Travel Biography - Week 121.

An End to One's Life's Chapter.

Of the 20 photos here, two are of the wedding, the other 18 are from our honeymoon album. With 106 pics in the album, I hope that I have selected the most memorable.

My feelings were somewhat mixed. That Friday back in 1999 was to be my last day of bachelorhood. My 47th birthday had just gone. Just two years earlier, while I was backpacking around the world, I never dreamed that I would marry before the end of the decade, century, and millennium. Rather, I was pondering on what life would have been like growing old as a singleton, with loneliness my only companion.

But Alex was determined to pair up with me. As I took off to Singapore in 1997 to visit Australia, and then continue on to California, I was already in her sight and mind. And so, just over two years later, I felt nervous as I reclined in the quietness of my apartment. She spent that day at her parent's home. That afternoon, I visited our local sauna at Coral Reef Waterworld, a leisure pool and spa suite, a twenty-minute walk away from home through the back of the woods. Sitting alone in the heated cabin, I knew this was the last of everything. Or was it? 

After arriving home that evening from Coral Reef, Mum phoned. She asked whether I was sure that this was what I wanted. Later, Alex said that she too was asked by her Dad the same question.

The Big Day and the Flight out to Rhodes.

After a very anxious wait for the bride to arrive, she was escorted by her father into the church. I felt a massive sense of relief. She could have changed her mind at the very last minute, a fear I'm sure lies deep within every waiting groom sitting on the pew or standing at the altar, especially if there's a delay.

Our big day.

Our Reception.

At our Hotel, Rhodes.

Lardos Beach, Rhodes.

And so, that unforgettable morning, we were wed. The ceremony, including the signing of the Register, took an hour. The Reception followed in the church's back room a short while later. Yet, how did I really feel? On one hand, happy to finally tie the knot and my status changed from bachelor to husband, from single to married. Yet, I anticipated the future. Even at Reception, behind the smiles, I had a premonition that testing times would eventually follow, yet, I felt confident that not only our future marriage would hold, but grow strong and robust through these coming trials.

My younger brother, Robert, was the best man. He was also the escort who drove us to Gatwick Airport drop-off after the Reception had ended. After hugging my brother farewell and wishing him the best of everything, we were finally alone as we made our way to check in for our flight. This flight was only the second in my entire life shared with another person - after flying out to Spain with a college mate 27 years earlier in 1972. Thus, I felt that this was so different after taking to the air so many times on my own between those years.

I'm aware that there may be many couples who won't reveal where their honeymoon destination was, perhaps in keeping with tradition. But they seem happier to say where they went to for all other subsequent holidays. We were perhaps the exception. On our wedding day, quite a few knew where we were heading for our honeymoon. That included both family members on both sides and closest friends. There was nothing to hide. We were heading to Rhodes, one of a group of 12 Greek islands, and also the largest of the Dodecanese.

Two weeks ago, I wrote that since 1972, I never went on another package holiday until 2007. However, by the time I realised that I had forgotten about the honeymoon, it was too late to correct the error, as that week's blog had already attracted many readers. So, let me set the record straight. Our Honeymoon in 1999 was the first package holiday since 1972. However, I'll go as far as to say that had I not met and married Alex, chances were that I would never go on any package holiday until perhaps old age, if at all.

My lifelong dislike for package holidays was borne out of the 1972 package trip to Spain. To me, that was not Travel but Sunseeking. It was one way to escape the dismal British summer for a spell of warm sunshine, with sand and sea thrown in. But in 1972, rather than an escape to the sunshine, it was Sun, Sand, Sea, and Alcohol. It was something I never wanted to experience again. Yet, there we were, about to go on another package holiday. But with a big difference. It would have none of the intoxication. Hence, the only difference between our honeymoon and independent backpacking was that both the package flight and the single-venue hotel were arranged in advance for us by the travel company, Thomsons.

The Acropolis, Lindos.

The Acropolis, Lindos

Lindos Bay

Lindos' main souk.

St Paul's Bay as seen from the Acropolis, Lindos.

North entrance into St Paul's Bay.

Our Arrival at Rhodes. 

We landed at Rhodes Airport late into the night, and we had to ask for the appropriate bus to our hotel, which was quite a long ride from the airport. Eventually, we arrived at Hotel Lardos Bay, on the southwest coast of the island. Being late at night, we were shown our room, itself a short walk from the Reception across the large quadrangle that contained the sunbathing area, hotel pool, and a freestanding bar.

The holiday was two weeks long, and it gave us a chance to learn about the island, its geography, history and culture. Remembering 1972, I hardly touched any alcohol. Instead, we enjoyed viewing the night scene with perfect contentment without any intoxication spoiling the romance. But being who I always was and who I still am - one for a quest for adventure, Rhodes offered little backpacking per se. 

