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.

                                                           *****

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

Foolish? Maybe, but Thrilling.

Sometime in the mid-nineties, after a day trip to the coast by train, two of my friends and I were discussing what might have been the daftest journey we could ever think of, just for the experience. Unfortunately, although we laughed about it and even gave it some consideration, common sense eventually prevailed and the journey never went ahead.

And that is a shame. Because such a trip would have been fondly remembered and still talked about many years later. And the expense of buying the tickets? By now, that would have been long forgotten.

So, what would this journey involve? Well, first a 73-mile, 118 km drive northeast to Bedford by car. Then leave the car parked at Bedford Station and board a Thameslink train to Brighton on the East Sussex coast, which is approx 110 miles, 178 km along the railway line running south from Bedford. The thrill of the experience was that the train passed through London midway through the journey without the line ending at one of the capital's terminus stations. Instead, the train would have passed through the heart of London, stopping at Kings Cross St Pancras, Farrington, City Thameslink, Blackfriars and London Bridge stations before winding its way through Surrey and Sussex, to finally end at Brighton terminus around three hours after leaving Bedford.

We would have spent several hours at Brighton beach before boarding the train for the northbound ride back to Bedford. Indeed, it would have been a long day, but for all three of us as singletons at the time, getting home very late in the evening wouldn't have been a worry, especially had it been a Saturday.

Brighton beach as seen from the Pier.

Of course, if I really want to do such a journey, indeed, I'm able to. But there are now several reasons why I wouldn't bother. First, two of us are now married. Although I've no idea what my friend's wife would think about embarking on such a senseless journey, I'm aware that my dearest wouldn't be that enthusiastic, although she'll come if asked. However, she would allow me a full day out on my own if only there was a way to get to Bedford without a car and without having to change trains in London. Then adding the overall cost, such a trip wouldn't be worth the expense.

However, without a car, the biggest deterrent would be the difficulty in getting to Bedford from my hometown of Bracknell in the first place - and the return home. However, according to a national newspaper, very soon the new Elizabeth Line will be opened for public use, and in the Autumn, according to the report, it would be possible to sit on the same train from Reading in Berkshire to Shenfield in Essex, a brand new line over 60 miles, 100 km long, passing under London and intersecting with the Thameslink line at Farrington. The opening of the Elizabeth Line should coincide with our Queen's platinum jubilee, thus celebrating seventy years on the throne and Britain's longest-reigning monarch.

Giving this new line a shot would be more tempting if no more sensible than travelling the Thameslink Bedford-Brighton line. At least, getting to Reading from home is a short journey, which is done quickly and hence, a curtain-raiser for the main show. However, with all its 34 stations, perhaps the fun doesn't really begin (in my view) until after stopping at Paddington, where the track goes underground through Central London.

I have another friend, a few years older than me, who used to work for British Railways. Therefore, he's entitled to free train travel for life. One evening in the Autumn of 2013, whilst I was sitting on a stationary train at Reading and waiting for it to pull out, this fellow saw me and took the vacant seat opposite mine. He then told me that early that morning he boarded a train to Reading, then took the non-stop to London Paddington. He then boarded a train from Euston (if I remember) to the northern town of Warrington, a fast, non-stop journey on the way to Glasgow. He then returned to London Euston, then from Paddington to Reading, where we met. All in a day. Indeed, to a sane person, a bit odd perhaps, then again, if he holds a magic pass for free travel, then why not?

I suppose it's like visiting a funfair or theme park. A few years ago, the son of a window-cleaner customer and I went to spend a day at Thorpe Park. Steve was a fairground fanatic, and he was also a member of a club that took its members to fairgrounds across the USA once, maybe twice a year. Therefore, Steve was used to "gutsy" roller-coaster rides. With me, it was somewhat a different story. Or was it because I was beginning to show my age?

After many thrilling rides, including a soaking on one of them, the Stealth was the finale for us. It's supposed to be a racing car shooting up an arch over 62 metres high at 80mph in just 2.5 seconds. I recall letting out a yell as the vehicle rolled down vertically towards the fast-approaching ground. Was this a necessity in life? Not really. But oh, wasn't it thrilling and never be forgotten?

The Stealth, taken May 2014.

A necessity in life. Only yesterday, after a great sauna, I was about to sit at the leisure centre atrium after buying a couple of items at the cafe. Just then, one of the Duty Managers who know me well, sat on the next couch to mine, complete with a laptop. I asked him if I can sit with him and talk. He was happy to oblige. After pouring out my complaint that the swimming lane at the pool had too many people in it, with skirmishes exploding when each got in the other's way, the conversation went on about the running of the Centre in general. Then he quipped that the services offered weren't essential to life, rather, they were to be enjoyed with the added benefit of health thrown in.

I can't say that I fully agree with him. Long gone is a life of hunting and gathering that required vigorous exercise or the need to work physically to earn a living. Instead, our lifestyles have become so sedentary that obesity poses a real threat, along with poor diet and low immune systems. Thus, I feel that vigorous exercise is a necessity but, like the supposed Bedford-Brighton train journey, using the Leisure Centre should also be an enjoyable experience.

Therefore, I find that visiting the Leisure Centre is both an essential and an enjoyable experience, I could ask myself, is going to church an essential need, an enjoyable experience, or even both? Or is church perceived as a place of quiet prayer, a place of solemnity, mourning, the Sunday Best suit and tie, a place for confessing sins and knowing that such confessions will need to be repeated over and over again throughout life, a place where judgement is promised if one doesn't shape up - or even a place where the leaders are keen to take your money?

Or is the church so archaic that Divine Creation is still taught when Science has proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that Darwinian Evolution is the key to the beginning? And so, a young churchgoer's faith is shipwrecked after a year or two at University and sees church life as totally unattached to living in the real world.

And yet, as Jesus Christ went about his ministry, he became the foundation on whom the church will be built, and his primary instruction is for each member to love one another as Christ loved them. And that is only possible with a proper understanding of salvation - that as a believer in Jesus Christ as the Son of God, God the Father sees you in the same way and as equally righteous as he sees his own Son, that you are in Christ and Christ is in you, indeed, the term Christian actually means Little Christ - the result of having God's righteousness forensically imputed or credited to you.

If this theology on soteriology is correct, then church life should be a very positive experience. Indeed, I, for one, have absolutely no problem in accepting a 6x24-hour divine creation only a few thousand years ago - against all the strong currents of the official scientific worldview.

The Christian life is by no means one of peaches and cream! Even Jesus promised his followers that in this life we will have troubles, but Jesus also reassured us that he had overcome the world. For example, right now, as I write this, my wife is happy typing on her desktop computer. At this moment she's not feeling any pain. But only yesterday she suffered a sudden eruption of pain in her calf muscle. Such pain and other symptoms are often caused by negative thinking. The emotional response from such thinking causes excess adrenaline to be pumped into her bloodstream. Her eventual reaction to this is pain.

