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.

Travel Biography - Week 117.

During 1998, I had three holidays, the main one to New York and Boston, then two more in the UK, a hike along the Hadrian's Wall trail, and an attempt to cycle from home to the Welsh town of Llangollen, where, 36 years earlier in 1962, I stayed in a hostel hired out to primary schools (children under 11 years of age) during the annual school two-week summer trip shortly before the end of summer term. I'll write about the attempted cycle ride to Llangollen next week.

Preparation - and delay of the Hadrian's Wall Hike, 1998.

The construction of the Wall began in AD 122 under Emperor Hadrian to form the northern border of the Roman Empire and a defence against the Caledonians. The exposed masonry is 73 miles (117.5 km) running east-west across northern England, passing over the Pennines. The trail is 84 miles long (135 km) of which we covered 67 miles (108 km) between the city centres of Carlisle and Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 

Had I been alone, I would have hiked the whole trail, starting at Bowness-on-Solway on the Irish Sea coast and heading eastward, passing through Newcastle upon Tyne to end at Wallsend, just a little way inland from the North Sea coast of Tyne-and-Wear. But I wasn't alone. Instead, I was with two other friends from our church, Tim and Daniel. It was Dan who thought up the 5-day hike but left the booking of all overnight accommodation to me.

Dan (left) and Tim.

Carlisle Castle.

Dan and Tim plan the Hike at a Roman Fort.

River Eden flows to the Irish Sea.

Tim was (and still is) an accountant who dealt with the taxation of my window-cleaning income, while Dan is a financial advisor who takes care of private pensions. Although both were - and still are - suited pen-pushers, it's a credit to them that they welcomed me as one of a group of three, perhaps due to my past experience in hiking. But as the journey commenced, it eventually became apparent that I was physically the weakest of the three. Not only that I was also the eldest, but both Tim and Dan at the time were regular players of a football team in a local league. The two also regularly played each other at squash - a racquet sport on a closed court - and I watched some of their games from the spectator's balcony. Therefore, in 1998, these two were in their prime of fitness.

The date and location of the start and finish were decided by Dan with Tim's agreement. Furthermore, the week's break was originally scheduled for early Autumn of 1997, a few weeks after I landed at Heathrow Airport from the Round-the-World trip. But on Friday, September 19th 1997, I had an accident at work. I was standing on a roofed porch over the front door of a two-storey house to clean a window directly above it. At that moment, both my feet slid over the one row of tiles made damp by recent drizzle. I fell off the roof and landed on the concrete path below. I broke my right clavicle bone, and one of my ribs, and cut the skin over my cranium, causing non-stop bleeding. I had to stay off work for two months after spending a week at Royal Berks Hospital as an in-patient after a neighbour called the ambulance.

Due to such an unforeseen incident, Dan and Tim agreed to cancel all bookings and postpone the hike until I had fully recovered. I thought that was very good of them. They could have easily proceeded without me. I couldn't return to work for the next two months and only did so after receiving clearance from the hospital consultant. But it took a further five months before I was fit enough and ready for the hike. Hence, we set off at the end of April 1998 - two months before flying off to New York in early July.

Thus, the Hadrian's Wall hiking break is the only holiday that is not in proper chronological order with this Biography as all the others - as the hike was completed before I flew out to New York to avoid the football. By contrast, the aforementioned attempted cycle ride to Llangollen was taken after returning from Boston - and it's in proper chronological order.

Tim at the Wall.

I stand at the Wall.

Dan by a Roman fort.

Further on, we arrive at another fort.

Setting Off to the Wall.

It was a short walk from my apartment to Tim's house. He was married to Sharon, and Dan to Debbie, but neither wife accompanied us. I was the unmarried one, free and single. Three young(ish) men set on an adventure. Dan arrived, and we all piled into his car. He was the leader of the group, despite that it was I who booked the accommodation - YHA Kendal, Greenhead, Once Brewed, Barrasford, and a hotel in Newcastle city centre, after discovering that the YHA Newcastle was overbooked.

