Travel Series: Importance of Travel

During the late nineties, and not long before I met and married my beloved, whenever I visited my parents for Sunday lunch, I was frequently asked:

If you had a chance, where would you prefer to live, Australia or California? 

To which I would reply, I'm not sure. Each is different.

Indeed they are. I guess such talk had much to do with the longest non-stop flight I had ever taken: The cross-Pacific route from Sydney to Los Angeles, which made it into the Guinness Book of Records for being the world's longest continuous commercial flight. Thirteen hours in the sky altogether, taking off from Sydney at 17.30 hours and landing in LA at 13.30 hours on the same day. There is something unique about crossing the International Date Line which has made me wonder about the imaginations those early marine navigators might have had.

The Sydney-Los Angeles flight is no longer featured in The Guinness Book of Records. That had been replaced with the New York-Johannesburg flight, and I believe the London-Sydney or even to Aukland will hold the honour in the future - if it doesn't already.

My life's shortest flight was back-to-back with my longest. It was a thirty-minute hop from Los Angeles to San Diego, which I was willing to pay extra by using the LAX airport as the interchange, rather than making a long and tiring journey across the city to the Greyhound Bus terminal on East 7th Street. At least, when arriving at this semi-tropical city, there was no Passport Control, and I found myself out on the street on a hot day after collecting my rucksack from the tiny luggage carousel.

But to answer my parent's question, Australia or California? After experiencing recent health problems between my wife and myself, the answer to that would be more obvious: Australia, as I have heard stories of British tourists in the past having to sell their homes to pay for healthcare in the USA, after failing to take up a Health Insurance policy for foreign visitors.

In addition, off the coast of Queensland lies the Great Barrier Reef, which is a marine biologist's paradise. But this part of the world, especially around the Cairns area, is subject to Summer monsoons whilst southern California enjoys a balmier year-round climate. Although just off the coast of La Jolla, just north of San Diego, there is a small diving area. However, it's the enormous Great Barrier Reef which is one of the Wonders of the natural world, and such remains unbeatable. However, North America needn't feel missed out. It boasts at least two Natural Wonders: Niagara Falls and Salt Lake, both I visited in 1977, and the Grand Canyon, visited in 1978 and 1995 respectively.

And yes, health. I learned that there is an Australian version of the NHS, although without health insurance, as a foreign visitor, had anything happened, I would have had to pay for care, due to not being a citizen. The same applies here in the UK for all foreign tourists. Hence, whenever I leave the UK, I was always covered.

Here I will ask: When and how did it all begin? As a boy, I was sent out by Mum on my own on shopping errands. A good opportunity to learn about buying and selling from a young age and to realise, according to her, that nothing in this world is free. But such trips aroused curiosity when it comes to checking out certain places, and I was still 9-10 years old when I was able to find my own way from Pimlico to South Kensington on foot, while I was fully intrigued by the dinosaur remains displayed at the Natural History Museum.

Those were the days of innocence. There was nothing amiss about a boy walking along the street alone. I knew the Highway Code well enough. Despite a much thinner traffic density on the roads, I was aware of the dangers and my parents realised this. As for paedophile, a source of concern for many parents at present, this actual word did not exist back in the early 1960s, nevertheless, Mum always warned me before each trip not to talk to strangers. And that was all.

Dad owned a Collins World Atlas, which was far more in my hands than his. Each country was shown in a different colour from the others, with the emphasis on the British Empire, since these colonies always appeared in red. This colour-coding helped me learn which country was part of the Empire and which weren't. Furthermore, the headmaster of our primary school had a daughter (or a niece) who was sailing around the world. He gave our class a lecture on her experience. This was followed by dishing out a world map in three separate sheets, and our task was to tape these sheets together in the right order. Although very simple, apparently, I was the only one who got it right, thanks to Dad's atlas, and I was commended by the headmaster.

Furthermore, he put my work up on display in the school hall, to be seen by everyone. My interest in Travel became established from that point on. This climaxed in the Round the World trip, completed in 1997, some 35 years after showing the completed map to the headmaster.*

As I sat as a sole occupant of a row of four seats inside a sealed bottle suspended some 39,000 feet 11,900 metres in the air by a pair of wings, I thought about how fortunate I was, as the plane was on a firm course to Singapore from London. There are, I believe, reasons why I was on board that airline in the first place, one or two, psychological. True, I wanted to see the world while I had the opportunity. But this particular trip had its beginnings from a talk I had with an Australian bricklayer in our shared dormitory while I was staying at a backpacker's hostel in downtown San Diego two years earlier in 1995. After sharing with me some details about his home country, I've developed a keenness to visit this island continent for myself.

The timing couldn't be more perfect. Around 1995, a deal was made between British Airways and Qantas Airways to help repatriate Aussies living in the UK back to their homeland. However, this also provided a golden opportunity for us British nationals to fly halfway around the world for a very cheap price - in the hundreds of pounds rather than the usual thousands.

Night view of Merlion, Singapore, taken 1997.

Another psychological reason was that while most of my generation were married with children, I was still single, and that had endured into my late forties. Furthermore, church life was centred mainly on the family, and "men's meetings" usually delivered talks about the ins and outs of marriage and the family, and there was also a "singles group" which, oddly enough, was categorised as separate from the "adults." So, grown-up single people aren't adults? Not so edifying, especially from back in the Spring of 1972, then aged 19, my girlfriend terminated our year-long relationship. I had no other female companion until I met my present wife towards the end of 1998. Such a long time as an adult singleton - over 26 years - provided opportunities to partake in many interesting activities, including travel.

What a shock I once received when, not that long after leaving school, I saw an ex-classmate with his wife and pushing a pram - while I was still living with my parents. Indeed, the early seventies was an era when it was apparent that the average age for marriage was barely out of the teens, and being "left on the shelf" is the fertile ground for developing an inferiority complex, a feeling of personal failure. Especially if I didn't do that well at school, and others around me have graduated, paired up, and married. Travel provides a wonderful antidote to low self-esteem.

During my time as a single member of a church fellowship, Christians who were slightly younger than me, but had graduated, landed good jobs and found wives, had that tendency to patronise whenever in conversation. This might have been exacerbated by the awareness of my vocal accent which gives the impression of low intelligence, even if a psychologist who analysed my IQ in 2005 had given me an above-average rating.

I have found that travel has given a boost to my self-esteem, which was further heightened by our marriage. However, it seems that the purpose of the soul is to find complete fulfilment in loving someone else, fulfilling their lives and making them feel loved, worthy and happy. At the same time, knowing that you are loved, respected and thought worthy by your nearest and dearest is, I think, the strongest antidote for low self-esteem.

But I didn't marry until I was 47 years old. In the meantime, I found travel to be a morale booster and an antidote against the feeling and awareness of low self-esteem. Travel comes in all kinds, and some are suited to one type more than others. For example, I have found that young, middle-class Christians are drawn towards group travel, such as Oak Hall, a Christian travel agency dealing with escorted tours overseas. Much to my surprise, over the years, I have found that Oak Hall to be very popular among graduate Christian singles, and it's still popular now. This gives me the impression that Christians shun independent backpacking as if such activity is associated with the hippy movement.