Fortunately, there were two activities which came close. One was diving. I was not snorkelling this time but scuba diving - breathing underwater using air tanks fixed to my back. The other activity was a one-way hike from our hotel at Lardos Beach to Lindos. With adequate preparation, Alex was willing to accompany me on this six-mile, 10 km walk along the coastal road to this beautiful historic town which boasts the restored ruins of the Acropolis and the natural lagoon formation of St Paul's Bay. The hike wasn't our first visit to Lindos. Earlier in the honeymoon, we took a bus to Lindos to explore the town more thoroughly, noting the spectacular narrow strip of a peninsula jutting into the inky-blue Mediterranean. Lindos Beach was on our side of the peninsula, and we hired a pedalo for an hour. Poor Alex became anxious for our safety as we pedalled way out to sea to some small rocky islands!

Scuba Diving at Kallithea.

Our boat is to the right.

About to have our first Dive.

The diving was booked soon after arriving at our hotel. The day was halfway through the holiday. That morning, the coach escorted us to Mandraki Harbour and Marina at the island's capital, Rhodos. At its entrance from the sea were two pillars, one on each side of the entrance. On each pillar, a deer stood, one male, the other female. These pillars marked the traditional site of the giant Statue of Colossus, erected in 280 BC, and one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and was destroyed by an earthquake in 226 BC.

The boat, with probably up to thirty people on board including the staff, sailed out of Mandraki Harbour to head directly south to Kallithea Springs, a narrow inlet between two headlands and reputed for its clear waters. Here, the boat docked at one of the two diving platforms. My group, up to ten novice divers, were the first to don our suits and dive into the sea. Unfortunately, my wedding ring shot off my finger and was lost somewhere on the rocky seabed. Thinking that the ring was easily replaceable, I still made an effort to enjoy the dive. After the dive was over, after informing one of the supervisors about my wedding ring, he dived down and retrieved it! How he found such a small yet valuable object underwater on the uneven floor was surely a miracle, yet was I relieved! I made sure that I was more careful during our second dive a couple of hours later.

Between the two dives, we were free to explore the environment. The Kallithea Thermos was in a dilapidated state in 1999, and derelict. But I heard through the grapevine that it was earmarked for full restoration. According to the photo of it on Google Maps, this was accomplished, looking more like a museum piece than an actual hot bath.

The second dive, two hours after the first one, was okay, but having lost my coordination, I needed guidance from the supervisor. This was still very new to me, and it was very different from snorkelling. However, all ended well afterwards with a desire to remain in the water for longer. But with the others, I too had to board the platform. On both dives, Alex remained dry on the platform and watched. In all, it was a good day but with a lack of experience, I still had a long way to go with scuba diving.

At the Master's Palace, Rhodos.

Hippocrates Square.

Temple of Aphrodite.

One of the souks, Rhodos.

A Visit to the Island's Capital.

The chief city of Rhodes is Rhodos. It consists of the Old Town centred on Hippocrates Square, the Palace of the Grand Masters of the Knights, and the ruined Temple of Aphrodite. The medieval Old City was the centre of our attention. It was surrounded by the city wall with several gates, the most noted was the Sea Gate which led into Hippocrates Square, a well-known tourist spot. Outside the city walls, to the east is Mandraki Harbour, to the north, the island tapers at Elli Beach, from where we enjoyed a view of the Taslica Peninsula of Turkey. The rest of the New Town is an uninteresting urban sprawl. At Rhodos, we spent most of our time within the city walls and along Mandraki Harbour.

As I saw it, there were distinct similarities between Rhodos and Jerusalem. Both have a walled medieval Old City. Both have the New City attached to the outside of the city walls, the streets of both Old Cities were narrow, and the main souks of Jerusalem were roofed over. The streets of Rhodos were all open to the sky. Yet both had that distinctive medieval feel, as I walked through history, and now the experience shared with my new love.

One of the deers at Mandraki Harbour.

Close-up of the deer.

At Platia Simis, Rhodos.

Relaxing at Mandraki Harbour.

On days when we didn't leave the hotel, we spent much time sunbathing by the irregular-shaped pool. As I mentioned earlier in this biography when writing about Arlie Beach in Australia, many hotels have irregular-shaped pools designed that way to look at rather than swim. Hence, under the hot summer sunshine, a raging thirst develops. And it's no accident that very close to the pool there is the drinks bar. Also, salty peanuts were sometimes provided in a dish and were available for the taking. Package holidays really are money-making machines!

Two weeks after our wedding, it was time to head for the airport.

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Next Week: Alex and I are preparing to visit Israel. And I nearly hit the roof.

Travel Biography - Week 120.

Since 1997, I have backpacked around the world alone, followed in 1998 by hiking the Hadrian's Wall with two other friends, then flying out to New York to avoid the international football, and then attempting to cycle from my apartment in Berkshire to Chester, there was a teenager who kept her eye on me and was interested in getting together. By 1999, we were a couple, and I proposed. We were engaged to be married since the spring of that year.