Dan drove us to Kendal, in Cumbria. As we neared our first destination, we admired the mountain splendour of the Lake District from a distance. Eventually, we found the hostel and we checked in.

The small dormitory was one of several bedrooms in this 300-year-old Georgian townhouse, and ours had six beds arranged as three bunk bed units. Dan and Tim each slept on the higher bed while I chose the lower bed of the third unit. The other three beds remained unoccupied. But why such details?

In the middle of the night, I woke up suddenly and let out a loud yelp. Then I fell silent as the other two apparently slept. However, as I was lying face down on the bed, I could swear that a hand was resting on my buttocks. Believing that it was Dan comforting me after the yelp, I felt relieved by the financial advisor's act of compassion. Yet, for some reason, I didn't turn around to thank him, as if kept from doing so.

The next morning, I apologised to both Tim and Dan for the disturbance. Tim slept through it and heard nothing. But Dan was woken up and acknowledged the incident. However, he denied resting his hand on my buttocks.

It was later that I read that one of the bedrooms of the Georgian townhouse was reputed to be haunted by a former resident who died there. Could I have had a paranormal encounter? If so, then why was I the catalyst, yet neither of my friends?

We headed for Carlisle. In the city centre, close to the castle, Dan parked his car, to be left there for the rest of the trip.

We followed the wall all the way to Newcastle city centre. Of the three, I was the most determined to finish. Our first overnight stop was at YHA Greenhead, a converted Methodist church. The next morning, we set off, following the Wall until we arrived at YHA Once Brewed. These walks were generally uneventful, with rolling countryside without any challenging climbs or descents. Along the Wall, there were remains of forts, each spaced about a Roman mile apart. However, there was one that could be almost classed as a town in its own right - Great Chesters, a chief military fort about 1.5 miles north of the town of Haltwhistle. It's one of the best-preserved Roman sites in the whole of the UK, including hypocausts to heat up the room or the bathhouse above it. Even the latrines are well preserved to the point that we were able to work out how such a system functioned. A constant flow of water passing under the seats washed away all defecation. The ruins showed how advanced the Romans were in both sanitary issues and plumbing.

However, it was the hypocausts that impressed me the most. A large area seemed to have heated a large hall or dining room, that is the Latin triclinium. Another heated the bathhouse or the thermae. Due to my interest in the Roman era dating back to 1973 when I visited Pompeii for the first time, and more recently here in Britain, I always held the Roman bathhouse with intrigue. The average bather first entered the changing room or the apodyterium. He may then enter the tepidarium or a moderated heated room. The hot steam room is the calidarium. He then takes a cold plunge in the frigidarium. Some of the larger suites may feature the laconicum, the dry sweating room equivalent to a sauna today. There is one major difference between a visit to the Roman thermae and today's sauna, and that is in Roman times, the bather had his skin cleansed by using a tool known as a strigil, the cleaning often carried out by a slave.

For the Roman bather, the thermae must have been a relaxing and soothing experience after a stiff workout at the palaestra or exercise yard. My distant ancestors were most likely Romans. If they visited the bathhouse during their day, little wonder that the sauna plays a major part in my pastime some two millennia later!

Great Chesters Roman Fort.

Hypocaust of a Roman Bathhouse.

Hypocaust of a large room.

Latrines, Great Chesters Roman Fort.

After spending some time at Great Chesters, the three of us continued with the hike.

The three of us stayed together as long as the Wall continued with little or no interruptions. However, even before we arrived at YHA Barrasford at the end of the fourth day, the Wall began to peter out, but the dead straight B6318 followed its course into Newcastle. However, we were still a few miles to go before we arrived at Barrasford, and seeing that the Wall was already beginning to peter out, Tim decided to call it a day and agreed to meet us at the hostel after giving hitchhiking a try.