To have trouble in this world for us also includes Alex my wife having an inherited genetic disorder known as Feingold's Syndrome. This incurable malady has given rise to a neurological disorder which causes much pain and discomfort. When pain erupts, it's very distressing and often I feel helpless. Furthermore, our youngest daughter is affected by this malady. This was manifest just two days after she was born when she vomited green bile. She had a blocked duodenum. Immediately after the discovery, she was rushed by ambulance to John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford for an urgent operation. While preparations were made, I was weeping in the intensive care ward and had to be comforted by a nurse. How thankful to God for the NHS! Without them, my tiny, helpless baby would have died.

But neither of us has or ever will turn our back on God. Both of us understand the meaning of what it is to be forensically declared righteous in the heavenly Court by God, thus making us fit for heaven. To believe in the Eternal Security of the Believer is a great bulwark against such tribulations along with such negative thoughts and feelings that arises from them.

Then imagine a whole group of people who all hold to this truth. Thus, when Alex is in pain, or even if I feel down, lonely, or hurt, some people are just a phone call away and believe me, even a chat over the phone has made me feel as if a heavy burden was lifted from my shoulders. 

However, as I mentioned recently in one of our online prayer meetings, we as a church are still too British for our own good! If only we could shed the culture of the stiff upper lip, our self-reserve and "the English home is his castle" ethic, then the church could be so wonderful, an ideal place of refuge and allowing the love of God to fill our hearts, including bringing comfort and hope to those who are distressed, those who are hurting, those who need encouragement, those who are lonely, and those who have problems that are too difficult to solve alone. Also opening our homes to offer hospitality to those in need are other acts of Christ's love, such as the hospitality shown in European countries towards Ukrainian war refugees.

The Church can heal those who are in pain.

I believe that life is meant to be enjoyed. Indeed, there may be pleasure in taking a journey that others would classify as odd or eccentric. There is enjoyment in physical exercise. But most of all, ultimate fulfilment can only occur when showing the love of Christ to others.

 

From Sun-Seeker To Backpacker.

The late Harry and Glynis were customers who became good friends during the 1990s and through into the 2010s, as I was the only Window Cleaner whom they had trusted and relied on after they were let down by my predecessors. As retired pensioners themselves with just one unmarried son, a company executive who had spent time working in Germany before being posted at various locations across the UK by the same employer, these two seemed content to have me sit outside in their back garden as I was offered a cup of traditional English tea and a plate of cheese sandwiches.

It was not long after returning home from Los Angeles, after being away for ten weeks backpacking the globe, calling at Singapore, Australia and California, - the Travel Triathlon, as I affectionately call it, the conversation about sun-seekers began as I relaxed for a short break from working, sipping the refreshing tea. 

This was some time after Harry had shared with me of his travel adventures as a student during the 60's, backpacking across Germany, and staying at their Jugendherberge with their traditional morning duties, that I realised that the greater strictness and regimental atmosphere of Youth Hosteling was already a thing of the past by the time I headed for the airport in the 90s. Nowadays, we don't call them Youth Hostels anymore, but Backpackers Hostels, or simply Backpackers, with no morning duties, lest they all went out of business due to the resulting market decline. With Australian hostels still in the process of reform during 1997, at one provincial hostel, I was given a choice of "Dollar or Duty". I chose to pay the extra dollar for each night I spent there. After all, I wasn't one of the poorer city-slum kids who was "to learn about the countryside" for which hosteling was originally intended and often used by overnight school trips. We have come a long way since Harry's student days.

Typical Youth Hostel dormitory. Stock photo.

Our conversation turned towards sun-seekers, which he assumed I was one. I reminded them that there is a big difference between a sun-seeker and a backpacker. I went on to explain tongue-in-cheek that many a sun-seeker fly out to the Spanish Costa, and to spend the afternoon sunbathing on the beach, then its the bar, where he spends much of the night talking about football, football, football, and more football, until he drags his way back to the hotel at three in the morning, perhaps unable to avoid regurgitating his alcohol-drenched vomit on the sidewalk kerb, before slumping on his bed with uninterrupted sleep, only to wake up at twelve midday to head back to the beach to repeat the process all over again. The sun-seeker makes sure that the bar he visits is actually an English-style pub which accepts the Pound Stirling after thinking that the Peseta is Spanish for potato.  

The conversation was light-hearted but I knew that Harry and Glynis had both got the hint, as an experienced backpacker himself, Harry could not dispute.

And it's that time of the year again when in the past, the High Street travel agents would have been crowded, busy booking these Summer breaks to escape the dismal August when the kids are off from school while the wind and rain sweep across the UK. Nowadays anyone can book their annual holiday via the internet. But psychologically speaking, to look forward to the Summer after the Christmas break is over and yet to face a bleak Winter ahead is a great panacea. But I wonder, with the uncertainty of Brexit looming, how many are confident enough to fly to the Spanish Costa without any border-control bureaucracy at the airports hampering their journeys - to discover that they cannot enter a European country without a visa, and neither have one. Or to fall ill abroad and discover that the much-valid European Health Insurance Card is now completely useless, and therefore facing an unexpected hospital bill totalling thousands of pounds.

It goes to show how well God has blessed me by keeping me as a singleton for so many years - I was already 47 years old when I finally married. At present, with all this talk about climate change, the carbon footprint, the diminishing of the rainforests, and the extinction of species, along with the resounding echo of 9/11, it's a far cry from the carefree days of long-haul travel. As I write, Australia is literally on fire, with the authorities fighting a losing battle to contain the forest flames. And the sense of guilt if I board a long-haul flight, my selfish desires versus conscience as the idea of leaving another carbon footprint will be disturbing as I add that bit of extra stress to the natural environment. Indeed, I thank God dearly for allowing me to fly out to Australia when the times were good and tourism there, still in its fledgeling stage, was relatively cheap.

If only Alex and I were in good health! With train travel, there is not such a big footprint, although there will always be that ultra-political correct guru who will insist that trains are powered by coal-fired power stations, thus leaving a carbon footprint after all. But how could I forget those magnificent train journeys across Europe, from London to Sicily through France, and other trips through Belgium to Germany and Holland? The Calais-Milan route via Lille and Basel took me through some of the most splendid Alpine scenery with mountains and lakes making the train journey a dream come true. With the Folkstone-Calais ferry crossing to complete the route from London, travel of the early 1980s was indeed a real adventure. And how I long to do it all over again. 