But I had one more holiday before we stood at the altar. And that was divided into two halves. The first was at Stoneleigh Bible Festival at a venue near Coventry (dealt with last week). The second half was travelling across the Lake District National Park from Kendal Castle to Keswick, a total of 44 miles (71 km). The route was mostly hiking, especially from Kendal to Bowness-on-Windermere (9 miles, 14 km) and from YHA Ambleside to Keswick, I took the longer route via Lake Buttermere and High Lorton, 31 miles, 50 km. I took a boat ride on Lake Windermere for the remaining four miles between Bowness and YHA Ambleside.

Kendal Castle Ruins.

Kendal Castle Ruins

Kendal Castle Ruins

Bowness-on-Windermere.

The Lake District Hike begins.

Starting from Kendal Station, I first visited the ruins of a 12th-century castle built by the Lancaster family who were Barons of Kendal. The castle was later taken over by the Parr family, whose daughter, Catherine of Parr, was the sixth wife of King Henry VIII. By the 16th Century, the castle was already in disrepair.

I then spent the first night at the National Park at YHA Kendal, but this time, there was no spooky in the dormitory that went bump in the night. The next day, I set off, originally to the YHA Ambleside located on the lake's edge, close to the Waterhead Harbour on the northern end of the ribbon lake Windermere.

The 13-mile hike from hostel to hostel was to pass through Bowness-on-Windermere before heading north towards YHA Ambleside on Waterhead, at the northern tip of the lake. This particular route ran alongside a busy road, and it wasn't exciting but rather mundane. By the time I arrived at Bowness, the temptation to sail to my destination was enhanced by the presence of one of the cruisers preparing to leave. On the spur of the moment, I bought a one-way ticket and boarded just as it was about to depart.

The sailing was smooth and a pleasant experience. Not that this was the first time, either. In 1992, my friend Gareth and I spent two weeks hiking around the Lake District. That also included a boat sailing around Lake Windermere. Eventually, I disembarked at Headwater Harbour. But not everyone. Some of the passengers remained on the boat for a return sailing to Windermere and Bowness harbours, the other two of the three harbours along this eleven-mile-long ribbon lake.

Behind the harbour, the YHA hostel loomed. It consisted of two or three terraced houses "knocked together" into one property, hence, it was the second-largest hostel in the UK after London Rotherhithe, the Cumbrian hostel accommodating 240 beds in 1999.

After I checked in and was assigned a bed in one of the dormitories, suddenly my spirit fell. I now wished that I hiked all the way to this hostel from Kendal. By looking around the interior, I felt deep regret in boarding the cruiser. I should have carried on walking. I would have arrived at Ambleside by early evening after a 13-mile hike, in good time to put the dinner on. Not that that part of the hike was anything dramatic. I have done that stretch of the walk before. The trail was a sidewalk along a main road, and a fence ran alongside the back of the path, blocking access to the lake. Not much to see here.

Lake Grasmere.

Rydal Water with Lake Windermere beyond.

Borrowdale Valley.

River Derwent at Borrowdale Valley.

The next day, I made my way up one of the hills overlooking Lake Grassmere, Rydal Water, and even Lake Windermere in the background. Throughout the hike, I headed more towards the west rather than north, to loop through Borrowdale, around Lake Buttermere and into Lorton before swinging east towards Keswick. It was while I stood on the summit of one of the mountains overlooking Lake Buttersmere that I carried a pair of special filter spectacles. That afternoon, a partial solar eclipse darkened the whole environment, turning the mid-afternoon into dusk and cooling the air while the sun narrowed into a thin crescent as the moon obscured much of its brightness, allowing me to look straight up at the phenomenon safely through the filter. At that point, I wasn't alone, but a group of people gathered on the mountain summit to watch the spectacle. If only we had a total eclipse. From the mountain summit, this would have been even more spectacular!

In all, this walk could be referred to as fell-walking, as most of the route I walked along was on high ground. Thus, I enjoyed some fantastic views. The hostels I stayed at included YHA Kendal, Ambleside, Buttermere, and Keswick, therefore the second half of this two-week break was five days long, including much of the last day I spent in Keswick.

During our courting days, I got to know Alex well enough to realise that in no way she would ever go near a hostel where men and women slept in separate dormitories. Thus, as our wedding day was approaching, I was also aware that hostelling was about to come to an end. And what better way to end the career than in a town like Keswick.

The Last of Hostelling and a Life's Review.

The route I took approached Keswick east from Lorton, passing just north of Lake Derwentwater, perhaps the loveliest lake in the whole park, according to some. Although I didn't hike past it this time, I remember Lake Ullswater. Surrounded by higher mountains than those encircling Lake Windermere, when Gareth and I stood by that lake in 1992, I was impressed with the sheer wilderness of its environment.

