Travel Biography - Week 27.

Feeling Nostalgic but with Plenty of Sighs.

After arriving home from the second trip across the Atlantic Ocean, there is a feeling of having achieved much, especially outside Europe. First, a three-week visit to the Holy Land and my familiarisation with Middle East culture. Then follows what was before unthinkable, the affordability of flying across to North America - twice and all!

During the 1970s, despite my poor standing at work during the first five years after leaving school in 1968, I was quite well off financially. There may have been several reasons for this. First of all, I was earning what you might call a decent income. Secondly, I was single, and therefore, I remained free from the costs involved with married responsibilities. And that was despite seeing and hearing about former classmates with their spouses and pushing a pram. Thirdly, I had never owned or driven a car, although I did pay for several driving lessons "trying to keep up with the Joneses" - as I saw that more and more people of my age group progressed from two wheels to four. But I never gained enough confidence behind the steering wheel and decided to remain on two bicycle wheels for life.

As narrated in Week 1 of this Diary, my interest in Travel began with Mum sending me out on errands to buy groceries. During the turn of the 1960s, it was normal for children to be out on their own or with mates without adult supervision. Road safety was drilled into us from a very early age, and so, together with a much lighter density of motorised traffic, parents were more confident in their children's safety. Ok, from time to time, I arrived home from the playground with a grazed knee, and a dab with cotton wool soaked in antiseptic aggravated the pain into a sharp sting, but all became well thereafter. The word compensation was virtually unknown, unlike today's woke society, where one can sue at a drop of a hat.

And so, from the first time I browsed through a world atlas to the moment I first set out to buy a can of peeled tomatoes or a loaf of bread around 1960, to the moment I boarded an aeroplane at Gatwick bound for Toronto in 1977, the travel evolution reached its final explosive stage. Only to leave a strand of dissatisfaction as I looked through the photo slides of the 1978 hike into the Grand Canyon. The very best of the photos, those taken at the bankside of the Colorado River flowing through the bottom of the deep natural crevice, were spoilt. I suppose I should have known better than to attempt to photograph scenery at around 5.00 am, blue skies nevertheless. Nope, no newspaper or travel magazine would have been impressed.

Therefore, whatever I did in the following 17 years, there will always be a hidden desire to re-hike the Canyon with a better camera and on a different schedule. And I might have had a chance as early as 1979, when I was seriously considering a third trip to the USA specifically to re-hike the Canyon to fulfil my crushing desire to build a photo album of the experience. It wasn't that far short of an obsession. 

But any ideas I might have had were dramatically cut short when I lost my job at British Aircraft Corporation in June 1979, ten months after returning home from the States. To be truthful, I was sacked due to first messing up a job, and then having a massive row with the foreman over the misleading image on the drawing board. It was this contest with my boss that I was dismissed for, and not so much the wrong machine setting. The dismissal was to affect both my working life and travel alike. It was the closing of a major life chapter. 

British Aircraft Corporation in its heyday.

I covered up the shameful incident by saying to people that I was made redundant. Incidentally, had all gone more smoothly and worked at the aircraft company for another two or three years, I would have been made redundant, as the whole corporation was earmarked for closedown during the 1980s.

1980 was one of the worst years of my life. No longer prosperous, instead, I was living off a meagre state benefit. I was too proud to visit the Bank of Mum and Dad, and besides, although Mum was willing to help out, Dad was less willing. Instead, on one occasion, when the electricity bill arrived through the post, I laid it flat in front of me and prayed over it, remembering that around 700 BC, the Judaean King Hezekiah did exactly that when his Assyrian enemy King Sennacherib sent him a letter ordering him to surrender. After King Hezekiah prayed, his enemy withdrew his forces, and King Sennacherib was slain in his homeland by his own sons. By contrast, in my apartment the following morning, some money was posted through my front door. The sum, sent anonymously, equalled the amount owed. Such as living by faith, as I hadn't told anyone about the electricity bill.

Any thoughts on travel became a distant dream. But I didn't idle around. Instead, I visited the local Jobcentre often to see if any vacancies were going. I saw nothing suitable. Oh, how I wished I had done a lot better at school! I was wishing I had a degree, that passport to career glory held by a majority of male Christian friends of my generation. How I envied them! That dreadful mental illness, the feeling of an inferiority complex, began to intensify. And I also felt hungry too. And that became obvious one evening when I delivered a message to a Christian home inhabited by three unmarried graduates. The girlfriend of one of them was there, alone, and she invited me in. In the dining room was a table laid out with all sorts of sumptuous goodies, appetising fare awaiting the arrival of the three grads from work. The richness of the food items so neatly presented with abundance made me feel so impoverished and hungry. At first, my mouth watered. Then alone, and on my way home on foot, my eyes began to shed tears. 

It was at that time when one of our church elders assigned me a job, to emulsion his living room, that a route to self-employment was set. Under the recommendation of my housegroup leader, I began to post business cards through the door of every house in my area, along with an advert in a local bulletin. I didn't have to wait long before the phone began to ring.

Starting a business of my own as a painter and decorator was not easy, and there were times when I was worried about when the next payment arrive, so I could keep up with the rent, as well as eat and stay warm. I was okay with most of my completed work, satisfying the customer. However, one client threatened me with Court action after mistakingly using a sheepskin roller (made for applying emulsion) to apply oil-based gloss paint on an interior door. The result was a door covered with shed roller hairs. The whole door needed a total strip down to the wood.

On another occasion, I chose the wrong colour paint to coat a metal exterior drainpipe. The client ordered me to buy the right colour and repaint the whole job - at my own expense, as the homeowner refused to pay me any extra for the effort. With a complaint from another client at a different household for taking too long, it looked as if my potential career as a painter and decorator was doomed. It was.

A Sheepskin Paint Roller and its Tray.

But not all of a sudden. Jobs were still coming in, but they were slowly tapering. Soon, I'll be jobless again. That was when my housegroup leader suggested cleaning windows instead. So, I began to canvass, knocking on doors to ask the householder whether they would take on a window cleaner. At the time I was fortunate. With the manufacturing industry (where I tried for several jobs during my unemployed days) still thriving, I had the domestic market to myself, and in four different streets, I collected a small number of customers. Thus, for a while, window cleaning and painting ran side-by-side, with the window cleaning side of the business growing, and after several months, beginning to dominate the week. However, the painting side of the business continued, on and off, right up to the year 2000, whilst I was already married, and my wife's pregnancy was still in its first trimester. After then, the painting side of the business ceased altogether.

International Travel - It's back to the start.

The 1970s saw the evolution of Travel from train journeys to Italy in 1973, to a flight to New York in 1978. Therefore, after the loss of my full-time job as a precision machinist at the British Aircraft Corporation in 1979, the whole Travel sequence was similarly repeated throughout the 1980s and into the explosive climax in 1997, when I flew around the world.

1981 saw my first trip to Italy since 1975. This was the fruit of working hard and saving up as a self-employed handyman and window cleaner. However, I also wanted to say hello to my maternal grandparents in Turin, so, I booked a boat train from London to Turin, and back via Milan, as I had a friend from church working there on a contract. But what I didn't do, and should have done, was to buy a go-as-you-please national train ticket to travel around the country for a fixed period, in exactly the same way as the Greyhound Ameripass.