Tim didn't wait long at the roadside before a car halted to let the accountant in. When we were told of the short wait at the hostel, I was surprised. This is the north. It was a far cry from life in the south of England, especially in and around the London area. Down south, a hitchhiker standing by the roadside is more likely to have the police car stop and arrested for vagrancy.

Dan and I continued with the hike. Part of the route was a path that was once a railway route before the car-fanatic Lord Richard Beeching closed many railway branches across the country to promote the use of the car. The disused track-now-footpath gave us a smooth, flat walk towards the hostel, cutting through any mounds and low hills that characterised the surrounding countryside.

Dan and I joined Tim who was waiting for us at the hostel.

Dan and I at Great Chesters.

At the City Welcome Sign.

The Hike ends at the gate of Newcastle.

Newcastle City Centre.

The next morning, Tim decided to stay for a while at Barrasford before boarding the train for a return trip to Carlisle. Dan was ready to accompany him. But I wasn't. My aim was to finish the hike properly. So Dan decided to stay with me rather than return with Tim. We split. Dan and I made for the trail while Tim remained at the hostel.

The last twenty-plus miles were long, boring, and tiring, but I was determined to see the castle surrounded by the city and named after it. After all, the castle was built more recently on one of the Roman forts along the Wall, hence its name. We walked along the long, straight B6318, a single-carriageway relatively free of traffic as it cuts through fields. By early evening, we saw the sign: City of Newcastle upon Tyne. But we still had a long way to go before we arrived at the city centre, with the hike ending at the castle gate itself by nightfall.

We found the hostel nearby. But when we found out that it was overbooked, the receptionist recommended a hotel whose owner he knew. He then made a booking for us at the hotel and showed us where it was. It was good to have our own rooms.

On the next and final day, the two of us made our way to Newcastle Station. Here, Dan took charge and told me to wait while he looked to where to catch the train to Carlisle. He needn't have bothered, as I saw the departure board above. 

Dan! I called out. Our train leaves from platform 6. Quick! We don't have long!

We raced to the waiting train and boarded shortly before it pulled out for Carlisle.

We met Tim waiting for us at Dan's car. After a walk around town to pay a quick visit to Carlisle Castle, we then returned home.

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Next Week: I could have been killed!

Travel Biography - Week 116.

The 1998 visit to the eastern United States couldn't have been more contrasting. On the one hand, I was walking along Broadway through the bustling city of Manhattan. On the other hand, I was on board a boat out at sea, whale-watching over an area of Stellwagen Bank in the Atlantic Ocean, an underwater plateau on the continental shelf around 25-30 miles, or 40-48 km off the Boston coastline.

The Aquarium Visit.

And so, on the morning of another day with fine weather, I decided to visit the New England Aquarium, hoping to revive memories of the Great Barrier Reef. I arrived at the ticket kiosk, which in 1998, was outside the doors of the indoor facility. There was for sale a choice of either a ticket for the aquarium only, a ticket for the whale-watching cruise, or a combined ticket for both, as the cruise leaves the harbour during the afternoon. That morning, I bought the combination ticket.

Unfortunately, I didn't take any inspiring photos of the exhibits, as the whole facility looked tired at the time. (I believe the facility had a series of revamps since then.) Therefore, I have included some stock photos of both the exterior and the interior details of the aquarium. These pics are recent, indicating that they were taken after the revamp, and may not be exactly as I saw them in 1998.

New England Aquarium, Boston. Stock photo.

The main Tank, Stock photo.

Sea Life. Stock photo.

Sea Life. Stock photo.

The building rests on one of the piers of the Boston Wharf and houses marine life mainly from the Atlantic. Therefore, I was somewhat disappointed not to see any real coral cultivated, but what appeared at the time to be tired artificial replicas (although a real coral reef from the Caribbean now thrives in one of the larger tanks). Yet, marine life often associated with coral seemed to be thriving. The tropical aquarium at the time didn't hold a candle to the Great Barrier Reef Aquarium in Townsville, in the Australian State of Queensland, where I visited just a year earlier.