Lake Buttermere.

At YHA Buttermere.

Lake Buttermere.

Lake Buttermere with Crummock Water beyond.

My one-night stay at the YHA Keswick in 1999 was to be the last I would ever spend in a single-sex hostel of any kind - that is when it came to sleeping in a single-gender dormitory. Even to this day, at the time of this writing, I had not bedded down in a single-gender dormitory since. And this particular week, we celebrated our silver wedding anniversary - 25 years of love together, through thick and thin. Fortunately, our wedding day in 1999 didn't end Travel, as we shall see. Instead, among other things, our wedding vows changed our method of travel. However, with a backpacking mentality within my chromosomes, remnants of independent travel drove us on, with my beloved getting to grips with backpacking - with both highs and lows - throughout our marriage. The travel bug may sleep but it would never die.

But that night at Keswick was to be my last in a single-sex dorm. Aware of this, my mind flashed back to the spring of 1985. That was when Tim introduced hostelling to me. We stayed at the YHA Totland Bay, West Wight. Indeed, with the mandatory duty performed by all hostellers to keep costs down, I wasn't impressed with this idea of overnight accommodation. Also, sleeping in a male dormitory reminded me of schooldays, such as the aforementioned 1962 school trip to Llangollen in North Wales. Not to mention the one who snores loudly.

But I also wanted to give hostelling the benefit of the doubt. So I tried a few other hostels around the UK. But the biggest change was when I, along with Tim, Gareth, and Keith completed a cycling tour across Holland, Belgium and Germany during the late 1980s. On the Continent, the compulsory duty has long disappeared, leaving only the UK still under this obligation - even after Hostelling New Zealand has announced boldly that there were no duties, and Australia introduced the Dollar-or-Duty scheme.

How all this had evolved from my early days of both domestic and overseas travel. In those early days, walking into a hotel reception hall from outside and asking whether there was a room available was the norm. Not only did I do that in the UK, but across Europe, especially in France and Italy, along with Israel in 1976, and all across North America in 1977 and 1978. Even in Israel in 1993, 1994, and as late as 2000, I still walked in and asked if there was a room or bed available. The same applied to Singapore and parts of Australia in 1997. Indeed, Video might have killed the Radio Star, and so, the rise of the smartphone has killed the real freedom of independent travel. This came to light when Alex and I were stranded in London after a visit to a hospital A&E and in need of finding a hotel room. Fortunately, a kind member of the hospital reception staff allowed me to book a hotel room on his smartphone. Without the booking, no London hotel would have handed over the room key, so I was told. How times have changed!

As I lay on the bed in Keswick, I kept on looking back at my hostelling days. The best hostel I ever stayed at was at the YMCA building in the heart of downtown San Diego in 1995. No other hostel around the world could ever eclipse that one. The hostel had a floor hired from the YMCA, in a 100-year-old building once owned by the US military, and it was open 24/7, with a kitchen giving 24-hour access, no duties, and it had a swimming pool and a sauna suite in the basement. I made friends there, and by sharing a bedroom with an Australian backpacker, the idea of travelling to Australia was conceived. 

I even compared the YHA Keswick with that YMCA building. Despite its friendly and hospitable air, it could never match the old San Diego counterpart. Yet, as I lay there, I knew that this would be the end. Alex would have none of it.

Buttermere just before the partial solar eclipse.

Lake Derwentwater.

Keswick Town.

I spent the final day in Keswick, checking out the town and visiting the nearby Lake Derwentwater. By late afternoon, I was on board a National Express bus to London. It was the British equivalent of the Greyhound buses that plied across the American continent and Australia. Sure, I could have caught a train from Penrith Station after a 17-mile bus ride from Keswick, but not only was it more expensive, but the need to change from the bus to the train. And since many Glasgow-London trains don't stop at Penrith, I probably had to board a local train and change elsewhere, perhaps in Warrington. In short, the train was too much of a hassle. The National Express would offer a comfy ride to London Victoria, and from there, take the train home.

Back at my apartment, my cheerful fiancee was already there, waiting for me. Over the door leading into the bedsit from the corridor was a large, homemade sign which read: Welcome Home, Traveller.

Solo backpacking has come to an end. Thus, I could have ended my biography here. However, after the wedding, there was the honeymoon. Since this is a travel biography, I will concentrate on the beautiful historic places visited rather than on us. And there was the year 2000. The year I took Alex, my pregnant wife on an independent backpacking trip to Israel. And it was worth asking: In Israel in the year 2000, did we experience a miracle?

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Next Week: The Day that Changed our Lives - Forever.

Travel Biography - Week 119.

A Lifelong Review and Two Remarkable Visions.

All photos here are of Stoneleigh Bible Festival 1999, where Alex arrived to spend a day together.