The boat train journey brought nostalgia from the 1970s. During the 1980s, it had changed little, with daily departures out of London Victoria to either Folkstone or Dover to Boulogne-Sur-Mer or Calais. On the French coast, a Ferrovie Dello Stato di Italiane train awaits as I sailed across the Channel. Once on board, it's a continuous ride across France, stopping at Amiens, Paris, Dijon, Chambery, and Modane, where I had my passport checked before entering the Mont Cenis Pass to emerge at the Italian town of Bardonecchia. The train pulled into Torino Porta Nuova terminus before pulling back out to continue with its long journey to Rome.

In Turin, I made my own way to Via Giacomo Dina, using the same tram service I remembered from 1971. By recognising the church opposite the tram stop, I was able to find my way to my grandparent's apartment. I was greeted warmly by them at the door, and a torrent of happy Italian words flew through the air in my direction. I tried to converse with the limited Italian vocabulary I had, with some success. I wasn't destined to spend any night at my grandparents. Rather, it was a stop lasting two to three hours, and then I would move on. Whilst I was backpacking America in 1978, my parents were sunning in Loano, on the Ligurian Coast. Therefore, when he asked me where I would like to go, I too chose Loano. My granddad, being how he was, immediately decided which hotel I should stay in, and made a phone call booking on my behalf. He, along with his wife, drove me to Porta Nuova Station to board the train for Loano. On the platform, I kissed and said goodbye before boarding the train.

My grandparents were Italian old-school, and considered themselves the head of the entire family, including both my parents, my aunts and uncles, their sons and daughters and their spouses, along with their children, that is, all my cousins on my mother's side were under their umbrella. I even recall a severe telling-off my grandad gave to one of his grown-up sons, one of Mum's younger brothers and my uncle, a married man with children of his own. Personally, I didn't like their family worldview, but I gracefully submitted myself to their way of thinking and kept on smiling and showing affection. Admittingly, once alone on board the train, I felt relieved. I never saw them again, as they both died a few years later.

After a non-stop ride, the train pulled into Loano Station, the first in a line of coastal resorts. I found the hotel quite easily, and with my name and identity already on their register, I was assigned a room. Unlike in America, this hotel had a swish feel about it, it was very comfortable and they served breakfast. I stayed three nights there before deciding to check out to do some exploring around the northwestern area of Italy, taking in Genoa, Pisa, Viareggio, and Florence.

Loano. This was taken during the 2020 pandemic.

My grandparents knew that I was at a certain hotel in Loano. But they didn't know how long for. Therefore, by leaving Loano, I felt that I was also escaping from their watchful eye.

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Next Week: My Traveller's Cheques were stolen and how I survived Florence pennilessly.

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The photos I took on the 1981 trip to Italy were also in slide form, therefore the pics posted here are stock photos. Other than that, they all depict the places I visited.

Travel Biography - Week 2.

The Early Years at Bracknell.

We moved into a semi-detached, two-bedroom house in a Bracknell district of Easthampstead, once a village in its own right with its own parish church - St Michaels C. of E. - before the village was assimilated into Bracknell town by its Development Corporation (now replaced by Bracknell Forest Borough Council.) Our new home was a vastly different environment from the city life I grew up in. A modern dwelling without a basement, without cellars, a front lawn without any fencing or hedges, and a private back garden was a delight to Dad, as the plot was a source of developing new skills, including transforming a bank of dirt into a delightful rockery. Beyond the garden, our bedroom window looked across a field on which a lone horse happily grazed.

A. Stevenson at St Georges Square - my childhood home. 

Then, in December 1966, we moved again to another of Bracknell's districts, Bullbrook, a residential estate named after the brook that flowed underground, to emerge as a stream at nearby Binfield, to wind its way eventually to join the River Thames. This house has three bedrooms, which means that for the first time in my life (then aged 14) I had my own bedroom.

Having Italian parents, Dad always dreamed of driving a car all the way to Italy, using the cross-Channel ferry from Dover to Calais. And so, in 1966, he began to fulfil his dream.

A Family Trip to Italy.

In August of 1966, whilst still living in Easthampstead, all the luggage was piled on the roof of our silver Riley. We waved goodbye to a couple of neighbours and we set off. Our destination? Turin, in the Piedmont province of Northern Italy. But, as I will eventually realise, it was nothing like a beach or an adventure holiday. Instead, we would be staying at la casa di Nonni or the home of my maternal grandparents who cannot speak or understand a word of English.

The highlight of the holiday, at least for me, anyway, was the Channel crossing. Unfortunately, it was done late at night, but I still remember the street lights of Dover receding into the distance as the ship rocked gently as it traversed over the waves. Around ninety minutes later, we docked at Calais. 

We drove out from the ferry's parking deck, onto dry French ground. As we eventually left the French port, we saw a large sign which read: Facon, in large red letters over an illuminated white background. We all gasped, and then laughed. We then realised afterwards that Facon is a brand name for a beer, just like in the day, Watneys dominated our English brands of ale. But the way the sign was placed at that location, beside the road out of Calais, gave the impression of an incorrectly-spelt message ordering us to move on with the rudest of vulgarism. Some years later, I actually ordered a glass of Facon beer at a bar during a solo trip to France in the 1980s. The beer tasted really good!

We stopped a little further on to sleep in the car for the remainder of the night. From outside a house, a dog began to bark. Annoyed, Dad drove further until we reached a quiet spot on the road. Then we parked the car at a layby and settled for some sleep. Hence, a foreign holiday on the tightest of budgets. No hotels, no amusements, no beach, mountain or beauty spot. Just a long drive across France to reach Italy to spend with Mum's parents.

The next day, we managed to reach Paris. At the French capital, a pre-arranged agreement was made to meet Mum's parents, probably at the Gare du Nord railway terminus, as Nonno was intrigued with the nearby Basilique du Sacre Coeur. So, after plenty of hugs and kisses, Nonni climbed into their car and we into ours, and both cars made their way to the Church of the Sacred Heart.

The church is built on a hill known as the Butte Montmartre, the highest point in Paris. Thus, I recall the splendid view right across the city, not much different from the view of London seen from the summit of Parliament Hill in Hampstead Heath. We spent a considerable time looking over the view before setting off for a quick visit to the other city attractions until it was time for us to proceed with the journey to Turin.

It was on a fast freeway, so straight, that we were moving faster than what our car was designed for. So, in the middle of nowhere, a sudden noise from the engine and the vehicle ground to a halt indicating a major breakdown. With our grandparents forced to stop behind us, it was agreed for our car to be towed to the next town, which was Chalone-sur-Saone, not too far from Dijon. There, the family split at the town's station. Mum, along with my brother, joined her parents and drove all the way to Turin. Meanwhile, due to the lack of space in my grandparent's car, Dad and I had to take the train for the rest of the journey, much to his disappointment with an unfulfilled dream.

As Nonni set off, Dad and I had a six-hour wait for our train for Turin to arrive. After a walk around town, we spent the rest of that evening in the waiting room. Throughout that time, several trains stopped at the station whiles others thundered through. It was well past midnight when our train finally arrived.