Far from it. Backpacking carries responsibilities, including careful budgeting and avoiding unnecessary expense. For example, avoid eating at a posh restaurant and staying at a 5-star hotel, where a hostel with shared dormitories and equipped with a member's kitchen will work wonders on the budget. Like this, I was able to add an extra two weeks on the 1997 Round-the-World trip, extending it from the original eight weeks to ten weeks, when I saw that my funds were being spent more slowly than originally calculated. Even afterwards, I returned home with some change.

Also, something is exhilarating in find a hotel or hostel under your own steam and asking for a room or bed after arriving at a new destination. And then deciding how long you want to stay at that location without anyone telling you that time is up and we all need to move on, usually on a rigid and inflexible schedule.

Also with people, fellow backpackers. Like the time I was in the small member's kitchen at a Singapore hostel. A tall, muscular Dutchman and I got talking, sharing our travel experiences. He flew out to Singapore for a few days, and he was due to fly back home. I told him of my plans to fly onward to Australia in a few days after arriving from London. The next morning he acted with a degree of hostility and ordered me to look after an item of his while he was in the bathroom. Feeling rebutted, I just walked out of the room, onto the street. Who was he to order me about? Oh well, that's travel.

Esplanade at Port Douglas, Queensland, 1997.

Or after arriving at Arlie Beach Backpacker's in Queensland, the setting off point for the Whitsunday Islands. A staff member and I played table tennis one warm evening. He won. I lost. Then he tells me that this was the first game he ever played. Yes, I was gutted! Or the time when, at Coffs Harbour Hostel in New South Wales, I was thrashed at the pool table by an aggressive young female who seems to take delight in humiliating men. Lesson to learn: stay away from competitive sports! Or the one evening at Byron Bay Hostel, also in NSW. Here, I was sitting on the sofa of the lounge and I got talking to this young lady sitting next to me. Then this chap arrives, and sitting on the other side of her from me, he began to dominate the conversation with every effort to shut me out. He succeeded. I just walked off and made my way to the beach to gaze at the southern starry sky, leaving those two to it.

I guess that's what travel is all about - an adventure. But to have mountains, you also need valleys. Downers as well as uppers. But in all, it's all a great, self esteem-enhancing experience.

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*For greater detail of this fascinating experience, click here.

Woken by a Bathroom Incident

It was a typical night around May/June 1997. Lying in bed but unable to sleep. What was that racket going on in the bathroom?

Really, I had been feeling elated. Therefore I should be sleeping like a log. Instead, I was kept awake with a sense of frustration at three in the morning by the two whispering voices, one male, the other female, emanating from the closed bathroom door, just a few feet away from my bed. Of course, I could hear what they were up to. Eventually, after everything had calmed down, I eventually dropped off.

After daybreak, I got out of bed to enter the bathroom. Instead, in the bathroom itself, I startled the young couple while they were in each other's arms, and I gasped, "Oh!"

The man looked very displeased as I walked through the door, while she looked alarmed.

Your snoring has kept us awake in the early hours of the morning! He declared with a firm and a rather angry tone of voice.

And your shagging in the bathroom has kept me awake at three this morning! If you want to shag, there is the beach just across the road! I then saw his soul as I spat out my reply with equal intensity, pointing my finger towards the direction of the street outside.

Not that the beach would have been ideal for outdoor copulation, as this particular stretch of coastline on the Australian State of Queensland was a mudflat, exposed by the low tide of the Indo-Pacific Ocean. However, she was horrified at my awareness of their activity and she quickly said that she had to go. And she stormed out of the bathroom alone, leaving him too embarrassed to say anything else, and slinked out of the washroom with his tail between his legs.

HI Hostel Dormitory, Cairns, Australia. Stayed 1997.

All this had taken place at a male dormitory of a backpacker's hostel, one of several hostels at the time, in Cairns, the gateway to the Great Barrier Reef. And indeed, after having showered, shaved and dressed, I felt my elation return as I prepared breakfast in the member's kitchen, as I was planning to board a catamaran to nearby Port Douglas for an exchange of sailing to Low Isles, one of many coral cays dotting the Coral Sea, which hugs the north-eastern coastline of Australia. There I am to snorkel over the magnificent underwater gardens of the Reef.

But going back to the previous night, this was unlike any other hostelling experience I have ever had. Obviously, there is a rich variety of nightlife in Cairns, which late-closing nightclubs and bars themselves encourage one-night stands among backpackers, I never thought such behaviour would hit the hosteling community, especially one affiliated with Hosteling International, an organisation which had received moral support from the churches, particularly here in England.

Even at the New Swedish Hostel, an unaffiliated privately-owned Medieval upper floor of dormitories set in the heart of the Old City of Jerusalem - had better morals. Here, in the early nineties, I slept in the same room with several young couples, huddling together on makeshift beds laid out by the proprietor, rather than for him to face the alternative of turning away potential paying customers. But as far as I was always aware, there has never been any "hanky-panky" among them.

But the traditional YHA-affiliated Youth Hostel has come a long way since my membership began in 1985. It was still in those days when the establishment was what it said on the tin, a place for inexpensive accommodation for school-age city youngsters to experience the benefits of the countryside. What a benefit it is when youth hostels became cheap backpackers accommodation! Gone is the traditional morning duty, when each member had to either sweep the dormitory floor, mop the bathroom or kitchen, hoover the lounge, wipe the windowsills, clean the showers, etc, all to keep costs down. With greater mobility and more money in the customer's pocket, its market was under threat unless the morning duty was dispensed with and to make these hostels more adult-compatible

Leaving Cairns for the Great Barrier Reef, 1997.

Whenever I was in the UK, Israel, Singapore, the USA, or Australia, I found that as an unmarried traveller, those hostels were excellent venues to form new friendships with other backpackers. Sometimes I received advice or a recommendation to visit a particular venue. San Diego in 1995 was a good example, where recently-made friends hinted on the Mission Beach, Sea World, and the Old Town with its Old West streets, exhibits, a bazaar and its atmosphere, all of them a fair bus ride away - and Little Italy, a self-contained Italian community in the midst of the city. Through the advice of another friend, I managed to travel south on the trolley-tram to San Ysidro to cross the border into Mexico to visit the city of Tijuana. 

I have found that the member's kitchen is the best place to start a conversation. In a hostel such as HI-San Diego, which in 1995 was sharing the same building with the YMCA, there were several cookers enclosing a space separated from the dining area. The resulting jostling with other backpackers, each of us cooking our own meals at the same time, started conversations which could lead to more serious discussions, eventually forming friendships.