My travelling career began in 1972 when I flew to Spain with a college friend. At 19 years old, that was the first time I travelled overseas without my parents. It was also the first time in my life I boarded an aeroplane -  since my father was a caraholic and drove everywhere, even to Italy in the 1960s and right up to 1971 - which, at 18 years old, was the final year I travelled with my parents and my younger brother - hence, I have never flown with the family to this day. 

In 1972, I was there in Spain with a college friend free from parental supervision. But I felt empty and lost within. This was due to my former girlfriend, Sandra, after a whole year together, terminating our relationship just a few months earlier in April of that year. As a consequence, the easy availability of cheap Spanish wine left me sleeping in the hotel bathtub and soaked in my own vomit during one night of that holiday. Since 1972, I never gone on another package holiday until the year 2007.

My Christian conversion in December 1972 changed everything, including travel. In 1973, just a year after that Spanish experience, I was backpacking alone overseas for the first time. By visiting the ancient ruins of Pompeii, my interest in Roman and other ancient cultures began, and among other things including my first visit to Israel in 1976, I enjoyed a knowledge explosion without ever seeing the inside of a university. Travel itself became one of my tutors.

But as for a girlfriend, I had nobody throughout the years that followed 1972. As a long-term singleton, there were times of loneliness, boredom, frustration and financial hardship, especially after losing my full-time job as an engineer in 1979 and having to go self-employed. As a result, my life of travel, especially long-haul, was in two distinct eras - the seventies, from 1972 to 1978 inclusive, and again, from 1993 to the year 2000. During the nineties especially, I remained a committed singleton and prioritised my love for travel, both here in the UK and abroad, over wanting to marry.

Alex at my tent in Stoneleigh 1999.

Stoneleigh 1999.

At the grounds, Stoneleigh

The seven years that characterised the nineties were what followed a remarkable vision I had while I was up on a ladder one autumn, cleaning a customer's bedroom window. It was a prophetic vision of Jerusalem, with me standing on the Mount of Olives and praying over the Old City. From that moment onwards, everything changed. While before, I was struggling financially, with even a day trip to the seaside seen as a luxury, from that morning on, I was able to save up enough to cover my second trip to Israel, including airfare, accommodation costs, and spending funds, ten months later in 1993.

From the day I took off to Tel Aviv, the second seven-year Travel era began. Following that, I returned to Israel a year later in 1994 as a volunteer at a Christian Conference Centre in Isfiya, near Haifa. It was while I was gazing down at Jerusalem Old City from the Mount of Olives one afternoon, that I had another vision similar to the first one in October 1992. This time, I saw myself flying to New York to backpack America specifically to revisit the Grand Canyon after a camera failure resulted in disappointment during my first visit in 1978.

Just by sharing a hostel bedroom with an Australian backpacker in San Diego in 1995, the idea of visiting Australia two years later in 1997 was conceived. And so, in May of that year, the aeroplane I was in soared into the sky on its way to Singapore, a 5-day stopover on the journey to Australia, with the Great Barrier Reef as the star attraction.

I was watched while I was totally unaware.

But behind the scenes, something else was happening. A family with three young daughters, two of them in their late teens, attended the same church as me. I took no notice of them, but one of their daughters, Alexandra by name, noticed me, attracted by my long hair - a feature I had since I was seventeen and still have to this day. But at the time, nothing transpired. Alex was underage, and I was already in my forties. Besides, my heart was set on the coming 1997 Round-the-World, the greatest experience any traveller could wish for, and within the narrow window of opportunity before both the 9/11 disaster and currency inflation restricting such travel to the privileged.

Therefore, on the day I took off to Singapore that year, Alex was already watching me from a distance. On one occasion, shortly before take-off, after a service ended, I thought I overheard her father say to her that I should be left alone to backpack Australia. But I didn't give any more thought to that conversation.

Soon after I had returned from the Round-the-World experience, I was offered a lift by a fellow church member to spend a day at Stoneleigh Bible Festival 1997, near the city of Coventry. 

The couple in Love.

Festive spirit.

Members of our church at Stoneleigh 1999.

An Invite to Sunday Lunch.

1997 gave way to 1998, with its three short breaks - Hadrian's Wall, New York/Boston, and the attempted cycle ride to Llangollen in Wales. Sometime after returning home from Llangollen and Chester, I was invited to the home of Derek and Barbara along with another church friend, Daniel, who shared the Hadrian's Wall hiking experience with Tim earlier in the year.

The occasion was just a social over lunch, nothing more. Daniel's invitation, to me, was nothing more than further company to enrich the occasion. The conversation was mostly between Derek and Dan, as the two had something similar in common. Dan was a financial advisor while, at the time, Derek worked for Tim, an accountant who also accompanied us along Hadrian's Wall.