Swiss Railways, I travelled by train through here in 1981 & 1982.

How is it that a typical English August is usually wet and windy rather than hot and sunny? Being an island just off the north coast of mainland Europe, it faces the moisture-laden Atlantic winds on one side and the North Sea on the other. And with the Jet Stream having a preference to drift south of the UK during that month, the resulting lousy British Summers gave rise to the package holiday culture, once the preserve for the rich and for the Chosen Few, to be the second-largest UK industry after Defence, even if tourism does not have the flavour of proper industry.

When I was single, after 1972, I never gave the package holiday another look. That was after my very first trip abroad without my parents. I was nineteen at the time and it was before I became a Christian believer. Although what I said to Harry that day was meant to be tongue-in-cheek, actually there was a lot of truth in what I said to him.

When my college mate and I flew to the Costa Brava just south of the Pyrenees, this was my first ever trip out of the UK without my parents. It was also my first flight ever and I felt nervous over it, as my parents had never seen the inside of an aeroplane. Each day we sunbathed on the beach. Then the nightlife when I got completely drunk with the cheap wine they sold there. As I crept back to the hotel, alone, with my mate already there waiting for me, one morning I found myself waking up after sleeping in the bathtub in alcohol-induced vomit. It was not long before I became a byword of the hotel staff, whilst my college mate, who has a much stronger character than I did, and stayed incredibly calm. He was able to contain my behaviour and to hold me steady until I sobered up, ready for another day on the beach. Such as the case of my mate marrying not long after whilst I was dumped by my girlfriend just four months earlier.

What a difference a conversion to Jesus as Saviour, just a few months after that Spanish incident, has made! My perception of travel changed completely from sun-seeking to backpacking. It was just a year later when I found myself walking alone through the ruins of Pompeii, followed by a hike to the summit of Mt. Vesuvio, and looking inside the deep dormant crater. This was a far more exciting adventure than any seaside package holiday, which involved learning ancient history and volcanism, as well as in this, and in years to come, train and bus travel from town to town and experiencing off-the-street room requests at a hotel whichever town I arrived at, as hosteling didn't become part of me until 1985. 

I once read a saying that the full beauty of Creation cannot be perceived with Christless eyes. I believe there's an element of truth in that saying. During the Spring of 1973, alone in the house while thunder was rolling outside, just by reading the first three chapters of Genesis became a revelation from God, as if he was standing right there in front of me and offering a choice - to believe in his Word or to believe in Evolution. There was no "halfway house" (that is, Theistic Evolution.) I had to belive either one or the other. I suddenly knew which side I was on!

To believe in a literal six-day Creation has opened my eyes to the beauty of this world, the recognition of the Almighty power of God in everything he has made. This may affect each individual differently, but for me, there is an intricate link between realising the reality of Divine Creation and backpacking. One primary example of this is when I stood on the rim of Vesuvio's crater and recognising this as a tool for God's judgement on such wicked towns like Pompeii and Herculaneum nearly two millennia previously. Such thoughts and ideas would never have come to mind just a year earlier in 1972 whilst drunk in the bathtub of a Spanish hotel.

It's through the eyes of Jesus Christ from which I can see and appreciate the beauty of tropical vegetation which cannot thrive here in the UK (except under glass). Thus, to look at a row of Traveller's Palms of Singapore brought a spring to my step, as the coconut palms so abundant at Miami Beach, or the unique palms thriving on the roadside of San Diego, the Mangroves of Queensland and NSW, as well as the ground-shaking thundering of Niagara Falls, the rocky shapes at Blue Mountains National Park, and not to mention the dramatic glory of the Grand Canyon. And last but certainly not least, I stood on the rim of an active Mt Etna volcano in 1982, feeling the black basalt ground shaking beneath me as the steam exploded from the vents inside the crater. With God's help and direction, I have seen and experienced all these things which involve backpacking travel.

At the rim of the crater, Mt Etna, taken 1982. 

As I lay in my own vomit inside that bathtub, how could I possibly imagine that within four years, in 1976, I would be standing on the summit of the Mount of Olives, looking down at the wonderful panorama of Jerusalem Old City with its golden Dome of the Rock directly in front, and the New City seen in the background? Would I ever imagine walking through both the ancient and medieval streets of the Old City? Or wade through the confines of a tunnel dug around 701 BC? Or to kneel in front of the 14-prong star marking the site of Christ's birth? Or gaze across the Sea of Galilee? Or float on the waters of the Dead Sea? Such is the exciting adventures of backpacking along with the social side found in many hostels. 

Yet that is the difference between looking at our natural world with Christless eyes and seeing the beauty of this world through the eyes of Jesus Christ. 

The Eye In Your Lounge.

This week a political earthquake shook Parliament. No, I'm not talking about the humiliation of both the Tory and Labour parties in Thursday's local Council elections, when both parties had lost a considerable amount of seats: The Conservatives around 1,300 lost seats and Labour 82. That means had this been a General Election, the result would have been a hung Parliament with a tie, with 28% of the national vote for each of them. The remaining 44% of the national vote would have gone to other parties, such as the Liberal Democrats (19%) and minors such as the Green Party.*

No, I'm not writing about any of that.

Rather, it's about that other political earthquake, the one which has 200 Tory ministers jumping up and down with rage. It was the sacking of Defense Minister Gavin Williamson from the Cabinet by our current Prime Minister Theresa May. He was accused of leaking some Governmental secrets to the Daily Telegraph about the G5 intelligence concerning national security, with the possible permission for the Chinese electronics firm Huawei making inroads into the UK, against the advice of the USA and, I believe, also against the advice of the EU.

I can understand why our allies across the Pond can get so strung up about such a company sticking its oar in. What I have heard, it seems to fulfil, or at least partly fulfil, the dire prophecy of George Orwell's novel 1984, which was made into the most melancholic, and if it wasn't confined to the world of fiction, a potentially frightening movie to be shown on the big screen.

A group of us went to see the film at a local cinema. At the time the film was released in October 1984, we were all young unmarried Christian men who regularly attended churches of our choice. Here we were, watching the film, which was an adaption of Orwell's novel, which was published 35 years earlier in June 1949, as the manner of technology and forties-style commodities attest with that time of history, including those monochrome TV sets, each of them displaying a hexagonal screen.

A scene from the movie 1984, of George Orwell's novel.

Except that those TV sets were fixed onto the wall in every room of a typical London residential home, along with installations in every office, factory, hospitals, and the interior of every known building regardless of its purpose. But in the home was the most unsettling. Those TV sets cannot be switched off. Instead, they keep on broadcasting ongoing news bulletins. It was impossible to get away from. An endless stream of information kept on pouring into each room of the house.