Also, new friendships were made at a HI-Phoenix, a private home which the owner had converted into a hostel and had it affiliated to attract more customers. On this occasion, I made friends with a couple of young Jewish men, and in the lounge, a conversation arose on the subject of religion, which gave me the opportunity to testify about Jesus Christ. Also, New Swedish Hostel on Souk David, within the walls of the Old City of Jerusalem, was another brilliant example where the combined kitchen/dining room/lounge was contained in just one small upstairs room. Therefore, when one traveller from South Africa had asked me what I was doing in Israel, this was a golden opportunity to testify. I was overheard by other backpackers who paused from what they were doing to listen to what I had to say.

And whilst staying at a HI hostel in Boston, Massachusetts, I got into a good talk with a group of teenagers who were also staying the night. Even here in the UK, whilst cycling to Minehead in Somerset from Bracknell, while stopping over for the night at HI-Bath Spa, I found myself in conversation with some others about faith in Christ.

And this brings me to the issue here. Does it look as if I was, or am one of a very few Christian believers who dare venture out on his own? Compared to the testimonies from other church-going friends from over the years, that is quite a point!

One good friend of mine, who for his own safety I won't mention his name here, is due to fly out to Malta in due course. I thought this is great. Only a few years ago I took my wife Alex to Malta as independent travellers for a week to celebrate our 13th wedding anniversary. I remember the hotel we chose to stay in, "Which looks like a prison from the outside!" I joked to Alex, during the airport-to-hotel pre-booked transfer.

"Quiet!" My wife responded. "The taxi driver can hear you."

My friend and brother-in-Christ will be flying out to Malta with Oak Hall, a Christian organisation dealing specifically with holidays. Over the years, I have encountered one Christian graduate after another who has travelled overseas with Oak Hall, almost entirely without exception! Anything wrong with that? No, nothing wrong in itself. Except that it does give the impression of cliquishness - the classic image of Christians packing themselves together as if to guard against predators.

About to snorkel, Low Isles Cay. Dressed against sunburn. 

Perhaps the opening story of this blog could be a classic example of this kind of predatory threat. I have wondered how a typical Christian graduate would react to this couple on a one-nighter banging away in the bathroom? Or the idea of sharing a crowded dormitory with several unmarried couples sleeping together?

These same Christians who travel clique-like overseas would be the first to get on their high horses and preach against such behaviour or lifestyle. But by reading the Gospels, I don't see Jesus getting on his high horse, except to rebuke the Pharisees - highly religious people who think they are righteous before God and would judge and condemn anyone who copulates outside of marriage (among other sins.) It's those super-religious who Jesus rebukes.

Maybe I was wrong to verbally hit back at that couple in the bathroom so far away. It might have revealed my immaturity. Could I have acted this way out of envy at his ability to pick up a female and entice her into bed on their first date - a scenario which many a teenager's excitement would be aroused? Not for me, in all honesty, I was just not interested in such things. I was out there to travel. To see the world, a wonderful, undeserved gift God has given me to enjoy. Sex has no part in the equation. 

He threw a wobbly at me, I threw one back at him. That was all. Maybe I should have apologised for my snoring (even if it wasn't my fault) and sought peace. But back then I didn't think of that. I was still spiritually immature. 

A Life Changing Plastic Tube...

How my heart leapt with both surprise and joy as I sat by the window of the Boeing 747 as it cruised some 40,000 feet 12,200 metres above the west coast of the Australian Cape York Peninsula which just came into view from so far down below. It was early morning of late May 1997, not long after daybreak, nearing completion of an overnight flight from Singapore, when I was surprised by the sight of thick forest way down below, covering what I originally thought would be orange tinted desert landscape of this North Queensland peninsula.

After landing at Cairns Airport and passing through Passport control, the first task was to exchange a US dollar Travellers Cheque into Australian currency. With such a purpose-built kiosk near the exit, I was impressed with the pile of banknotes I had in my hand for the first time in my life. They were of thin plastic rather than paper, waterproof, and very much the same as our present UK fivers and tenners, both so recently introduced. It seemed a long time for the UK to learn a thing or two from Down Under, as their plastic currency was in full circulation more than twenty years earlier.

I was alone outside the airport under hot, dry sunshine when a taxi arrived, as it does automatically every twenty minutes, regardless whether there is anyone waiting. When the driver asked me where I wanted to go, I asked about an HI backpacker's hostel which I have read about before take off in London. Presently, the cab stopped and the driver pointed his finger about a hundred metres down the street.

"Do you see that building down there?" He asked in a typical Australian drawl.

"Yes," was my monosyllabic reply.

"That's the hostel."

As I sauntered along the tropical Pacific coastline, I thought about dear Mum, sounding rather exasperated at the time, asking me why I had to travel such great distances. Then a good friend at church, also with a level of concern, suggesting that I should stay with an Australian family he knew of. I assured them both that if I managed quite well in both Israel and North America, then why not in Australia too? To boot, it is one of the British Commonwealth nations with English as its primary language. I then arrived at the hostel, perhaps feeling uncertain about the outcome, as this was another example of my "off-the-street" hotel and hostel experience. I was happy to be told of a bed readily available in the men's dormitory, and I checked in.

There was only one sole occupant still asleep in the dormitory as I prepared the bed. It wan't until a member of staff spoke softly to him that I realised that here was a fellow backpacker struck down with a fever, forcing him to remain confined to his bed throughout the next two or three days, which was just a few feet away from where I would sleep.

I sauntered into the town of Cairns, and rested under a palm tree in a central public garden. If I recall, my eyes were swimming with mild dizziness as I checked out the town and approached the garden. In next to no time I was sleeping soundly, probably snoring too, according to what others said to me in the past, as I caught up with a sleepless night spent in a 'plane, flying 40,000 feet above Oceania after spending five days in Singapore.

It wasn't long before I became aware of the presence of the Great Barrier Reef just off the Queensland coast. After making an enquiry, the hostel receptionist offered to book me a place on one of several catamarans which leaves Cairns Harbour every morning for day trips to the Reef. I accepted her suggestion of Green Island, a coral cay surrounded by shallow waters which makes the location suitable for beginners, as I had never snorkelled before, and this was to be my first go at it.

On board, I hired a snorkelling gear and also bought a single-use cardboard camera sealed in waterproof plastic. It was whilst at Green Island that wearing a plastic breathing tube has converted me from an apathetic into a fanatic of coral and marine life. Indeed the sea was shallow, which was just right to gain confidence with a snorkel without coaching or instruction. Snorkelling turned out to one of these iffy businesses, when water can get into the tube or into the goggles, and trigger panic. And so was at one occasion at Green Island when I had to suddenly lift my head above water. Gradually I resumed, and to regain confidence.

Green Island Coral Cay, off Cairns.