After lunch, Derek settled for a conversation with Dan while Alex approached me to ask whether I would accompany her to a copse of trees cornering a field which was just across the road. I was rather surprised at her gesture, but I agreed to go along with her, apparently with her parent's blessing. Later, I returned home feeling rather surprised by that afternoon's events.

As the weeks went by, there were occasions when I returned home from work to find a bar of chocolate posted through the door along with the mail. This occurred several times. On another Sunday, Derek approached me with an offer of some drinking tumblers he was giving away. Alex then arrived, by herself, to deliver the glasses. I invited her in, and she stayed with me in my apartment for quite a long time before returning home. Back then, I never considered any relationship, as our age gap was too wide, and she was still underage. I recall saying that I wasn't ready for any relationship but agreed to be friends.

All these things were occurring while I was planning my next Round-the-World backpacking trip, this time to South Africa, Australia, possibly New Zealand, and although I was already very familiar - California, or elsewhere in the Americas. One Saturday, I took a train to London to visit the Trailfinders travel agent in Kensington High Street to collect the latest magazine which contained details of RTW trips on offer, and began to lay down my plans.

Alex called at my apartment several times. She was approaching her 18th birthday in the late summer of 1999. The year 1998 passed after an uneventful Christmas with the family, and Alex was committed to seeing me frequently in 1999. During that time, our affection for each other began to grow, and I finally got around to having a relationship despite our huge age difference.

It was the Spring of 1999, and I arrived at a crossroads. What was it to be? Travel or Marriage? While she was in my apartment one Sunday afternoon, I took the Trailfinders magazine, deliberately tore it in front of her, binned it, and then sat next to her on the sofa. Sitting by her, I proposed, and she accepted. During the Easter weekend of 1999, Alex, with a few others, was baptised in water at our church. It was then that I announced to the congregation that we were engaged to be married, much to the surprise of some.

Just a note here. In bygone years, when I attended what was then Bracknell Baptist Church, I watched some graduates in our singles group pair up with their girlfriends. Some of these graduates already had girlfriends they met at university, and living in other parts of the UK, they often turn up to spend weekends or days with their boyfriends. Hence, one of our elders was a self-made chaperone who, at times, acted more like a gooseberry whilst the two were together. The chaperone himself was married and had children. If the ladylove arrived to spend the weekend together, the chaperone always insisted on offering his spare bedroom for her (or him) to spend the night. The majority happily complied. But on one occasion, one young man told his elder in no uncertain terms to mind his own business. Instead, he insisted that his girlfriend slept in his own apartment, although in a separate bed.

But as for us, Alex and me, there was no chaperone around in our church at Ascot. Throughout our courting days, we were left to ourselves, and she spent much of her time in my apartment. It was no surprise that one or two of the old boys who were chaperoned looked at us with disdain!

Members of our church, Stoneleigh 1999.

Reflection on the River Avon, Stoneleigh.

Reflections on the River Avon, Stoneleigh.

At Stoneleigh Bible Festival, 1999.

Although Alex and I were engaged to be married, travelling on my own wasn't yet over. There was one more holiday that I would be taking on my own before we stood at the altar. This was to be in two halves. The first week was to be at Stoneleigh Bible Festival, and I'll be having my own tent among other tents and caravans owned by members of Ascot Baptist Church. The tent was a recent acquirement that I bought secondhand from a window cleaning customer just a couple of weeks earlier. The second week would be a solo hike across the Lake District from Kendal to Keswick, and staying in YHA hostels along the way. But more of that next week.

I was on my own throughout most of that week in Stoneleigh except for one day in the middle of the week. That day was one when a small group from our church arrived to spend the day with us, just as I spent the day at Stoneleigh two years earlier in 1997. Among this group of day visitors was Alex, who ran towards me and embraced me. We spent the whole day together, including attending seminaries and strolling together around the grounds. We even enjoyed some privacy in the tent before she left with the rest of the day's visitors to return home.

At the end of the week, we all packed our caravans and tents as all the churches throughout the camp were preparing to return home. But not me. Instead, one of my church friends offered to give me a lift to Coventry Station, just over five miles away. It was where I would be dropped off in readiness to board a train to Kendal, around 170 miles (273 km) northwards from Stoneleigh.

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Next Week: The final lone Hike and the last of Hostelling.

Travel Biography - Week 118.

A Flashback to 1962.

As a nine-year-old, three months short of my tenth birthday, I felt excited about standing on the concourse of Paddington Station in London, waiting to board a train that would take us to North Wales. This was when more rail branches were operating than at present, and near North Acton, the Great Western mainline out of Paddington divided. The southern branch is now the only Great Western Line, passing through Slough and Reading and heading for Bristol, south Wales and Cornwall. The presently nonexistent northern branch, back then, headed towards Birmingham and north Wales.

