England, along with the camaraderie and happy atmosphere felt among international students, I come crashing down back to Earth! The real world taps on my shoulder to remind me just where I am.  

I suppose that there is some similarity between Rees-Mogg and the opinions of many traditional churchgoers. Even in my own church, because of my maverick standing, I feel constantly watched by a cowardly Pharisee who also attends the same fellowship. His attitude reflects his own perception of God - a very unlovable deity who is quick to judge and send to Hell anyone who strays from the faith or even thinks and behaves at odds with our national culture. The sort of entity from whom I would run away, be in fear of punishment, not having in my heart to worship with loving awe. Exactly the kind of "god" who has spawned generations of atheists throughout history. Yet the apostle John has written that this is how we know that we are true children of God: To believe that Jesus is the risen Christ and to love one another (1 John 5:1). To believe that Jesus is the risen Christ regenerates the heart, and the fruit of this regeneration is to love my brethren, fellow believers in Christ. Therefore I cannot dislike this Pharisee, but only wish, and maybe pray too, for a reconciliation. But for this to happen, a radical change in his perception of God must first take place in his heart. 

England has some stunningly beauty spots - Dorset being one of these places. The sort of venues I have no hesitation in visiting over and over again. And England acts as host to a multitude of foreign students who can teach us a lesson or two about social respect and joy with each other's company without discrimination and prejudice. Some thing many of our traditional churches can learn a thing or two.