But I returned to the hostel feeling happy, very happy indeed! I was keen for more. Therefore it was a few days later that I found myself boarding the first of the two catamarans at Cairns Harbour for Port Douglas Harbour, a resort further up the heavily forested Queensland coastline, where I was to change catamarans for Low Isles, another coral cay set in deeper water, therefore making the coral larger and richer. With confidence gained, I felt far more comfortable breathing through a plastic tube as I floated horizontally above the aquatic garden. Again as with Green Island, I purchased a single-use underwater camera also for 25 Australian dollars, and with it, took more pictures of these fascinating marine life. I thought of posting a few pics here. All were taken at Low Isles coral cay:

Low Isles, Great Barrier Reef, all taken June 1997.

The first two day trips were to coral cays: Green Island and Low Isles. The third day trip to the Reef was also on a catamaran from Airlie Beach to the Whitsunday Islands. Airlie Beach is another resort about 622 km, or 386 miles further down the coast from Cairns, hence the need to stay at a hostel at that location. The hostel itself was a unique experience, rather different from any other I ever stayed at. Unlike all other backpackers who were staying there, by paying a few dollars extra, I had the entire dormitory to myself, which was housed in a separate hut from the others. Oh the bliss!

At the first attempt to reach the Whitsunday Islands, the catamaran suffered engine failure whilst still at the harbour. So that trip had to be cancelled, and I was taken back to the hostel with a promise of a free pickup on the next day. That morning I was collected personally and driven to the harbour where the repaired vessel waited.

The trip involved two islands, Whitsunday itself, with its volcanic formation involving the creation of White Beach. As its name implies, the sand on that beach was not only nearly pure white but squeaks when walked upon. After a couple of hours, we were ferried to Heron Island, of continental formation rather than a coral cay, and the coral surrounding it was known as a fringe reef. Unfortunately there was no access to an underwater camera, which was something of a shame, because these corals were even more deeper than at Low Isles, with at least one species I instantly recognised as the Brain Coral.

These three catamaran trips to the Great Barrier Reef opened a wealth of knowledge on this tropical marine life. For instance, how could a colony of tiny polyps create exoskeletons of limestone to form a reef so fantastically huge that it could be seen from space? The reef is a phenomenon! Tiny polyps, related to the jellyfish, thrive on a wide continental shelf, a one-time strip of land now submerged under a sea which is naturally deprived of nutrition. Yet roughly at the middle of the barrier reef there is a break. The East Australian ocean current flows through this gap, and then throughout the whole length of the reef, bringing in plankton from the open ocean, on which the polyps feed. Furthermore, each polyp harbours many one-cell algae, known as Zooxanthellae, which photosynthesis providing each polyp with glucose, glycerol and amino acids with which the polyp benefits, in addition to the plankton. 

To add to all that, as the sea level rises, so does the reef. Various algae binds the dead exoskeletons to form a solid wall which is slowly but constantly rising as the living polyps thrive on the upper surface.

Then there are the annual storms which destroys parts of the Outer Reef. With such frequent destruction, I can wonder how on Earth the reef could sustain such a tremendous size over time. The storms literally break off coral limestone, and the fragments accumulate on the sea floor, forming a coral wasteland, indeed, a melancholic sight to behold. However, more than 80% of the coral in that area survive the storms to see another day, whilst at the same time the entire Inner Reef with its coral cays remain protected. But in time, when polyps spore, young larvae settle on these wastelands and life begins all over again.

Then not to mention the Parrot fish, which often arrives in large shoals. These creatures eat coral by the ton. As I wonder why such creatures exist, bringing such destruction to the reef. But there is a twist to the story. Coral swallowed by the fish is defecated as sand. Storms and ocean currents gathers this sand, along with broken exoskeletons and shells, into mounds which eventually breaks the surface of the ocean. Birds bring in the seeds of plants to these mounds and by taking root, binds the sand and calcium rubble together to form permanent islands, or coral cays.

The Parrot Fish plays a role in Coral Cay formation

Much of this I learnt from the experience itself, by reading books and by watching television documentaries and videos on the subject of corals. The Great Barrier Reef was not the only reef I visited. In the year 2000, in celebrating our first anniversary, Alex and I spent the day in Eilat, at the Red Sea, where I believe that the clearer turquoise waters brought out a greater beauty and fascination of the reef thriving within the fingertip of the Indian Ocean.

What can I say but to quote this Scripture:

How many are your works, O LORD!

In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures.

There is the sea, vast and spacious, teeming with creatures beyond number -

living things both large and small.

Psalm 104:24-25.

As I watched the programme earlier in the week, I could not help acknowledge God's handiwork as the presentation warmed the cockles of my heart in praise and thanksgiving to God, at least in my thoughts. It wasn't difficult to ignore the bits about evolution, as the meticulous structure of the Reef became obvious.

The result of Evolution? Let's go over just once again. 

1. A large underwater platform, or continental shelf, exists on which the reef flourishes.

2. Each polyp creates its own limestone exoskeleton, which over time accumulates into a reef of tremendous size. 

3. Also within each polyp, algae co-inhabits - enabling the polyp to feed on the nutrition the algae provides by means of photosynthesis. 

4. As means of good luck, there happens to be a well-placed break in the middle of the barrier wall, through which a strong ocean current brings in adequate supplies of plankton to feed the entire reef.

5. When storms destroy parts of the Outer Reef, less than 20% is actually lost. Not only does the affected parts of the reef replenishes itself, but the Inner Reef with all its cays are protected from the storms rolling in from the open ocean.

6. The Parrot Fish may look to be a scourge on the reef. But its role in creating sand allows cays to form.

7. A coral reef is one of the richest areas to sustain life, being home to a high percentage of all marine life.

The probability of all seven features evolving by pure chance and without divine intervention seems to be a mathematical impossibility. Instead, by acknowledging God as the Creator, I find all this so exhilarating to the spirit. 

A Temptation Towards Atheism.

Since last week's blog post Enjoyment, Disaster, Reminiscences had attracted an unusually high number of hits within a single week, I thought of continuing on how travel experiences can have quite a profound effect on spiritual things. Like on Easter Monday two weeks ago, when my wife developed severe back pain while on a day trip to London with a close friend of mine, Andrew, and ending up with my wife and I spending an unscheduled night at a Travelodge hotel in the heart of Fulham, West London, after discharge from A&E at Chelsea & Westminster Hospital at 23:30 hours. That particular 24-hour time slot in my life had several lessons worth learning, including what I believe was God intervening at one of the most critical moments of the experience.

The hotel where we spent that night, Easter Monday 2018.

Which is distinct from God allowing various events to occur, such as phoning for an ambulance. This is something anyone can do, and has no bearing on the spiritual state of the caller. Such a call can be made by either a fully devoted "super-spiritual" Christian believer, a Muslim or Buddhist, or a determined atheist, and the ambulance will still arrive, in most cases, within ten to twenty minutes. But to step out onto a deserted city street in the dead of night and then having a sudden impulse to turn back into a hospital building to ask for help from an A&E receptionist - I believe that is God himself intervening. This was proved by the willing intervention of one staff member who wasn't even approached by us, and furthermore, was paid by the NHS to deal only with patient bookings into A&E, having successfully found a suitable nearby hotel on his mobile phone and with it, booked us in, along with the taxi lift to the hotel. Therefore it can be said that this young fellow with an Asian or Mediterranean background has saved us from spending the whole night wandering the streets of London in uncertain weather conditions and risking Alex's back pain flaring up again.