As a boy, travelling by train was a novelty. This was because Dad became a car fanatic, and whenever we went out as a family, his hands were as if glued to the steering wheel. Hence, train travel was virtually nonexistent, despite my keenness for it. That particular train journey from Paddington to Chirk, just within the Welsh border, was accomplished with a group of children from our primary school in Fulham, West London, and three or four of its staff. These children, including me, had parents who paid for their child's two-week school getaway.

The slam-door carriage I was in had wood-panelled separate compartments with a corridor on one side. Throughout the journey, other children from our school passed us along the corridor to the water closets at each end of all the carriages.

We arrived at Chirk Station. At the car park, a coach awaited us for the eight-mile leg to Llangollen. When we arrived, we were told that the property resembling a large private home was actually a hostel owned by an organisation which specialised in bringing city schoolchildren out into the countryside, although this was not the YHA. Instead, the whole hostel was hired out to the group, and there was no morning duty that, in the sixties, characterised the YHA. Directly in front of the building was a swing park, further on, the rushing water of the River Dee made its way towards Chester. In the background, the ground rose to a distant hill, topped by the ruins of Castell Dinas Bran, a 13th-century castle that was built over an Iron Age fort which dominated the surrounding valleys and the town itself.

At Henley-on-Thames.

The jovial spirit At Henley.

Tudor House and Shops at Oxford.

Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-on-Avon.

Day trips included a coach trip to Conway, with its better-preserved castle and the Smallest House in Britain. Both faced a tidal estuary of the River Conway as it flowed into the Irish Sea. A couple of times, we climbed up along the path that led to the ruins of Dinas Bran, opening up a splendid view of the town below. I approached the teachers to ask about the castle's history, but neither could answer. That was surprising to me, as a boy and even without the Internet, I believed that every teacher's knowledge stretched to infinity.

During that two-week trip, any classmates I had remained at home. Generally, I got on okay with the others. However, if any teasing or bullying occurred, we thought it better to stay away from the staff, especially from the male teacher whom I heard replied to one victim, Don't tell tales! - leaving the bullying perpetrator unpunished and the victim further humiliated. This was in the days when the UK mandatory conscription into the military had just ended in 1960 but the last of the conscripts weren't discharged until 1963. The unsympathetic teacher was still preparing us for National Service in expectation of a tough life in the army - perhaps with a belief that mandatory conscription would return with the next Conservative government.

Meal times could get emotional, especially if the head boy at our eight-seated table wanted to prove his power. To do that, he had to bring his chosen victim to tears, knowing that he would go unpunished. One evening, we were served dessert after finishing the main course. The custard in my bowl had some surface skin in it, and having recalled when I was very young, choking the last time I tried to swallow the skin, I refused to eat the custard.

That was when the head boy bullied me to eat. It had nothing to do with my welfare or any concern with food waste. It was purely to bring me to tears. Instead, we were locked in a battle of wills. The boy egged me on to eat. I refused, and the tension between us held while the other boys watched. But I didn't cry. I never gave the perpetrator the satisfaction he wanted. Then, as everyone rose to leave for the lounge, Mrs Light, a staff member, approached, and towering over me, bent down so her face was nearly level with mine and gave me a stiff telling-off for calling the food rubbish. The head boy was leaving the dining room, getting away scot-free.

William Shakespeare's Birthplace.

YHA Llangollen.

River Dee, Llangollen.

The hostel and playpark, Llangollen.

And so, in 1998...

After arriving home from the 1997 ten-week Round-the-World backpacking trip and sinking into post-trip blues, I wasn't aware of the effects that would have had for the following year. Although I quickly recovered emotionally, its long-term impact continued in the subconscious for a long while. Hence, 1998 had three short breaks. In proper chronological order, they were (1) the hike along Hadrian's Wall with two other friends, (2) the transatlantic flight to New York to avoid the World Cup football, and (3) an attempted bicycle ride from home to Llangollen to finish at Chester, around 230 miles (370 km).

Why do I use the word attempted? It was because the pedalling journey was never completed. And have considered myself very fortunate. I could have been killed.

And so, one morning in 1998, with the late summer weather looking ideal, I loaded the luggage on the bike's panniers and set off. I have already worked out the route. The main destination was Llangollen in Denbighshire, Wales. However, the plan was for the journey to continue further to Chester, from where I could board a train with the bike to return home. The whole purpose of this trip was to revisit and revive memories of that 1962 school trip 36 years earlier. From my apartment, the route passed through Henley-on-Thames, Oxford where I would spend the first night, then Stratford-upon-Avon, Birmingham, Wolverhampton where I would spend the second night, Llangollen for the next three nights, before proceeding to Chester via Wrexham to spend a night there. I also had all the accommodation booked in advance, as with the growth of tourism, it was already becoming unwise to rely on "off-the-street" walk-ins.

The bicycle I had was given to me by a friend who had it for years. It was a well-maintained, handsome machine with panniers fitted at the rear to accommodate luggage. The bag I had was rather heavy, as it was impractical to take the rucksack. This extra weight not only made pedalling harder work but has put a greater strain on the frame. 