Although not featured in the film but nevertheless implied, the need to defecate must have been so embarrassing when in desperate need for privacy, for there on the wall in front, another TV screen is fixed, spilling out one news item after another.

What makes this system so terrifying is that a camera is fixed to every TV set. Therefore every move you make, everything you say and do is transmitted through this camera to Central Intelligence.

This was aptly demonstrated when the star agent had his back to the screen while sifting through some files. Immediately the screen behind him flickered to show someone asking him directly what he was doing with his back turned. The agent then turned and held the empty file wallet to the camera. And all that took place in his own home.

So ominous was the movie that one of our members rose from his seat and walked out of the auditorium, only to sit and wait in the foyer outside for the rest of us to leave after the end of the film. Perhaps I shouldn't have been too surprised at his move. We know that the whole movie was set in London, as from time to time, a view of the derelict Battersea Power Station, a well-known landmark, kept on appearing on the screen between each scene. For him, it was too close to home.

Perhaps George Orwell was more accurate in his predictions than he himself could have imagined. Some years ago I was planning a train trip for the next day, and as I looked for relevant information, all of a sudden this young female in uniform approached me from apparent nowhere to ask what I was doing. There was a queue for the cashier, and either the guy behind the ticket counter, while serving those waiting in the queue, made contact with this staff member, or more likely, I was watched through one of those surveillance cameras. Indeed, I was accused of loitering, an apparent offence I wasn't aware of.

And talking about train travel, one rather iconic feature found attached to the inside of the roof of each modern coach is that characteristic inverted blue dome. Its dominance indicating that "beware, we are watching you" would have made our parents and grandparents feel uncomfortable or unsettled. But at least I'm used to it, for my own safety. I recall those 1960's compartmentalised carriages where I could have been trapped with a questionable or suspicious character who could have taken advantage of me, a vulnerable young teenager, knowing full well that the guard, unable to reach us while the train is moving, would never have known anything of it.

In the film 1984, Battersea Power Station sits derelict.

Or that time I was travelling home to Bracknell from London one late evening in the seventies. All was well until some youths boarded the train at Ascot and took seats on the other side of the same coach. That last part of the journey was tainted by sniggering and mocking as their eyes were fixed on me, a lonely long-haired young man, by a group of white youths with crew-cuts or shaven heads, and posing a level of threat. They remained on board as I alighted, with some relief, at my stop. I'm sure that the presence of the inverted blue dome of glass would have deterred them. But they weren't around during the seventies.

However, as trains go, with each carriage fitted with these surveillance cameras, I do wonder how the guard, or the conductor, cope with the multi-image on his monitor screen. These days the trains on our particular line are ten coaches long, and to watch all ten pictures on a screen, well, I think that would be rather overwhelming. A group of shaven youths harassing an innocent passenger could be easily missed. Then again, maybe not. In all honesty, I have not seen an actual guard's van on our modern trains. Instead, I have often seen him stand at the doors of any carriage, and when the train stops, he activates a mechanism which allows alighting passengers to open the sliding doors by push-button. But a TV or monitor, so far I have not seen one, and I travel by train quite frequently.

Maybe I am stuck in the past when the guard's van was normally seen on all trains. After all, it's what I've always expected to see. A thought has crossed my mind while writing this blog. Could it be that those surveillance cameras are fake? A psychological con trick to deter any potential mischief while on board? It's nothing new. For years, fake cameras have been erected along highways to deter speeding vehicle drivers. Many are still there to this day along with the functional ones. It's impossible for the passing driver to tell the fake from the functional. Could our trains have adopted the same principle?

The case with Gavin Williamson is something altogether different. I take it that he is against the idea of the Chinese company Huawei taking hold on British surveillance or security. I have heard rumours. Rumours of a brave new world akin to George Orwell's novel. However strenuously he denies any involvement of the leak, I am on his side, as with many Tory MPs. 

I once wrote to a friend on Facebook that after Brexit, Britain could be a sitting duck for a vassal state to the Chinese. A threat of this was already underway a couple of years ago in 2016 when a project for a nuclear power station sponsored by the Chinese Government was suddenly halted by our Government just as our Prime Minister Theresa May was about to sign the agreement. It is said that the electronics firm Huawei is a private company. This at first, I found hard to swallow considering that China is a Communist country, after its founder, Chairman Mao Zedong's reign during the latter half of the Twentieth Century, who had millions of his own people slaughtered in order to abolish all private enterprise under his administration. Apparently, things have changed since the death of Chairman Mao in 1976, allowing some private enterprise, but remaining closely under Government scrutiny.

Maybe, like the case with the guard's van, I'm behind the times. I'm aware of Soviet Communism giving up the ghost after the Glasnost and Perestroika movements occurring around 1990, and it does look as though China has taken the same route, allowing a limited form of capitalism to thrive. Hence the existence of such a private firm Huawei, which I believe may turn our Sovereign, post-Brexit nation into a vassal state for China, an opinion which I believe is shared with Gavin Williamson and others.   

The thought of a camera linking our lounge to a central Government intelligence via a TV set looks to me to be very ominous! But that what our links to China via Huawei could bring about. It is a blood-curdling thought.

Gavin Williamson - Do we share the same anxieties?

And yet I, as a Christian believer, am under surveillance all the time. But not just with what I say and do. But also with my thoughts, motives and emotions too. Absolutely nothing is kept private or secret from this Central Intelligence, which is a heavenly one. This is because God knows everything about me. And rather than posing a threat, this is a very good thing - to be under God's constant surveillance. And it's not because he wants to see how I will behave or to see whether I would stay faithful or walk away and fall into apostasy. Rather, it's to love me, to care for me, to bless me, and also to discipline me when necessary, not for him to seek revenge or seek retribution - Jesus Christ took all that upon himself on the Cross - but for me to partake in his holiness and to enjoy the richest of unity with him as the Holy Spirit dwells within.

Psalm 139 is all about this heavenly surveillance. It is a Psalm really worth reading through. To summerise:

He knows when I rise and when I go to bed.

He is able to discern all my thoughts.

He knows what I'm going to say before even saying it.

He hems me in in a way it's impossible to escape - no matter how far from home I travel.

I cannot be hidden from Him, no matter how thick the darkness.

I was intricately made by Him even while still in the womb.

He knows my frame thoroughly.

Every day of my life was ordained by Him before I was even born.

Knowing all these things brings comfort, joy and reassurance, not fear, embarrassment or guilt.

Indeed, human surveillance is a slight to my privacy, but God's loving surveillance is a wonder to all believers.

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*Daily Mail, Saturday, May 4, 2019.

North Wales, Over Half A Century...

