Travels: Downhill All The Way...

Cycling was one way to get to school every morning during term time. The alternative was by bus, which Mum insisted that I take whenever it was raining. Except for a few years in the seventies, when I had a small Honda 50 motorcycle, my kind of local transport had always been by pedal cycle. The use of the pushbike resumed in the 1980s, after a stint in a local hospital as a result of a motorcycle accident. 

A Racing bike like this one was my pride and joy...

I'm one of those "oddities" who had never owned or driven a car. But that doesn't mean that my way of living lacked fulfilment. Perhaps the reverse.

In this series of blogs centred on personal travel experiences, so far, I have focused on backpacking overseas. But today I like to emphasise travel on two wheels, including here in the UK, as well as across Europe. Both include sharing the adventure with other people.

During the late eighties, several of us went on cycling holidays together as a small group of five unmarried Christian men - Tim, Gareth, Keith, Paul and me. The key issue was the camaraderie that we shared between us. We all had bikes, we all had passports - although one of us thought that passports weren't needed to cross the North Sea from Harwich to reach the Hook of Holland. When he was asked if he had his passport with him, he ended up rushing home to collect it, thus averting a last-minute disaster!

We were as mixed-class as we can get - quite unusual, in my opinion, within the English church culture, which tends to be predominantly middle-class. There were three of us holding white-collar professions - a banker, an accountant, and an architect assistant. The other two included a kitchen porter and a window cleaner. Yes, I was the window cleaner, self-employed, as was the accountant.

This was in the days when I was also competing in Triathlons, therefore, I was quite used to fast, long-distance riding. But as one of a group, we all had to ensure that we all paced to the slowest rider, who could have been any one of us, and on one occasion, whilst we were in Belgium, I was asked to slow down - as I was leading the group during that particular stretch of the journey.

Teasing between us was quite frequent. On one occasion in 1986, we were at the Kukenoff Flower Centre in Holland, when I thought I lost my keys. Had I lost them, then I wouldn't have been able to release my bicycle from the strong and secure, D-lock. Nor return to my apartment back home. So I began to search frantically for my keys, feeling panic rising as I emptied the rucksack and searched through the scattered contents.

Then Tim asked, What is that bump on the outside of your trouser pocket?

I plunged my hand into my pocket, and lo and behold, there were my keys. The rush of relief I felt was worth the remorseless teasing - to whom I became the principal target - since I always keep my keys in that pocket. And here's the secret: Never take teasing to heart. Instead, I laughed with them, and I when an opportunity arose, I was able to throw one back at him. We all laughed, adding lightheartedness to what was otherwise a few days of serious pedalling.

A more serious incident took place whilst we were staying at Cologne jugendherberge. We were having breakfast at the hostel restaurant when my wallet was chosen to be emptied of all cash by a dishonest thief posing as a guest - or even as a dormitory cleaner. Fortunately, my credit and debit cards were still there, intact. But the loss of the Deutschemark from my wallet presented problems. And anger. Why, oh, why did I leave the wallet in the dormitory? Why did I automatically assume that everyone was just as honest as we were? A fight very nearly broke out between me and the kitchen porter in our group after ordering me not to swear. Instead, another member intervened, and the potential fight was averted.

All four paid for my keeps - such as overnight accommodation, restaurants, snacks, and even the return train journey from Harwich. This goes to show how valuable friendship is, despite the near fight I might have had with one of them. But these are lessons I learned the hard way - never to leave valuables lying around unattended. This lesson was to prove beneficial for my yet future solo trips to Israel, Singapore, Australia, and the USA.

However, I would like to focus on the End-to-End cycle ride from John O'Groats, at the northern tip of Scotland, to Land's End, on the west tip of Cornwall, which we completed in 1990. The traditional road route covering the entire length of Great Britain is 874 miles 1,407 km. This is over the geographical distance of 603 miles 907 km - if the route was a straight line. But we diverted from the traditional route at various places, such as through the Lake District National Park, and also into Blackpool, which made the route we completed in 1990 somewhere between 890-900 miles 1432-1448 km - all within 12 days.

There were just two of us, Gareth and myself. When planning the trip, Gareth took care of the train journeys, first, an overnighter from London Euston to Inverness, followed by another train from Inverness to Thurso terminus station, which is near John O'Groats. He also booked two tickets from Penzance to Bracknell via Reading.

I took care of overnight accommodation, which was in YHA hostels, except at Blackpool, where we spent the night at a Bed-and-Breakfast hotel. Here, advanced bookings were far better than the off-the-street approaches, as knowing exactly where we would spend the coming night as a means in keeping each day's ride under a regular schedule, and therefore avoiding each subsequent day's leg of the journey getting shorter and shorter.