The 1960s Riley. Ours broke down in France.

The train was chock-a-block packed, mainly with college-student-type passengers, most of them just a few years older than me. Although Dad went from compartment to compartment via the side corridor, not a single seat was unoccupied and we were left standing in the corridor as the train thundered noisily along. That night, neither my father nor I had a wink of sleep. When the train pulled into Modane Station, it was still dark outside. When we emerged out of the 8.5-mile, 13.7 km Mont Cenis Tunnel, it was beginning to get light when the train stopped at the first Italian station - Bardonecchia. Eventually, the train journey ended at Torino Porta Nuova (Turin Newgate.)

The rest of the holiday, to be honest, was crushingly boring! Stuck in a top-floor apartment overlooking a square lining Via Giacomo Dina, the constant flurry of Italian words flying through the air from mouth to ears made me (and my brother) feel excluded from the family. With boredom came frustration, and more than once my grandfather shouted at me with a torrent of words I couldn't understand. Fortunately, as if a gift from heaven, a swing playground was nearby, and each day I went down the series of steps to escape the commotion of Italian domestic life. The return journey homeward was entirely by train, from Torino Porta Nuova to Bracknell. Later, Dad had to return to France on his own to collect his repaired car.

College Days.

Eventually, I left school without any qualifications at Easter 1968, then aged 15, and began work as an apprentice wood finisher. And "wood finisher" is the appropriate title, as French polish wasn't used at this family-owned business. Instead, synthetics were used, and much quicker, using a spray gun rather than the prolonged application of shellac by hand. My first task? To sweep the floor, a duty I had to engage in every weekday morning for the next three of the five years I worked there. Also, by working in an all-male environment, I had to endure teasing for being Italian, and also I had to absorb a lot of smut.

It was during this time, under Government law, the boss had to grant me a day's release to attend college, the London College of Furniture, located in Pitfield Street, in the London borough of Shoreditch. Before me, and leading up to my day, every apprentice attending college took the early morning train from Bracknell to Waterloo, then took the #11 bus to Old Street. I had to be different. I was the first-ever apprentice in the history of the business to take the Tube from Waterloo to Old Street, changing trains just once at the Elephant & Castle interchange station.

My method of travel caused pandemonium in the factory! Being the first-ever employee to use the Tube instead of the bus to get across London, other students began to follow my example, until the bus route was forgotten and the Tube journey to Old Street was standardised.

How did this come about? Due to becoming very familiar with the London Underground when I was still at school. Back then, my parents allowed me to travel to London for the day, mainly to walk the Chelsea Embankment and visit Battersea Park. But at the same time, I became familiar with areas around the West End and as far as the City, and thus, by choice, I familiarised myself with the London Underground. Having grown up in Pimlico, I might have left London at eleven years of age, but London had never left me.

And so, at age 16 and in my second year at college, I met a classmate named Andrew Duncan Stevenson. We became fast friends, and 52 years later, we still keep in touch, even to the extent of spending a day together in London like any two boys. 

Yet it was unfortunate for Andrew to have seen the weaker side of me. It was the end of college exams and the end of term, that we celebrated in a pub, despite still being underage. I got drunk on several glasses of whisky, and eventually lost all common sense and the self-preservation instinct needed to stay alive. We entered the Underground station at Old Street and acting as a drunk would, I swaggered as we made our way to the platform. I then stepped off the platform, onto a ledge along the tracks, a little way under the edge and inches from the rail. One slip and I would have burned literally to cinder from electrocution, had I touched the live rail. Instead, I climbed back onto the platform and staggered up the elevators.

Why did I behave like that? Really, because deep inside I was miserable. I was locked in a job I grew to hate and endured filthy smut, and relentless teasing from fellow employees. Furthermore, my apprenticeship was far from fulfilled, as the older employees who were meant to train us were reluctant to pass their knowledge on. Little wonder the firm eventually went out of business a decade or so later. All I was good at was pushing a broom - as well as the feeling of worthlessness within my own family.

By the time I was 18, I was taking a girl out, a ginger hair female with the name of Sandra. She had a younger sister, Alison, and one Sunday, Andrew coupled with Alison and I with Sandra, and we as a foursome took a train out from London Victoria to the coast, where we spent the day. It was to Sandra that I first asked how would she feel about spending a week at Butlins Holiday camp and sharing a chalet there as an unmarried couple. She was keen but Butlins wasn't. So, in 1972, our booking application for Butlins was rejected.

Feeling at a loss, I began to look through foreign holiday brochures. One holiday was within our budget, a hotel room at a Spanish holiday resort, a small town bearing the name Tossa de Mar on the Costa Brava. I then attempted a booking with the holiday firm Cosmos for the both of us. To my amazement, the booking was accepted. Apparently, Cosmos didn't hold on to the puritan morality of Butlins!

As the Spanish holiday began to draw near, our relationship began to deteriorate. The reason for this was that she wanted to tie the knot and feel the security of a married wife. I was too immature to take such a responsibility, but I agreed to marry her anyway. Then, in April or May of 1972, she eventually ditched me. I pleaded with her father at her Wimbledon home, but all he did was tell me to beat it, you're finished, and closed the door. As I sat alone on the train heading back to Bracknell from London, I was weeping.

Tossa de Mar, Spain.

I then visited Andrew at his home in Southall, Middlesex, and I wept in his presence. I then asked him how he would feel if he came with me to Spain in place of Sandra. He was willing. Furthermore, Cosmos was willing to make the booking amendment on condition that Andrew paid his full fare. August 1972, saw Andrew and me flying out with Dan-Air from London Gatwick to Gerona Airport, a two-hour flight that will be the start of a massive turning point in my life.  

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NEXT WEEK: Two Contrasting Holidays - A Bathtub and a Volcano lets off steam.

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Note: Permission was sought and granted for Andrew Stevenson's name and picture to be published here.

Ho-Ho-Ho? Or Boo-Hoo-Hoo?

One Christmas Eve, alone in my second-floor bachelor apartment and just before settling down for the night, I placed a dish with a mince pie next to an open kitchen window. Ah! by the next morning I should see the pie gone and in its place, one or two gaudily-wrapped Christmas presents. But alas! 

When I rose to check whether St Nicholas has called and hadn't by mistake overlooked my residence, the window was still open, the pie was still in its dish, untouched, and there were no presents. For crying out loud, when would our all-red suited, white-bearded elderly gentleman learn that I had already flown my parent's nest some years earlier? Or does having central heating instead of an open coal fire poses problems? After all, I have yet to watch a letter to Santa lying on a cold empty grate suddenly fly up the chimney without any source of propulsion.

At least the tooth fairy was far more sharp-minded and right up-to-date. I recall as a boy staying with my aunt, quite a few miles from home, while Mum and Dad decided on a romantic break at the seaside resort of Folkstone. One of my milk teeth became loose and eventually dropped out of my mouth. In next to no time the tooth vanished, only to see a sixpence where the tooth was deliberately left. Either there were many tooth fairies or, like Santa, just the one, but on full alert when and where a tooth becomes available, even over a great distance geographically.