The two primary school teachers who supervised us both looked stern and serious as we were compelled to walk in an orderly double line along the quayside, each one of us having a partner, as we walked in almost military fashion towards what is to be the smallest house in Great Britain.

Of course, being just a boy with still quite a bit of growing up yet to accomplish, the property did not look that impressive. Rather it was big enough for me to enter easily, with plenty of room to spare. So concluded a coach trip to Conway, or as the Welsh spell it, Conwy, whilst staying at a special hostel, purposely built to accommodate city school children for up to two weeks at a time. The hostel was well-situated on the outskirts of Llangollen, another Welsh town crossed by the River Dee and towered over by the ruins of Dinas Bran Castle. 

The ruins of Dinas Bran dominates over Llangollen. 

Castelle Dinas Bran (possible meaning: Crow Castle), or rather what remains of it, sits on the summit of a hill overlooking the town of Llangollen, and therefore looking straight into our bedroom and lounge windows. Even while young, I was rather fascinated by the hilltop structure, and I even asked our teachers about any history of it. But without the Internet, they knew no more about it than this curious lad. At least, throughout the getaway, it was not military-style discipline all the time. After all, we were all children, and the staff were fully aware of this. And so, after a trip out, whether it was to buy candy with the pocket money supplied by our parents, a climb up the hill to play on the manicured lawn which was once the castle's flooring, or after a coach trip to Conwy, we were allowed some time at the swing park located nicely between the hostel and the fast-flowing river.

Of all primary school trips, this one, somewhere between 1960-1962, stands out in memory to this day. I always recall the excitement as we assembled at Paddington Station for the express train to what I believe was Ruabon Station, a few miles out of Llangollen. For the benefit of railway enthusiasts, in those days such a route was served by London Paddington. Nowadays it is served by London Euston. But as my father was so proud with owning and driving his own family car, it came as no surprise that as a child I hardly ever saw the inside of a train. Therefore such a journey made with the school was a unique experience. Other school Summer trips, such as to Swanage a year earlier, was always done by coach.

Whether Castelle Dinas Bran boded good or ill for me I cannot say. But in 1998, I made an effort to cycle all the way to Llangollen from my apartment in Bracknell. I did well as I passed through Henley on Thames, the posh venue for the famous annual Regatta, through Oxford with its magnificent University buildings, then through Stratford-upon-Avon, the birthplace of William Shakespeare, then through Birmingham as I headed towards Wolverhampton. It was while on a fast downhill burn-up when the bicycle frame suddenly snapped near the crankshaft, and I found myself wavering along the highway, on a zig-zag course which could have got me killed if another vehicle had gotten involved! Therefore I had no other option but to limp into Wolverhampton for an overnight stay at a pre-booked hotel to spend the night before locking up the crippled mount in the city centre and then finishing the journey by train and bus.

Gutted, utterly gutted, by thankful to God for sparing my life, or even from an ambulance trip to hospital. The break in the frame was a clean one caused by metal fatigue, and I wondered whether I could have had it welded back together at a bicycle shop. But not finding one straightaway, along with the possibly of the appropriate mechanic shaking his head in hopelessness, the cycle trip was therefore abandoned, but I still wanted to get to my final destination. This included passing through the Welsh town of Wrexham, which was actually on the scheduled cycle route.

From Wrexham station I sat alone in the train with my chin touching the floor in self-pity, leading to depression. I tried to convince myself that I did not abandon the ride out of choice or through physical or mental exhaustion, but through mechanical failure. Nevertheless, I felt as though I have failed.

 At the Smallest House to give the scale.

I eventually arrived at Llangollen, and claimed my bed at the backpacker's hostel which was quite a distance from town and even further away from our former school hostel. The place was almost empty of guests, except for one Spanish student who came into the UK to cycle around the country. When he saw me, he took an instant liking to me straight away, and at table, he began to talk to me with an endless torrent of incomprehensible Spanish. By asking him to slow down, I managed to pick out what he was attempting to tell me; that he was studying to be an accountant and was taking a break with a trip to the UK to see the sights on a bicycle. I cannot remember whether he brought his own bicycle here with him or whether he bought or hired a mount after arriving here.

At least he was able to raise my spirits, and gave me new hope. Even if I felt a failure, at least he didn't see me that way. Rather, he saw me as a source of encouragement, not to give up on his tour, even when feeling tired. The next morning he set off on his next leg of his journey on his bicycle while I sauntered into town on foot. As I looked up to Dinas Bran, it appeared at quite a different angle to the one so familiar, but as I walked on, this slowly changed. As I approached the town, feelings of reminiscence began to rise. After such a long time nothing had changed. The town remained the same, with the High Street continuing over the River Dee on a Medieval bridge. After crossing the river, it wasn't far to the start of a modern trail (which wasn't there before) leading up the hill to the ruins of Dinas Bran.

The setting was exactly the same as when I was a junior schoolboy. A sat there alone, meditating on my schooldays. From time to time families arrived and departed, but I remained on the summit for quite a while without any teachers or authority figures keeping an eye. After this, I walked on to find the very school hostel building I stayed at, and the swing park behind it. Sure enough, it was still there, unoccupied at that moment, but getting ready to receive another school group. It's original purpose hadn't changed either. Then I couldn't resist mounting one of the swings, perhaps the very same one I used some 36-38 years earlier. Not long after, I watched two elderly ladies, definitely pensioners, having a whale of a time laughing while swinging on the same swings! Without doubt, that hostel must have been serving its purpose long before I was even born.

Reminiscence! Reminiscence! How effective all this was. And just as well. For after just a few weeks after that failed bicycle ride, I met my future wife Alex.

And it was just this week when Alex and I boarded a fast train to North Wales from London Euston. Although we had to change trains at Chester, the remainder of the journey was uneventful. We arrived at Conwy station on time, which was just a couple of minutes walk to our hotel. 

Which goes to show how much love can overcome the problems a wheelchair can pose, especially laden with luggage. Guards were willingly at hand to help my wife to board and alight from each train using special ramps. Admittingly, we were both looked upon as someone special - or was it with a degree of pity? Either way, it was very helpful to see the work of Jesus Christ in action with these people, whether they were true believers or not.

She wanted to visit Conwy Castle, and I took her there. Fortunately for her, it was the time of day when she was partially mobile and she made an effort, unaided, to climb the spiral stairway in one of the turrets, quite an achievement for her. Then she returned to her wheelchair within the castle itself while I explored the rest of this Medieval fortress. Later, I took her to the Smallest House in Great Britain, which is built into the city wall, and facing the tidal estuary of the Afon Conwy with its many boats and a large sandbank island exposed during low spring tide. Indeed, everything seemed so different from the days of school trips. Even groups of young students in uniform appeared far more casual than what we had to go through, looking far more like a tour group than a school trip.