Narrow inlet, or Fjord, at Duncansby Head.

It was an experience of a lifetime. There was only one flat - on Gareth's rear wheel. However, as was the custom, I always carried a puncture repair kit with me, and this proved vital on our journey, as his tyre began to deflate on the remote and almost deserted Aviemore-Perth stretch of the A9. Therefore, I emphasise the importance of carrying vital tools needed for any on-route repair - especially on a long journey.

When it comes to breakdowns, it was my turn to experience a more serious situation when my chain was ready to give way as we approached Wigan. Fortunately for once, this particular day not falling on a Sunday, we came across a bicycle shop in town, open and trading. Here, I bought a new chain, and having a chain-breaker among my tools, I was able to replace the old chain with a new one myself, thus saving labour costs if the repair was done in the shop. After fitting the chain, I went for a quick ride around the block to ensure that the new chain was fully compatible with the rear gear cassette and there was no jumping. Fortunately, the new chain took to the gear teeth well, or else it was back to the shop to buy a new cassette also - and to pay them to have it fitted.

We were intrigued by the natural beauty of Great Britain, especially by such coastline contrasts. For example, the dramatic limestone cliffs with their narrow inlets and the waves of the sea dashing against the natural vertical walls and echoing with a strange, haunting sound, accompanied by the wails of the Puffin birds flocking within the inlet as they nest on its walls. And the nearby sandstone stacks resembling the buttes found within the Grand Canyon, all confined within the region of Duncansby Head, just east of John O'Groats, and a short ride away from the hostel where we were staying. Hardly any buildings, no road, but just a footpath edging open fields inland. On the other hand, the wide, flat sandy beach at Blackpool during low tide gives the impression of a mini-desert strip, backed by the busy street of the resort and dominated by the famed Tower.

 

And then the hills, "those funny bits pointing skywards and draining our energy." But we were told that, because we are riding from north to south, it's "downhill all the way."

Am I kidding? Er, no. During the weeks before we started on our journey to Scotland, the same architect assistant who came with us to the Continent in the late eighties approached me, and with all seriousness, said that by going from north to south, we will be going downhill all the way. His message passed around other church members, and I was beginning to wonder whether they were serious or merely teasing. Eventually, even Gareth himself felt confused.

This happened while we were sitting in a coffee bar near Exeter one morning before setting off on the next leg of the journey, and after spending the previous day struggling uphill and against the wind on a spirit-crushing 90-mile stretch between Bristol and Exeter, that following morning my banker friend expressed his concern. I felt exasperated, but I made sure that I explained the situation as gentle and courteous as I could be.

It easy to imagine a sphere, and for example, if water was splashed on the smooth object, such as on top of a golf ball, or even better, a squash ball or a football, then any droplet large enough will roll to the bottom of the ball and even drip off. Therefore, it comes as no real surprise that this "downhill all the way" theory is likened to the bead of water on a smooth ball. It rolls to the bottom and drips off. Therefore, on a much larger scale and with the UK on a curving slope some 50-60 degrees north of the Equator, or 30-40 degrees latitude south of the North Pole, why shouldn't the same happen with us - just roll south towards the Equator, if not to the South Pole itself?

And this was coming from someone who wore a business suit to get to work and wore a shirt-and-tie in the office whilst concentrating on the drawing board, hence a middle-class man of respectability. This really bothered me! I always thought that I was meant to be the uneducated, working-class ignoramus! Instead, I've known about the properties of our planet since childhood, or at least from adolescence. 

I explained to my friend that gravity is centred within the core of the Earth, and not at the equator, nor, for that matter, at the South Pole. Since the Earth's gravity is much, much greater than that of the ball, the droplet will roll down the ball to fall towards the Earth. But there is no greater source of gravity under our planet, therefore, unless resting on something solid, everything will fall towards the centre of the Earth. Hence why we tire quickly as we struggle on our bikes riding uphill. By contrast, riding downhill means riding extra fast with ease.

The Earth from Space.

Ah, travel! I guess I will meet people of all kinds, thus making travel such a fascinating experience. And going on a holiday break with Christian friends was quite different from travelling alone. Although by nature, I prefer to travel alone, nevertheless, I can learn much about travelling with a group of Christian men, all very close to my own age. Disagreements over a misfortune, such as the one at Cologne, can and does, arise. But after I was wiped clean of all my money, the moral and financial support I received was impressive. I could have been left to deal with the problem on my own. Instead, I was carried along the way until I'd reached my front door. 