But despite my disappointment on that particular Christmas morning, I have been wondering, just how old Santa is supposed to be? If according to tradition, if he was around in AD 320, then he would now be more than 1,700 years old. Indeed, not bad for someone living in a cold climate and travelling only for a few hours once a year. But even as a child, as with all young children in the Western World, so it has never crossed my mind on how could a small sleigh carry enough presents to gift every child around the globe. Neither on how a reindeer, let alone a team of them, was able to fly at a tremendous speed over distances as far apart as Wellington in New Zealand and London, UK, and then as far west as Hawaii - all within a time frame of 24 hours without crossing the International Date Line. Aerodynamically, such a flight would be riddled with problems, not to mention both the anatomical and mechanical inadequacies involved. 

And yet, it happens every year. Santa Clause is coming to town once again! Time to put out the mince pie and leave the window open, since we don't have a fireplace!

And oh yes, this time, I will leave a note with the mince pie:-

Dear Father Christmas,

I have moved out of Mum's home over 45 years ago. I now live here. Please leave my presents just inside the open window and enjoy the mince pie I left for you. You'll be needing it for the rest of your journey. Stay safe. Many thanks.

Love, 

Frank. 

At present, I may consider the "reality" of Science, but as children, we never pondered on any of these "realistic" issues. We really believed that Santa Clause, or Father Christmas, existed, and all our toys and games which filled our oversized stockings came either from the sky or through the chimney. Oh! The excitement and the wonder of it all!

However, when the penny finally dropped - that our presents didn't fall from the sky or through the chimney, but instead, were bought beforehand by my parents from a local store - suddenly, all the magic had gone out of Christmas. Everything changed. After the change, the reality that the time has come for me to buy presents for other family members. And believe me, that was far from easy!

Not having any sons or nephews of my own, I had to resist the temptation to buy train sets, toy trucks and cars, or games such as checkers or chess, or even Ludo or Monopoly, for my two nieces. Apparently, they weren't into dolls (as far as I was aware) - therefore, deciding what to buy for them was an annual nightmare, that is, until they were old enough to receive and appreciate a card containing a gift voucher. Very un-Christmassy, I know, but a worse scenario of unwanted presents was avoided, along with my perception of seeing forced smiles after unwrapping. 

But going back to Father Christmas, it was my uncle, Dad's older brother, who sternly warned my mischievous nieces that unless they were good, they won't be getting any presents from Santa. It seems as if the air in the dining room was cut with a sharp knife. As I sat with them, I thought:

I would never talk that way if I ever have children of my own, nor allow him to come anywhere near them.

This was long before I met and married Alex. Rather, having already flown the nest, this happened while I called for a Sunday visit, and Dad's older brother and his wife were staying with them for a few days. 

A statement like that has made me wonder how a "conditional Christmas" would engender love and thankfulness in the hearts of either of my nieces. In fact, I could ask, if being good enough was the condition met to receive a present, then is this "present" really a free gift? Or is it due to good behaviour? 

I felt ill at ease, perceiving that there's something not quite right about this behaviour-dependency. And it bodes ill for Santa's character, too. It gives the impression that Father Christmas is all-knowing and with a hint of omnipresence, constantly watching and recording every detail of behaviour, and only give away presents if he's satisfied with the recipient's behaviour throughout the rest of the year. Uncle's definition of generosity does not engender any affection for this supposedly Ho-Ho-Ho gentleman.

It reminds me of a pre-Christmas 1934 hit, Santa Clause is Coming to Town, with which I'm more familiar with the Jackson 5 version of the song, released in 1970. It contains the words, He knows if you been bad or good, so be good, for goodness sake.

I could see that this "conditional Christmas" which my Uncle so sternly warned about did not impress either of my nieces, back then still in their pre-teens. It didn't impress me either. And I doubt if he had impressed my parents as well, who was also in the same room. 

This attitude is just the setup needed for me to think, So if that's how it is, Santa, then you can stuff your presents where the sun doesn't shine! As for the girls, to whom the threat was addressed, chances were that they both cringed in fear within, already wondering whether their day-to-day behaviour had earned enough merit to receive presents for Christmas.

Therefore, I can identify my Uncle's perception of Father Christmas' attitude with the God of Roman Catholicism, from whom I can only receive salvation if I stay faithful and loyal to the Church, and to live a holy life. If I sin, then I must confess to a priest and then do penance - a set of prayers and good and charitable works - assigned to me by the priest to regain my salvation. If however, I unexpectedly die with unconfessed sin, then entry into heaven will be denied, either temporary if my sin is slight but eternally if my sin is serious. This is salvation by works, and according to my experience, both within me and around me has shown that this is the most destructive doctrine ever invented.

Although I knew the words of ritualistic prayer by heart, this conditional salvation led me into atheism throughout my teenage years. It was simply easier to deny the existence of God than it was to try to satisfy a deity who was constantly listing my shortcomings to see if I'm worthy to be saved. Even then, salvation was something I would see as something well-deserved rather than as a free gift.

Back in the mid-seventies, I once knew a regular sauna user who was very loud and profane in his language - not the type I would see in church! An extrovert and life of the party, he was the one who dominated any group discussion in the sauna cabin, and I felt intimidated by his presence. One day I had the opportunity to be alone with him, and I asked him what he thought of Jesus Christ. He launched an angry tirade, saying that he was brought up as a Roman Catholic and he despises the faith. I knew where he was coming from. And he was not the only one. I have met and spoken to others who had the same opinion and attitude towards God and any form of organised religion.

All from the reality of a holy God and the awareness of sin, thus making it impossible to please God and win His approval. This is why lately I have been watching YouTube videos posted by atheists. Not to throw cold water on my own faith but to try to get to the bottom of their unbeliefs and their apparent hatred of God. And I feel that there is a general apathy towards God extending nationwide. This huge, unbridgeable gap between the holiness and purity of God and the awareness of dirtiness within our consciousnesses has indeed brought in this sense of hostility which isn't unlike my late Uncle's version of Father Christmas.

But Christmas isn't about St Nicholas, it's all about Jesus - the greatest free gift God could give to us! I'm one of the fortunate ones who had, several times, visited the traditional site of the birth of Jesus Christ in Bethlehem, therefore I may have that extra awareness of what this free gift means to me.

But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. Romans 5:8.

Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners. 1 Timothy 1:15.

The wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life. Romans 6:23.

Christmas is about the birth of Jesus Christ in a stable, a free gift God has given to everyone who believes. It's the greatest gift of all, it's free, and no work of any kind can earn it. Neither must I be good to receive it. There is no list made in heaven by God to see if I'm worthy to receive the gift. In fact, I'm totally unworthy. But God, who justifies the wicked, (Romans 4:5) - credits His own righteousness to me and to everyone else who believes, and thus the free gift of eternal life in the presence of God forever.

On behalf of Alex and me, we both wish you all a very merry Christmas and we wish you a more hopeful year ahead. God bless.

O Lord, Where are You?

What a week this has been! What with political turbulence over Brexit, however relevant may this be to many, my focus is on the physical pain and disability my beloved went through which led her spending a night and half a day in a hospital ward. With myself suffering emotional pain as I sat next to Alex's bed, my face buried in her chest while shedding tears of despair and blasted hope. Even one of the staff members had to draw the bedside curtains around us to minimise any distress my sobbing would cause to other patients and their visitors in the ward.