But of course, anyone with a sound mind would insist that the kindness offered by this hospital employee, like that of the earlier ambulance call, would have had no bearing on our spiritual condition. That is to say, he would have still stood up to intervene had I been a determined and committed atheist. And so true. And here's the irony: God's grace is not restricted to believers. As with God's universal love for all mankind, according to John 3:16, there is nothing standing in the way of him acting at the most crucial moment, even if the recipient had always harboured a deep hatred of God for most of his life.

However, there is something else rather unusual about that particular day trip. It was meant for Andrew to share the day with us. And here is the beauty about the whole experience: Andrew holds a PhD in Genetics, yet rather than dwell on his own academic status and looking down at us, instead he finds joy in accompanying us - a retired window cleaner and his wife - for a day trip. And this is not the first time either. Some eighteen months previously, Andrew accompanied us on a weekend away to a conference, also held in Central London, the subject of that conference centred on Divine Creation. This involved staying at the same hotel for the one night.

Little wonder that some three thousand years earlier, King David wrote Psalm 133 on how wonderful it is when brothers dwell together in unity. In his day he had a nationalistic bent - he was referring only to the people of Israel. Since then the Cross had removed this nationalistic in-group/out-group barrier, so well demonstrated by Paul's letter to a group of churches in what is now western Turkey (Galatians 3:28). The only condition for unity seems to be whether we are "in Christ". If so, then Andrew's presence is a good demonstration of the demolition of all academic, wealth and social class barriers and prejudice. Under the shadow of the Cross, a wonderful levelling occurs willingly before physical death is given the chance to accomplish this.

When it comes to travel, over and over again I have always emphasised my love for solo backpacking trips which includes bed-hunting at every chosen destination I arrive at. But this was not always the case. In the mid 1980's, it was Paul, Tim, Keith, Gareth and I who went on a cycling trip in Holland, Belgium and Germany, staying each night at different backpackers hostels. The main thing which bonded us together was our faith in Jesus Christ. That meant an architect, an accountant, a kitchen porter, a banker, and a window cleaner, all upheld support for each other as we pedalled away the miles, with the stronger cyclist ensuring that the weaker rider wasn't left trailing behind. This together with a safe level of teasing, joking around, enjoying a laugh as well as partaking in more serious conversation. It is this unity, first our common faith in Jesus Christ, and secondly our shared love of long distance cycling which allowed the spirit of fellowship to flourish, helping to eliminate any social class prejudice, academic preference or national superiority. In the case of the third, here we have a full-blooded Italian riding, eating and sleeping alongside two devoted Englishmen in this group of five, yet still felt equally accepted.

When it comes to hosteling rather than hotel room hire, as mentioned last week, most of these were visited on my own. However, it is usually at the member's kitchen where conversations starts and friendship develops. Such was the case when I stayed at this HI hostel located at the heart of San Diego in 1995 whilst backpacking from New York to San Francisco. It was at a single floor of a disused U.S. Army building which was shared with the YMCA. Each dormitory had just two beds, one above the other, and I shared the room with an Australian builder who had completed his volunteering contract before backpacking the rest of the USA prior to returning home. It was he who inspired me to visit Australia for myself, which I did in 1997.  One evening, whilst preparing a meal in the member's kitchen, two young men entered and then joined me whilst cooking their own food.

It didn't take me long to discover that they were actually brothers from Scotland, who had also befriended the Aussie. After dinner, the four of us played table football at the adjoining lounge. This allowed me to laugh at my own inability to flick the ball into the goal with split-second agility, therefore making the whole team of miniature plastic men look rather ridiculous! After this, the four of us went out together "to paint the town red" so to speak, laughing, joking and making raucous noise as we walked along the promenade, whilst the waves of the Pacific Ocean lapped gently on the harbour coastline. Despite of this, we still remained at the right side of the law.

This sort of social interaction and behaviour is indeed out of my character, who normally takes travel more seriously. But the experience was therapeutic. Therapy I was in bad need of. That was why I was travelling around America in the first place. To help heal some very bad emotional wounds. The issue is all about acceptance. To feel part of a group, to feel a sense of belonging. My fellow travellers in San Diego helped me to feel accepted. I know that one was in the building trade, most likely a bricklayer. But I cannot remember the vocation of the other two. Maybe because I didn't get around to asking. Or if I did ask, their answer failed to stick.

The local church should be the one place in the land where I should feel loved and accepted, regardless of background or status. At least I can say that in my home church in Ascot, I feel loved and accepted by the majority of regulars who attend. I'm quite popular with the students. A couple of them came up to me for pre-nuptial advice and guidance shortly before they married. I felt privileged. An evening at a pub with a brother or at Starbucks with one of the Elders is always a tonic. I recall an evening spent with one of the graduates, along with one or two others at different times and venues. These are times to give as well as to receive. According to experience, nothing can be more uplifting than to encourage someone and actually watch him feel uplifted, edified, encouraged, strengthened. In turn, probably the best tonic for feeling down is a good chat at a pub or coffee bar.  So in what way was the 1995 trip to the USA such a tonic and so therapeutic?

It was during my time in 1994, which was spent as a volunteer at Stella Carmel Christian Conference Centre at Isfiya, located at the northern region of Israel. This small village on the summit of Mt. Carmel offered spectacular views of the Valley of Jezreel, which lies at the southern flank of the Galilee area. Often in the evenings I have sauntered alone to the overlook, a clearing among the bushes and trees which covers the slope of the hill, to gaze at the stunning sight and meditate over the issues of the day. 

And the issues of the day was not the work. Generally, I enjoyed the work, whether domestic or maintenance, usually on alternate days. Rather it was the fellowship, or lack of it, between other Christian volunteers and myself. Thanks to one female volunteer, Jo by name, who was a fervent feminist and aspiring career woman, with natural leadership talents. At least all the other females follow her around, as she had the knack to influence them.

The work for the volunteer was both domestic, which involves changing bed linen, cleaning bathroom sinks and toilets, and so on; and maintenance - often involving shifting heavy rocks, garden work, painting and decorating, handling heavy equipment and such like. One morning, during one of our weekly meetings with management, I made a terrible, terrible mistake of suggesting that the heavier maintenance work should be for the men, us male volunteers, while the women may excel in domestic duties. It might have been because the Director saw my point and took it as valid, that I immediately became the pariah by Jo, who influenced all the other females, to become the most hated in the community. Not that I was that much liked before. By contrast, there among us was another male volunteer, Scott from Aberdeen; tall, slim, handsome, and a graduate. Although introverted, he was adored by all the women mainly because of his threefold attribute of graduation, good looks, and his introvertism. Having a lack of academic and professional status was to be my disadvantage. I became the target for aggressive female bullying, including being called a backward Neanderthal, along with all Italians, who, according to Jo, their anti-feminist stance making them a nation of backward Neanderthals. 