With lockdown in place for the past year, maybe we may see the end of the tunnel once again and, who knows, maybe God will open the door for us to travel together as a couple.

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.

Corals, Wife, Baby and Me = Four

Alex and I rose one early morning after the chiming from the bells of the nearby Church of the Holy Sepulchre, set in the heart of the Christian Quarter of Jerusalem Old City during Autumn of the year 2000. We knew that this particular day is going to be a busy one. Being off-season, the backpacker's hostel was empty of all other guests. Not that it mattered to us. We occupied the only private bedroom on the first floor. The two other rooms, empty of guests at the time, were dormitories, accommodating single bunk beds, one of them I occupied as a single traveller back in 1993 and 1994 respectively.

Back then, especially in 1994, The New Swedish Hostel was packed with young backpackers, with both genders squeezed into each of the dormitories, with the Medieval domed ceiling adding historic character to the enhancement of our experience. But this time, I was happy to pay more per night in a private room with a double bed. 

We made our own breakfast at the tiny combined member's kitchen and dining room. After we washed the dishes and cleared them away, we set off, the two of us walking through Souk David, and past the Citadel that stands guard over Jaffa Gate, then along the outside of the city wall, towards Jaffa Road in the New City as we made our way to the bus station. During this walk, we passed the Ron Hotel, facing Zion Square and the junction with Ben Yehuda Street - Ron Hotel being the same venue I checked in during late Spring of 1976, over 24 years earlier.

We finally entered the Egged Central Bus Station (and where I was glad to see the toilets!) and having bought tickets, we boarded the bus for the four-hour journey to Eilat, on the northern tip of the Red Sea.

After a four-hour ride, which included a rest stop by the Dead Sea, we arrived at Eilat. After checking out the resort town, we caught a local bus to Coral Beach, a nature reserve and resort just a mile short of the Egyptian border.

Jetty at Coral Beach, Eilat. Taken Oct. 2000.

We had to pay to enter the beach enclosure, which also boasts a hotel with a desk that rents out snorkels. Since Alex was 19 weeks pregnant with our first daughter, we agreed that only I will go into the water whilst she sat and watched from the jetty and preparing lunch for both of us.

As I revelled at the corals beneath me, with many tropical fishes swimming among them, I couldn't help but make a mental comparison to the Great Barrier Reef I visited only four years earlier in 1997. These are different species of coral altogether, mainly hard coral which had built a reef along the west coast of the Red Sea, forming an underwater coral cliff. By contrast, the parts of the Great Barrier Reef I have visited consist of both hard and soft coral, the latter resembling spaghetti strands swaying gently by the current. However, the corals of Green Island cay, off the port of Cairns, was devastated by the invasion of the Crown-of-Thorns starfish. Thank goodness that the reefs of neighbouring Low Isles cay and the fringe reef of Border Island of the Whitsundays archipelago - along with the reef of the Red Sea - remains relatively free from this aquatic pest.

About fifty to seventy metres out from the coast, I saw some divers swimming around a particular spot before they disappeared underwater. This aroused my curiosity. I began to swim to the area. It was then I saw a towering mound of coral standing alone and separate from the coastal reef, with some divers below as they examined the reef from close quarters. One of them looked up to see me floating almost directly above, breathing into my snorkel. As a goodwill gesture, I closed my right fist and stuck out my thumb with the tip pointing upward. The diver looked as if he took offence and returned to the coral mound.

It was afterwards when I realised that by sticking up my thumb, a sign of goodwill here in the UK, in Israel, this was offensive. I felt so embarrassed! What I should have done was to form a circle with my thumb and index finger. Not only was this a goodwill sign in Israel but also an international gesture that all is well among divers.

Other than that setback, the rest of the day went very well for both of us. We had lunch at the jetty, and like at the Great Barrier Reef, I also bought a single-use submersible camera when I rented the snorkelling gear. It was in the evening that my beloved felt somewhat regretful that she didn't share the aquatic experience with me. But she also understood that with the baby growing inside her, we felt that it was better for her to remain safe.

After spending several hours in Eilat, we boarded the bus back to Jerusalem. As we sat on the bus, I looked out of the window across the Rift Valley to the Jordanian mountains on the other side while Alex was sleeping. As the dry Arabah Valley gives way to the Dead Sea at the lower end of the Jordan Rift Valley, I was able to visualise Moses standing on one of those Jordanian mountains, looking across the valley and seeing the expanse of the Holy Land, even as far as the Mediterranean Sea. The land which God told him he wouldn't be allowed to enter.