I arrived at Henly-on-Thames, a border town of Oxfordshire on the north side of the Thames (Berkshire reaches the south bank.) Since this was a sightseeing and memory-reviving tour and not competitive, I had no qualms about a refreshment break before resuming the journey. It was afternoon when I arrived in Oxford, and already tired, I felt relief when I checked in at the YHA Oxford which was near the railway at the time. I had much of the afternoon to check out the city and admire its history and the colleges of Oxford University.

Castell Dinas Bran is seen through the fog.

The ruins of Castell Dina Bran.

Ruins of Castell Dinas Bran

At the hostel, I carried out the usual - bought and cooked my own meals. Early in the morning, I set off towards the Midlands. However, at a rotary interchange, I took the wrong exit. Instead of taking the A4260 for Kidlington, instead, I was on the A34 heading in an entirely wrong direction. Fortunately, further on, there was a minor road connecting the two main roads. By turning onto this road, I corrected the route, and I was relieved when I passed through Kidlington.

It was plain riding until I reached Stratford Upon Avon, the birthplace and hometown of William Shakespeare. It was afternoon, and by calculating how long it would take to reach Wolverhampton, I was able to spend an hour in this historic town. There was a touristic atmosphere with rowing boats plying the river. By the river, the Shakespeare Theatre stood aloof. I also spotted a YHA hostel, and immediately I wished that I could just walk in and reserve a bed there and then. During the seventies and eighties, I could have done that. This was the disadvantage of advanced booking. The hotelier at Wolverhampton was expecting me that evening. I couldn't mess about and screw up the schedule.

I rode on towards Birmingham. I arrived at the Bullring shopping centre and looked around. From the ceiling of the main indoor mall, some giant bumble bees enhanced the precinct. I then moved on toward Wolverhampton where I was to spend the second night at a hotel there.

I was rolling fast downhill on a busy main road. All of a sudden there was a loud CLUNK! and the bike began to buckle under my weight and swayed crazily from left to right across the road. I applied the brakes and found what the problem was. The seat tube, just above the bottom bracket shell, had broken due to metal fatigue. Yet, I was fortunate. Very fortunate. I could have gone under a car. My journey could have ended at a hospital mortuary. Instead, I was fine, uninjured, but holding up a crippled bike.

The bicycle was finished and beyond repair. It was the frame that was damaged. Had it been the wheel, pedal, chain, cassette, brakes or even the handlebars, or the panniers that broke, they could be replaced and the journey resumed. I would have taken the cycle to a bike shop and had the damaged part replaced. But the frame? That is where all the other parts were attached. Once the frame breaks due to metal fatigue, the whole bicycle is finished, even if the wheels are brand new.

I "limped" to Wolverhampton city centre, locked up the bicycle on a sturdy support and arrived at the hotel on foot. That evening, feeling low and defeated, I treated myself to cod and chips at a local fish & chip bar. I settled in my room for the night and moped. The next day, I decided to leave the bike locked up in the city and headed to Llangollen by bus and train. After a day of travelling by public transport, I arrived at the YHA Llangollen by evening.

At the hostel kitchen, I made friends with a Spanish cyclist who couldn't speak English but talked a lot anyway. His spirit was opposite to mine. How could one be in such a jolly mood while the other is so much out of his? That was simple. This young Spaniard is cycling around the UK with success. I was no longer riding but admitted defeat at the challenge.

Bathhouse Hypocausts, Chester

My own Mosaic, Roman Museum, Chester.

The next day, I saw off the Spaniard as he set off on the next leg of his journey. The next three days I spent in Llangollen. Forgetting the failed cycle ride, I spent time in the ruins of Castell Dinas Bran. 36 years after the first visit, I saw no change in the remains. There was no sign of erosion or weathering. They were exactly as I saw them. I sat on the lawn among the ruins and contemplated.

I also approached the hostel. It too looked unchanged. No group was occupying the property that day, but by peering inside through a window, I saw signs above each door saying which room each door led into. After all that time, the hostel continues its intended purpose of catering to the needs of children.

The swing park was still there, although the Witches Hat was replaced by a climbing frame. But the swings were exactly where they always were. I sat on one and swung to and fro as I did as a child. On another day, I saw two elderly ladies laughing as they swung on those swings. Although I didn't approach them, I could see that they too were reminiscing on their childhood experience at that hostel. Furthermore, these ladies looked older than me, hence they might have arrived with their school group some years before we did.

Finally, a bus took me to Chester where, after a visit to the Roman Museum, I spent my final night before taking the train to Wolverhampton to collect my crippled bike, and then boarding another train with the bike for Reading before my final leg of the journey home. The bicycle was never used again but was eventually scrapped.

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Next Week: How an Invite to Lunch is set to Change my Destiny.