A short, ten minute train journey from nearby Llandudno Junction station to Llandudno terminus allowed a full day at this lovely Victorian seaside resort of Llandudno. From the pebbly beach I was able to bathe in the sea, as well as mingle in the thick crowds which populated the pier with its line of stalls selling anything between fish-n-chips to trinkets, both cheap and trashy to more expensive ornaments. Alex's wheelchair wasn't the only one there. We saw quite a number of disabled individuals in wheelchairs, some manual, some electric, as we strolled along the pier, and admiring the magnificent layered rock formation of Great Orme.

Great Orme, a mountainous headland which is difficult to believe that it was once an island before the formation of the peninsula on which the resort is now built. From its summit the Isle of Man can be seen, along with the Cumbrian mountains of the Lake District, on any clear day. Unfortunately, because of the wheelchair, we could not make it to its summit.

Great Orme Headland, taken July 2018. 

Then came the day we had to return home. Our train was not due to leave Llandudno Junction until mid-afternoon, and for a direct journey to London Euston without the need to change trains. Therefore, after checking out of our hotel in the morning, we had a few leisurely hours before making our way to the station. Once on board the train, at first all was well. However it was later in the journey when things began to go pear-shaped.

Alex developed a severe back pain which only Oramorph can relieve. Oramorph is actually Morphine, but taken orally rather than intravenously. When we left home a few days earlier, we left home prepared and made sure we were adequately stocked. The medicine we had did relieve the pain, but her back remained stiff, giving her much discomfort. After the train had pulled out of Milton Keynes station, the guard, who looked alarmed at the situation, offered to have the train emergency stop at Watford Junction. We declined the offer, saying that we much prefer to visit a London hospital. And so the train flew through Watford Junction station as scheduled. At London Euston Alex was as if paralysed in her wheelchair. The station staff helped us board a taxi to the nearest hospital, which was just around the corner from the terminus.

At Accident & Emergency, although the doctor visited, there was no treatment necessary. With my help, Alex was already recovering and her back muscles loosened. We agreed on a quick discharge in order to board the last train home from Waterloo Station. After our train was cancelled due to a signalling problem, we eventually arrived home near midnight, several hours later than originally planned.  

In such a condition, would we be able to travel long distance again in the future? Alex insist that we will. But I'm not too sure. To be honest, I'm now afraid to take her anywhere. I guess we have to wait and see.

The Guy With A Tablet.

This week I had to take my partially disabled wife Alex to Wandsworth in London for an assessment, pre-arranged by appointment. Getting there was no real issue. Outside rush hour, the train was sparsely occupied while she remained in her wheelchair throughout the whole journey. The interview itself lasted about eighty-ninety minutes. Afterwards, we had a look around at the huge gleaming indoor shopping mall, beautifully constructed, which rejuvenated this formerly ugly working-class district once blackened with soot from nearby heavy industry, where I remember walking through with my former girlfriend way back in 1971. Without having any wonderful memories of the area, to re-visit after more than forty years was indeed a culture shock.

Bygone Wandsworth

But it was the return journey which had inspired me to write. Being the start of the evening rush hour, far more seats in the train were taken, except one which was right by the doors, allowing me to sit while holding my wife's hand as she remained sitting in her wheelchair. Directly in front of me were two male passengers. Both looking to be in their late twenties or early thirties. The one by the window had longish hair, sported a moustache, and was dressed casually with a shirt open at the neck. The other, next to the central aisle and sitting right next to the first, was a businessman dressed in suit and tie, and concentrating hard on his tablet. I was able to have occasional glances at his screen, which looked as though he was flicking through one image after another. Despite myself cracking jokes which brought bursts of laughter from Alex, (to lift her morale) this fellow remained stern-looking as he kept on gazing at his tablet.

About halfway through the journey, Alex's wheelchair rolled as the train braked. I rose up to reorient it to its former position. It was then that the casually-dressed fellow offered to help my wife out of the train as it approached the station. I explained with thanks that we still had a considerable length of travel left. Finally, at our stop, the guy with the long hair took my hint, and immediately arose to help lift the chair out of the train, onto the platform. Much to our surprise, the businessman rose up too, and contributed his effort in lifting of the wheelchair. Then they both returned to their seats.

"How helpful these two were." Alex commented afterwards. "I wish God's blessing for both of them."

As I saw it, it was the casual-dressed chap who had the genuine concern for Alex's welfare, as he had initially made the offer entirely out of his own free will. He was also the first to arise, despite sitting further away from the central aisle. It wouldn't have surprised me at all if the smart fellow contributed out of a pricked conscience rather than out of genuine kindness.

Train journeys. I have read a number of stories of what goes on within a train when on the move. Furthermore, I can compare such journeys with the equivalent made in Italy, or even crossing France on my way to Italy - a favourite way to travel back in the early 1970's with the use of the good old-fashioned boat-trains. One such story appeared in the national newspaper. It had taken place sometime in the eighties or early nineties, when the newly-invented cell phone was as cumbersome as a brick, and looked rather like a brick, too. But it was a gadget that carried a very high status symbol. It was used almost exclusively by the yuppie, an acronymic word for Young Urban Professional, an oft-used term prevalent in the Thatcher years of the 1980's before slowly sinking into semantic oblivion by the mid-nineties. Whenever self-esteem was analysed in those days, the yuppie with his bulky mobile phone, was the yardstick with which one's social status was measured by anyone who thought was worth his salt.

So on that particular evening rush hour, this young, smartly dressed passenger sounded very impressive as he kept his business conversation going while the train he was sitting in kept rolling out of London. As he was talking about trading of stocks and how various companies and businesses were affected by what took place in the Stock Exchange, suddenly someone burst into the coach he was in from the adjoining carriage with a desperate plea for anyone with a cellphone to come and attend a passenger who has fallen ill. Everyone in the packed carriage pointed to the young businessman, who blushed with embarrassment when forced to confess that his phone was, all throughout that time, switched off, due to its flat battery in need of recharging.

Then there was another occasion, at another time and place, and also reported in the Media, of a "yuppie" constantly talking business in his cellphone for a prolonged period of time. So much so, that the fellow sitting opposite angrily opened the window, quickly grabbed the phone out of the young man's grasp, then threw it out of the window just as the train passed over a bridge spanning a river. Everyone within view cheered.

Other related instances have been reported, not necessarily on the train. One occasion involved a staff member of a cruise liner being interviewed by a reporter. This sailor related about how his passengers, all of upper-middle to upper class, changed behaviour after boarding, "going all nautical", and even calling down Bon Voyage to the people waving up to them from the pier below.