The sound of the bus engine, as it purred along the road, enhanced the haunting feel of the valley, as if so much history had taken place there, I found to be almost disturbing, especially after dark. I was able the visualise the ancient nation of Edom to the south of the valley, and Ammon further to the north. The discarnate ghosts of ancient history all gazing at this lonely vehicle carrying living passengers from Eilat to Jerusalem. It was a feeling I had never experienced elsewhere.

Red Sea Corals, taken with a submersible camera.

Zebra Fish at the Red Sea.

It was late in the evening before we arrived back at the hostel. Seeing the streets lights of Jerusalem had dispelled any oddness I might have felt during the nighttime journey. Yet, in all, it was a great day as we celebrated our first wedding anniversary.

My fascination with the Holy Land goes back to the early to mid-seventies. I was converted from atheism to a Christian believer late in 1972, then aged 20. And one of the fruits of conversion was to start reading the Bible, not only for my spiritual growth but also as a fount of knowledge not learned at school.

And one feature I gradually discovered was that of all the ancient settlements, Jerusalem is mentioned most, and the Bible seems to put much emphasis on this city, both throughout the Old Testament and into the New, at least up to the book of Acts. After this, all the letters concentrated on the churches around the Roman Empire until into the book of Revelation, where Jerusalem once again takes centre stage. Therefore, I came to realise that this specific city holds a very prominent place in God's word to mankind.

But there was an issue left from my days of being an atheist. I was still a devout evolutionist. It was while I was alone in the house during a thunderstorm when I felt a curiosity about how it all began. So, turning to Genesis chapters 1-3, I began to read. And I gasped as I read. Especially about the Fall of Adam and Eve in chapter 3. I thought, No, Adam, no, don't do it! AAAHH!

It was as if the Lord Himself was standing in front of me, offering a choice in what to believe - Evolution or Creation. I didn't hesitate. I believed in Creationism straight away. It was as if the Lord was pleased with my decision and opened the door for knowledge to increase, along with the wonderful privilege to visit this fascinating city in person.

It wasn't long after I had flown the nest and moved into a bachelor pad in 1976 before I had the desire to visit Israel. But not in a tour group. Instead, I wanted to visit the Holy Land on my own, as a backpacker, very much as I travelled across Europe since 1973. And so, still immature and naive as I was, I boarded the airline at Heathrow to Tel Aviv - alone. And my work colleagues were fascinated with me for heading to the Middle East as an independent in the first place.

But I shouldn't have been surprised. After landing at Ben Gurion Airport, I took a taxi to Jerusalem, and the cabbie recommended the Ron Hotel for me. After arrival, I paid the cabbie off, and entered the hotel and asked if there's a room. Thank goodness the receptionist understood English! Suddenly I felt a sense of relief as I climbed the stairs to my assigned room.

As I lay on the bed, suddenly from outside, there was a loud sound of a gunshot. Not from a rifle but from something far more powerful. The boom echoed across the city. Then I knew that this was no beach holiday. Rather, I was in the midst of a war zone. But I was determined to make the best of this trip and see the city so familiar to Jesus Christ, his disciples, and the prophets.

And how I loved the Old City of Jerusalem! Back in 1976, before Israel became more westernised, there was much of the Middle East culture still intact. In the Old City, the streets, or souks, had a gulley running down the centre of the street. Into which slops, including droppings from passing donkeys, were washed into and drained away. Middle East music, very different from our western music, dominated the radio waves. The call to prayer echoed from the minarets of mosques seen across East Jerusalem, such calls echoed eerily down the Kidron Valley. The currency was the Israeli Pound, left from the former British mandate which ended in 1948. But to walk the streets and to visit the Temple Mount so familiar in the Bible was the ultimate thrill, along with wading through the water flowing through Hezekiah's Tunnel, and to stand at the summit of the Mount of Olives, admiring the splendid view of the city - the view Jesus Himself was so familiar with!

Not all was peaches and cream, though. Nearly every day, Arab youths would take me by my arm and start to tour me around - for a fee. At first, I ended up paying them, but eventually, I learned to say No firmly, without being rude. And when my funds ran low before the time, I was advised to write a letter to my parents to transfer some funds to a certain bank in Jerusalem. By sending the letter to them by special post, within three days, my funds were restored. A very important lesson learned!

My next visit to Jerusalem was in 1993, and again in 1994, when I found out that the Prime Minister of Israel, Yitzhak Rabin, held a conference at the Ron Hotel with PLO leader Yasser Arafat over the proposal to hand over East Jerusalem to the Palestinians, very much against the wishes of the Israelis. A huge crowd of Israelis were demonstrating at Zion Square, spilling into Jaffa Road and Ben Yehuda Street. Here and there, TV cameras were seen, and I wondered whether this protest demonstration will feature on the BBC News. And I found myself right in the midst of it.