Not that an ambulance was called. Rather it was a sudden loss of her mobility, a similar state she found herself just over five years previously when she had to spend four months as an inpatient. Therefore all this involved pushing a wheelchair to our local GP, where she was told to visit A&E that same day. And so, armed with a letter, we actually made our own way to Royal Berks Hospital by combined train and foot. Later that evening, the doctor involved with her case recommended a visit from a consultant Neurologist, which can only occur on the next day. Hence, she was kept in. 

How could I ever forget that dreadful autumn of 2013? Every single day, after a full day's work, I cycled fast to the station, put the bike on the train, then cycled from Reading station to the hospital to spend two hours at my wife's bedside. Every day without fail. Then to come home to an empty house for a further couple of hours of cooking supper and watching the News or going Online. Then upstairs to the wide, empty bed amidst a gloomy silence.

Okay, it can be argued that I did live on my own in a bachelor's pad for twenty-three years until I met and married Alex in 1999. Therefore, this in 2013 should have been a very familiar situation. Actually, that was not the case. There is a difference as wide as the Grand Canyon between the life of a contented bachelor and that of a married man whose wife is kept in a hospital ward. Rather, at the time of our wedding, I was envisioning family life, with our offspring around teenage years doing their own thing, whether its shut in their bedrooms with all concentration fixed on the computer screen, or out in the local park kicking a ball with some mates. Or having spent her childhood "playing house" after a day at school, she prepares for the university. Or that matter, asking me to help with their homework, and ending up with myself being explained on this "new" set of unfamiliar mathematical formulas after growing up in the 1960s reciting the timetables.

Then not to mention the verbal tension and stress imposed on our household budget by one of our teenagers insisting on a new PlayStation, after insisting that the one he already has and works perfectly well, is no longer "cool". Or at the dinner table where a portion on the plate is mistakenly under/overcooked which would have aroused dissent. And as any parent would naturally feel, my desire for their educational success.

But it was not to be. It was never going to be. Instead, as my beloved remains in a hospital ward some twelve miles away, I warm up some dinner while the TV or Hi-Fi breaks the otherwise daunting silence. No, there was no way of comparing those four months with my earlier days as a singleton. And this week, here it is again. Alone in the house. But before all this, I managed to watch The Apprentice with my PhD friend, Dr Andrew Milnthorpe, at his apartment, which is conveniently near the station, before walking home. At least I could comfort myself that I was not the only one who literally shed tears that evening. The Apprentice candidates did too - in full view of the whole nation!

But this time being alone was only for the one night. However, that did not stop me from sweating in fear, anxiety. After all, the consultant could have easily kept her in for a prolonged period of time, like as in 2013. One of the doctors warned me of such a possibility before she was wheeled into the ward from A&E.

As I lay on the bed, I felt the world collapsing around me. It was as if demons haunted the air in the bedroom, tormenting me with the fear of the future. And this included financial security, a very important issue here for me. I can only claim a certain benefit on condition that we live together as a couple, that I'm permanently retired from work and on a State pension, and there is no other income. With Alex in hospital, I would be disqualified from claiming this benefit, which would set off an avalanche of extra expenses.

The next day, I found myself back on the train heading towards Reading. With me was a backpack containing some essentials for a prolonged stay. However, just before the train pulled into the Reading terminus, my mobile phone rang. It was from my beloved. She said that the Neurologist had seen her, talked and examined her, together with the Physio. Upon their optimism that she would part-regain her mobility over time, she was discharged with the belief that she would be far better off at home than stuck in a hospital environment. This meant that she could return home with me, a welcoming relief.

As I write this, her condition has improved, although still not to the level she was at before. 

It is during occasions such as this when I ask, Why? Why? Why us? As was during that one night home alone, I felt as if abandoned by God and at the mercy of evil forces. When a devil lies to you, yes, that is pretty bad. But lie to you with a Bible under his arm is a thousand times worse, believe me! And a verse of Scripture kept haunting me as goes round and round inside my head. It says this:

But now, all you who light fires and provide yourselves with flaming torches, go, walk in the light of your fires and the torches you have set ablaze. This is what you will receive from my hand:

You will lie down in torment (Isaiah 50:11).

That night I was doing just that: Lying down in torment. Having fear of the future. Also, I was already familiar with that verse. It means dependence on one's own righteousness and setting up one's own standards instead of trusting in God's righteousness. I asked myself, have I done this? Trusting in myself? After all, I was lying in bed, feeling tormented.

By assuring myself that all evil spirits are much more terrified of God than I am of them, after ordering the spirit to go away, I reassured myself of Jesus of Nazareth, his death by crucifixion, his burial and his physical resurrection, and with prayer, fell asleep.

For encouragement, I would just like to add that yesterday, whilst at the gym, I felt concerned about our future for the both of us during the middle of a workout. It was at that moment when I called out aloud to the Lord. Almost straight away I felt a rush of peace fill my soul, along with a reminder of a verse of Scripture:

For everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved - (Romans 10:13). 

At that moment I felt free from all anxiety and fears. Of course, it could be the "happiness endorphin" released from the pituitary gland into the bloodstream as a result of a period of intense exercise. Also, the word "saved" may not be always exclusive to mean eternal salvation, but can also mean deliverance from issues of the here-and-now, as hinted in Joel 2:32, from which Paul quoted. However, with Alex now back at home, I feel much better in relation to God and myself. After all, after sharing my distress online to my church elders, we were both covered by intercessory prayer.

Indeed, I ask, Why us? - after seeing so many Christian couples having done so well. A good education, a fulfilled career, healthy children who grew up as Christian believers, and they too are destined for university. They are a far cry, so it seems, from what we had to go through. If someone had said to me that to receive salvation you must be white, English and well-educated, I would have found some plausibility in such a statement! But I know that the Bible does not say this, of course.

But this does not stop me from wondering where is the Lord whenever Alex's condition set off a scene, with medics rushing to our front door. I find it all rather an embarrassment, this constant calling for an ambulance. How well do the paramedics know us as people who cannot put the phone down whenever she doubles up in severe pain? What wrong have we done to deserve all this? And why is it becoming more frequent with its severity? I was thinking about this earlier today. There seems to be a correlation between the start of my retirement and the beginning of these emergency call outs - as if all pre-planned.

But one thing I need to ask: Why all this is so bothersome? Obviously, it's because I love my wife dearly. Very much so. Therefore I would never in a million years want to see her hurt or in any form of pain. Because if she is hurting, I am hurting. When she's in pain, so am I. If I didn't love her at all, would I even care? There are stories abound about a husband who deserts his wife because she cannot live up to his expectations or even her poor health is giving him gyp. This includes Prince Charles and Princess Diana. He never loved her. That kind of attitude has always mystified me, especially among showbiz celebrities or royals like Charles and Diana. Yet I was always mesmerised by Diana's stunning beauty. I thought Charles was very fortunate there! 

Charles and Diana's marriage on the rocks.