"And I always thought it was the other way round." the crew member protested. "Then there is the contest on who would sit at the Captain's Table during supper. Everybody wants to sit at the Captain's Table, and each vie hard for the opportunity." The sailor continued, "They are not sitting at the table for the conversation, you understand. They are there to be seen." *

I suppose that sums it all up. They are there to be seen. Very much like another story, this time about the owner of a posh restaurant. "There was a time when nobody wanted to dine under the alcove," the owner explained. "Their table was rather concealed, it was difficult to spot. But we came up with the idea of raising the floor level under the alcove by installing a platform. Now everybody is fighting for the table under the alcove!" *

Real life stories, all of them true, which brings me back to the smartly dressed businessman sitting in front on the train home. As he concentrated hard on his tablet, he looked to all within the train to be seriously engrossed in some business transaction. But more than likely he wanted to be seen as an aspiring executive rather than actually grappling through a difficult deal. Which has brought to mind the case of one City gent commuting into London with a highbrow newspaper The Financial Times (a broadsheet) held completely to obscure him from all the other train passengers - until a copy of The Sun (a tabloid aimed more for the commoner) fell onto his lap in full view of all those whom such an incident must have delighted. Too bad it wasn't the children's comic The Beano!

And I bet there are many other identical or similar incidents of this kind happening all the time. What is it about us all who are crying out for public respect, to be held to a high vocational esteem, and to be considered intelligent and well-educated? Is office life so demanding that having a laptop open while sitting in the train a life-or-death necessity? In addition, does he then sit in front of the computer at home, burning the candle at both ends, until finally retiring to bed in the twilight hours of the following morning? Or is he just putting on a public show to be seen? And furthermore, what is it about our English culture that obliges us to sit in a train in stony silence? Such as not daring to greet the stranger sitting next to you, or directly opposite? Like at one occasion when a friend and I found ourselves in a packed evening rush hour train pulling out of London Blackfriars, and while I carried on talking, my friend said, rather loudly,
Quiet, Frank. You'll wake up the dead!

Not the kind of words to say back in 1973, while sitting in an international express from Paris Gare de Lyon to Roma Termini. After a fast sprint to Dijon, the next stop was Chambery, not that far from the Italian frontier. It was here that a group of Italian young men boarded the train, and took their seats in the same compartment I was occupying, served by a corridor which ran alongside all the compartments.

The fact that the stop at Chambery was during the small hours of the night, with daybreak guaranteed by the time we stopped at Italy's first station Bardonecchia, failed to quieten the continuous torrent of friendly conversation which filled the compartment with such a cheerful (if not annoying) atmosphere. Something totally unknown to British Rail in its day! But it was during the following year, in 1974, where I found myself on a very similar backpacking journey, on a train from Foggia, near the east coast of Italy. Here I sat next to a young man of about my age, and it wasn't long before a conversation got going, which turned two strangers into firm friends. At Naples, where the train terminated, he made sure I was settled in my hotel before agreeing to meet up two days later, where he took me, along with a couple of other friends of his, to a beauty spot up on one of the mountains surrounding Naples. As far as I'm aware, for all the miles traveled on British trains throughout my lifetime, I have never found myself conversing with a stranger, let alone making friends. Threatened by a group of youths sitting across the aisle - yes, on one occasion at Ascot. But never the opportunity to make friends.

I can't help wondering: If the Lord Jesus Christ was ministering among us now, and he had to take a morning commute into London, how would he behave? Interesting point, really, coming to think of it. Would he be just like all Englishmen, sitting stoically like a zombie? Or make an effort to interact, resulting in people responding and receiving his love God has for them all?

Hmm, interesting question.
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* Brian Moynahan, Fool's Paradise, Pan Books, 1983.

Travel - And James 4:13-17.

Holiday time is here again! That time of the year when I take a break from the humdrum of daily work and responsibilities to go away to a different location simply for rest, recreation and enjoyment. This year it was the result of a decision made just a few weeks ago, when we agreed that Bournemouth, in the English county of Dorset, was our first choice of destination. So booking a room at an inexpensive hotel over the Internet did not pose any problems.

 

This will be what I call a "round the corner" holiday, which means that it is local in comparison to other places visited. But the big advantage of this is that it would not be a big loss if something were to crop up which would lead to a cancellation. Rather, it is a location that can be easily re-booked, maybe even a couple of weeks later. After all, the resort is only ninety miles (146km) from home, and involves no passports, airport check-in, the threat of flight delays, or even a possibility of picking up a foreign bug. Neither, on the other hand, any guarantee of wall-to-wall sunshine, as most likely the case of any Mediterranean destination such as Crete, where I was to take my beloved for our wedding anniversary last year (2013). But her illness and resulting hospitalisation resulted in a cancellation which ended with a messy involvement with insurance afterwards, accompanied by a wretched gut feeling of imagining some other couple occupying our seats at take off.

Bournemouth Beach
 

But with us, life goes on. There have been ups and downs in various areas in our lives, and particularly on health issues. For example, my wife has been out of hospital since last December, and since then there has been no need for her to have returned as an in-patient. I am very thankful to God for that. But in the last couple of months, I have found myself lying awake in bed and literally gasping for air in the middle of the night, like the state of a runner just after crossing the finishing line, together with rumbling noises in my throat and upper chest. My wife pleaded with me to visit the Doctor. But as a typical male, believing to be just a bug that would clear itself up, and therefore avoiding wasting the medic's time, she eventually succeeded in persuading me to go. I was sent to have a chest X-Ray at a nearby clinic. Just two days later the Doctor called me back into the surgery, only to be told that I have heart trouble, and needed to have a echo-cardio scan at a local hospital. At this point in writing, I'm still waiting for the result, together with an appointment to visit a Cardiologist in the near-future.

 

To discover myself in such a condition was quite a shock, believe me! Even with the awareness that my father had a pacemaker fitted to his heart a number of years ago. But rather than running around in panic like a headless chicken, I thank the Lord for sending me warnings that something was amiss.  It is a comfort to know that I'm in good hands. Furthermore, I firmly believe that the National Health Service is the main avenue for God to work out his mercy in physical healing, perhaps unlike the beliefs of some Christians who insist that God only works through miracles. After all, here in the UK the NHS was founded on Christian principles, and the number of patients who had benefited over the years is countless. So for the last month I was prescribed three courses of medicine - one to remove the fluid from my lungs (the cause of the rumblings), the second to widen the blood vessels, and the third for the heartbeat itself. I can't help but comparing this with the healing powers of the Holy Trinity - the three in one course of medicine which has brought my health to a level where I can live a normal life, and to sleep at night.