Jews celebrate the Sabbath at the Western Wall, 1993.

Walking across the Land where Jesus Christ trod, was the title of the diary which I kept after returning home from the 1976 trip. To visit the land which proves full verification of the Bible was indeed a wonderful privilege.

With the year 2000 trip to Israel with Alex, the total number of weeks I spent in the Holy Land throughout my life adds up to 22 weeks.

"Boring" Sea Grass of Maltese Beauty.

We're going a-b r-r-o-o-a-a-d for our h-o-a-l-lidays!

Such was my mother back in the 1960s when Dad drove us to Italy in our family saloon. Typical of her to mimic the dialect of a snooty aristocrat who always believed that foreign holidays were reserved for the rich, she felt satisfied that we as a family had managed to "encroach" onto the privilege reserved for the wealthier echelons of society.

But any wealthy aristocrat having taken a look into our situation would have laughed, albeit lightly and with a dash of modesty. She would have seen a small car travelling on a French highway to meet with my maternal grandparents who have happened to live in an untouristic city of Turin, tucked in the northwest corner of the Italian peninsula. The trip involved two overnight stops. With Dad leaving the rest of us in the car, he would walk around the French town to look for a hotel for us to spend the night. After a short while, we see him run towards us with excitement. He had found a hotel that was happy to accommodate us at such short notice.

He drove us around the streets of the town. But we never ended up in comfortable beds. Instead, having forgotten the location of the hotel, we ended up spending another night sleeping rough in the parked car.

Sea Grass (stock photo)

The next day we arrived at our Italian destination where, as an adventurous teenager, I had to put up with the ultimate boredom of family confinement at an upstairs apartment where not a word of English was spoken, except when directed to us (my brother and me.) Fortunately, I was allowed out to visit the city centre on my own by taking a tram, itself a novelty to me, sitting inside "a coach on railway lines."

At least I can say that my father did his best. But international travel or family holidays was never his forte. Part of that was due to financial limitations. However, he was also a motoring fanatic. To him, to drive a car across France, across the Alps into Italy was his ultimate life's fulfilment.

And so, with the last two blogs written about Travel, this looks like a developing series of blogs on this topic. There was no original intention to create a series, but having started, I decided to carry on to see how far this would get without repeating or overlapping between blogs. There was no original planning.

And we both (my wife and I) love watching YouTube travel videos. YouTube presenter Rick Stevens on his exploration of Europe including Britain and also Egypt, has been watched extensively by us, along with presenters Gabriel Traveler and Jason Billam, all three are university graduates. Then there are the former BBC reporters, such as Craig Doyle, Kate Humble, and Simon Reeve. Only Gabriel and Jason had ventured out on their own with a high-quality video camera and a laptop. The others all had a camera crew with them. 

This goes to show how popular such documentaries are. With viewing numbers reaching into the millions between them, I have wondered what extra benefit my contribution would bring, especially if there are countless more YouTube travel presenters not mentioned here. But with me, there is an extra dimension. While all the other productions are secular, I acknowledge that all my trips taken throughout my life were a blessing from God, gotten from grace and undeserved mercy. God has blessed me richly in something I enjoy most, and throughout, he has kept me out of harm's way.

Watching Gabriel Traveler's video on Malta had brought wonderful memories of our own trip to the archipelago in 2012. His video included that of the small island of Comino, between the main island of Malta and its northern neighbouring island of Gozo. Comino features the beautiful Blue Lagoon, which is a very popular tourist spot and also the site where the film The Count of Monte Cristo was shot.

The boat trip to the Blue Lagoon included the hiring of snorkelling gear. Once the boat was moored for the rest of the day, we made our way to the beach, and while Alex preferred to remain onshore, I went into the sea to check out the underwater scene. Reminiscences of the Great Barrier Reef, Eilat's Coral Beach and the basalt reef of Lanzarote, an island of the Canaries!

But at the Blue Lagoon, the entire seabed was covered by a submarine lawn of seagrass, and there were small jellyfish swimming everywhere. Here, I had to admit, the presence of jellyfish did make the underwater scenery more interesting. But the sight of a small child on the beach screaming in pain in his mother's arms after being stung on the leg had lowered my evaluation of the Blue Lagoon. Indeed, it's a beautiful scene when viewed from the surrounding clifftop, but the underwater view failed to match the views of the other locations I snorkelled at - and in itself was not worth the price for hiring the snorkel.

Seagrass, just seagrass covering the sandy seabed, with no sea life to add enhancement to the subaquatic environment. And to carefully avoid being stung by the jellyfish, I decided to take off my snorkel after just a short time and wade back to the sandy patch of beach. 