Eventually, after two months, the Director told me to leave. I was transported to Haifa Bus Station and left there to fend for myself. This is totally unlike that of an offender, who is driven straight to the airport for deportation. But there was one bright spot within the turmoil. That was of a young Arab neighbour, a nearby resident who drops in at Stella Carmel every evening after work had finished for the day. It was on this occasion when this Christian teenager sought me out from among all the volunteers and asked me to pray for him as he went through personal difficulties, and we both sat down to spend time praying together.

This meant a lot to me! He saw me as a fatherly figure or older brother, someone who can give him spiritual guidance. Strange as I see it, a nugget of gold in a sea of mud. He was a contrast, a wonderful contrast, to all the British volunteers making up the community I was part of. 

Such an experience is such a shame. Here is one group I thought was where the love of Christ would shine. A place of hope, a community where love would atone for many faults and cover a multitude of sins. A place I should have found spiritual encouragement, edification, courage and strength. Instead it was a disaster. A disaster because of nationalism, culture, the emphasis on education and personal status, and not on faith in Christ. From such an environment I could have slipped into atheism, but I didn't, because of the eternal power of God. If there was proof of the veracity of Eternal Security of the Believer, that was it. I had absolutely no reason to love the church, to identify myself with it. But I still love my brothers and sisters in Christ to this day, thanks to the righteousness of Christ imputed into me.

While this blog is written, on the BBC Radio 4 Archive, the full version of Enoch Powell's "Rivers of Blood" speech, delivered in Birmingham, is being aired to mark its fiftieth anniversary. The speech was about the horrors of immigration, the arrival of many black Jamaicans, the "Windrush generation", named after the ship which transported the first of these immigrants across the Atlantic some twenty years before in the early 1950's, under the British Government's invitation. Powell's speech was highly rhetoric and racist, inspiring hate, especially among the white working class. Dockers in particular went on marches in support of this MP's speech, which insisted that all immigration must stop and all black immigrants to be paid to leave the UK to return to their home country. Up to 200,000* letters were sent to him afterwards, mainly in support of his speech. Hatred among the English towards blacks continued for decades to come, and I can long remember the activities of the National Front against everyone who was non-white.

Enoch Powell, 1960's Conservative MP.

What a vivid contrast all that is when compared with the wonderful help we received from the Asian receptionist when we found ourselves stranded in London during the middle of the night. This is something many Christians, who ought to know better, should learn.

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* The quote of 200,000 mails received by Enoch Powell after his 1968 Rivers of Blood speech was taken from the Daily Mail National newspaper, Saturday April 14, 2018. However, this seems to be inconsistent with the figure given by Wikipedia, which is 120,000. It is therefore left to the reader to decide which figure is closer to the truth, and whether the Right-leaning Daily Mail has exaggerated the numbers to dramatise the story. 

A Nerd Among Backpackers...

I had just exited the elevator at the Ground Floor within the recently opened backpackers hostel, which is just across the road from the Central Station. Not that the building itself was new. Rather it looked rather well-used, as it spent most of its life as just another office block right in the heart of Sydney, quite a walk away from the Harbour which boasts both the famous Bridge and close to it, the Opera House. However, its recent conversion from office to hostel meant that greeting me at the Ground Floor was a spanking new Reception, its long counter empty except for just one young female clerk, at that moment busy serving a customer. So like anyone else with a sound mind, I queued up behind him to wait my turn.

Sydney Central Hostel, visited  July/August, 1997.

As the customer in front was still being served, another young man appeared, looking to be in his late twenties, possibly early thirties. Instead of waiting behind me, he leaned next to me across the counter, and as the first backpacker was leaving, this new-arrival beckoned the clerk over, and I saw that she slightly bowed her head as if some form of obeisance. Immediately I raised my voice, and if any possible onlooker might have perceived to be in a belligerent tone, I told him direct to get in the queue and wait his turn. He face immediately turned red with rage over such an act of impudence, and delivered a torrent of expletives, including a quick lecture on how rude and disgraceful for me to have questioned what he saw was his rights. The clerk, perhaps feeling a little embarrassment, proceeded to serve me.

This particular incident remains unfazed in my memory for the past near-twenty years. For of all my entire travel and hosteling experiences in meeting so many people, this guy was dressed to the hilt in a business suit, shirt and tie, making him stand out like a sore thumb among the casually-dressed hosteling public. Or at least, if it wasn't for my sudden intervention, he would have successfully enticed the swooning clerk to skip over my turn to attend to his need, whatever need it might have been. 

I must be honest here, it was his style of dress which spurred me to intervene the way I did. Dressed up in a business suit and tie. In turn, a different kind of response I would have given to a casually dressed backpacker committing the same offence. More likely, it would have been a gentle tap on his shoulder and asking whether he was aware that he had jumped the queue. What was he doing here anyway? My one and only theory, and one I find to be most plausible, is that he was on a business trip to represent his company at a conference, and therefore received travel and accommodation allowance from his employers. But instead of staying at the Grand, Marriott, or Hilton Hotel, with such expenses which his allowance would have fully covered, he decided on a much cheaper backpacker's hostel, and then pocket the excess. The guilt resulting might have been the cause of his sudden rage at Reception.

And such is the world of backpacking, that golden moment in life when the last person on the planet I would have wanted to share the hostel with, was a man in a business suit. To me, backpacking and hostelling has always been an escape from the real human world of business and commerce, into a world of culture, history, and natural beauty. And startling coincidences.

The 1997 trip to Australia was part of what I call The Travel Triathlon, a Round-the-World solo trip taking in Singapore, Australia, and the United States. On that particular, rather eventful morning, I was planning a two-day trip to Blue Mountains National Park, a two-hour Intercity train journey out of Sydney Central Station. All I had to do was to make sure that a bed at the City Central Hostel was reserved on my return, for a further stay of seven days, before heading to the international airport to board the overnight flight to Los Angeles. I loved the Intercity train ride from Sydney Central to Katoomba, a country station in the midst of Blue Mountains National Park, a canyon totally covered with Eucalyptus trees which gives off a blue mist. On a calm day this mist hangs in the air, hence the name. It was there where I searched for a small hostel to spend the one night, along with hiking along a trail passing through dense rainforest and spectacular waterfalls. And also where Australian trains are concerned, the trains that run on the major Intercity line also runs underground as the Metro service to the Harbour and neighbouring districts. It's rather like having an Intercity 125 running through the Piccadilly, Northern, or District Line of the London Underground! Such is their culture.

Wentworth Falls, Blue Mountains National Park.