However, in other tanks, big fish such as the reef shark and the grouper swam around as they showed off to the viewing public, along with jellyfish, sea horses, moray eel, turtles and so on. In all, despite my own prejudice in favour of coral reefs, I still grade the Aquarium as excellent and worth the time and money. Given a choice between a zoo and an aquarium, I would always choose to visit an aquarium.

Whale-Watching.

I spent two to three hours in the aquarium before having lunch and preparing to board a boat for Stellwagen Bank.

The cruiser was moored on the same pier as the Aquarium, as the cruise was organised by the Aquarium. These trips were seasonal, lasting from May to October, thus during midseason, we should get some results. The remaining photos shown here are my own.

Stellwagen Bank, a submerged plateau, is a National Marine Sanctuary. That means commercial fishing in the area is banned. The surface of the plateau is between 30-40 metres below sea level and rises from the surrounding sea floor between 90 metres to the west of the plateau, and up to 200 metres to the east. It could be classed as a squat, flat-topped seamount, with its north/south length of 19 miles, and up to six miles from east to west (31x10 km.) The water above it is rich in plankton, and this is the main source of nutrition for the humpback whales, as well as being at the base of the food chain. A pod is said to be inhabiting the area during the time I was there.

The plateau is also rich with other marine life, including bass, tuna, cod, hake, and flounder. The great white shark also makes a call in the area, along with sperm whales, blue whales, orcas, and various dolphins and seals. But the most prominent is the humpback whales.

The boat leaves Boston for Stellwagen Bank.

A Tailfin of a Humpback Whale.

On a Whale-Watch.

The Whales are getting closer to us.

The boat pulled out from its moorings and set sail onto the open sea, again passing the islands making up the Boston Islands National Park. As the boat cruised along the calm sea, as before, the city skyline receded towards the horizon and vanished. Sometime later, we seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, except surrounded by a calm ocean, the boat drew to a halt, and we all leaned on the parapet and waited.

In next to no time, the upper backs of humpback whales momentarily appeared above the surface and dived back under. Although I hadn't seen anyone attempting to take photographs, I didn't hesitate in my attempt. With a fresh film in my camera, I had up to 36 tries. As expected, attempting to take snapshots of fast-moving creatures which appear only momentarily and at an unpredictable spot was tricky. It was rather like the Whack-a-Mole table at a fun fair. Of the 36 tries, only six or seven came out well enough for album retention. But that is the world of photography. I have seen professional photographers at work, especially at weddings, and I have wondered how many snapshots make it to the wedding album from the multitude that are discarded.

We didn't just remain stationary in the sea for five minutes, but for a good while, possibly an hour. As the evening was beginning to draw in, the announcement came for the return to the city and the cruiser set sail westbound while the sun was preparing to set ahead. After the boat eventually docked at the pier where the Aquarium was built, the thought of preparing dinner back at the hostel was so welcoming.

To Conclude.

It was difficult to decide which of the two cities I had any preference for. New York or Boston. Each is simply different and each has its positives. Yet, it was in Boston where I learned more about the American history of Independence from British colonial rule, which must have been heavy-handed, hence the Boston Tea Party, and the Revolution the Party had initiated, which would eventually lead to having its first president, George Washington. Coming to think of it, my preference might have been for Boston. It's a smaller city than Manhattan, more sedate and generally its streets safer. And it offered more history as well as the aquarium and even a trip out to sea for a spell of whale-watching. With the latter, this activity takes place in the whale's natural environment as opposed to the rigid confinement characteristic of SeaWorld in San Diego, and other similar theme parks and zoos.

In all, 1998 was a great trip, yet the primary reason why I took off for New York in the first place was to avoid the FIFA World Cup Final should England be playing in it. It didn't. Instead, it was knocked out in the Quarter-Finals. But by then, it was too late. The flight and hostel reservation were both booked and the air ticket was already paid for. It was while I was in New York that I found out that the Final was won by France after defeating Brazil, and I felt relief that the trophy never crossed the Channel.