Blue Lagoon, Comino Island, taken 2012. 

We then took a stroll along the cliff-top. The views were spectacular! After the walk and before reboarding the boat that would take us back to Malta, we called at one of the many kiosks lining the beachfront, selling refreshments at an inflated price.

That's the trouble with tourist's hotspots. Even refreshments are expensive, but this did not deter the long queues for the most popular traditional English fish-and-chips kiosk, and we were both hungry. So I lined up to wait my turn to be served. Having bought two trays of chips (that is, home fries or potato wedges) and giving one tray to Alex, we settled down to enjoy the snack.

Only for my beloved to accidentally drop her tray without taking her first bite, and the tray landed face down in the sand.

With every wedge covered in sand and little money left in my pocket, my heart fell at the sight of the queue. Oh, why must life be like that? She refused any offers I made from my own tray, instead, insisting that I must eat. Yet, any idea that by eighteen months later, she would be confined to a wheelchair had never crossed my mind. Not even for a moment.

However, before she was confined to the wheelchair, Alex was a good swimmer. Malta's rocky coast provided excellent natural lidos without the nuisance of beach sand clinging all over us. But I was more fascinated with the cliffs, caves and stacks of its coastline. One area where I found to be so inspiring was the Blue Grotto on the south coast of Malta. Here, natural chemicals interacting with the sunshine causes the seawater to turn a deep turquoise as if illuminated from beneath its depths. Fishermen at a nearby port double up to take paying tourists to the bay, which boast deep caves, a huge arch and stacks. It was at one cave that the effect was so striking, I was sure that there was artificial lighting somewhere below the surface.

Swimming in the cave was allowed, or at least the fishermen turned a blind eye, and among a boatful of tourists, I was the only one who jumped off our boat, after watching someone on another boat do the same. Alex stayed on board, keeping a firm eye on me. There is something about allowing the boy in me to take over, to forget all responsibilities, even to act as a nuisance among the other more reserved tourists remaining in the boat. However, at the back of the cave, there was a submerged rock onto which I was able to scamper and from it, climb effortless back into the boat. It was as if the fisherman was shaking his head and wondering if these tourists will ever grow up as we sailed back to harbour.

The seawater at Blue Grotto, taken 2012.

And so we celebrated our 13th wedding anniversary. No, not with champagne, nor in a ballroom dressed in a suit, nor at a house party, but by enjoying a semi-independent holiday in Malta, and to this day, the very last one which involved a return airline flight. Semi-independent, as I call it, means that the flight and hotel involved separate bookings, unlike with a package where, as the name implies, flight and hotel are both in one booking. On this trip, we vied for self-catering. This is a cheaper option than the use of the hotel restaurant. Self-catering also holds memories of those great days of backpacking, when hosteling includes the use of member's kitchens. 

However, when we arrived at the reception, we were told that all the self-catering apartments were overbooked, and so we were given an upstairs double room with a balcony and full access to the restaurant without any further payment. That meant every day of the holiday we enjoyed a full breakfast and evening meal on the cheap.

But the glory of Malta and its two neighbouring islands of Comino and Gozo lies with the rugged yet haunting beauty of the coastline. What a phenomenon! Especially that massive arch at Blue Grotto. The arch was large enough for the boat to sail through. As I see it, our God the Creator loves aesthetics. And all this must give Him pleasure when a believer sees such beauty and acknowledges His power. The same power that opens the bud of a delicate flower and how it attracts a bee or other insect to feed on its nectar whilst at the same time, collecting pollen to fertilise another flower elsewhere.

Natural arch at Blue Grotto, taken 2012.

Finally, it's worth mentioning here that Malta was the scene of a famous shipwreck as recorded in the Bible. In the New Testament book, The Acts of the Apostles chapters 27 and 28, we read of a ship carrying both cargo and prisoners ending up beached near the island during a winter storm. Paul was on board that ship, and it was down to him to order all crew and prisoners to swim to the nearby beach. They were all welcomed by the indigenous Maltese people who had a bonfire blazing despite the rain. As Paul was gathering more wood for the fire, a snake hidden in the bush reached out and bit him. But he just shook the reptile into the fire. Everyone was watching, believing that justice was served and Paul will soon die. But as he carried on, perhaps talking amongst the group, the people began to believe that Paul was a god.

And that's not the first time either. Sometime earlier, Paul and Barnabas were preaching the Gospel of Jesus Christ to the crowds of Lystra (Acts 14:8-20) when he ordered a cripple to stand up and walk. As he stood up, the rest of the crowd gasped in astonishment and believed that Paul and Barnabas were gods incarnate.