And so am I when I married my wife. Even now I could never walk away from Alex. I love her far too much! And I know that she loves me dearly too. We cannot be separated. Therefore to watch her suffer causes me to suffer too. Yet I knew two men who had in the past earned my admiration. One attended our church before moving north to Scotland. The other attended another church which I once attended before 1990. Both these men had wives who gave them children. Then in both cases, the health of both wives began to deteriorate until they were each confined to a wheelchair. One constantly had saliva drooping from her mouth and therefore, she always held her handkerchief to her lips. Eventually, both women died prematurely at different times and different places and both have gone to glory. Until then, both husbands were fully devoted to their disabled wives. 

Compared to those poor women, Alex's ailment is mild. Unlike those other two, my beloved can get around the house unaided. But the two husbands stand as models of devoted, unconditional love, the same love Christ has for his church. And this, I think, is why we are in this situation. I believe God is using this to develop my character to be like Christ's, just as he trained up the characters of those two men.

If this being the case, indeed, I would want to be more and more Christlike. The Lord Jesus Christ is everything to me. How I long for him and how I long for him to love me right to the point of hugging me! If Alex's health is part of the process, then so be it, only spare the pain, please! Such episodes are very distressing!

Why I have to go through such character-building process while there are much happier, middle-class, problem-free Christians around me, I will never understand. But God's wisdom is infinite, I will never fathom it. But I need to be true to myself. I have a longing for these episodes to end and to see my wife restored to full health, no longer in need of medicine or the wheelchair while out of doors.

Al I can do is commit everything to God, and to cast all my anxieties onto him because he cares for us (1 Peter 5:7).

Father God I Wonder...

The moment I walk out our front door, it is impossible not to see and hear parents with their young children. Like just a couple of hours before typing this, when I went to do the weekly grocery shop at our local superstore, there was this toddler constantly screaming his head off, his high pitched voice piercing the air and drowning any normal-tone conversation. Eventually, his mother took him out into the car park even as the child constantly remained restless, while the father (I assume) continued with the shopping alone.

Just another family, one of countless others I see each day, whether at work (never far from a primary school) or at a leisure attraction, as well as at the shopping mall. Such one attraction, Coral Reef Water World, just a few minutes walk from my home, has always been a haven for screaming children, in most cases as expressions of joy and excitement with all the fun features the venue provides, but never without an occasional cry of frustration as the parent or guardian refuses to let the little one have his own way. (For me, at least, I go straight to the Adults Only section for a gym workout and relaxation in the sauna, where not a single whimper from a child's mouth could be heard.) And it's the same where ever I go, parents constantly keeping their young offspring to conform to the environment they are in, often with the adults feeling the frustration themselves, usually with the rest of the crowd apparently staring. I suppose that is natural enough. A sudden loud cry from an infant usually turn heads, does it not?

So it looks to me that the average Mum and Dad takes their children as if for granted in the Western World. Yet I can still imagine the sheer exuberance when a young man (or the not-so-young, as was the case with me) finds out that his wife is pregnant for the first time, either vocally or from a urine test strip showing a positive result. In my case, I was tempted to shout out from the window, but being British, I don't do things like that, tut-tut, I know. Instead I all but burnt out the 'phone line with calls to our relatives and friends. After the birth, my daughter was the apple of my eye, a darling I just about worshiped. I think that becoming a father for the first time at an age approaching fifty intensifies the bonding between father and daughter to a level which younger fathers tend to see as more of a right than as a privilege. So I have always believed.

So there were no negative feelings when I took her out to the superstore, to the town centre, even boarding the train to various other locations, including the coast, as well as on holidays, even on ferry sailings to the Channel Islands. I loved the moments when I spoon-fed her, often when eating out. Each night, around three in the morning, she would wake up and cry. I have never felt a moment of burden in getting up and seeing to her needs, diaper change, hugging and holding her in my arms. I cant help thinking of Stevie Wonder's classic hit Isn't She Lovely? coming to mind as she falls asleep in bed with her in my arms as my wife sleeps soundly on.

So sometime in the past there might have been a mother in her early thirties, named Rachel. She was devoted as much to her infant son as I was to my daughter. The main difference being that not long after the birth of the child, her husband died of an illness. So after months of mourning, she was left with his offspring. And therefore unhindered by anyone else in her household, she devoted herself to her upbringing of her son. She always made sure he was adequately fed, bathed and wrapped in clean clothing. Then night after night the two of them shared the same bed, with him fast asleep in the comfort of her arms. Then during the daytime, it was never rare to see the infant sitting on her lap while she sang and made baby sounds to him.

But one particular night, Rachel was bewildered at the unusually bright star in the heavens, which was directly overhead. Was the star a messenger of glad tidings, a bearer of good news? Or could it be an omen of something dreadful about to happen? As her eyes were transfixed to the sky above, she sensed that rather than being ominous, it meant that something wonderful was about to happen, if it had not happened already. Could the birth of someone highly important, such as a king, had just occurred?

It was a couple of days later, when she was cooking in the kitchen with her son playing on the floor nearby, when she began to hear the screaming of women within the town, along with angry shouts of men. As the menacing noise grew louder and nearer, suddenly a Roman soldier burst into the house, carrying a sword. He searched around the tiny house and he saw Rachel reaching frantically for her son. But the soldier was quick, and thrust the sword through the child's small body. The sword-bearer then quickly left, as if deeply hating the task he was ordered to carry out. Left with the tiny corpse, Rachel's screams joined those of other mothers in the streets of the town.

For weeks, even months, Rachel was in a dreadful state emotionally. She being a devoted Jewess, could not understand how her God could allow such catastrophe to occur in her personal life. It was even worse than her neighbour's. At least some of her neighbouring mothers had other children who were older than two years, and as such, escaped the slaughter. In addition, their husbands were still alive, and some of the women affected by the slaughter had become pregnant again. But not Rachel.

Instead of cursing God for her lot in life, she spent time in prayer, believing in her heart that somehow something good will come out of this. She believed in the resurrection of the dead on the last day, as was the general belief among the Jews, and she had an inkling that she would be reunited with her deceased son, and maybe her husband too. So instead of cursing and throwing her wrath heavenwards, she gave thanks, and managed to worship God at the Temple precincts whenever she can make the journey. And on one occasion, while praying at the Temple, someone handed her a parchment with a portion from the prophet Jeremiah penned on it. This is what was written:

This is what the LORD says:
"A voice is heard in Ramah, mourning and great weeping,
Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted,
because her children are no more."
This is what the LORD says:
"Restrain your voice from weeping and your eyes from tears,
for your work will be rewarded,"
declares the LORD.
"They shall return from the land of the enemy.
So there is hope for your future,"
declares the LORD.
"Your children will return to their own land."
Jeremiah 31:15-17.

When she read the script, her eyes widened with hope, and reading her own name gave her a feeling of joy. She knelt down and heartily gave her thanks to God, along with a beast to offer as a sacrifice of thanks at the Temple. Then she returned home, knowing that her all loving Father in Heaven has heard her cry, and has responded favourably to her.

So earlier this week, a solicitor came round to our home to discuss about making a Will. I suggested that all of our assets should go to our three birth daughters at the death of both of us. But the visitor warned that this may be impossible, because of their different surnames, unknown by us, and growing up to couples not related to us at all, yet they having all legal rights to them as parents. At this point my poor wife broke into tears.