I guess it had all started whilst backpacking across the United States two years earlier in 1995. After spending a night at a rather dingy hotel in central Manhattan, my first stop after a long Greyhound bus journey, was at St. Louis, Missouri. There I found an equally dingy hostel which, to my surprise, was affiliated to Hosteling International, well known for their thorough inspections for qualification into membership. I booked in for a couple of nights. I saw a mouse dash across the kitchen floor, and there were dead cockroaches in the food storage cubicles. Yet it wasn't long before I made friends with a young German backpacker, sharing our travel experiences whilst cooking our meals in the member's kitchen. When, during the conversation, I told him that I had forgotten to bring the Greyhound route map, which came with the Ameripass ticket, he was willing to give me his, making the rest of the trip better organised.

After spending several days at the Grand Canyon, and then at Phoenix, Arizona, I finally arrived at San Diego, early the next morning, and by chance came across the city YMCA building, with one of its floors let out to a H.I. affiliated backpacker's hostel. For me, it was the very best hostel I have ever visited, and I spent five nights there. Again, at the kitchen I made friends with two brothers from Scotland, and after dinner, with one other fellow, we played table football. Then on one evening, I became part of a group of four who went out to paint the town red. What lay beneath all this, a lone backpacker going out with a group of recently-made friends? Simple really. The want of love and acceptance.

Acceptance. This which can transform lone travel to an electrifying adventure! The need for acceptance. Like after the rest of the group had moved on, I remained in San Diego, where I shared a two-bed dorm with an Australian builder, whose contract had just ended, and he was preparing to fly home. The telling of his travels and building contracts whilst abroad was the inspiration which led to my own travels Down Under, two years later. Meanwhile, a young Jewish woman arrived to spend a couple of nights. When she learned that I was leaving for Santa Monica on the same day she was leaving, she too booked a bed at the same hostel, and asked me to accompany her all the way to the Los Angeles coastal district. She wanted my company for protection. This was fully justified, as after arrival at Los Angeles Greyhound Terminal, we had to wait for a connecting bus to the coastal district - at a rather iffy part of the city. But we stayed together, sharing our experiences. And our faiths. She was Jewish. It gave me the opportunity to testify about Jesus Christ - like I did to two backpackers at the hostel in Phoenix.

San Diego Harbour - taken August 1997.

Two years later, in 1997, I was on the Australian Greyhound Bus, using the same kind of pass ticket as I did in America. Having snorkelled at the Great Barrier Reef at both Green Island and Low Isle coral cays, I was heading south towards Brisbane and eventually Sydney. The bus pulled in for an hour's service stop, where I enjoyed a snack at the cafeteria. Presently another bus pulled in for the same reason, and emptied of all passengers into the cafeteria. So there I was, literally at the other side of the world,  alone - thousands of miles away from family and from everyone who knew me, whether they be friends, acquaintances, or clientèle. 

"Hey, Frank!"

I looked up. "Who are you?" I asked the young man standing over me. "And how do you know me?"

"Don't you remember? The hostel in St. Louis? I gave you that map!"

I was astonished. Heavens! After chatting for a while, I boarded the bus. But that is what the sense of acceptance was all about while travelling and hosteling. Getting on well with fellow backpackers, sharing experiences, making friends. Even finding opportunities in sharing my faith without putting the listener off or hardening his heart. Wonderful, that is, all except with the suited businessman in Sydney, of course. The only time I have ever experienced anger and hostility while hosteling, both within and outside the UK, it had to be with a fellow dressed in a suit, shirt and tie!

Which brings me forward to the present. While I was browsing through the Internet, I came across a message which read:

Once Saved Always Saved - An Ancient Programmer's Proverb.

I admit, I was rather intrigued by such a message. Because I am an fervent advocate of Eternal Security of the Believer, or if you like, Once Saved Always Saved, basically he was calling me a nerd - for believing in and advocating such a wonderful truth. And that is what I found so wonderful about travel and particularly hosteling. You seldom come across religious people - at least I hadn't so far. Christians, yes. I came across a group of believers at a roller skating rink in Winnipeg during a backpacking trip way back in 1977. Then, more recently in 1998, I found myself chatting to a group of Christians at the H.I. hostel in Boston Massachusetts. As far as I recall, not one of them has ever made any derogatory remarks to other people or the beliefs of fellow brothers.

In referral to the above quote on the Internet, by clicking on various links connected with such a statement, I discovered that yes, salvation was through grace through faith in Christ, but after that you are obliged to "Keep the Commandments", including the keeping of the Jewish Sabbath. Apparently, according to this author, failing to keep the commandments would result in eternal loss. I wonder how anyone with some degree of intelligence can come to such a disastrous conclusion in Biblical soteriology! If only he understood what the apostle Paul has written when he compiled his letter to the churches in Galatia. That is, he who wants to keep the Law must keep the whole Law, which includes circumcision, and all the Jewish rituals and animal sacrifice (Galatians 5:3, also James 2:10). Failure to keep the whole Law perfectly result in condemnation. 

And I wouldn't be at all surprised that such a person would find it extremely difficult - dare say impossible - to love a brother in Christ who disagrees with him, or fail to live according to his expectations. Such a lack of love is the very root of sin and a serious breach of the Law, no matter how hard he may try to keep it.

Yes, there are two nerds among backpackers mentioned here. The man in a suit at a Sydney hostel is one. 

The other nerd must be me, for believing in Once Saved Always Saved.

World Travel - How I Loved It!

Last week, after completing and publishing my last blog, Science Plus Faith - A Potential Mix, my wife and I went to my elderly parent's home to spend the rest of the day. With us was my brother and his two daughters, my nieces. I was talking to the younger one, and asked her if she still reads my blogs. Her reply was that the constant theme on religion bores her, and then suggested a blog about my travels.

The idea of having two separate pages on this site, the other dedicated to secular issues such as Travel had crossed my mind before now. But having last travelled (in the proper sense of the word) in 1998, which was to New York and Boston Massachusetts, I don't believe I can supply sufficient material to feed such a page, therefore I'll include the subject of Travel within this page. Not that this is the first time either. On the 29th April 2011, I wrote Vagabond, where I described some ins and outs about solo backpacking. Also in 2011, I wrote three other blogs - Hiking - Stress-Free Travel (23rd Jan), A Stone Bible (1st Feb) and Jerusalem - Peace To You (13th Feb). All of these blogs touched on my experience as a backpacker. However, I feel it's okay to write about one of my favourite activities here, because I have never separated travelling from faith in God, as the two are intrinsically linked.

So where do I begin? Perhaps from my schooldays in the mid to late 1960s when Dad used to drive our car to Torino in northern Italy from our home near London to spend three weeks with our maternal grandparents, or Nonni. As the crow flies, the distance covered was in the region of 600 miles, 970 km. but the car journey must have been closer to 1,000 miles 1620 km. which was completed in three days. I thoroughly enjoyed the journey itself. It was after arriving at the home of Nonni that boredom began to set in. The main reason for this onset of boredom was the language barrier - neither gran were able to speak English and I couldn't speak or understand Italian, together with the fact that Torino is an inland city with a large industrial complex, the car makers Fiat Mirafiori, where Nonno used to work during his younger days. However, on one of these holidays, just Dad and I set off to Rome to stay with my Aunt, Dad's older sister who spoke some English. Thanks to the superb motorway (or Freeway) system, the Autostrada del Solo connecting Milan to Rome made the 300 mile 486 km. journey complete in a day.