This same Paul firmly believed in the historicity of Adam and Eve and referred to him as the First Adam, and to Jesus Christ as the Last Adam (Romans 5:12-21.)

The statue of Paul now stands at the site in Malta. Nearby, the remains of an ancient shipwreck lie on the seabed at the traditional site of the Biblical shipwreck. Could these remains be the very ship Paul was on? If so, it goes to show the historicity of the Bible. And Paul taught the historicity of Adam and Eve. Such was necessary for his Gospel to be effective.

A Lesson From A Fun Lover

The home of Aron's parents was a long but still a doable drive away from Canyonlands National Park in Utah. Cut by the Colorado River, which will pass through Horseshoe Canyon in Arizona before entering the Grand Canyon National Park at Lee's Ferry, all this region was well known by this young man. 

He knew the area as well as I know the Jurassic Coast Path, especially around the Swanage-Weymouth region, with its striking Lulworth Cove and Durdle Door natural formations along the tough, hilly trail. Like Aron, who had to spend several hours driving a car followed by a bicycle ride, for me having access only by public transport, to get to the coast path from my home town of Bracknell involves two trains to Bournemouth Station, followed by a bus ride to Swanage, or if lucky, as we were in 2013, a ferry sailing from Bournemouth Pier to Swanage Pier.

That is, of course, if I didn't cycle directly all the way from my home in Bracknell to Lulworth Cove, further away than Swanage, a total distance of just over a hundred miles 162 km, as was the case in 1991. Starting at 6.00 am, the road was free of traffic, the Summer early morning coolness was refreshing to the soul as I glided smoothly towards Basingstoke on my "racing" bicycle that featured dropped handlebars. Ah! I finally arrived at Lulworth Cove at 3.00 pm, an hour before the backpacker's hostel was due to open for the coming evening's arrivals.

Lulworth Cove, Dorset, UK.

Lulworth Cove was the start of a coastal ride to Dover, a ferry port some 225 miles along the southern coastline. The 6-day holiday also included an extra night spent at the Swanage YHA after competing in the 1991 Swanage Triathlon. Hence the Swim-Bike-Run race could be looked upon as an "event within an event." From the day after the Triathlon, I carried on with the coastal ride. The other three hostels I stopped overnight were Arundel, Hastings, and Dover.

After arriving at Dover and spending a night there, I managed to board a cross-Channel ferry to Calais, taking the bike with me. From Calais, I rode inland on a circuit, taking in a couple of French villages before sailing back to Kent to take the train home from Dover.

Aron also cycled a few miles to his final destination after leaving his vehicle at a car park. But his riding was quite different to mine. As I rode with stone-cold soberness, a trait very much ingrained in my character, Aron rode off-road in very high spirits over rough terrain across the desert, whooping with joy. But as he went too far in his flamboyance, his front wheel hit a rock, and he was sent flying off his bicycle. Fortunately, he wasn't hurt too badly. Rather, he laughed at the incident.

After locking up his bicycle to a tree, he started his weekend hike. Presently, he came across two young women who had missed the trailhead and admitted that they were lost. Aron, who knew the area well, not only redirected them but offered to be their guide. He took them off-trail to a very narrow crevice, or slot canyon, between two sandstone cliffs, where they navigated by inching their way sideward, with a long drop beneath them. Suddenly, Aron released his hold and plunged down into the narrow crevice, and splashed into a deep, turquoise pool or river below, where the crevice widened into a cave. He called out for the two girls to do the same. They, at first, hesitated, then after much persuasion from Aron from below, they let themselves go and dropped quite a distance into the refreshing water which only Aron knew about.

With a lot of whooping between them and shouts of joy as they repeated their jumps, I could help but to contrast this joviality to the "crushingly dull" hike along the Bright Angel Trail, further downstream at the Grand Canyon, in 1995. I say "crushingly dull" only to compare my natural temperament to the joviality of Aron, and the seriousness of the hike I was doing, knowing that like at Canyonlands, the Grand Canyon itself is also a desert, and it too demands reverential respect. I had that respect for the environment. Aron didn't. Maybe due to being so familiar with his location, he allowed his natural character to shine out, especially to impress the two young women.

And what a hefty price he had to pay.

Aron is considerably younger than I am, he was fitter than I ever was and far more agile. After the two females had departed on their way, Aron carried on hiking off-trail, something I would never do. He found himself inside another very narrow slot canyon, a gap between two vertical sandstone cliffs. The crevice was cut into a rocky plateau by previous flows of rainwater, carving out a crevice that could be classed as a canyon in its own right. Various boulders were jammed between the two cliffs, and as Aron used them as suspended stepping stones, whooping with delight as he strode along, one of the boulders gave way under his weight, and both tumbled towards the crevice floor.