I recall the dreadful night early in 2005 when the Police and Social Services ran into our home at three o'clock in the morning and took away our two daughters. The entire operation took just a few seconds. Yet, how my dear wife screamed and screamed, just like Rachel did two thousand years earlier. Despite my effort to comfort her, I knew that our lives would be changed forever. The shame, the embarrassment, kept us quiet about all this for a decade. Only now we tell it as it is. But why did this happen in the first place? What was it that deemed the State to judge us unfit to raise children? Did we commit a crime? Drugs? Alcohol addiction? Abuse? Neglect? No, it was none of these things. To summarise, the reason why we were judged unfit to be parents was because we both suffer mild autism. And in the wake of national scandals of child abuse hitting the headlines, our daughters were taken into care, which means that never to set foot in our home to this day. At least it gave us a crumb of comfort to know that the Social Worker involved had lost her job over the incident.

So what has been our response over the years? Did we curse God and turned our backs on him? Rather, we ran towards him, as the righteous runs into the Strong Tower, and they are safe. It wasn't long after that someone in our church fellowship came up to us with a revelation that our children will return. Then, not long afterwards I was browsing through Matthew's Gospel, and came across the story of the Innocents. My Bible cross-reference directed me to Jeremiah chapter 31, and by reading the Scripture, I felt strengthened, knowing that God is my heavenly Father who looks out for the welfare of his children. It is amazing what Scripture mixed with faith can accomplish. Not only the source of edifying myself spiritually, but it has been the source of strengthening and encouraging Alex, and also added new life to our marriage, binding us tighter together in Christ, even to the extent that my wife can be the source of encouragement when my chips are down, and that despite her emotional suffering being more intense.

God is our heavenly Father, we ourselves adopted into his family. By law, our daughters are no longer our family members, even if every genome, every chromosome in every cell of their bodies, are Alex's and mine combined. No amount of paperwork, not even as high as Mt. Everest, can change the genome of a single cell in them. But they are legally the offspring of those who have adopted them. We do not know their new surnames, let alone knowing where they live, which schools they attend, which shopping mall their parents take them to. But God knows. All we can do is commit them to his care. But all this is good news for us. We are adopted into God's family through faith in Jesus Christ. Just as our daughters cannot return to us before coming of age, so we cannot return to the adversary's domain for ever. Furthermore, we are born into God's family through regeneration of the spirit, making each one of us temples of the Holy Spirit, who will dwell within us for all eternity, according to John 14:15-17.

So it can be said that our adoption into God's family is much stronger and a lot more secure than the legal adoption of our daughters, because when of age, our daughters can return to us if they desire. But we cannot be disfranchised from God's family because this is more than mere legal adoption. It involves a rebirth of the spirit, making us a new creation altogether, perfectly fit and suitable to heavenly life with Jesus Christ.

These are wonderful, wonderful truths! It is these truths which allows us to look upon the world with open eyes, to commit ourselves to each other in marriage, as well as to God as our heavenly Father. These truths allow us to live our daily lives without upset or mourning over our loss, to give thanks for what we do have, to enjoy some travel together, to commit ourselves to our roles as husband and wife, and most important, to edify each other when things look grim and unbearable.

Rachel found her strength through faith in God in Scripture. The same applies to us. Our encouragement to you is to read your Bible, and believe that all things work for the good for those who love God, and are called according to his purpose. Like that you can be a source of strength to those who has also suffered distress.

World Travel - How I Loved It!

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

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

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

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

Colosseum of Roma


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

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

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

At the Grand Canyon in 1995.

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

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

Sydney Harbour in 1997

Blue Mountains N.P. 1997.

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

Jerusalem 1994.

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

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

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

Adam and Eve - Historical? You MUST be Joking!!!

It was my intention to write about the truth of pre-Abrahamic Scriptures, as this was on my mind for the past week. The idea was stirred in my heart after the Media delivered report after report of the riots which at first broke out in Tottenham, North London, after a man was shot dead by Police. The riots then quickly spread across London, then into various provincial cities such as Birmingham, Manchester and Liverpool. Along with the rioting, shops were ransacked and destroyed and merchandise looted.

Then only yesterday I came across this article in the Saturday's Daily Mail newspaper. Written brilliantly by A.N. Wilson, this columnist believes that the basic reason for the decline of our society is based on the breakdown of the family unit which, he writes, was sustained throughout history by a bedrock belief in the truth of religion. He praises Muslims, Hindus and Jews for allowing their faith to bind families together, yet let out a blast particularly at the Church of England for wringing her hands while congregation numbers dwindle. He then lets rip on the academics, particularly on what he calls "the nuttier fringes of the chattering classes" for leading the nation away from belief in God and the Bible's truthfulness. Two people he names: Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens, both having written books debunking Divine Creation and the early history of the human race for the theory of Evolution. They present a very convincing argument in the name of Science that we are here as an end result of a long process of organic evolution covering a time span of around 200,000,000 years. At the same time, these two are convinced that religion is a poison to the fabric of society.

Thus faith in the Bible has been severely knocked, particularly in the early chapters of Genesis. If the Bible is likened to a vessel, say a pail or large bowl, to have the truth of the early chapters of Genesis called into question would result in a hole at the bottom which would render the vessel useless for holding water. Likewise, the Bible has been rendered ineffectual as a book for spiritual and moral guidance. It has become a book for fanciful stories and myth, at best these myths provide some hidden truth on how one should behave, but remains totally insufficient in historical and spiritual content. Yet the Bible, particularly the book of Genesis, contains the very essence for a stable, crime free society - the institute of marriage and the family unit: father, mother and children brought up in a godly manner. Yet our academics, as A. Wilson rightly comments, are responsible for our nation's moral and spiritual decline.

So in this article, I will try to show the historical truth of the early chapters of Genesis, much maligned by the academics, and how it applies to us today.

It is in the first chapters of Genesis where the institution of a man and woman bonded together in a marriage covenant had its origins. Marriage between a man and a woman began with that of Adam and Eve, and has been ongoing ever since, even to this day, whether the Bible is believed in or not. If the Bible is just a book of mythical fables, then why does history itself testify the importance of marriage? Even to the extent that the Church of England itself had its beginnings over the dispute between King Henry VIII and Pope Clement VII over the King's wish to divorce his first wife, Queen Catherine of Aragon.

In this article, I wish to spell out the historicity of the early chapters of Genesis, and to do this I need to write two separate blogs, this one and the one to follow, in it I will deal with the Noachian Deluge.

In 1973, when I was young in the faith, a man only a couple of years younger than me approached and asked:
"If Adam and Eve had sons Cain and Abel, who was Cain's wife?"
At that time I was stumped. He was better informed of the narration than I was, simply because as one new to the faith, I only read the story recently. Furthermore, the same question was asked several times by different people in different places.

In the account, we are told that Adam was created from the ground. He must have been created as an adult with full brain powers, for he was able to give names to every animal which passed him by. Each species were a pair, male and female. When Adam realised that he had no mate of his own, he felt incomplete in himself, and God was able to see this. Thus God caused the man to fall into a deep sleep while an operation was performed - exactly the same kind as performed in hospital theatres today where the patient is put under anaesthesia before an operation is carried out. A rib is removed from Adam's body, itself a living thing, and from it God created a woman who is to become Adam's wife and mother of all living.