It was in 1972 that I enjoyed our first package holiday in Spain without my parents. Instead I shared the experience with my college mate Andrew, giving us both a taste of foreign independence. As a nineteen year old, this was also my first time ever inside an aeroplane, of the now non-existent airline Dan Air. From London Gatwick Airport the two hour flight to Girona, close to the Costa Brava, made such an exhilarating experience. This was because Dad felt averse to flying and loved his steering wheel, putting him in full control of the vehicle. I believe this had set the pace to my own travels as I grew older - backpacking, together with the sights of Rome, including the Colosseum and the Circa Maxima had also put into my being the desire to travel.

Colosseum of Roma


That what I call backpacking, which is simply travelling from one destination to another as opposed to the package holiday (or vacation) like the one in Spain, where we spent the entire break at a single hotel. For me, backpacking involved hosteling, staying at a hostel where I slept in a shared dormitory and buying and cooking my own meals, in itself a threefold blessing - enhancing independence, making friends and doing wonders to the budget. My experience at a hostel range from just one night to that of 27 nights, as was the case with the New Swedish Hostel, Jerusalem, in 1994. In between, I have spent many "single nighters" including those in the UK when I, along with my mate Gareth, cycled from one end of the entire UK to the other in 1990.

As a single person (I didn't marry until 1999) there was ample time to travel. This was one of the great advantage of being self-employed. It meant that during the 1990s, I worked hard, saved hard and travelled extensively, closing the business and taking "sabbaticals" - long holidays - covering four principal destinations outside the Mediterranean: North America, Middle East, Singapore and Australia.

My first of five transatlantic flights to North America was in 1977, which included the Greyhound Bus journey across Canada, taking in the whole of the Trans-Canadian Highway from Vancouver to Toronto, spending a few days at Calgary and Winnipeg, as well as standing by the magnificent Niagara Falls. The other four transatlantic trips were in 1978, 1995, 1997 and 1998. During both the 1978 and 1995 trips, I found myself hiking the Bright Angel Trail of the Grand Canyon. Spending the night at the bottom of the Canyon, next to where the Bright Angel Creek flows to join the Colorado River and gazing at the countless stars in the night sky was so exhilarating - and so surprising too, as the night sky had never appeared like this over the UK. And how I loved San Diego with its Zoo, Sea World, Balboa Park with all the museums, the Old Town with its Old West feel, and Mission Beach. Little further north is the resort of La Jolla, with its caves and to the south, the city of Tijuana over the Mexican border. Thus, San Diego to me was one of America's most intriguing stops.

At the Grand Canyon in 1995.

Travelling across the North American continent, I used the Greyhound Bus Ameripass ticket, sold only to foreign visitors. The one I carried was valid for a month, and with it I had unlimited access to every corner of the United States. As for hostels, as described in my blog, Vagabond, there were good hostels as well as not so good. But in every one, I always bought and cooked my own meals, socialised and slept in a dormitory, normally single-sex. In the States, the average stay was about three days before boarding the bus for the next leg of the journey. However in San Diego I stayed for five days in 1995, ten days in 1997. During my first of the two visits, the hostel was at a building shared with the YMCA, and its kitchen was accessible 24 hours a day, making this the very best hostel I ever stayed at. By the time I called back two years later, it had moved to a new building at Market Street, and had introduced a kitchen night curfew, normal in most other hostels.

Australia was very similar to the USA where travel was concerned. Here too I had a Greyhound Bus pass ticket, also valid for a month but restricted to the Pacific Highway, from Cairns in North Queensland to Sydney. The hostels I stayed at in Australia were very much the same as in the USA, with Sydney City Hostel, across the road from the terminal station, having two large kitchens and a grand dining room, and also a rooftop sauna suite. On the places to see, two main highlights in Australia I had found exhilarating: The Great Barrier Reef and Blue Mountains National Park. It was at Green Island, just off Cairns, where I learned to snorkel for the first time in my life. The sea surrounding Low Isles, off Port Douglas, was deeper, making the coral there more richer and greater in size and depth. Likewise at Heron Island, one of the Whitsundays, I was able to identify the famous Brain Coral while I was snorkeling there. At the Blue Mountains NP, the dense forest of eucalyptus trees emit a blue haze which hovers over the valley, hence the name. Various waterfalls cascading down the deep, cliffed valley brought out the sheer delight.

Sydney Harbour in 1997

Blue Mountains N.P. 1997.

Where around the world it was both nature as well as good planning which lifted my spirits in admiration, in Israel it was history, particularly connected with the life of Jesus Christ. But even here, at Eilat, coral grows at the Red Sea, a finger of the Indian Ocean protruding well into the Middle East region. This was the one holiday where Alex and I did some backpacking in the year 2000 as a couple. Jerusalem had always been extra special to me. This was the city God had chosen to put his name there, all the ancient kings from David onwards reigned from this city, and it was where Jesus was crucified, died, buried and Resurrected. As such, Jerusalem for me is the most important destination of all the places visited worldwide.

Jerusalem 1994.

What I have found in being a lone backpacker was that on two separate occasions I was referred to as brave. The first was back in 1978 when I was still an employee at British Aerospace, when a fellow employee called me that, after spotting me in New Orleans while he was also travelling, but with a companion. The second occasion was on a flight from London to New York in 1995, by an air hostess, while I was explaining to her about the freedom of U.S. travel using the Greyhound Ameripass. I had never considered myself brave, this was reserved for soldiers out fighting, firemen rescuing victims from a blazing building, or any dangerous task undergone to save a life or change circumstances. But to tell the truth, while sitting in the 'plane for Toronto in 1977 and to New York a year later, to calm my apprehensions, I spent time in prayer, asking God to protect me from all evil whilst abroad. On both occasions, in privacy during the in-flight meal, I took bread, broke it and declared it the Body of Christ. Then I took the glass of wine I had, and declared that as the Blood of Christ and drank that. It was literally a self-made Holy Communion. The Catholic Church might have condemned me to Hell for taking the Holy Sacrament without authority, but all I felt was the peace, protection and pleasure of God in my life.

Travel has been a demonstration of God's love and grace in my life. Sure enough, there are times, especially in the winter, when I feel that I'm at the low end of the scale - poorly educated at school, condemned to a life of manual labour, working in the cold and damp, watching university grads fulfill much richer and meaningful lives, and of one case in my church, having someone with a university education practically boasting of his third trip to Uganda this year alone. But I have come to learn that God loves everyone, especially believers, whose eternal inheritance will outshine even the very best of travel experience.

"Whoever comes to me," Jesus once cried out, "out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water."
Travel is just another option with a return ticket. By contrast, salvation will never end.