But still some way above the floor, the boulder wedged tightly between the facing walls, pinning Aron's wrist in between. As his wrist was hard against the wall and the boulder, he was stuck fast, unable to free himself. All his strength of his free arm couldn't shift the stone. With much effort with the rope he brought with him, he made a pulley, and with it, he attempted to move the stone by pulling on the rope with his weight and strength combined. Totally useless. The rock refused to budge. He would be stuck there, immobilised, for the next 127 hours.

Normal times: a Hiker at a slot canyon.

And nobody knew where he was. None of his family members knew. His friends or work colleagues didn't know where he was, either. He was too proud to let his family know beforehand where he was going and how long he would be away. Yes, I can identify with him. I too was too proud to let my family know what I was up to. And that was when I had my own bachelor apartment, unlike Aron, who still lived at home.

He screamed for help. But being off-trail, there was nobody around to hear him. Nobody knew that he was there, immobilised with his arm pinned to the wall by a heavy boulder. As the hours passed, he began to hallucinate. He had flashbacks of his family members. And his good relationship with his piano-playing younger sister came into view. He also saw himself as a toddler, safe under his parent's care.

His water bottle ran dry, having drunk the last drop, and he began to hallucinate a violent thunderstorm with the rainwater flooding the crevice until the water level was above his head. And afterwards, he returns to the reality of his situation. Eventually, with much disgust, he began to drink his own urine. After every effort to free himself had failed, he began to carve his own epitaph on the sandstone wall. He didn't expect to live much longer.

Whether it was by sudden inspiration or otherwise, he deliberately snapped his radius and ulna bones of his pinned forearm. He then made a tourniquet from a length of rope he had, then with his penknife, he began to severe his forearm until he was suddenly freed, leaving his wrist and hand permanently pinned to the wall by the boulder. With his tourniquet in place, he made his way to the trail, and he calls out for help. Fortunately, a passing family called by mobile phone for a helicopter, which arrives to airlift him to the nearest hospital.

Three years later, he meets his sweetheart, marries her and has children of his own. But even with his right forearm ending as a stump, he continues his physical yet fun-loving activities of canyoneering, underwater swimming, and hiking.

Yes, we both watched it all on the iplayer. The programme was called 127 Hours, a docu-drama based on a true story. 

Aron cries for help (played by James Franco in 127 Hours.)

Throughout his distress, I also felt for him. I recall the cycling trip I completed in 1991. Back then, I too was too proud to let any member of my family know where I would be and what I was doing. Pride. By believing that I was acting as an adult, instead, I proved how immature I was. It had never crossed my mind that I could have been a victim of an impatient car or truck driver whose stupidity resulted in ending up being wheeled on a hospital gurney without my family knowing anything of it. And exactly the same applies to Aron. I guess there is something which some young men may feel - maybe most young men - if not all young men - is the image of being a Mummy's boy - the ultimate target, so I thought, for ferocious teasing by peers, especially at school or college.

Thus, the very thought of being ferried to school in Mummy's car still sends shivers down my spine, with dread on how my classmates would have responded had they ever found out. It was an environment that demanded each boy own a bicycle and ride independently to school each morning. And yet, this ferrying in a car driven by a parent happens now without any peer pressure. Therefore, despite our different temperaments, Aron and I do have one thing in common.

When Aron was crying out for help, he was calling out for any human to hear his cries and respond. If only he called out to God! Yet, God did hear, and maybe it was God who inspired him to sever his hand.

This reminds me of what Jesus himself once said:

If your right-hand causes you to sin, then cut it off and throw it away. It's better to enter life maimed than with your whole body be cast into hell. Matthew 5:30.

Since nobody would cut off his hand to enter heaven, Jesus had his nailed to a cross instead. Having paid the price for the sin of every human, there is no longer any need to sever his own body to avoid sinning. Rather, by faith in Him, His own righteousness is imputed to every believer, making salvation by works and all Old Testament rituals obsolete. Actually, faith in God had been the one and only instrument for salvation from Adam and Eve onwards. Working to gain eternal life is made impossible just by one small sin, according to James 2:10. Cutting off one's hand does not eternally save anyone.

But to save his own life physically, Aron had to sever his own hand, or else he would have died. No doubt, he had learned a very important lesson. That is, pride comes before a fall, and how severe his fall was! I'm hoping that Aron will see the eternal significance of this and cry out to God for salvation, having faith in the Death, Burial and Resurrection of Jesus Christ.