Yet, the holiday was far more than trying to escape from the football mania. It was a learning curve, not only about the history of America, but a window into my soul as well. The meeting with Sarah while on the return ferry to Boston from Cape Cod has shone a light on what has been concealed for the previous four years - the deep loneliness felt as a singleton approaching middle age, along with an anticipation of the future if I remain unmarried into old age. Therefore, I tended to feel a lack of inclusion, especially when church culture is generally geared toward families, with marriage, the home, and children high up on the seminar agenda. It's little wonder that the highest percentage of dropouts from the Christian faith, I believe, are adult singles.

Hence, whether consciously or subconsciously, I resorted to world travel, which has given me some of the brightest times of my life, the spirit of adventure, to get out there and explore the far-flung corners of the world, especially to see natural wonders that don't occur in the UK, not to say that Britain is deprived of natural beauty. By the Autumn of 1998, I was set against marriage, and I was determined to remain single, so I could carry on with travel. Indeed, I have found a way to deal with lifelong loneliness. With another Round-the-World, including South Africa next on the agenda, I knew that I had to work hard, save up, and travel without getting myself into debt. I still had an ambition to visit Victoria Falls, but how to go about with that, I have to wait and see. That is where Trailfinders comes in.

Photographing whales was difficult.

They're getting closer!

It got as close as it gets.

The day arrived and I had to check out of the hostel by a certain time of the day. However, since my flight to London Gatwick was late in the evening, the hostel agreed to store my rucksack until I was ready to head for Logan Airport, which is quite near to the city.

Like all other times, this flight was to be an overnighter across the Atlantic. Logan Airport was easy to get to from the city. I took a short ride on the Boston subway, the Blue Line to the airport station. Once arrived, it was straightforward to check-in. Yet, as I waited at the departure lounge, little did I know that this would be the last transatlantic flight so far to this day. This was my fifth visit to the United States, and I have to be honest with myself: Travelling to the USA was already becoming stale. It was losing its magic, its novelty. In other words, I was getting fed up with it! If I were to set out on another Round-the-World trip like the one in 1997, I would be happy not to land in California from Australia or even New Zealand. Instead, to land in either South or Central America on my way back to London would have been ideal. 

Not unless I revisited the Grand Canyon. Another hike, this time down the South Kaibab Trail, a new trail for me and different vistas. Exciting enough to fill another photo album. Or in Australia, revisit the Great Barrier Reef. Like the Canyon, the Reef is a big place. I could visit another cay, or a fringe reef on another continental island. Or even have a shot at the Outer Reef. Or all three. It would take me a long time to tire of the Great Barrier Reef.

Yet, as the plane soared into the night sky, it never crossed my mind that this was my final long-haul flight ever, or at least so far. But then, what defines long-haul, and how is that distinct from short-haul? Although this was my last transatlantic flight, my travel days are far from over. The future from that point in time still held more for me.  For example, snorkelling was not over. There's still more to come. Only it would be different.

Sunset as we head back to town.

By the time the south coast of England appeared beneath me, it was already daylight, with the sky clear of clouds. As I sat by the window (as usual), I watched as the south coast of Cornwall, then Devon, followed by the Dorset Coastline. As we flew over Dorset, I recognised Swanage, the Old Harry Rocks, and Bournemouth, along with the Isle of Wight south of Hampshire, before the plane turned inland to descend towards Gatwick Airport.

Like at other times, when I arrived home, I was greeted by an empty apartment bathed in silence. However, this time, I didn't sink low with post-holiday blues, like I did after the end of the 1997 Round-the-World. Rather, I was relieved that the FIFA World Cup football tournament was over, and our TV channels, especially the BBC, had returned to the normal programme schedule.

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Next Week: What Happens Next?