 

And go ahead with the trip to Bournemouth, something which I might have had to cancel, had my pride got in the way of my wife's pleading to see a Doctor in the first place. Of course, during this writing, we are not there yet, anything can happen. But one of the lessons in life I have learnt, and come to appreciate is what James included in his general letter, which reads:

 

Now listen, you who say, "Today or tomorrow we would go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money." Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appear for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, "If it's the Lords will, we will live and do this or that." As it is, you boast and brag. All that boasting is evil. Anyone, then, who knows the good he ought to do and doesn't do it, sins.

James 4:13-17, emphasis added.

 

If it's the Lord's will. In the past, especially when I was single, I always assumed that every travel decision I made was approved by God. And according to my testimony, this has always been the case. But on the weeks, even months, on the approach to these trips, I always prayed to the Lord for none of the four things to occur:

1) Industrial dispute at the airport or affecting flights.

2) Falling ill just before date of departure.

3) Hospitalisation due to an external injury, e.g. bone fracture from an accident.

4) Sudden, unexpected expense or other loss of funds.

Each day, or when I thought about these things, I often went out for "prayer walks" - that is, going out for a walk alone in the evening for the purpose of prayer. And throughout all these years of long-haul travel, I never came across any serious problems. The only exception was a six-hour delay at London Gatwick in 1993 for a flight to Israel. And believe it or not, that trip was inspired by a vision I had from Heaven, some ten months previously, instructing me to go to Israel specifically to pray over Jerusalem. Since then, I have rated this city as the greatest destination I have ever visited - and I have been around the world ever since. I certainly appreciate and give thanks for such blessings from above! 

Western Wall, Jerusalem - taken 1994

 

And by reading the above quote from James, the apostle does not forbid any of these things, as he was aware that all good things comes from God, travel included. But what James was writing about was not to take such things for granted, as if it's our right. He then writes with a degree of sarcasm dripping from his pen, reminding us that our life here on earth is like a mist, or a wisp of smoke, which vanishes as it rises. This to me is sober reality, as my heart condition has so much brought home. It has made me realise that the very breath in my nostrils is sustained by God, as all the involuntary anatomical functions, including the heartbeat.

 

So as it comes to this Malaysian airline disaster which occurred over the Ukraine within the last few days. I won't mention names here, but two Britons who were university graduates springs to mind, along with two devout football supporters who were following their team to New Zealand. The two students, both I believe, were unknown to each other, were on a work placement in Australia, set by their university tuition. One was brilliant at maths, the other on business and finance. And by reading the testimonials, no doubt all four Brits were excited about their trip - the two students in vivid contrast to my school-leaving experience, when my first day at work involved pushing a broom across the factory shop floor, and making aware of my place right at the bottom of the ladder. Small fry indeed.

Small fry I may be, even to this day, but still alive in my sixties, as I also have a story to tell. But international travel had always been something of a privilege for me, the desire to explore another country - its geography, history and culture. Some people prefer doing this as part of a tour group, others may "flydrive" - that is, to hire a car after landing, or having a pre-booked vehicle awaiting at the airport; or to backpack with a small group of friends, or as in my case, solo. But whatever the preferences, the whole of travel, as I see it, is to experience life overseas which has the power to broaden the mind, to expand the horizon, to see natural features not found in the UK - the splendour of the Grand Canyon, the constant roar of Niagara Falls, the lofty mountains of the Alps, the coral reefs of the Red Sea and of the Great Barrier Reef, to stand on a mountain looking down across Lake Como, to stand on the lip of an active or dormant volcano - or to admire the beautiful architecture of historic buildings such as in Florence and Sydney, or the ancient ruins of Rome, Sicily, Greece, and Israel - to fascinate over flora which cannot grow naturally in the UK without a greenhouse: such as the Cacti of southern Arizona, the lush palms of Singapore, the mangroves of Australia and even a taste of a tropical rainforest of Blue Mountains National Park. All of these along with hosteling - the sharing of a dormitory, the members kitchen, the capacity to meet people and make friends. Oh boy! What of the joys of travel when I was single. Then not to mention the slow boat-train from London to Rome of the early 1970s when after disembarking from the cross-Channel ferry at the French port, the train awaiting there took some 24 hours to cross mainland Europe, including finding a way to navigate Paris through on what otherwise was a disused branch or link line. To sum up: Travel was an end in itself, and not merely a means to an end.

A pavilion at Singapore, taken June 1997

As was the case of these students and football fans. I have found it odd to travel to New Zealand, on the other side of the world from home, to watch a football match, without perhaps the admiring of the Southern Alps, or to fly to Australia to work in an office without much thought for the vast areas of natural beauty waiting to be explored. But again, perhaps academics and well-educated people have a very different perspective to world travel to someone like myself who was not allowed to forget my humble adolescence.

But the reality of James 4:13-17 could not be more horribly realistic than on that doomed flight. Excited and anticipating the glories of their chosen destinations, instead the airline was shot down, most likely mistaken for a hostile military aircraft, and all in it passed suddenly into eternity. Life is indeed like a mist which vanishes away. The reality is, it can happen suddenly to anyone anytime. As I look forward for a trip to Bournemouth for a few days, I too - or my wife for that matter - or even both of us - can succumb to fate, and not make it to our destination. Sure enough, a train is very difficult to shoot down, but all it takes is someone to lay something on the tracks, and the fast train could de-rail, sending it tumbling over the bankside, resulting in numerous casualties. What guarantee is there that such an accident cannot happen? After all, a points failure on the London-Edinburgh track caused a very similar catastrophe of a fast train at Potters Bar a few years ago, with quite a number of casualties.

Those four Brits boarded the aeroplane at Amsterdam, possibly on a much cheaper airfare than that of a direct flight from London. They were glowing with happiness and anticipation on what was to come, as well as assurance of a glittering career for the two British students, not to mention other students from Holland, and other nationalities also on board, including a group of scientists, along with businessmen and women, as well as young children. I have no idea whatsoever whether any of them were aware of the short Scripture passage. But I am aware of their sudden and unexpected passage into eternity, which proves James to be terrifyingly correct.

Nobody knows when their time is up, except God only. Maybe this coming night could be the one that I'll never wake up. Or the train journey could end up with fatalities, or I could cross a road and a car could appear suddenly out of nowhere. I can collapse with a heart attack - on board the train, at the hotel, at home, at work...

There is one safe course which all men everywhere should take heed. That is to believe in Jesus Christ as Saviour, be filled with the Holy Spirit, serve God, and be thankful for all the days of your life, not forgetting to count your blessings. For nobody knows when their name will be called.

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As always, comments are welcome here, but since I may not have access to a computer in the next few days, publishing may be delayed. No fault of yours. God bless.