Adam and Eve, by Michaelangelo, Sistine Chapel in Rome

The supernatural creation of both Adam and Eve as well as a talking snake which tempted them afterward are all easily debunked as a fanciful myth simply because none of these things had ever occurred in our lifetimes. We never experienced any talking animal, let alone a snake! But that does not mean that it couldn't have happened. Why not? Yet the snake has kept on saying the same words for millennia! As we shall see.

The Edenic Lie is closer to reality than we care to believe. The temptation the snake used were twofold, first that God was a jealous liar in declaring that they would die if they ate fruit from a specific tree. Secondly, the snake offered to exalt their status from the one they were already in (the crown and pinnacle of Creation) to one of divinity, with knowledge of what's good and evil, if they would just eat the fruit. In short, eat - and become gods, full of knowledge.

Our quest for education, knowledge and becoming gods are in all of us. It is like this as an individual, a family, group or nation. Hitler and his Nazi Party provides a good example of national superiority. Just as he wanted to bring his Reich into the rest of Europe, including the UK, he also believed in the lie that the Jews were an inferior race to his, and as a result, ushered in the Holocaust, with the needless slaying of six million Jews. It is interesting to realise that Hitler's slaughter of the Jews was the snake's attempt to prevent the Jews in returning to their own land to form the new State of Israel which, in turn, would eventually bring the return of its Messiah and the end of the snake's power.

Just as Adam and Eve disregarded God's commandment to abstain from eating from that particular tree in the belief that they will be exalted, so too the Edenic Lie, as with Hitler, is in all of us. We are more than happy to disregard God and his commandments for the quest of becoming gods ourselves. The theory of evolution, which denies the Biblical record of Creation, is but one proof of man's strong desire for the gradual climb towards divinity.

Therefore, this disregarding of God's commandments for personal exaltation to divinity makes up the threefold nature of sin, what it really is. First, sin is a rejection of God's Holiness. This includes hate, murder, adultery, blasphemy, lying and many other sins. Secondly, sin is a rejection of God's leadership with the desire to lead our lives our own way, independent from God. Idolatry and pleasure-seeking may be classified as this. Thirdly, a rejection of God's provisions where pride in self achievement may play a role in this, along with stealing, dishonesty and greed.

After our first parents fell into sin by eating the fruit and disobeying God's commandments, God made a promise that the woman's seed shall bruise the snake's head, a way of announcing total defeat for the snake. Also the snake shall bruise the seed's feet, which indicate that the battle will not be easy, but will itself involve death of the seed. Further action is also demonstrated with God slaying an innocent animal to clothe the couple. Therefore innocent blood was shed to cover their nakedness, just as the blood of the innocent Lamb was shed to atone for our sins. This was of contrast to the aprons which they made from fig leaves soon after they fell. Aprons made from fig leaves defines Religion, the attempt to reconcile oneself to God by self-effort. When the beast was supernaturally slain and the couple clothed, God totally disregarded the fig leaves. It is worth of note that Adam and Eve did absolutely nothing in gaining their new clothes. God did everything. No one can be saved and be reconciled to God by self effort, not even the smallest made by man. The seed of the woman is, of course, Jesus Christ.

We now see Adam and Eve expelled from the Garden of Eden and Eve becomes the mother of Cain. Then after this, a sibling is born, Abel. We are told that after a period of time (but we are not told how long) both Cain and Abel set up altars. Cain's sacrifice, based on self-effort, was rejected by God. Abel's, based on faith in the Promise, was accepted. In a furious rage, Cain slays his younger brother, whose blood soaks into the ground. Then having received his judgement and punishment from God, we are told that he departed from the Lord, knew his wife and begotten a son, and went eastward to the land of Nod, and there built a city, and called the city after the name of his son, Enoch.

Taking this narration at face value, it's no wonder why skeptics ask, "Who was Cain's wife?" For here we read of only four characters: Adam, Eve, Cain and Abel. Abel was killed, leaving only three people on earth. So we see Cain, after the murder, pleading with God: "...that everyone who finds me will slay me...(Genesis 4:14). Everyone? With just his Mum and Dad sharing the whole land? And how on earth could he build a city by himself. It does not make sense! It is the next chapter which gives some answers, and I'm quite surprised to be asked, "Who was Cain's wife?" if only a little research was needed to solve this problem.

Here we read:
And Adam lived 130 years, and begat a son of his own likeness, after his image; and called his name Seth. Just earlier, the narration tells us that Adam and Eve fathered a son, Seth, to replace Abel, because Cain slew him. (4:25). Therefore we can dismiss the idea that the murder of Abel took place a mere twenty years after Creation. It was more likely to be closer to 130 years after Creation. This was the reason Seth replaced Abel as the father of the Messianic line. Originally, the Messianic line began with Abel, but the snake through Cain tried to have this line cut off before the Messiah arrived to bruise his head. The snake, of course, is the Devil.

So we can conclude here that during the 130 years between Creation and the birth of Seth, many other children were born to Adam and Eve. This would have been the fulfillment of the first command God gave to the innocent, unfallen couple. "Multiply and fill the earth and have dominion over it." (1:28). Not to have children during the next century of their existence would have been totally absurd! We have no idea how many children Adam fathered between Abel and Seth. But let us assume it was thirty. 15 boys and 15 girls. This would give Eve a rest period of over three years between each pregnancy. We assume that along with Cain and Abel, two baby girls were born. This would give Cain a wife straight away. He would have married his own sister, not only acceptable but a necessity in those days. If each of the thirty other children (i.e. 15 couples) had eight offspring each, this would raise the population to 152 people. And that's a very conservative number. If each of the 120 grandchildren of Adam (60 couples) had eight children, the population would have risen to 480 great grandchildren, plus 120 grandchildren, plus 30 children, plus two original parents, would equal 632 people. If each of the descendants of Adam's sons had much more than eight children each, and there is absolutely no reason not to be the case, the population would be much higher. So by the time of Cain's murder of Abel, it might have been possible that the population could have reached into the thousands.

Therefore it all makes sense. At the time of the murder, Cain had reason to be afraid of revenge, even from his own descendants, but more likely from his nephews and great nephews and nieces. As for building a city, this was probably on the banks of the River Euphrates (not the present river of that name, but the antediluvian predecessor). With the help of his relatives, the city might have started as a few houses along the river bank. But over the next thousand years or so, it could have grown into a sizeable city, perhaps like Ninevah, which took three days to explore. The city of Enoch could have been much larger, perhaps the size of Greater London or Los Angeles. After all, it took the last few centuries for London to grow to its present size.

To conclude this article: The narration of the early chapters of Genesis is perfectly historical, and we can see the effects of this to this day. From the dawn of history the institution of marriage between husband and wife and raising children is not only Biblical, but necessary for the survival of civilised society.

Maybe if our academics promote the truthfulness of Scripture instead of spending their lives debunking it as fable folklore, most likely the riots of last week may never had occurred.